The Sky We Shared, page 6
The second hour is grueling. Another fire-horse joins the old familiar one. Then another and another appear, charging across my hip and around to my back. I’m having trouble keeping up. Suki loops her arm through mine, and I lean on her without meaning to, without wanting to. It’s still cold out, and now I’m hungry as well. But I can’t stop, can’t even slow down. I must be like the carp fish.
That’s another one of Grandmother’s stories. One long ago winter, a painter stood by a pond, making a picture of the iced-over water and the snowy banks. As he worked, he kept hearing a tap-tap-tapping noise coming from the pond. He stepped closer and saw a carp trying to reach a rice biscuit that lay on top of the ice. The fish was ramming its head against the ice, hoping to break through to the food. Amazed, the painter watched the carp spend three full hours attacking the ice. First the ice cracked, then a little hole opened, then a larger hole. Finally, the ice collapsed, and the exhausted, bruised carp got its reward.
The carp persisted. And so will I. No more frightened girl like I was at the village shrine, when I could barely lift a tin coin. I’ll show Suki how strong I am. I’ll prove to the kami how worthy I am. I’ll honor my duty to my brother and my country.
“We’re here!” I squeeze Suki’s elbow when we finally, finally cross into Kure City.
She puts out her palm to catch the first raindrops. “Just in time, too.”
The soldier tells us all to walk faster—we still have a way to go. I rub my howling hip and try to keep up.
“Are you all right?” Suki asks.
“Fine.” I train my attention on the shipyards and the sea beyond. I wonder if Kyo went to war on a vessel docked here. The rain falls in cold, sharp snaps. To cheer me up, Suki starts singing a rainy-day nursery rhyme. “Uh-oh, that girl is dripping wet,” she purrs as softly as she can. “That girl is crying under the willow. Pitch pitch goes the rain. Chap chap. Run run!”
“Suki, hush,” I scold. “You’re going to get us in trouble.”
She smirks and we trudge on, down the one road that sprouts into many streets, until we’re in the heart of the city. The soldier takes us into a small office building, where the halls are stacked with cotton mats for us to sleep on. I’d do anything to collapse onto one of them right now, to rest my leg and ward off the fire-horses, but there’s no time for that.
We drop off our few things—a blanket, a change of clothes. Then we go upstairs to a room where a man in uniform—a boy, really—stands behind a table piled with strange-looking gadgets. On the wall over his head is a whole row of that famous poster, the one with the skull saying, “Hello, Americans! I’ll be your guide now.”
We all cram into the room and wait for the soldier to show us what we need to know. Very exciting! Suki and I clutch hands.
The soldier isn’t tall, but he seems to tower over us, standing so straight and alert in his uniform. A prick of electricity pulses through my belly, partly because I’m eager for him to teach us about the paper, and partly because he’s terribly handsome, with his square face and noble air. I glance at Suki, who bites her lip. I can tell she’s trying her best not to smile her smirkish smile. She’s trying very hard.
The first thing the soldier does is to look us solemnly in the eye. He doesn’t say good morning or ask us how our trek here was. He doesn’t tell us his name. He simply holds up a piece of paper the size of a tatami mat, a beautiful sheet of paper, the kind you’d use for origami or calligraphy or lanterns or kites, all white and translucent. His fingers are slender, assured.
“This is your new tool,” he says, his voice deeper than I expected. “This is how you will vanquish the Americans. This is how we will unite the world under one roof.”
We whisper eagerly to each other, but the soldier has no patience for such silliness. He sets the sheet down.
“Much labor has already been done to make this paper,” he tells us. “Mulberry branches have been grown, cut, soaked, boiled, stripped of their bark. Boiled again, run under ice-cold streams, bleached. Laid on a rock and beaten to a pulp for hours. Stretched and soaked again.”
If he’s trying to scare us, it works. So much energy has already been put into the paper! We must not let those efforts go to waste. We have to learn fast, work quickly, attend to every detail. Our nation is counting on us. This handsome soldier is counting on us. Kyo and Auntie and the mulberry farmers are counting on us. It’s our duty and our privilege.
“Comrades have toiled over vats of liquid paper,” the soldier goes on. “Dipping their screens into the mixture. Shaking, spreading, drying. All so you will have the finest paper to work with.”
No one makes a sound. The soldier steps over to a wooden rack on the table. “Watch carefully. This is what you’re here for. This is how you will serve our Emperor.”
He dips a brush into a small tub of bluish glue and spreads it onto the rack. “This glue is made of konnyaku potatoes,” he says. “Don’t squander it.”
He places two sheets of paper side by side on top of the glue and brushes out any air bubbles. “Now you must let the paper dry,” he says. “But not too dry, or it will crack and be unusable.”
Someone in the back coughs. The soldier flashes her a glare.
“You’ll apply another layer of glue and paper, then another,” he goes on. “Five layers. You’ll each have two racks, so you can be working at all times.”
More excited whispers.
The soldier looks at us grimly. “Each balloon requires six hundred sheets. That means six million sheets of washi paper for Emperor Hirohito. Girls throughout the nation must work their utmost!”
That makes us quiet right down.
“Now it’s time to learn with your hands,” he says. And we do. The soldier has each one of us practice brushing the potato glue and the paper. The job isn’t difficult, but it’s nerve-racking with him standing over us, with all the other girls watching, with the Emperor’s divine plan at stake.
When it’s Suki’s turn, I hear the tremble in her breath. She grips me like a tourniquet, like she doesn’t want to leave my side. I feel sorry for her . . . even though it feels good to think that maybe, just maybe, she needs me as much as I need her. Well, almost as much.
“You’ll be fine,” I whisper, extracting my fingers from hers. “I’m right here.”
She walks to the front, avoiding the soldier’s gaze and picking up the brush with a tight fist. The brush looks awkward in her hand, like a half-strangled snake, but she manages to get a scoopful of the glue onto it. When she brushes the air out of the paper, her movements are much heavier than the soldier’s, but they get the job done. She sets down the brush triumphantly.
Now it’s my turn, and the prick in my belly turns into a stab. Suki leans in to my ear and says, “It’s not bad, you’ll see.”
“All right.”
“And stop holding your breath.”
I let out the lungful of air I didn’t know I was holding in.
Then I walk to the front, making very sure not to limp.
At the table, I run a finger across the stack of paper. It’s gloriously soft and warm, light but also strong. Yes, I can do this. I must do this. I glue my two sheets and look to the soldier for his approval. He doesn’t meet my eyes.
After our lesson, we go back downstairs, where we’re given dried sardines, white rice, pickled radishes, and potato chips for supper. “Such a feast!” I say to Suki, joining her on her mat. Gingerly, she taps her chopsticks to her bowl, as if she can’t believe it’s real. “White rice. This is better than a bowl full of pearls.”
I take a mouthful of fish. “Mmm.”
“If they feed us girls this well, imagine what Kyo is getting,” Suki says.
“Hopefully, all the white rice he can gobble.”
We eat the rest of our food in silence, quickly, eagerly. Now that real food is finally in front of me, my hunger explodes like a struck hornets’ nest. I’m suddenly so ravenous, I do something dishonorable—to Suki, of all people. It happens when a few girls at the other end of the hall start singing a marching song. Suki looks over her shoulder to watch them, and while her head is turned, I take one of her radish slices. Radishes are my brother’s favorite.
It’s in my mouth before I can stop myself. So delicious, it tastes even better than the radishes in my own bowl. It tastes like I’m getting a little bit extra to make up for all the things I must do without. It tastes like victory.
I chew and swallow the morsel so fast, I have no time to regret it. It was just one little radish, anyway. Just this once. We’re all going to be fed like this every day now, so what’s the harm?
When someone comes to call an early lights-out, we all find our mats and our blankets. As I lie in the darkness, looking up at the ceiling, imagining it’s the endless sky, I smile. I can hardly remember the last time I went to bed with a full belly. I’m immensely grateful to be here, especially since I almost got sent home at the last minute. I know I’ll sleep well tonight, even though there’s no heat in the building.
11
Nellie
May 2, 1945
Ruby and I show up at school bright and early for the salvage drive. The yard is already buzzing with people setting up the collection stations—steel in front of the flag, tin next to the chokecherry tree, rubber over by the fence. Eddie Engen is directing traffic in the small parking lot. Joan Patzke and her brother, Dick, are setting up boxes at the rubber station. A few teachers are helping out wherever they can.
Ruby is on refreshment duty, so she heads inside while I try to figure out where I can be useful out here. I scan the yard and quickly decide on the tin station.
“Morning,” I say to Joey, who’s setting out cardboard boxes behind the small tin sign on the table. He’s wearing a fresh white shirt and old blue jeans with a small rip in one knee.
He looks up. “Oh, hey. You on my team?”
“Uh-huh.”
Your secret is safe with me. As long as Mr. Kava keeps his mouth closed, your parents never have to find out about the shed. No one has to find out, not the police, not school, not anyone.
“How about you make a bigger sign?” he says. “Paper and crayons on the table.” He reaches into his shirt pocket. “Here’s a pen.”
When I take the pen, I can smell Aqua Velva on him, which is funny because he doesn’t need to shave yet. Maybe he’s trying to turn himself into his older brother. Maybe he’s trying to act like he’s grown up. But starting a fire isn’t grown up, if you ask me. What happened to the Joey who used to play ball and listen to the wireless and stop by the house every weekend?
“Make it big enough to see from the road,” he adds.
I fill up the poster paper with the word tin, each letter outlined in black and a different color on the inside—red, white, and blue. I do it like it’s the most important thing in the world, and in a way, it is. It’s the best thing us Bly kids can do for the war effort. And it’s the thing us Bly kids should be doing for the war effort, not stuffing ourselves with potatoes and sneaking on to the front lines. I sure hope Joey isn’t getting any stupid ideas about picking up where Peter left off.
Old Mr. Swanson, who used to run the filling station, is our first customer. He looks sheepish as he comes forward with two bags of loot. “Now you know how many biscuits I ate since the last drive,” he confesses. “Eight tins, and I emptied them all by myself.”
“That’s not so bad.” I take the tins from him. “Our last drive was clear back in September, after all.”
Joey takes the tins from me so I can help the next customer. As he does, our hands brush, almost like our fingers are kissing. Does he even notice? Probably not.
Behind me, someone says, “Hello there, Joey.” I turn to see Irene Kava putting on her flirtiest voice. She’s dressed like she’s going to a party, with a navy blue checked dress and a red tam hat, and is holding out a box of tins like it’s a gift for the host—the host being Joey.
Well, of course this is a party to her. Her father didn’t have to go to war. He’ll never have to go to war. He’ll stay right here running the logging mill and buying her new dresses and hats. I hate her.
Joey looks up from the tin pile. “Hey, Irene.” He takes a step in her direction, but I’m faster than he is.
“I’ll get this.” I put my hands on her box. “Thanks, Irene.”
She scowls, but there’s nothing she can do. I walk the box over to Joey, who carries it to the pile and starts sorting it. I hope she hates me for it. I hope she hates me twice as much as I hate her.
“My,” Irene says to Joey’s back, “you sure are getting a lot of business, from the looks of it.”
“Uh-huh,” Joey says absently.
“Hope this little bit I brought helps.”
“Hmm, yup.”
“Thanks again for stopping by, Irene.” I flash her my widest grin. “See you on Monday.”
I can almost see the smoke building up between her ears.
“Joey,” she says with more sugar than a frosted donut. “Did you know your little helper here used a very unladylike word on me yesterday?”
Joey turns around.
Irene steps toward him. “Nellie Doud had the nerve to call me a wretch.”
His gaze shifts to me. “You did?”
I nod. I’m not ashamed of it. Irene is a wretch. A spoiled rotten wretch.
Irene smirks at me, her rosebud lips curled into a sneer. “What do you think of that, Joey?” she coos.
“I think she must’ve had a good reason,” he says and turns right back around to the tin pile.
Take that, I tell Irene with my eyes. Joey can see right through you.
Irene’s mouth unclasps, but she doesn’t say a word, just huffs off, her red tam bobbing like an apple.
Victory!
“What happened between you two, anyway?” Joey asks. He’s back to sorting tin.
“Lunchtime yesterday,” I say, real casual, hoping Irene can see us talking. “She started spouting off about a fire in her shed.”
Joey snaps his head up. Now he’s really listening. “A fire?”
“Uh-huh. She was saying how she thinks someone did it for revenge.”
His face turns white.
I feel bad for sending him into sweats like this, so I decide to let him off the hook. “Yeah, like maybe the Japanese on their way home from the camps did it.”
He lets out a breath.
“Then she accused Ruby’s grandpa—can you believe? So I put her in her place, that’s all.”
“Sounds like she had it coming.”
Now that we’re actually talking, I don’t want it to stop. I blurt out the first thing that comes to my mind. “How come you don’t like Irene?”
“I never said I don’t like her.”
“Oh.”
“Even though I don’t.” Then he stops sorting and looks at me. “Thing is, you see. The thing is—”
“Good morning,” comes a voice from behind.
I look up to see Pastor Mitchell and his wife. Well, I guess that’s the end of our chin-wag over Irene. Rats! I want to know what Joey was going to say. Was he about to tell me how mad he is at Mr. Kava, or what he has against Irene? I want to hear it, hear all about it, but the moment is gone.
12
Tamiko
November 11, 1944
Today, our first day of work on the secret balloon project, I feel like I’m in the army right alongside Kyo. They wake us up at four thirty in the morning to the tune of “Senyu”—Comrade in Arms. We each get a rice ball for breakfast. It’s cold in the hallway, so we move along fast. Then we walk to work, singing the flag march and the song of the fierce eagles. I’m glad it’s still dark out so I don’t have to hide my limp. Half an hour later, we enter the Fantaji Theater.
The last time I was here, it was to watch a musical revue. The theater seemed to sing then, to glow with spirit and celebration. Now it’s transformed into a production factory.
The shell is still here, of course, along with the high ceiling, the wooden stage, the runways, the balcony boxes. But everything else is gone—the seats, the brocade stage curtains, the sets, the aliveness. Now every inch of space is covered with tables full of washi racks. Around the tables, dozens of girls work away with the paper and the glue. They look a little older than us, these girls, and they seem very serious. They’re all barefoot.
After a moment, the girls notice we’re here. Quickly, they clean up their areas, find their shoes, and file out of the auditorium. Some of them nod to us, some of them bend their heads together in hushed talk. They seem to know what to do and where to go without being told.
“Where do they sleep?” Suki asks. “Why didn’t we see them yesterday?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe they stay in different offices. Or maybe we take turns sleeping in the same place.”
“You think they work all night?”
“I think this place works around the clock,” I answer.
Suki opens her mouth to say something, but then the door behind us opens and dozens of other girls stream in. Girls we don’t recognize, girls from other schools. Suki and I have to move closer to the stage to make room for the onslaught.
“Everyone!” The handsome soldier from yesterday appears on the stage, calling for our attention.
We all go silent.
“We must get right to work,” he says. “Six of you to a table. Remember what you learned yesterday. Work quickly, work carefully. That is all. Begin!”
Suki and I link arms so we won’t get separated. We position ourselves at the nearest table, up against the stage. Four girls we don’t know join us. We nod to each other but don’t speak. We’re too excited and nervous to talk.
