In a Flash

by Donna Jo Napoli

  A policeman says, “We have to do something about you. The evening newspapers have come out, so everyone will know about Italy’s disloyalty. You’ll be in danger. Whatever we do will be for your protection.”

  I translate.

  The ambassador sits with his arms on the table and looks at the policeman. If there had been food on the table, his arms like that would have been rude. But there is no food, so I don’t know what these policemen think. Still, I stare at his arms and hope he’ll notice.

  The policeman says we must collect our radios, cameras, binoculars, and weapons and put them on the table to be taken away. We can’t leave the embassy. A decision will be made soon about what to do with us. We must prepare a room for all the policemen to stay in.

  Then the policeman turns to Papà. “Make dinner. The others can collect your weapons for you.”

  Weapons? What do they think we do here?

  9 SEPTEMBER 1943, TOKYO, JAPAN

  The next morning, I hear, “Wake up.”

  Papà sits bolt upright. I wriggle out from under Carolina’s arm and rub my eyes. A policeman stands over us.

  The man kicks the bottom of Papà’s foot. “Hurry.” He looks at me. “You, too.”

  “I can’t go anywhere without my little sister.”

  “Bring her.” He leans over. “It’s just breakfast. You’re going to make us breakfast. Shikata ga nai.”

  Papà looks at me for a translation. I say, “Life goes on.” Our teacher says those words after every report of a battle that Japan has lost. We repeat it and go back to our work. Whatever happens, you still need to do your schoolwork. You still need to wash and sleep. You still need breakfast.

  In the kitchen the policeman stays beside us. “You have no pickled vegetables? But clams! Ah, wonderful in miso soup.” Papà was going to serve them at the feast in the captain’s honor. We make the soup.

  None of the servants has shown up. Or if any did, the police turned them away. So Carolina and I are busy in the kitchen.

  Captain Prelli, the injured naval captain, is there, at the dining table, with the ambassador and Pessa and the policemen. No one looks at me as I serve them. Pessa urges the ambassador to eat, but he doesn’t touch his food. The captain hardly eats, either. His right arm is in a sling, and he’s inept with his chopsticks in his left hand.

  The ambassador’s eyes meet mine. He glances toward a corner.

  I go, sit on my heels, and listen. A policeman orders the ambassador to declare loyalty to Mussolini. Somehow they see Mussolini as leading another government somewhere in the north of Italy, alongside the new one led by Badoglio. I understand every word, but I can’t make sense of it.

  The ambassador seems to understand. He says, “Badoglio’s government is the only legitimate one.” He speaks quietly, in poor Japanese, but his voice is steady and firm, and the message is clear.

  The policeman gets furious, but the ambassador sits tall. He’s right: we have to be loyal to Italy’s government, not to whatever mess Mussolini has made. I will serve the ambassador extra clams if I get a chance.

  The policeman orders us to pack our bags—one suitcase per person—and meet back at this table. Fast. The people of Japan hate us now. The emperor has declared that Italy is an enemy. We have to leave for our own protection.

  We are the enemy.

  Carolina runs off. But I stay to hear this policeman. The ambassador needs me. Carolina will be safe. No one pays her any mind. She has to be safe!

  The ambassador asks where they’re taking us.

  The policeman says that for now the few Italians scattered across Japan are all being sent to an internment camp.

  I don’t know what that is.

  The policeman frowns at me. “What are you waiting for? Go pack.”

  I throw all my clothes into my suitcase. I jam in my red lacquer box. I wear my school pants and white shirt.

  Carolina is dressed just like me. She stands with her small suitcase in one hand and Lella in the other.

  “Put Lella into your suitcase,” Papà says to Carolina.

  “I’m holding her.”

  “You’ll hold your suitcase in one hand, and I’ll have your other. How can you hold her if…”

  “I’m holding her.” She curls the hand with Lella against her chest.

  “Put on your kimono sash,” I say. “That way you can tuck Lella in.”

  “Someone might steal her from my back. She’s safe in my arms.”

  Papà reaches for the rag doll.

  “No!” shouts Carolina.

  Papà takes Carolina by the upper arms and shakes her. “Listen to me. You do whatever I say, the instant I say it.” He straightens up and passes Carolina’s suitcase to me. “Simona will carry your suitcase. You hold Lella by one hand and me by the other.”

  “All right,” says Carolina.

  “Then I can’t hold anyone’s hand,” I say, which is a stupid thing to say, since there is no one else to hold hands with.

  “You don’t need to hold hands. Nothing’s going to happen,” Papà says firmly. “When Japan bombed Pearl Harbor, the American ambassador was placed under house arrest in the American embassy. Then he was released to return to America. The same will happen to us. I’m holding Carolina’s hand so she won’t wander off. That’s all.”

  “I’d never wander off,” says Carolina.

  I walk out of the room as straight-backed as Papà, a suitcase in each hand.

  The captain is already there. He has nothing to pack. We wait in silence for the ambassador and Pessa. When they appear, Pessa has two suitcases.

  “One suitcase per person,” says the bossy policeman.

  Pessa’s face crumples. She leans the top of her head against the ambassador’s chest.

  “This way we can hold hands.” The ambassador talks very gently. “You said you wanted that.”

  Pessa doesn’t answer.

  “I have no suitcase,” says the captain. “I’ll carry it.” He reaches for one of Pessa’s suitcases.

  The lead policeman steps in front of him. “You’re not going to the same place.”

  The captain looks at me. I translate.

  The ambassador takes one of Pessa’s suitcases. “Leave this one. It’s smaller.”

  Pessa cries now. “That’s the one the servant packed for me. I asked her to pack it with my special things.”

  “It’s going to be all right.” The ambassador holds the suitcase out to me. “You carry it.”

  Everyone wants me to carry everyone else’s suitcases. But I don’t have a third hand.

  The ambassador yanks my suitcase out of my right hand and holds out Pessa’s suitcase. “Take it!” He throws my suitcase aside.

  I run to get my suitcase.

  The ambassador grabs my arm and swings me around. He presses Pessa’s hateful suitcase into my hand.

  “Enough!” shouts the bossy policeman. “We’re going!”

  They herd us to the front door, and we put on wooden clogs. Our leather shoes disappeared weeks ago. They stuff us into police cars. I sit squished in the back with Carolina and Papà and a policeman.

  “I’m sorry, Simona,” whispers Papà.

  I don’t answer. He didn’t offer to give up his suitcase. He didn’t tell the ambassador to throw away Carolina’s suitcase instead of mine. It doesn’t matter that it would have been just as unfair for Papà to lose his suitcase or for Carolina to lose hers. No one stood up for me. Someone needs to take care of me, too.

  Now I have nothing in the world except the clothes on my back. The red lacquer box…Nonna’s letters…lost. Tears press behind my eyes. But I’m too furious to cry.

  The train station is crowded and dirty. It used to be spotless.

  As I watch, a man puts his hand into another man’s pocket
and runs off with his wallet. The victim chases the thief, but no one else does. What’s wrong with people?

  When we climb onto our train, Papà takes off his clogs, to leave them in the entrance area, but a policeman says they’ll be stolen. So he puts them back on.

  The policemen push us inside the train car, fast, so that we trip over ourselves, but we get seats. People stand around us, smashed against each other. The three of us jam into two seats, with the suitcases on our laps. The ambassador and Pessa sit in front of us, with policemen in front of them. The captain sits behind us with two policemen squished against him. One is Our Policeman, the one who woke us this morning and allowed me to bring Carolina along to the kitchen. I look over my shoulder at him, but he’s staring down at his hands.

  The stink of the coal combines with the heat to make the press of everyone unbearable. Nausea rises in my throat. The seat is hard; the air is dusty. People glance here and there, watchful.

  The train jerks. Screams and shrieks come from the end of our train car. Everyone talks at once. Oh no! A man fell from the gangway connection between our car and the next. He was lost under the wheels.

  Pessa pulls on the ambassador’s arm. “What happened? What are they saying?”

  The ambassador looks back at Papà.

  “I didn’t catch the words,” says Papà. But his eyes meet mine.

  I press my face against the window so the ambassador can’t ask me for a translation. A man dies, and we don’t stop. Is his family on the train? Are they losing their minds now?

  Carolina snakes her arm through mine. I pat it.

  The train stops at Tamagawa Station, in a tiny village close to Tokyo.

  “Get up!” A policeman pulls the ambassador’s arm.

  The ambassador stands and backs into the crowded aisle to let Pessa pass in front of them.

  Papà stands and takes Carolina by the hand. “Come on.”

  “Sit down,” says a policeman.

  “We’re getting off,” says Papà.

  “Not you. You’re staying on. With the captain.”

  “We’re not military.” Papà shakes his head. “This is a mistake.”

  “Sit down.”

  “We should stay with the ambassador.” Papà clutches the ambassador’s shoulder from behind. “Tell them we should stay with you,” he says in Italian.

  The ambassador turns an ashen face to the policeman. “We’re diplomats.”

  “You are,” says the policeman in front of him. “He’s a cook. We need cooks.”

  Papà’s eyes flick back and forth between the policeman and the ambassador. “My daughters are not cooks. They’ll go with the ambassador.”

  “No! We’re staying with you,” I say in Italian. “Together, all of us together.”

  “Hush, Simona,” says Papà. “The captain will be in a prisoner-of-war camp. I’ll never let you girls go there.”

  Our Policeman takes me by the upper arm. But I pull free.

  “Sit down now!” The policeman in the aisle presses down on Papà’s shoulder, forcing him to sit.

  The ambassador and Pessa have already squirmed up the aisle. The crowd closes behind them.

  Papà’s face goes deathly pale.

  Oh no! What have I done?

  I press my forehead against the windowpane. A moment later Pessa appears on the platform. She mouths to me, “My suitcase!”

  I still have her suitcase!

  The train rolls on to Yokohama, then beyond. The next time it stops, one of the policemen yanks Papà to his feet. “Hurry.” He produces a club.

  We are shoved up the aisle and fall off the steps onto the platform. The train leaves. I look at the sign: Ofuna Station.

  “Move!” The policemen march us to a soldier.

  “What are they doing here?” The soldier points at Carolina and me.

  Our Policeman mumbles something to the soldier, and they argue.

  Papà sets his suitcase down on the ground, puts one arm around Carolina, the other around me, and pulls us to him.

  Now he’ll scold me. I deserve it. “I’m sorry—” I say.

  “Hush, Simona. What’s done is done.” He’s breathing so hard, his body rocks. “No more mistakes. We pay attention. We listen to each other. We take care of each other.”

  A truck rolls up, with more soldiers standing on the flatbed. Two jump out and heave the captain up into the rear. They reach for Papà. He pulls away. “This is a mistake,” he says to the officer in charge, bowing and bowing. “I’m diplomatic staff.”

  “You’re a prisoner,” says the officer.

  The soldiers reach for Papà, but he swings his suitcase into the truck and climbs up. He extends an arm toward Carolina.

  The policemen close around Carolina and me, cutting us off. I scream and claw at them. I can’t see past the soldiers now, but I hear Papà’s frantic shouts: “No! No! Simona! Carolina!” I hear him over the rumble of the truck taking him away. When the ocean of policemen parts, I see only the open mouth of the tunnel where the truck disappeared.

  Carolina sobs.

  Papà’s gone.

  I wipe my tears with the back of my hand. I pull Carolina to me and wrap both arms around her. “Hush,” I say, just like Papà said before. “Hush so you can hear me.” Her cries slow to gulps, then sniffs. “We’re together, Carolina. We take care of each other.”

  She sucks on one of Lella’s braids. Soon another truck comes.

  Our Policeman puts a hand on my back. “Ganbatte.”

  Persevere? School kids say that before tests. Is he out of his mind? This is nothing like a school test. Papà is gone. Our Policeman actually thinks he’s being kind. I hate him.

  I boost Carolina up onto the truck. She turns and grabs at me. “Don’t leave me.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Ever!”

  “Ever.”

  “I won’t ever leave you, either, Simona.”

  I put the two suitcases, Carolina’s and Pessa’s, onto the truck and climb up.

  12 SEPTEMBER 1943, KAMAKURA, JAPAN

  Carolina plucks a weevil from the rice. “Got another.” She squats with the wooden bowl in front of her feet, like any Japanese girl. Good. When I told her we must avoid acting Italian, she said she didn’t even know how to act Italian.

  This is our third day in this empty house out in the countryside, and I am doing my best to be strong. Observation and strategy, those are the keys, as the ambassador advised. I’m determined to teach them to Carolina. I can feel Papà’s presence. It’s almost as though he’s inside my head, watching me, being proud of me.

  Carolina and I will find a way to join Papà. Sooner or later someone will say or do something that allows us to get to him. We have to stay alert. We have to win the trust of the guards.

  We’re already doing that. My favorite guard likes Carolina. He’s an ordinary policeman from the nearest town, Kamakura, with a scraggly mustache and nicotine-stained fingers. He says Carolina acts right because she does what I say, not like spoiled foreigners. Carolina doesn’t lick her fingers at meals, she says the proper Buddhist thanks before and after eating, and she holds her bowl under her chin to not make a mess. I call her Karo-chan, and she calls me Simo-chan. Even when no one is around, we behave as Japanese. That way we can’t be overheard being Italian.

  I promised Carolina she’ll get a treat for all her good behavior soon. We haven’t yet opened Pessa’s suitcase. When we do, Carolina will get first pick of whatever is in it.

  Carolina says she has a treat in her suitcase for me, too. I’ll get my treat when she gets hers. She’s trying to act like we’re taking care of each other. Like Papà said. And maybe we really are, because I look forward to that treat.

  “Another,” crows Carolina in triumph as she flicks a weevil across th
e floor. “Another, another, another.” She hates the idea that we might eat bugs.

  I finish stitching up a rip in a shirtsleeve. I mend the clothes of the military guards at the Ofuna prisoner-of-war camp on the other side of the town. Papà is the cook there. My favorite guard told us, and he said we’re never to tell anyone, because the prison is secret.

  This house has broken windows and no furniture. We aren’t allowed out. From the windows, we see farmers’ fields. We burn pine cones in the fireplace to boil rice and make miso soup. At night we lie in the bare upstairs with no bedding or mat. Carolina sleeps with Lella inside her shirt. She says, this way, if Lella wakes in the night, she won’t feel lost. I fall asleep with my arms around Carolina.

  A military guard always sleeps downstairs. The first night the guard on duty said he’d kill us if we tried to escape. I didn’t believe he meant it. But the next morning my favorite guard said he did. He explained: “Being a prisoner is dishonorable. You should fight to the death. An honorable soldier would rather kill himself than get caught. So prisoners deserve death. If they try to escape, they get what they deserve.”

  I bowed and said, “We’re not soldiers.”

  He looked at me. Then yesterday morning and again today at breakfast he brought us tea and rice cakes. Just one rice cake each, but they were wonderful.

  We still wear the clothes we put on at the embassy. The grime makes me itchy. Once my favorite guard comes back, I’ll ask him about a pot big enough for boiling laundry. I fold the mended shirt and set it neatly on the pile with the others. “What would you think of putting on fresh clothes?” I say to Carolina.

  Carolina giggles. “You’ll look funny in Pessa’s clothes.” She picks out one last weevil, then goes to the stairs and says over her shoulder as she climbs, “But putting on fresh clothes can’t count as my treat.”

  I rush up the stairs behind her, then sit on my heels in front of the suitcase I hate. Pessa is much larger than me, of course, but I hope there will be something I can wear. Carolina sits beside me, ready to pounce on her treat. I open the suitcase. It holds a single sheet of expensive embossed stationery, a tiara, and the fur coat that Pessa bragged is real fox fur. I take them out. On the bottom is Pessa’s canary, dry and lifeless.