by Mariko Nagai
THE BROKEN BRIDGE
The roaring. The grumbling earth.
I look up at the sky but it is empty.
I look around and I see it,
a river, pregnant with yesterday’s rain,
brown and furious, and the bridge stretches
halfway into the river, then disappears.
A rope runs across the surface, with one end
tied to a tree on the other bank.
One by one, our neighbors open
their bags, pulling this or that to lighten the load
and once the bags are closed,
step into the river, one by one, holding on
to the rope, holding on to
their lives, one by one.
THE FIRST STEP
Auntie glares at the river
threateningly, as she has
glared at me
when I kicked her chickens
or stuck my tongue out at her.
She stands firm,
her legs apart,
her arms in the stance
of the gunfighter.
This is it. This is the river.
We need to cross.
“Are you ready?”
And I nod, and Asa nods.
I pull Asa to me
and hoist her up
so her arms are around
my neck and her legs
around my waist.
Auntie ties the sash
around Asa and me.
Then she pulls a new sash out
and ties it around her waist,
then ties the other end
around my waist.
“Don’t let go of each other
no matter what.
If we go down,
we go together, you hear?”
She roars above the river,
and she holds the rope,
and I hold the rope,
and she looks back—
Are you ready?
I am ready. I nod.
I take a step,
this one different.
THE CROSSING
The current sweeps
under me,
and my left foot slips
on a rock,
and I hold on
with both my hands.
Asa’s arms tighten
around me
and I hear Auntie say,
“Hold on. Hold on.”
One step, finding
the solid footing
with my left foot
while I shift
my right foot forward.
The river gorges,
swallowing,
sucking my feet
into its vortex,
angry at us,
angry at the sky.
A big broken tree shoots
through the water
in front of me.
I take another step.
Then another.
Asa presses her face
against my shoulder
and the backpack is pulled
this way, that way
by the current.
Auntie moves waist-deep,
and the water comes to my chest,
ripping, gripping,
throwing me around.
I take another
step, my hands numb
from the cold,
my legs heavy
as if I am dragging stones
around my ankles,
but I take another step.
Toshio’s mom screams
up ahead,
then is swept away,
her head appearing,
disappearing amid
the fast current.
I scream and water
enters my nose
and my mouth.
And Auntie screams,
and Toshio’s mom’s arm
bobs up
downstream,
then her face,
and “Help me, help me!”
and people on the other bank
try to reach out but can’t.
“Help me, help me,”
I keep hearing,
or maybe I’m imagining it,
and Auntie roars,
“Almost there!”
And suddenly the river
sweeps my feet
from under me,
“Tochan, Tochan,”
I scream,
but water enters my nose,
and Asa screams,
“Natsu-chan, Natsu-chan.”
The sash stops me and Asa,
Auntie holding on to the rope
with all her might.
“Hold on, hold on!”
Auntie’s voice roars
above the river,
and I try to find
the sash underwater.
There, the sash.
Asa goes underwater
then up, my head goes
under, then up
and my throat burns.
“Almost. You have to pull
yourself, I can’t let go
of the rope!” I think Auntie
yells, Auntie’s lips blue
and I pull at the sash
one arm at a time,
one at a time,
until I can reach
the rope
and Auntie pulls me
to her with one arm
and I hear people yelling,
“Keep going, keep going,”
and I take a step,
then another,
Asa’s arms around me,
never taking my eyes
off of Auntie’s shaved head
until the river gets
shallower and shallower
and my feet stronger
and stronger
and the current weaker
and weaker
and we collapse
on the bank
in one big ball,
Auntie, Asa, and I, alive.
We are alive.
TO LIVE
I can’t feel my hands.
I can’t feel
my legs. My teeth chatter
and I can’t do
anything to stop them.
Asa presses her face
close to me. Her lips are blue
like Kachan’s were
when she died,
and Auntie, holding me,
is ice-cold. The cloth is heavy
and colder than any snow
I’ve ever known,
as if I am wearing
a coat made out of ice.
Late autumn in Manchuria
is hot during the day,
cold in the afternoon,
and can be like winter at night.
I can’t stop shaking.
I can’t stop trembling.
But I remember:
Tochan said that if I am ever
caught up in a thick blinding
blizzard outside the settlement
and I can’t find my way home,
to never close my eyes.
Rub my hands. Rub my legs.
Stomp my feet, keep moving.
Keep my blood flowing.
Don’t ever give up
but keep going.
Keep moving my body
even if it means I am
walking farther and farther
away from home.
TO KEEP MOVING, TO KEEP MOVING TO STAY ALIVE
We need to keep walking
to stay warm,
to get to Harbin.
We need to keep walking
to stay alive,
to get to safety.
We need to keep walking
to get away from the Soviets,
to get away from the Chinese.
We need to keep walking.
We must keep walking
so we can stay
alive for a little longer.
NIGHTS ARE DAYS, DAYS ARE NIGHTS
and we keep walking one step at a time.
It feels like three days,
it feels like a lifetime,
my home feels like a dream.
I don’t know how long we’ve been walking.
Asa lies heavy on my back,
trusting all her weight to me.
Auntie staggers ahead, her back bent
low as the wheat heads must be back home,
heavy for harvest, heavy for bounty.
Asa stirs, then wriggles.
“Shhh, go back to sleep,” I tell her.
She slides down my back
like a cat sliding off a tree.
“Natsu-chan, I can walk.
I don’t want you to get tired.”
Instead, we hold hands,
her hand squeezing
mine, sending me
the Morse code, the only thing
that is real right now
because I don’t know where
I am, I don’t know anything anymore.
THE REST
We sit as one.
No one has anything
left to eat,
even our stomachs
have forgotten about us.
We’ve been carrying empty
canteens for so many days,
and we’ve been swallowing
spit in our mouths.
We don’t know if we are
hungry or thirsty or tired.
We just lie there,
in damp clothes,
hoping that a train
will come this way,
an army truck, maybe,
to take us south.
Hoping that someone
—anyone—
will find us,
because we can’t take
one more step.
We have no steps
left in us.
CRUMBS
“Eat,” Auntie holds out
a dried apple candy
the size of a pinkie.
“This is the last one.”
Asa takes it,
puts it in her mouth
greedily, then looks
at me, then Auntie.
She pulls it out.
“What about you?”
she asks. Auntie shakes
her head. I shake my head.
My stomach grumbles weakly
like a distant thunder.
Asa looks from Auntie
to me. Then she pinches
a sliver, then another,
and gives them to me and Auntie.
The apple, already soft, spreads
in my mouth, and melts,
reminding me of home
and Tochan and Horse.
THE STARRED WINGS
A drone buzzes far away,
and I shake my head
to ward it off.
It continues.
A fly buzzes,
or is it something else?
Then there’s a glint
in the sky
coming closer and closer,
a lone plane.
“A Japanese plane,”
someone cheers,
and we all look up.
A plane comes closer,
we wave our arms.
“We’re safe! We’re safe!”
Then other planes come
from the northern sky
in formation like a flock
of silver geese.
The first plane zooms
past us bearing a red star
under its wing.
“Run for cover. Run for cover,”
Principal yells.
A red star, not a red sun.
“The Soviets, run for cover!”
and before I can think,
I throw myself
onto the ground
like a ball,
and all around me,
the road explodes,
pop, pop, pop,
to the left of me,
to the right of me.
Left, the earth is exploding,
and bullets riddle the ground.
Bags and people flying up, up,
then down, spinning
and whirling.
And Mr. Mishima
from two houses down,
dances like a puppet,
jerking his arm up,
his legs kick up,
dancing out of rhythm,
and I scream
—or maybe I don’t—
and as if someone had cut the strings,
Mr. Mishima collapses
right in front of me.
And I scream
—or maybe I don’t—
and after forever,
after forever and ever,
the drones are gone
and silence turns
into screams.
Mama! Yoko!
Masa! Aiko!
And Mr. Mishima lies there,
in front of me,
staring at me
though he no longer
sees me.
My voice is gone
but my mouth keeps moving
Asa! Auntie! Tochan!
Kachan! I don’t want to die!
And my voice is gone
and I am gone.
UNSEEING EYES
And I hear. And I hear
someone calling out,
“Natsu! Natsu!”
I slowly raise my head
and there, two pairs of legs,
one with leather
shoes, and another barefoot.
I look up, following the legs,
and there Asa stands
huddled, holding on to
Auntie’s waist,
and Auntie pulls me up gently.
“Are you hurt? Are you all right?”
When I nod,
her face relaxes, then
a smile of relief reaches her eyes.
“Help me find my sandals.”
I want to nod.
I want to say yes,
but nothing comes out
of my mouth
and my body starts
to shake uncontrollably,
though I am not cold.
My hands are twitching
and jerking like Mr. Mishima,
and he still lies there,
near us, with his eyes still wide
open and his mouth opened
wider as if he is about to scream.
I close my eyes
though I keep seeing
Mr. Mishima’s eyes
staring into mine without seeing.
Asa sneaks into my arms,
her heart beating fast
and my heart joins hers, beating
in the same erratic beats.
DON’T LOOK
“Don’t look,” Auntie barks.
“Just go into the field
and look for my shoes,”
she growls as she gathers
spilled contents from my bag:
the tablet, papers, pouches,
and as if I have come
out from underwater,
voices, voices everywhere.
I hurt, I hurt. Mama, mama!
Masako, don’t die!
The chorus of voices
all cacophony of voices,
sadness, pain,
so thick I taste it in my mouth,
the metallic taste of blood.
And Auntie pulls me
to her big chest,
covering my eyes,
“Don’t look, Natsu!”
I pull Asa
into my chest,
“Don’t look, Asa,
don’t you dare look.”
THE TURTLE ELDER MAN
Auntie and I carry
Principal Ohara’s wife,
bleeding from her thigh
and arm, leaving a trail
of blood
behind her,
and Asa carries a baby
on her back,
the baby without her mother.
We walk and walk,
led by the principal,
our march of the dead,
until we make it
finally to a Manchu hamlet.
We see smoke coming out of a chimney.
Chickens running around
the compound. My heart starts beating
fast: this is not the village we passed
by. But I remember the anger.
Huts huddling together
as if they are scared.
My heart flutters like a caged hen.
An old man comes out
of a dirty hut, walking
slowly like a turtle
from its shell and looks at us
as if he is scared.
I can feel eyes,
but I can’t see
anyone. Two dozen
or so of us,
without bags, hungry,
covered in blood
not our own, or our own.
The principal slowly puts
down his sable,
then raises his arms,
almost in the gesture of surrender,
and he says slowly in Chinese,
“Some of us are hurt,
can you help us?”
The Turtle Elder Man blinks
slowly, and the eyes watch
us, and we hold our breath
as they must be holding
their breath, and slowly
the Turtle Elder Man says,
“Yes, yes,” slowly as if chewing
his words like food.
“Yes, bring your wounded here
and we will take care of them,
and you can rest for a while.”
He says slowly,
“There have been many Japanese passing
here in groups lately.
It seems that things
are not safe anymore.”
The principal bows deeply.
We all bow, as low as we can,
as if to say, We won’t hurt you,
please, please don’t hurt us.
My heart stops its fluttering
and the hen settles down
to preen itself in my chest.
ALMOST A HOME
We divide up, the dead
left on the ground,
the wounded taken
to the Turtle Elder Man’s hut,
and the rest to different houses.
Auntie, Asa, and I are led
to a house near the edge
of the hamlet, a cold
and dark hut that smells of oil
and earth and sleep
and exhaustion
where a father, a mother,
a grandmother, and five children
live with pigs and chickens.
It is crowded, it is dark,
but they give us warm water
that tastes like tea from yesterday,
and hot bowls of sorghum gruel.
We drink them down
like it is a feast
fit for the Imperial family, and it is.