He looked surprised. “We move on already?”
“Yes.” Then she shook her head affectionately. “We move on, jijii.”
Hanako was a little surprised at that. Jijii meant “old man,” as in “old codger.” You might say it about an elderly man in kind of an insulting way. But Baachan said it like she really liked him a lot.
“Did you find futon?” Jiichan asked.
The old woman shook her head no. “I very disappointing, gomen nasai.”
“Oh, don’t apologize!” Hanako blurted out.
“Yes, please, the children will be fine. Here, let me introduce everyone properly,” Papa said, laying his hand on his mother’s arm. “This is my wife, Kagako.”
Baachan swatted at the air. “It only me, no need for introduction. I could not even find futon. I have no bed to offer my grandchildren.” Now she hung her head as if she were a terrible failure. Hanako had never met two such apologetic people!
“Baachan, please don’t worry. I love to sleep on the floor!” Hanako said loudly. “It’s my favorite thing to do! I don’t even like beds.” Another lie. She tried to avoid looking at her grandmother’s stooped back.
“Oh! She speak so softly, and then suddenly she speak loudly,” said Jiichan. “In this way she is also like me, so da neh?”
“Hai,” Papa and Mama said at the same time.
“So then you’ve met Hanako,” Papa went on. “This is Akira.”
Akira bowed deeply and said, “I’m very pleased to meet you.” Hanako felt a flash of pride for him. He must be so very tired, yet here he was using his best manners.
Baachan’s face turned into something beyond happy. She looked overjoyed. She stood beside Akira and touched her own old face lightly, all the while staring at Akira as if she were touching his face. Then she stepped back suddenly and said, “What do I thinking? Let me make you dinner.”
“Oh, let me cook!” Mama said. “Hanako, come help now!”
“It only me, no need to help. No help! Please! Dinner simple, boiled carrot top, potato, and rice. Not much rice.”
But Hanako wanted to help this stooped woman who’d said “It only me.” So she followed her into the small kitchen. “I can set the table,” she told her grandmother.
“No, no, you are tired from travel.”
“I’m not tired.”
“No, no. No need to help a woman like me.”
Hanako knew that the Japanese way was to say no even when you meant yes, so she persisted. “My mother will be mad at me if I don’t do anything,” she said honestly.
“Oh, then you must help,” Baachan said. “Bowls in here, you take to table. We eat at kotatsu during winter.”
The bowls were surprisingly pretty, colorful and matching but not identical, in the Japanese way. They came in sets of five, since four was bad luck.
She set the five colorful bowls on the table, then returned for hashi and spoons. Actually, she and Akira usually used forks, not chopsticks, but she doubted her grandparents would have forks. When she set the hashi in front of Akira, she saw him frown. “Can I use my fingers this once?”
“No,” Mama scolded. “We’re in Japan now.”
Hanako returned to the kitchen. She felt so curious about her baachan. She sat on a stool and tried to think of something to say. “Is this what you eat every day?” was what she came up with.
“This good day,” Baachan said. She nodded her head back and forth as she stirred the soup, almost as if she heard music in her head. “We have small amount rice we buy just for you. Many time we eat wheat when we cannot find rice. But we don’t have many money left. We run out rice because someone steal some from house last year. It was very, how you say . . . ?”
“Infuriating?” Hanako guessed.
“Inful . . . ?”
“In-fur-i-a-ting. It’s like when something bothers you and you feel like kicking someone.”
Baachan laughed. “A word for when you feel like kick someone? Ah, I miss English! They have many good words!”
“Thank you for selling your kimono for me. You didn’t have to do that.”
“What use does woman like me have for beautiful kimono? But I always thought someday I would give to you.”
“But you never met me!”
“But still . . .”
“Thank you for thinking of me,” Hanako said.
“But you see what my thought worth. I have no beautiful kimono to give you.”
“Your thoughts are wonderful!” Hanako said. She had never met anyone who thought less of themselves than Baachan!
Baachan looked pleased and suddenly reached out and stroked the air right in front of Hanako’s cheek. “I knew my son would have nice daughter.”
Hanako blushed. “You speak English very well,” she told her grandmother.
Baachan beamed. “I know you lie to old woman, but it nice lie, thank you.”
“No, I mean it,” Hanako insisted.
“No, no, no, it hard for me to do anything very well. That just my nature. I work hard, that what I do well.”
Hanako swung her legs in and out a few times. “Is this the same part of Japan you were born in?”
Baachan looked surprised, and Hanako worried that she was being nosy. “Never mind,” she said. “I was just asking, but never mind . . . please.”
Baachan looked confused now. She turned back to the soup. “Food ready, you go sit down. No help me again. I want take care of you.”
In the living room they were talking about taking the train overnight to Kobe to get the butter and sugar in the next day or two. Papa wouldn’t come; he would be looking for work, maybe in Hiroshima. Hanako admired the gold-cracked bowl in front of her. The cracks were shaped like twigs on a tree. Jiichan was telling them about some Australian occupation troops in Hiroshima, that maybe they could hire Papa as an interpreter. The Allied occupation consisted of Western soldiers, mostly Americans, who were stationed in Japan to restore order and tell the Japanese people how to make a new government. General Douglas MacArthur, whose title was the Supreme Commander or something like that, was in charge. It was a little hard to comprehend how anyone, even a Supreme Commander, could create a whole nation from scraps. Hanako herself had problems just making a diorama for class, a tiny world with a few clay figures.
“Is General MacArthur a good man?” Hanako asked now.
“I don’t know,” Papa said. “He’s a powerful man. That’s all I know.”
Baachan brought in the big pot of soup, and then set it in the middle of the table with a ladle sticking out of it. She left and returned with shoyu, a spoon, and a bowl of what looked like pulverized sprinkles of dry fish. But as Hanako looked closer, she saw little bits that looked almost like hardened eyelashes. “Kore wa nan desu ka?” she asked politely. (“What is this?”)
“Inago. Dried grasshopper we save from summer,” Baachan said. “Or locust. Not sure what American word. Some confusion about that.”
Those were grasshopper legs! Hanako looked at her parents to see what they would have to say. Papa said simply, “Protein.”
“I didn’t know Japanese ate insects!” Akira practically shouted. “I don’t eat insects!”
“It not Japanese tradition,” Jiichan said. “During war, government said must eat insect to survive. Also, it will give you energy because grasshopper have many energy. They have almost as much energy as me when I your age, Aki.”
Surely Hanako didn’t have to eat grasshoppers! She had a particular dislike of grasshoppers. For one thing, they spit that dark stuff that looked like tobacco juice.
Baachan ladled out the soup, filling Hanako’s special bowl. They all poured shoyu into their soup. Akira poured in a lot because he loved salty things. Jiichan used the spoon to sprinkle some inago into his bowl. Papa did the same. The spoon and grasshopper bowl were passed around. When it reached Hanako, she hesitated, then turned to her parents. They were both looking at her without expression, but somehow their lack of expression seemed
like an expression of warning to her to behave herself. So she spooned in a very little bit of grasshopper. Jiichan was already slurping up his soup.
“Oh, it’s not so bad!” Akira said happily, chomping down. “Hanako, don’t be a sissy!”
Baachan hesitatingly placed her hand on Hanako’s forearm and said, “Very good for you. Protein make you grow strong.”
Hanako spooned some soup up, but she secretly kept her nostrils closed so she couldn’t taste it too well. That didn’t seem so bad. So for her next spoonful she breathed through her nose. The soup actually had hardly any taste, but at the same time it tasted really awful, because you knew that in it was a strange, ugly creature. She ate extremely slowly.
Then Baachan said, “I make her something else to eat?”
“No!” Hanako, Papa, and Mama all said at once. “No, I’m sorry, it’s very good,” Hanako added. “It’s one of the best things I ever tasted. It reminds me of . . . Juicy Fruit gum!” That was such a stupid lie, she actually laughed out loud—how had that even escaped her mouth? But Akira seemed thrilled.
“Really?” he said excitedly. “Then let me have more!” He poured the rest of the grasshopper into his bowl and munched happily. He probably thought it tasted like Juicy Fruit just because she had said so!
Baachan was quite pleased. “Everybody like the way I make grasshopper?”
“Mmmm,” they all said at once.
Hanako realized that the only thing worse than this horrible hot soup would be the same soup when it was cold. So she quickly sipped the rest down and swallowed the grasshopper bits. She wished she had some misoshiru with seaweed and tofu, but this was obviously a case of shikata ga nai. “It cannot be helped.”
Shikata ga nai was good, and it was bad. It was what many Nikkei believed about most any awful situation. That was why so many of them accepted it when they were imprisoned. They accepted everything that the camp administration wanted them to do, no matter how bad conditions were. In Jerome a couple of these “acceptgoats,” as Papa had called them, were beaten, but it didn’t stop them from accepting. Some people were concerned about their futures, but many others became obsessed with the present and held a never-ending parade of sports competitions, beauty contests, parties, talent shows, and dances. Hanako was in a talent show herself several times, doing really simple dances with her friends. It seemed like there were constant dances at Jerome. And the older girls curled their hair just so every day, and they walked giggling in their skirts through the rain and mud as soldiers with guns stood in the watchtowers. Papa used to say it was a way of living with no past and no future, just a “now,” and you had no idea when “now” would end. Today Hanako could feel everything was different. There was a yesterday, and there would be a tomorrow.
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
It turned out that her grandparents were giving them their big bedroom and were taking a tiny bedroom for themselves. After dinner Hanako and Akira rubbed their teeth with tenugui, since they had lost their toothbrushes with their luggage. Then they took off their clothes and lay down in their underwear on the tatami in the big bedroom. They shared a heavy blanket—the weight of it pressed against Hanako, but she liked it. And the floor, the floor was good. Even though you’d think a floor was a floor, somehow this one felt very comfortable and made Hanako feel cozy and at home. And as soon as she lay down, Hanako realized how tired she was. She wanted to stay up and contemplate meeting her grandparents, but she was too exhausted.
The pillows were stuffed with buckwheat—that’s what they used in Japan, not feathers like in America—and they made a soft noise when they were moved. The blanket she and Akira shared was scratchy on her legs. That made her think of her pajamas. She decided to try to send a message through thin air to whoever had them: There’s money in the seam. She did not want that money to go to waste. They had worked too hard for it.
She heard her father say, “Ahhhh . . .” as he lay down. He sounded extremely comfortable. He and Mama were sleeping on a futon. Also, her grandparents had given the nicest blanket to Mama and Papa, because Papa was the only son, so he was supposed to be spoiled.
This was the thing about being spoiled: you had to rise above it. Papa had told her this long ago when discussing how much his parents had doted on him when he was a child. He had not even had to clean his own room!
“Papa?” she asked suddenly.
“Yes, Hana-chan.”
“Was this your bedroom, or did you have the small room?”
“Ah, this was mine.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Maybe he had turned out well anyway because the family had been so poor. Maybe. Perhaps it was all right to spoil kids when you didn’t have much to give them. If Hanako had almost nothing, she would give everything she had to her children. She knew that for a fact. Because she liked babies a lot. Apparently, they didn’t always like her, but she liked them.
Somehow or other she slept until ten in the morning, meaning she slept thirteen hours straight. She only got up because Mama woke her. Papa was relaxing at the kotatsu and said he wanted to spend one day of vacation before looking for a job, because it might be his last day off for a long time. Jiichan had left to work in the fields, but Baachan was standing behind Papa combing his hair. She smiled peacefully at Hanako. “I comb his hair until he turn eighteen, but I have not done for seventeen year. It got messy!” She laughed as if she had made a great joke.
Papa seemed quite at home. Hanako stared. She had never seen him so . . . spoiled. He obviously liked it a lot. He looked like he thought he was a king!
Mama rolled her eyes. “He asked why I never comb his hair!”
Baachan reluctantly put the comb in a pocket and said sadly that she had to go work in the fields now too.
“I stay home only for you,” she said fondly to Hanako.
“For me?” Hanako asked.
“Yes. This first morning I don’t work in many long time. I get up early and wash clothes so you and your brother have something to wear today as soon as it dry.” She closed her eyes, as if enjoying the moment. “It feel very good. I like go to work late.” Then she gave her head a little shake, as if waking herself up. “But I go now. You bring me lunch, neh? I count on you bring your jiichan and me food.”
“Yes, Baachan!”
After they left, Mama had Hanako press the clean clothes that were wrinkled from being in Mama and Papa’s suitcases. Baachan owned an iron that you filled with hot coals from the stove. The ironing board had short legs, so she knelt as she worked inside the small bedroom.
She could hear her parents and Akira playing in the living room. They sounded happy. Hanako couldn’t remember the last time she’d been alone like this for more than a few minutes. Before camp, she’d had a small bedroom of her own, so she’d been by herself in her room sometimes. Now she found she liked it like this. It felt good. That is, she liked being around her family and friends and even strangers sometimes, but being alone like this filled her with pleasure. She soaked it in, felt filled with independence. She felt like . . . Hanako. Then she did something she knew she shouldn’t do. She put down the iron, glancing furtively at the door.
She went to her grandparents’ closet and slid the paper door to the side, just suddenly overcome with curiosity about their lives. The wooden clothes hangers were straight across, not with slanted sides like American hangers. Jiichan and Baachan each had six outfits, plus the ones they were wearing. Plain clothes, but when Hanako looked closely, the sewing seemed perfect, each stitch nearly identical. Mama had always used a sewing machine, but it looked like Baachan sewed by hand.
There were boxes on the floor, and after another quick glance at the door Hanako opened one—greedily, almost. She unwrapped a piece of gray silk cloth, and inside was a small stuffed dog, white with black spots. Around its neck was a ribbon, and on the ribbon was sewn “Tadashi February 2, 1910.” That was her father’s birthday—he would be thirty-six soon. He was born in
the Year of the Dog. She held the dog pressed against her chest like something precious.
She picked up another box and opened it. It was a white rooster, and even before she looked at the ribbon, she knew what it would say. Then she did look, and that’s what it said: “Hanako May 13, 1933.” The Year of the Rooster. People born that year were deep thinkers and hard workers, just as she was. Papa said so.
Then she realized Mama was calling her, so she quickly returned the animals to their boxes and hurried into the living room.
“Are you finished ironing? Come help me make lunch, and then we’ll bring it to the wheat field.”
They boiled what was left of the rice in a steel pot on a charcoal stove. Akira began screaming at Papa for some reason, so Mama rushed out. Akira did that sometimes; he could get quite emotional. Hanako sliced vegetables, trying to make each slice attractive and perfect. Carrots and some grated white turnip to make it pretty. She found five wooden boxes with matching covers in a cabinet and filled all five—she and Akira would need to share. The boxes were maybe eight inches long and had two compartments. She placed vegetables in the small compartment. She didn’t keep a good watch on the pot, and the okoge at the bottom got scorched a little darker than usual. Still, she loved the crispy brown part and knew Akira did as well. She placed fluffy rice in each box, and on top of that the okoge. She couldn’t find any other food in the house, so she examined her work, thought it looked sufficiently pretty, and closed each box.
There was a basket in a corner, and she placed the boxes in there—they barely fit. When she went to the living room with the food, Akira was lying sideways on the top of the table. Mama and Papa looked tired.
“What is it?” Hanako asked.
“He’s very hungry,” Mama said. “He wants ‘good food.’ ”
“I have rice.”
Mama raised her eyebrows. “He wants peanut butter. He misses peanut butter. He misses ‘good food’ in general.”
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