by Mariko Nagai
And before I know it, “Be safe,”
rolls out of my mouth
and these words feel just right.
“Tochan, come back soon,” Asa says,
and Tochan smiles his sad smile
and a voice calls out,
“Get ready, we’re leaving.”
Tochan hugs Asa, hugs me,
and whispers into my ear,
“Remember our promise,”
and I nod. He gathers Asa and me into
a big circle of hug and Horse neighs.
The men and boys all get up,
but I’m not ready. “Horse, take care of Tochan,” I yell.
I put my hand on her neck,
and she nuzzles against my cheek.
Men and boys stand in line
and they leave as one.
We stand there until they are a big dot
in the field and too soon, they disappear
behind the curve of the horizon.
Asa and I hold hands and walk
home, where I know there is no Tochan.
There is no Horse. But we can pretend
otherwise. Just a little longer.
EVERYTHING IS THE SAME, NOTHING IS THE SAME
The settlement is exactly the same,
the walls still thick and the well still stands.
Chickens still cluck and peck around about the yard.
Yet the stable stands empty;
the horses are gone. Behind me,
women and girls enter into
their quiet houses. No man is around.
This is a ghost town, though I’ve only seen
it in a movie. Asa and I enter our house,
suddenly so empty, though it smells
of Tochan if I close
my eyes and sniff long enough.
That’s when I hear it:
“I’m going to live here with you two
now that my son and your pa are drafted.”
Auntie enters our hut like an autumn gale.
My stomach sinks. Asa wrinkles her face.
Tochan didn’t say anything about that.
He said that I was supposed
to take care of Asa but said nothing
about Auntie coming to live with us.
“Did you know?” Asa asks and I shake my head.
“From today on”—she drops her bundle—
“we are living as a family.
“Your pa said to look after you two.”
And I know that Tochan probably did.
He also knows how much I hate this enemy.
AUNTIE, THE ENEMY OF MY TWELFTH YEAR
Auntie clucks her tongue
at us as she would to her chickens,
scolding that my hands are too dirty,
that Asa’s too skinny and she needs
to eat more, that my pickles are too salty,
and that Asa’s too quiet. Auntie came
to our house like the yellow wind
that comes every spring, unwanted,
causing itches and aches in our eyes
and even under our clothes.
She makes me itch like I’m carrying a flea.
She came with a big bag full of her stuff
and leaves everything everywhere,
the house becoming hers.
She even brought her hens with her
and they boss our chickens around
like she bosses us. She came in
and rearranged our chairs,
our table, pots, and pans,
cleaning away Tochan’s touches
until he’s almost gone.
Asa tells me not to,
but I stand firm, my legs apart
and my arms to my sides,
and tell her to leave it,
leave everything as it is.
Before I can stop myself,
I’m shouting, “This ain’t your home.
We’re just letting you stay here.
But as soon as Japan wins the war,
as soon as Tochan and Taro come back,
you’ll have to go back home where you belong!”
She clucks her tongue, just like she always does
when she doesn’t like something, and tells me
that it might be a long while
before they can come home.
Says she can’t read newspapers
but she can see what’s going on,
and what’s going on isn’t good.
“You girls training with spears;
drafting men in settlements
right before the harvest season.
Things are going bad,
I know it just like I know when
it’s going to rain real bad,”
she says, and clucks her tongue again,
and I tell her that she’s unpatriotic.
I tell her that Japan will never lose,
but as I’m saying this,
I hear that Chinese boy’s voice
ringing in my head.
I see Tochan’s sad face
when he told me he might not come back,
and I shake my head to shake off
the voice. She looks and looks at me
until I think she’s trying to stare me into
submission like Tochan used to with Horse.
“My son is a good boy, but he’s real slow.
Your father’s served before, and he’s too old,
but they were both taken away anyway,” she says.
She’s lying. She’s a liar
and I hate her. I take Asa’s hand
and run outside, slamming
the door so Auntie’d go deaf.
Asa tugs my hand.
“Is she angry with us?”
I tell her she’s our new enemy,
she’s like Churchill and that new
American devil president, Truman.
I tell her we’re running away.
We should follow Tochan,
but she shakes her head.
“I like Auntie’s cooking better than yours,”
and with that, Asa runs back inside.
A traitor! I run to the barn
only to remember Horse went
with Tochan. So I kick the beam
where Horse used to rub her belly
when she itched but kicking it
only hurts my toes. I kick the pile
of hay, and anger mushrooms
like bluebottles in summer.
Auntie is the enemy of my twelfth year:
she is Churchill, Roosevelt,
Stalin, the evil enemy
all combined, here to stay
with the army of chickens.
SCHOOL
When we get to school,
we are supposed to bow
to the shrine by the gate
where the Emperor’s portrait
is hidden behind the closed
doors. We line up,
divided by grades,
and salute to the east,
where the Emperor is.
Then we recite our pledge
to the Emperor
and to the Great Empire of Japan.
But today, no one seems
to want to, like we usually do.
Instead of defense drills with spears,
a substitute teacher
reads to us from a book
of folktales, about a thumb-size
boy and all of these
stories we used to hear
but haven’t ever since we had
to practice with spears.
For one hour, I forgot about Tochan,
I forgot about Mr. Suzuki, my teacher.
And about the war we are not
supposed to forget but I did,
just for an hour.
THE ENEMY IS CRUEL
Banging of pots starts
before the sunrise.
Banging of doors starts
as the sun comes through the windo
w.
Auntie moves around
the room as if she is the yellow
sand-wind that comes
every spring,
leaving sand everywhere,
and she yells
that we need to get
up. Asa lies
in the futon like a big round
ball, pretending she doesn’t
hear, and I don’t move, either,
curled up and playing deaf.
Auntie comes in
and pulls the futon
from under us
and we roll out
like two balls,
rolling on the cold
floor. She tells me
to go feed the chickens
and gather the eggs
and if I don’t, then no
breakfast for me.
I try to make
Asa go for me,
but she runs out to get
the bucket so she can go
get water from the well.
I go to the chickens
and kick them
but even they laugh at me,
pecking noisily.
Nothing is the same
without Tochan and Horse.
I miss Tochan so much.
HANGING HEADS
Wheat heads hang their heads heavily,
stalks bending from the weight.
This is the settlement with no men.
Only old men and women and children.
The Matsuhashis’ watermelons lie overripe.
The Kojimas’ potato leaves are browning.
Auntie just shakes her head:
“So much wasted. That’s what war
does, so many things change.”
With only Asa and me, we can’t harvest on our own.
My wheat seems to be angry at me.
But our field isn’t the only one.
SUNDAY
Asa and I walk
hand in hand
through the garden
behind our house, her hand
small and warm
like a freshly laid egg.
“Natsu-chan,” she says
suddenly, stopping,
then points at the sky.
A bird. Then another.
And another. A geese
migration. Fall is almost
here. And once fall is done,
it’s winter. When Kachan died.
I push that thought away
but I shiver. “Are you cold,
Natsu-chan?” I tell her no,
but Asa puts her arms
around my middle,
and I put my arms
around her shoulders.
We become one,
just like the day she was born
and she fell into my arms
even before the umbilical cord
was cut away, and I held her
close to me because
Kachan couldn’t hold her anymore,
because Kachan couldn’t hold
me anymore,
and now that Tochan is away,
I am the only one
who can hold her.
A SUMMER NIGHT
Auntie bends closer
to the light to better
see the stitches.
Asa lies on her stomach
as she draws a picture
of a horse. I should
be writing
a letter to the soldiers
but I have nothing to say.
Instead, I imagine Tochan up north
with Horse. Where are they tonight,
I wonder, are they staying warm?
Here the night is quiet.
Bugs are singing
their last summer songs,
and it is all quiet
on the plain of Manchuria,
and Asa says, without looking
up, “I miss Tochan.
Tell me a story, Natsu-chan,
just like Tochan used to.”
Auntie looks up from her mending.
My mind goes blank.
“Didn’t know you told stories,”
Auntie snorts. Hot fire flashes
through my body, my face burns.
I glare at Auntie. I’ll show her.
And I start. I tell a story
about Tochan and Horse,
and how they travel through
the golden prairie and how
they fought against thousands of
Soviets all by themselves …
on and on the words come rolling
out and Asa is fast asleep.
Auntie nods, “Not bad, not bad at all.”
LIES I TELL ASA
Our carrots and potatoes
are almost done,
and the husks
are bowing
from the weight,
heavy for reaping.
Asa says
she doesn’t like war
because it took Tochan
away, because it makes
me grumpy
and Auntie mean.
I tell her Tochan will
come home soon
though there’s no weight
to what I say. I tell her
this every day. I tell myself
this every day, too,
because lies can come
true if you tell them long
enough and hard enough.
AUGUST IN MANCHURIA
The land is flat
and quiet.
The hens cluck
in their sleep
once in a while.
The night comes late
here in northern
Manchuria in August,
turning the sky white-
blue before turning
deep blue,
bringing with it a sheet
of stars so bright
even the wolves howl
in awe.
PART TWO
LATE SUMMER
WINTER COATS, LEATHER SHOES, TOCHAN’S BACKPACK
Someone is calling my name.
Someone calls my name,
from far away, or is it close …
“Wake…,” someone yells. “Natsu.”
Someone calls, “Natsu,
Natsu,” and more urgently,
“Up! Wake up.” The voice is in my head,
the voice is out of my head,
and I wake up startled.
“The Soviets are here,” Auntie yells.
“They are coming. We need to leave. Now.”
She’s pushing Asa into a thick coat.
She’s balling up leftover rice into rice balls.
She’s pulling out my thickest coat
from the closet. She’s pulling my arm.
“Wake up, Natsu. We need to leave.”
She moves like the wind, this way, that way,
and I don’t know what’s going on
but she keeps insisting, “Natsu, put
your coat on,” and I don’t know what’s going
on, but I know what’s going on
like I do in a dream.
Asa puts on her leather shoes.
Auntie hoists the backpack she carried
here over her winter coat.
I pull on the coat. I pull up Tochan’s backpack
and tighten the straps to my body.
We need to leave. We need to leave
now. I don’t know what’s going on.
I do know what’s going on.
I don’t know what’s going on.
I don’t want to know what’s going on.
RUNNING
We don’t lock the door.
We don’t release the chickens
from the henhouse.
We don’t board up the windows.
Holding Asa’s hand,
I run out of the homestead,
Auntie telling us to hurry,
to hurry and follow her,
run if anything happens.
Run if anything happens.
And something is happening.
ON THE WAY TO SCHOOL
We walk
fast through
the dark
dirt road
to the schoolhouse,
my hand
in Auntie’s,
my other hand
holding
Asa’s sweaty
hand.
The familiar
road made
unfamiliar
with darkness,
with fear,
and Asa’s breath
made visible
with cold air.
We walk.
We walk fast,
our hearts pounding
as one.
We walk fast
and firm,
and the voices
from far away
come closer
and closer
as we near
the school
until we go
through the open gate
and we enter
into voices,
words broken up.
Soviets …
Train … Where is …
The neighboring …
Leave … Now …
Japanese Army …
The words broken
up into fragments
like someone threw
a piece of ice
against the wall,
shattering it
into millions of pieces.
TIME STOPS MOVING
THE ATTACK
Principal Ohara coughs.
We become quiet.
Principal Ohara coughs.
The night stills.
He opens his mouth,
then closes it, his words lost
somewhere in his head.
Then he begins: “We received
an urgent message saying
that the Soviets have crossed
over the border and they are
heading this way.
We need to evacuate now
to Harbin.” We swallow
hard as one.
No one speaks.
“Boys over thirteen will remain
and defend the settlement.
Girls over thirteen will
arm yourselves and defend
the evacuation party.
We must leave immediately.”
“What about our homes?” someone yells.
“What about our crops?” another yells.
“We can come back when the Soviets
are defeated by our Imperial soldiers.
But right now, we must leave.
We can’t waste any more minutes,
we need to evacuate,”
he yells over