The Sky We Shared, page 7
It doesn’t take long to figure out why the other girls went barefoot. The floor is thick with the bluish potato glue that drips off the racks, and our soles get stuck in it. Soon, we all kick off our shoes. There, that’s better. We can move faster now.
We labor for twelve straight hours. It’s a lot of work—not complicated, just a lot of work—and we’re happy to do it. Besides, it’s heated in the theater—to help the paper dry—and we had breakfast this morning and supper the night before. We are strong. Before the day is over, Suki and I have learned the names of the other girls at our table. Rin is the small girl next to me. The others are Yoko, Ai, and Yui. They’re all from Kure City.
The handsome soldier tells us when our shift is finished. We’ve been so focused, we haven’t even noticed the girls waiting in the back to start their shift. After tidying up our spaces and retrieving our shoes, we file out of the auditorium, just as the older girls did when we arrived this morning.
It’s a cold march back to the dorm tonight. We’re exhausted but also energized. We’ve done something useful for our divine nation! And there’s still supper to look forward to. Supper ends up being smaller than last night’s, though. We each get a bowl of rice mixed with sweet potatoes that are starting to turn black, and a cup of some sort of broth. But the food is hot, and we’re cold, and we’ll be asleep soon anyway.
I wonder what the handsome soldier is having for his dinner, and where he’ll sleep tonight. I wonder too where Kyo is. Is his belly full? Is his canteen filled with fresh water? Is my Daruma doll watching over him yet?
“Tamiko?” Suki says from her mat shortly after lights-out. Even though she’s whispering, her voice seems to echo off the low ceiling and bare walls of the narrow hallway.
“Right here,” I whisper back—too loud, I guess, because somewhere another girl rolls over with an annoyed sigh. “Are you still hungry?”
I hate to admit that I am. “Why?”
“Wanted to make sure it’s not only me.”
“It isn’t.”
“Okay . . . Tamiko?”
“Hmm.” I’m getting drowsy. So drowsy I can almost imagine I’m at home on my soft futon. Almost, but not quite. The hard floor pushes up through my thin mat, reminding me where I am.
“Do you believe in unlucky years?” she asks.
“Hmm . . . what?”
“Unlucky ages. You know: nineteen, thirty-three, thirty-seven?”
I roll on my side to face her. “Suki, your first unlucky age is years away. Why are you worrying about it now?”
“Fuyumi. She turns unlucky tomorrow. I forgot to wish her good luck before we left.”
I don’t say anything right away. First, I have to count to ten. Suki’s sister—no, Suki’s whole family, they’re the luckiest people I know. They’re all alive. No one is at war. They’ve slept together in the same cottage every single night up until now. How dare Suki worry about her sister’s fortune?
That’s what I think, but it’s not what I say. “Don’t worry, Suki. Your sister has luck to spare.”
“I guess she did get lucky in the looks department. In the getting-attention department.” Suki turns onto her back. “I kind of hate her for that. But I still worry for her, for nineteen.”
“What year was she born?” I ask. “Tora—the tiger.”
“So she’s courageous. She can handle anything.” A smile creeps onto my lips. “Like the time we put that toad in her futon.”
Suki lets out a giggle. “We were mad at her for . . . for . . .”
“For tattling on us when we snooped in her things.” I remind her. “We thought we’d get even by scaring her, remember? But she didn’t bat an eye when she found the toad. Just scooped it up and dropped it outside. Like I said, she can handle anything.”
Suki pulls her arms inside her covers. “You really think so?”
“I know so. We’ll all be fine. We’re going to win this war.”
She lowers herself back down onto her mat. “What year is Kyo?”
“Ushi—ox.”
“Good,” she says. “Patient, alert. He won’t do anything stupid.”
“Like volunteering to go to war?”
“That’s not stupid,” she breathes.
Easy for her to say. I decide to ignore it.
“Hey,” she says. “Remember when we had that poster-making contest in art class? And Keiko drew a bunch of Western soldiers surrendering . . . with the slogan ‘Every age is unlucky for these guys’?”
I laugh softly at the memory. “Suki?”
“Yes?”
“Are you cold?”
“A little.” She tucks her thin blanket a little tighter around her. “Are you?”
“Kind of.”
“Here, let’s try this.” She pushes her mat right next to mine. We combine our blankets and curl up together. It’s still cold, but we’re together.
Suddenly, I feel terrible for stealing her radish last night. She’s as hungry as I am. She’s sharing her blanket with me now. She’s my best friend. I make a silent promise to be a better friend in return.
Soon Suki’s breathing slows into a regular hum. We’ve all worked hard today. We’ll work hard again in the morning. It’s time to rest. I pull my feet under the blankets and let the rustlings and snores in the hallway lull me to sleep. At least it will be warm in the theater tomorrow.
13
Nellie
May 2, 1945
“Morning,” I say to Pastor Mitchell and his wife. Joey puts down the box of tin he’s sorting and comes over.
I always feel funny when I run into the pastor these days because we haven’t been to church since Pa went into the army. Some people go to church because they have someone in the service, people like Mrs. Flynn. But Mother doesn’t seem that interested anymore, and besides, the twins can’t sit still for more than twenty minutes at a shot. I think Joey stopped going when Peter died.
“How’s business today?” Mrs. Mitchell offers her trademark smile and adjusts the brunette bun atop her head.
“Pretty fine,” I say. My eyes catch on her front side. I heard she was expecting a baby, but this is the first time it shows on her.
“Got some tin for us?” Joey asks.
“We only had rubber this time,” says the pastor, the sun glinting off his round wire glasses. “Say, it’s been so warm, we’re taking some young people up to Gearhart Mountain for fishing and a picnic on Tuesday. That’s your early-release day, right? We have room for two more in the car. Would you two like to join us?”
Joey’s lips pinch together, and I can tell he’s all set to say no. The old Joey would’ve jumped at the chance for a picnic, but not this Joey. “Well . . .” he starts. And then his face kind of relaxes. He glances at me. “Are you going, Nellie?”
My heart does a little spin.
“You should come,” Joey says.
An afternoon out with Joey, away from the twins, without chores or homework—I can’t think of anything better. So what if I don’t like sticking worms on hooks—who cares?
“Yes,” I tell him, “yes.”
“Wonderful, Nellie,” the pastor says. “How about it then, Joey?”
“Well, I haven’t been fishing in ages,” he thinks out loud. “Yeah—I mean, yes. Thanks.”
“Lovely,” says the pastor. “We’ll pick you up right around noon. We’ve got the food covered. But bring your own poles.”
Mrs. Mitchell chimes in: “Thank you for serving our country today.” She rests one hand on her growing belly, like she’s protecting it from the war. I bet she hopes it’s a girl.
When they leave, Joey goes back to work. I start clearing space for more salvage, smiling to myself about my good luck. What a morning—first I got to make Irene mad as a hornet, then I got to make plans to spend Tuesday with Joey. What more could I ask for?
“Hey, Joey,” I say. “You been to church lately?”
“Naw.”
“You ever gone fishing up on Gearhart?”
“Couple of times,” he answers. “Last summer—Ow, dammit!”
“You okay?”
“Mm.” He sucks on his finger, the one with his brother’s school ring. “Just a little cut.”
But it’s not a little cut. It’s a slice, much deeper than the one I got yesterday with the bread knife. He presses it shut, but blood still drips down his finger and over his brother’s ring.
“Come sit over here.” I point to the grass next to me. When I spot Ruby crossing the schoolyard with a pitcher, I call, “Hey, Rubes, can we get some water and a Band-Aid?”
She nods and holds up a just-a-minute finger.
“It’s nothing,” Joey says, refusing to sit.
“Maybe so, but you’re gonna scare all the customers away if we don’t get it cleaned up.”
Ruby brings us a cup of iced tea and a first-aid kit. “Will this work? I’m due back in the kitchen now.”
“That’ll be fine. Set it down on the table, would you?”
I take off his brother’s school ring and pop it in my pocket. Then I hand him the tea glass and tell him to stick his finger in. He still doesn’t look happy about the unwanted attention, but he does as I ask.
“Ouch!” He jerks his finger out of the tea glass. “Jeepers creepers, is there lemon in this?”
“Oops, sorry, Joey. Hold it in there another second. Okay, you can take it out.”
Now I see the gash. Not terrible, no stitches needed, but still ugly. I pat his finger dry with a piece of gauze from the first-aid kit and apply the bandage. “Press on it for a couple of minutes, make sure the bleeding stops.”
“Yes, Nurse Doud.” He’s not trying to be funny. He’s upset. Well, I can’t help him with that right now. While he squeezes his finger and scowls, I busy myself with the next customer.
We still have an hour to go on the salvage drive. At noon, Mr. Shampine from the public works will come load everything we’ve collected into his truck and drive it to a place where it will get fashioned into things they can use at the front. Which is how we’ll all get to send a little piece of ourselves over to where the fighting is happening.
I glance over at Joey and notice him looking at something over my shoulder. I turn around. It’s Mr. DiNapoli, walking past with a megaphone in his hand. Mr. DiNapoli is the head of the volunteer fire department, and he’s also been mayor since last fall. He’s got a serious look on his usually jolly face, and he’s walking fast. He goes straight to the middle of the street and plants himself there.
“Everyone, please gather around!” he shouts into the megaphone. “Gather around, would you?”
I go cold. The last time I got called to an assembly, our principal announced that President Roosevelt was dead. It was just a few weeks ago, all of us walking, practically running down to the gymnasium, thinking the war must be over, that we’d won, that our fathers and brothers were coming home. But then we saw the principal’s face. Ruby and I caught hands. Had we been attacked? Were we losing Europe?
No. The President had died suddenly that afternoon. The man who was supposed to win us the war, and cure polio, too, had left us. Mr. Harry Truman would step into office after only a handful of weeks as vice president.
And now here’s Mr. DiNapoli, looking like he’s holding a hot pepper on his tongue. Why should I rush over just to hear more grim news?
14
Tamiko
November 21, 1944
Today the blue konnyaku glue reminds me of the sky. Everything reminds me of the sky, now that I see so little of it. I feel like a crab as I shuttle between my two washi boards, crawling sideways along a dark, sticky bottom. Where are the dried sardines and pickled radishes now? They’re old memories.
Two rice balls a day aren’t nearly enough to keep us going on twelve-hour shifts, sometimes longer. The handsome soldier reminds us that this is what the enemy makes us endure. This is why we must work as hard as we can. So I do. As hard as I can, and then harder still.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” Suki whispers in my ear. I don’t look up from my work. Suki has picked up a cough, and I’m afraid this is all too much for her. “Do you need a bathroom, or do you need a break?”
“What kind of break would the bathroom be?” she says.
She’s right. The bathroom is freezing cold. Only this workroom is warm, and that’s not for our sake. The hot steam-blasting machines are here to dry the washi.
“Go then,” I tell her. “I’ll watch your boards.” We all watch each other’s boards—because we’ll all have to stay late if our table doesn’t make quota.
Suki asks the handsome soldier for permission, then heads out. She’s gone for a long time—at least, it feels that way—and we don’t reach quota, so we have to stay an extra hour. When we’re finally dismissed, there’s yet another hardship to face. The steam blasters have made our clothes damp. As we march back to the dorm in the biting cold, the wind stabs like needles and makes icicles in our hair. We could freeze right here in the street, ice statues, and no one would notice until morning.
“Let’s make sure we hit quota tomorrow,” the girl called Rin says. We’re all walking as fast as we can to get out of the cold. “Let’s all work our utmost.”
I lean in to Rin. “It’s Suki’s fault,” I tell her. “She keeps going to the bathroom. I should know—I have to cover for her.”
Rin glances over her shoulder to Suki, who’s blowing her nose and coughing, then gives me a quick nod.
Now Suki catches up with Rin and me. She sniffles and hacks, and all at once Grandmother’s words come back to me. The human tongue is sharper than the hornet’s sting. I glance at Suki. I want to tell Rin that Suki is my closest friend. That I’m just hungry. And cold. And tired. Very, very tired. But I don’t say anything. I just keep marching.
When we get to the dorm, we each get a bowl of plain miso soup and a little dish of gray rice with a piece of sweet potato. None of it has any flavor, but I spice it with the salt of my bridled tears. Tears from my fire-horse hip, from my frozen feet. Tears for the things I said about Suki. Tears for my starved belly. In a few minutes it will be lights-out, and I can’t wait to escape into sleep.
But then something strange happens. As we finish up our food—it doesn’t take us long to wolf it down—a soldier I don’t recognize joins us. We stand up to greet him. Have we done something wrong?
The soldier, who reminds me a little bit of Kyo, doesn’t look at us as he speaks. He focuses on the opposite wall and announces, “Sleep well tonight, workers. Sleep as long as you wish. You won’t be awakened for the six a.m. shift.”
The room is silent. Have we failed our great Emperor? Will we be sent home in shame?
“You must think of this as a holiday,” the soldier adds. “As a gift from his Imperial Majesty. A chance to store up sleep and strength.”
Suki sighs. So do I. We all do. We sigh and smile and squeeze each other’s hands. Sleep. A holiday. A gift from His Majesty. I’m so delighted, I don’t even notice the soldier leaving until he switches the lights off on his way. And just like that, it’s time to begin our long sleep.
Lying on my mat tonight, my body curled into a ball, my little cotton blanket tight around my legs, I think of blue skies and potato chips and warm summer days. I think of Kyo and victory and poor lonely Auntie. I think of Suki and how badly she needs this rest. Then I fall into a long, deep sleep.
Most of us sleep until noon. A few of the girls are still snoring into the afternoon. It’s cold inside the dorm, but not as cold as the outdoors, and we’re thrilled to laze around on our mats all day. We each do our best to make our single rice ball last, to make our tongues find flavor where there is none, to make our bellies feel satisfaction where there is still hunger.
Suki and I lie on our backs and talk about the victory to come, about the peace ahead, about returning to our families. We’re ravenous, and our muscles feel like jelly, but we’re determined to enjoy the holiday our Emperor has given us.
In the late afternoon, the soldier from last night reappears, rubbing his hands together and looking wind-burned. It must be extra cold out today. We stand.
“Workers,” he says to the wall. “Today we change shifts. Starting today, and for the next two weeks, you will work from six p.m. to six a.m.”
Murmurs ripple through the hallway. I think back to our first morning at work here, how we watched the older girls leave the theater after toiling all night. Now it’s our turn to be the owls. Well, this is good. Owls bring luck. Owls protect. This will be our lucky shift . . . I hope.
The soldier opens his rucksack and extracts a paper bag. “Here.” He sets the bag on the floor. “Some sweet potato. Be at the theater by five forty-five.”
As soon as he’s out of the room, we dive into the bruised slices of what were once sun-sweetened roots.
It’s strange to start your workday at the time you’re used to ending it. But we’ve had a rice ball and some sweet potato and a day of resting, so we have energy to work. Rin has gained a little color in her cheeks, and Suki hasn’t coughed in half an hour. Maybe we’ll make quota on time tonight. Maybe this is just what we needed. I feel almost happy. At the start, anyway.
After a few hours, my eyes droop, and my finger hurts. No one at our table is working very fast, even though the handsome soldier keeps calling out for everyone to “produce, produce!” We’re normally fast asleep by this hour. We can’t fool our bodies into believing it’s daytime. Besides, we’re hungry again.
Then at midnight something unexpected happens. The handsome soldier appears on the stage and calls out, “You may break now!”
I’m not sure I heard him right. “Did he say . . . ?” I ask Suki. She nods. “I think so.”
