In a Flash

by Donna Jo Napoli

  “We have nothing,” I say.

  “Is that so?” His mouth falls open, as though the effort of keeping it shut is too much. He walks sadly toward the neighbor’s.

  Karo-chan and I bow our heads and set off for the black market Papà took us to. We turn down a street, and a boy no bigger than Karo-chan runs out of a house and walks behind us. We walk faster. The boy walks faster. We turn at the next corner. The boy turns at the next corner.

  “What do you want, boy?” I call without looking back at him.

  “What do you want?” he echoes.

  “Nothing you can give.”

  “Then you want nothing.”

  I stop. The boy catches up to us. I lean toward him. “What do you mean?”

  “Tell me what you need. I’ll get it.”

  “A big pot.”

  “Old or new?”

  I can’t believe the question. “Old. But still strong.”

  “Wait here.” He runs down the block.

  “It’s for Tanaka-san,” I call after him. “The blind washerwoman. So it better be good. You better not cheat us.”

  The boy stops. “Tanaka-san?” He crosses the street and runs in the other direction.

  “That was smart,” says Karo-chan. “He was going to cheat us.”

  “Yes, I think so.” We wait.

  A woman peeks out of a window. “Go away, beggars.”

  “We’re not beggars.”

  “Then you’re thieves. The police take away thieves.”

  “Let’s go home,” I say to Karo-chan.

  “But the boy will come looking for us here.”

  “He knows Tanaka-san’s shop. If he really has a pot for us, he’ll come there. And if he doesn’t, we can go to the market, like I planned.”

  We walk home slowly, trying to act like blind people.

  The boy intercepts us on the last block. “Here.” He holds out a large iron rice pot, and his face radiates hope. He’s counting on us; he needs our money badly. I hope it’s a good pot, so we can buy it and he’ll smile.

  “Put it on the ground.”

  He sets it on the ground, but he keeps one hand tight around the handle.

  “Help me inspect it, Karo-chan.” So the two of us squat and feel that pot everywhere, like good blind girls. “It seems strong. Why would someone give up such a strong pot?”

  The boy puts his other hand around the handle, too. “The sellers are moving. Evacuating Tokyo, like lots of people. They have family down in Kyūshū. Everything grows good in Kyūshū. No one there is hungry. So this family is selling stuff.”

  Kyūshū is the big southern island of Japan. Its farms are famous. Still, this boy knows too much about it, as though he’s making it up. And even when moving, people take their good stuff. “Why sell this pot?”

  “It’s too heavy to carry. There’s only the mother and three little kids.”

  “How little?”

  “Two and four. The oldest is my age.”

  “You stole this pot, didn’t you?”

  “No!”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Well, I don’t believe you’re blind. Tanaka-san never used to take in sewing. But ever since you came, she has. I bet you’re the ones who sew.”

  “We have a secret sewer,” says Karo-chan. “So we can’t tell you who she is.”

  “I don’t believe you. Anyway, you knew I was a boy right off. So that proves you’re not blind.”

  He speaks awfully loud. But I don’t dare look around for eavesdroppers. “Boys’ footsteps sound different from girls’ footsteps,” I say. “Come on, Karo-chan. Let’s go.”

  “You’re a liar,” says Karo-chan. She stands up. My sister is crazy. I grab her arm. She pulls free. “That mother with the three little kids you just talked about—you lied. The oldest boy is you.”

  The boy pushes his face close to Karo-chan’s. “How do you know?”

  “Blind people know things. Even the police say that.”

  The boy looks frightened. He bows. “I’m sorry. Don’t tell. My mother said Tanaka-san could have the pot for free.” He walks away, hanging his head.

  Stunned, I watch the boy leave. We carry the pot home, but I stop out front of Tanaka-san’s door. “How did you know he was talking about his own family?”

  “I didn’t.” Karo-chan shrugs. “I don’t know how to say it in Japanese.” She pulls me down so she can whisper into my ear. “I bluffed,” she says in Italian.

  I give a laugh. Karo-chan is smart and brave. Tanaka-san is sensible and kind. And the people we come in contact with seem to believe us. Maybe this life with Tanaka-san will work out. Maybe this good thing will last until we’re back with Papà.

  We go in and put the pot on the floor. Tanaka-san runs her fingers all over it. “It’s a fine pot. How much did you pay for it?”

  “A boy gave it to us for free,” I say.

  “No one gives anything for free.”

  “They’re moving to Kyūshū, and he said his mother wanted you to have it.”

  “But only after I told him that blind people like us”—Karo-chan slaps a hand over her mouth; she realizes she slipped—“I mean, like you, know things. I scared him because he was trying to scare us. And I don’t care if it was a lie.”

  Tanaka-san waits. Is she wondering what Karo-chan means by talking about blind people like us? Tanaka-san has no idea that we pretend to be blind to others. Please, please, don’t let Karo-chan have given us away.

  When we don’t say anything else, Tanaka-san finally fills the pot and puts it to boil. “I’m blind and I know things,” she says. “The boy learned a good lesson.”

  28 MAY 1944, TOKYO, JAPAN

  It’s nearly June, and the strawberries in the bowl in front of us are the first of the season. We’re enjoying them with the satisfaction that only a farmer can have.

  A man shows up at the shop door. It’s early Sunday morning, and even though Sunday is a workday now, usually work starts later. But we don’t panic. We bow our heads and go quickly behind the screen. I pick up the pajamas we’re making and stitch a seam while Karo-chan works on decorating a sleeve edge.

  The man hands Tanaka-san a letter. It isn’t a true letter, because it didn’t come by the postal service. The postal service no longer delivers regular letters. This is a message passed from one friend’s hand to another’s, from her brother in Sapporo to Tanaka-san here in Tokyo. The man reads the date on the outside of it: 12 May 1944. It took over two weeks for it to arrive here. The man and Tanaka-san share tea and chat.

  After the man leaves, Tanaka-san flaps the envelope over her head. “Read it to me, Simo-chan. It’s bound to be a poem.”

  This is the first letter we’ve seen Tanaka-san receive our whole time here. I open it quickly and read:

  “Trees have been stripped raw

  Sharp savage empty despair

  How can we write poems?”

  My hands shake. “This is not a safe poem to keep, Tanaka-san. If an official came inspecting for air-defense equipment and he saw this…”

  “Read it again. Read it over and over.”

  I read the poem four times, and my voice grows sharp. This poem is the way Aiko feels, and Papà feels, and Sanae, and Fujiko, and Kotsuru. It says what Karo-chan and I know too well.

  Tanaka-san puts her hand on my wrist. “Shut your eyes and say it now.”

  I close my eyes and recite the poem.

  “You, Karo-chan, you say it.”

  Karo-chan recites the poem perfectly. Her voice shakes.

  “Can you recite it now?” I ask Tanaka-san.

  “I could have recited it after the first time you read it. But I wanted to make sure it was yours, too. My brother is a very good poet. He is famous throughout Japan. He works at t
he Hokkaido Imperial University.”

  Hokkaido. That’s the northernmost island of Japan. “Have you ever gone all the way there to visit him?” I ask Tanaka-san.

  “I grew up there. My brother says I should come back, now that our parents are dead. His poems are just like him: angry.” Tanaka-san sounds disapproving.

  “Aren’t you angry, too?” I dare to whisper.

  “About the war, yes. But I used to be much angrier and about so many more things. When I was a child, my mother pampered me, convinced that a blind girl was useless. So I came to Tokyo, alone, and set up this shop.”

  “I’ve never heard of a girl leaving her family.”

  “Nearly none do. Especially not blind girls. And rich girls don’t become washerwomen.” Tanaka-san laughs. “My poor mother. No wonder she disowned me. I was proud in those days. And furious. But my anger was never like my brother’s—then or now. He blames everyone. Everyone outside Japan. He can’t admit that we might have brought some of this misery onto ourselves. Now burn his poem in the fire. Then get a piece of paper for my answer.”

  “You have writing paper?”

  “Of course,” says Tanaka-san. “Look on the kitchen shelves.”

  Karo-chan rips up the letter and feeds the pieces to the fire while I search for a brush and ink and paper. I’ve never seen Tanaka-san write before; there’s so much about her I don’t know. Ah! There they are, under a piece of cloth. A stack of white paper, and jars and jars of ink. In different colors. What does a blind woman do with colored inks? Or any ink at all? I put a brush, one sheet of paper, and a jar of black ink on a low side table and carry it all to her, ready to be amazed.

  “You’re my scribe.” Tanaka-san lets her hands fall onto her thighs, and she leans forward as she speaks.

  “Soybeans, long beans, rain

  Plum blossoms spread generous

  Calm your heart with green.”

  I pick up the brush, eager to transcribe this haiku. It matches our strawberries perfectly. Yes, Tanaka-san’s famous brother is right in what he says in that first haiku. But Tanaka-san’s answer is right, too. We had a rainy spring. Welcome rain. But when it kept on, incessantly, we feared the crops would rot in the ground. Then the sun played its marvelous game, and everything grew strong and sure. Far better than we could have hoped. We will have plenty of food this spring and summer. “I love your haiku. How do we send it?”

  “I’ll get the professor. He was a childhood friend of ours. He’s the one who helped me set up this laundry when I first arrived in Tokyo. He always makes sure my letters arrive quick and safe.”

  And so Tanaka-san goes outside to tell a neighbor girl to fetch him. Karo-chan and I have never seen the professor. But Tanaka-san talks about him often; she says he knows everything. He usually visits her regularly, but he’s been ill all spring, and we only got word that he’s well again a few days ago. Karo-chan and I retreat behind the screen.

  When the professor arrives, Tanaka-san greets him with deference. He puts a pile of laundry on the counter, and she promises to scrub it extra clean, which means, of course, that Karo-chan and I will examine it for stains extra carefully. I don’t understand; they were childhood friends. Equals. Does being blind change things? Tanaka-san hands him her haiku. The professor bows and slips it inside his kimono.

  “Do you have time to talk today?” asks the professor. “I have missed talking freely to you. It is always consoling to visit with you.”

  “And I am always honored to learn truth about the world,” says Tanaka-san.

  “Oh, you have helpers,” says the professor. “In two sizes.” His voice grows louder and I realize he’s approaching our screen. I kiss my fingertip and touch Karo-chan’s lips, and we both slip the gauze sashes over our eyes and stay still as death.

  “Please don’t interrupt your chores because of me.” The professor’s footsteps make wispy noises on the tatami mats as he walks back toward Tanaka-san. “Do you trust these girls not to run to the neighborhood association?”

  Members of the neighborhood association watch each other for suspicious behavior. Every household belongs. As far as I can tell, no one pays any attention to a home with three blind females.

  “I trust them totally.”

  “That’s old-fashioned of you. Delightfully so.” The professor settles himself on the mat. “Tōjō is an idiot. He likes to appear where he does not have to be, even now, as he ruins everything. The show-off.”

  I’ve never heard anyone criticize Premier Tōjō before. He’s the general of the imperial army—no one should dare. My arms go all gooseflesh. But Papà and I hate show-offs, too. I like this professor.

  The professor lights a cigarette, and the sweet smell of the tobacco snakes around the room. “Tōjō surrounds himself with a cabinet of old businessmen who understand nothing. So he gets the advice he deserves—rubbish. We’ll have a revolution if we aren’t all killed first.”

  “Has something new happened?” asks Tanaka-san.

  “You haven’t heard? Yesterday the Americans landed on Biak, Dutch New Guinea, a key Japanese air base near Papua. And Tōjō will surely send as many troops to defend it as he can, which means we’ll divert forces from India. After all the past fighting, we’ll lose India anyway.”

  “Should we want India?” asks Tanaka-san.

  “Exactly. I love how you say things so simply.” The professor rubs his chin. “We have no business wanting any of it when everything is going wrong among the ordinary people right here in Japan. No food, so babies are born deformed. Many too weak to suckle. University students hunted down for labor. No one can study. Soon Japan will have no educated people.” He falls silent.

  Tanaka-san gets up and makes a second pot of tea.

  “Thank you. But tea is not enough,” says the professor. “I am hungry. You must be, too. Let’s have a treat. May I take all of you to Fuji Ice for lunch?”

  Fuji Ice is wonderful; I went there once with Aiko and her mother. Many eating places have closed, but not Fuji Ice. Still, Karo-chan and I can’t come out from behind the screen and show our faces. The professor is clearly too smart to be fooled by our eye sashes.

  But Tanaka-san says, “What a pity we cannot accept your generous offer. We must finish our work, or customers will complain.”

  “Customers have no one else to turn to. Most laundries have closed.”

  “A blind woman has to be extra careful, extra conscientious. It doesn’t take much to tarnish one’s reputation, especially when most people tend to avoid the blind.”

  “You’re not fooling me with that talk, Tanaka-san. Something’s on your mind. But think about the girls, listening with disappointment. They deserve a treat after having had to endure my ugly words.”

  “Perhaps I can take them to Fuji Ice one day when there is less work,” says Tanaka-san. “They can know it was your idea and be grateful to you.”

  “May I please leave money for that treat, at least?” He stands up and goes to the counter. “I’ll come back next week. Sunday again. It’s my best day.”

  “Thank you for such kindness.”

  “Thank you for allowing me the relief of our talk.”

  “Thank you for sending my message. Thank you. Thank you.”

  The professor leaves. I remember Aiko telling me I was only one of two people she could be completely honest with. Maybe that’s how the professor feels about Tanaka-san. Does everyone in Japan have a person they can tell their doubts to, someone they can grumble to without fear?

  Tanaka-san stands a moment facing the door. Then she goes to the counter and folds the money into a purse. “Come, girls. We’re going to Fuji Ice for lunch.”

  Karo-chan and I emerge from behind the screen. Tanaka-san just refused to go to Fuji Ice with the professor, and now she’s taking us there herself. There’s only one way to make se
nse out of all this.

  I bow to Tanaka-san, even though she can’t see me. “I was afraid you had figured out that we pretend to be blind. Karo-chan gave us away when she talked about telling the boy that blind people like us know things.”

  “I would have figured it out anyway. The neighbors asked me about your eye sashes the day you brought home the pot. You didn’t move like me, so they suspected you. It’s a good thing Karo-chan tipped me off, in fact, because I didn’t hesitate. I explained that you had my same syndrome, which worsens over time. You weren’t entirely blind yet, but you wore sashes so people would help you if you asked.”

  I bow low and know that Tanaka-san senses how low I go. “Do you know why we pretend?”

  She pets my head softly. “What springy curls are growing here.” She puts a finger through one of my newly grown curls. “How many Japanese girls do you know with curly hair? And when you first came, I recognized your voices. You used to come with a servant who worked at the Italian embassy. When your short hair started to grow longer, I put it together.” She sighs. “In fact, it’s time to trim your curls again. I wish I could use your scissors and help.”

  “You know about my scissors?”

  “This is my home, Simo-chan. It’s important that I know everything that’s in it.” She reaches for her kerchief. “From now on call me Obasan.”

  Obasan. What children call their aunts or very close family friends. “Thank you, Obasan.”

  We go to Fuji Ice and stand in a long line. If Aiko is still living just with her mother, if her father or her brother hasn’t returned yet, she has no money to go to Fuji Ice. But I look up and down the line at every girl about my size anyway. I can see well enough through this gauze.

  Everyone wears khaki-colored caps—war caps. I notice someone ahead in the line, about a dozen people away. A boy. Barefoot, and his clothes are filthy and ragged. But just seeing the back of him, he seems familiar. The people around us say that in the Ginza area even the food shops have lines of a hundred people. But everyone has to sacrifice for the good of the emperor.