by Joy Kogawa
But I like climbing the mountains. I like playing with my Mickey Mouse who can walk by itself down a slope. I like reading my grade-three reader and Stephen's grade-five reader. And I like reading the comics in the newspaper.
There are some funny roly-poly comic-strip boys called the Katzenjammer Kids. They play tricks on a mean little rich boy called Rollo. And there's a fuzzy-haired girl with empty-circle eyes called Little Orphan Annie. She is always saved from danger by her Daddy Warbucks. Sometimes I lie in my bunk bed at night pretending I'm Little Orphan Annie being rescued by my Daddy.
Stephen likes to read the comics too. But he also reads the harder parts of the newspaper. He says he has to know what's happening in the war. Uncle and Stephen talk about the war together while they chop wood.
One day Stephen comes running home with a red, white, and blue Union Jack. It's the same as the flag high up on a pole at school. He holds it high in the air and the flag flaps behind him.
"Where did you get that?" I ask.
"I won it," Stephen says. "I traded it for all my marbles." Back and forth he waves the flag. Then he nails it to a long pole and plants it in a hole at the top of Uncle's rock garden. The flag hangs quietly and peacefully high up in the air.
When Stephen jumps back down again, he stands at attention facing the flag. Then he salutes it.
"We have to sing 'God save the King,' "Stephen says. He makes a trumpet out of his hands. After that we sing "Land of Hope and Glory" and "0 Canada." When we are singing "Hearts of Oak," I see the horrid girl walking up the path.
We stop. She stops too. She's staring at us and staring at the flag.
"That's not your flag," she says.
"It is too," Stephen says.
"You stole it," she shouts. "Give it to me."
"It's mine," Stephen shouts back.
"You're going to lose the war," she says in her sing-song voice.
"We will NOT!" Stephen yells so loud I cover my ears and run into the house.
From inside the house Obasan and I listen to Stephen pounding on the tub drum. Obasan's eyes are shut.
After a while Stephen comes in and climbs into his bunk. He lies down and takes the flute from under his pillow. All the songs he can remember, he plays and plays and plays. Even when it's time to sleep he keeps playing. Uncle joins in with the tappity-tappity sounds of spoons on his knees.
"Good music," Uncle says to Stephen.
"Good drumming, Uncle," Stephen replies.
When Nomura-obasan was with us, she used to say, "Music will heal us all." Obasan says it now, quietly, with her eyes closed. Obasan is still praying.
10
Three days pass. It's around noon. I'm playing at the side of the house making a little pond with rocks and flowers and a bowl of water. Obasan is washing clothes in the back with a washboard and tub. All my clothes from Vancouver are too small now and Obasan has added hems and sleeves to make them bigger.
I'm putting a buttercup in the bowl for a pretend lily pad when I hear someone saying "Hi."
The horrid girl and her mother are in the middle of the road. They are both shielding their eyes from the sun as they look up. The Union Jack flaps coolly in the mountain air.
"Hello," the mother says to me. "I can see the flag from the window."
I stand up. I feel shy and want to go to Obasan.
"I'm Mitzi," the girl says. "What's your name?"
"Naomi."
"Hello, Naomi," the mother says. She's smiling.
"Hello."
Mitzi comes up to the fence and leans on it. "Can you come and play at my house?" she asks.
I can hardly believe what she's saying. Will she let me pet her bunnies?
"Ask your mother," Mitzi's mother says.
She doesn't know Obasan is my aunt.
When I ask Obasan, she wipes her hands on her apron and nods. She goes into the house and brings out a bag of cookies.
"For Mitzi," Obasan tells me.
"Oh, thank you," Mitzi's mother says to Obasan when I give them to Mitzi. "Say 'thank you,' Mitzi."
"Can I eat one?" Mitzi asks.
Obasan smiles and Mitzi's mother smiles. It seems to me that the trees and the birds and the sun and the flag and all the creatures in the whole world are smiling right now.
Mitzi skips down the path munching the cookie.
"Come on," she calls to me. I feel too shy to skip but I walk quickly to keep up.
When we come to her yard, Mitzi breaks one cookie into little pieces. She puts them in a little doll's dish on her doll's table.
All afternoon we play together. I cuddle her bunnies. At first they make little jerky jumping movements with their back feet. But afterwards they get used to me. They eat sticks of carrots and pieces of lettuce. Their wriggly noses sniff and sniff. One is called Patsy and the other is called Gruff. Mitzi tells me that when they have babies I can have one. I want to jump up and run home and tell Stephen.
Almost every day after this, Mitzi and I make up games and concerts. We make a playhouse out of blankets in the trees. We make mud pies and pine-needle tea and have tea parties with the dolls. One time when we're playing house, she wears my best bead necklace. She likes it so much, I let her keep it.
Mitzi has three favorite dolls. One has eyes that close with a "click" sound when you lay her on her back. She's a fancy doll in a lacy dress. She has white socks and white shoes and tiny white shoelaces. When you spank her or put her on her stomach, she makes a crying noise.
The second doll is a Raggedy Ann with long pig-tails like mine. She was a Christmas present when Mitzi was four. She loves her Raggedy Ann the best.
"I want braids like yours and my dolly's," Mitzi says.
"I want curly hair like yours," I tell Mitzi.
"Let's trade," Mitzi says. We giggle because we know we can't do that.
Her third favorite doll is the most dear baby doll I have ever seen. It has big blue eyes and chubby little arms and legs. She drinks from a bottle and wets her diaper. Her name is Baby.
When we get tired of playing with Mitzi's dolls, we play "Hide-and-go-seek" and "Mother-may-I," and "Simon says." We read Mitzi's story books and play with paper dolls. We play "Snakes-and-ladders" and jacks, and color in coloring books and make shadow plays with a sheet. We swing and eat tea biscuits that are just like the ones Mama used to make. Most of all I like making up stories about Mitzi and me. I pretend we're magic and can become invisible or tiny as Tom Thumb. Elves and fairies ride away with us into the forest at midnight.
On my ninth birthday, Mitzi brings me a present in a box so big she can barely carry it.
"What is it?" I ask.
The box is wrapped in white tissue paper and has a big pink bow.
"Guess," Mitzi says.
It's not a heavy box. I hold it and rattle it and shake it. It doesn't make a sound.
"I can't guess," I tell Mitzi. What could be so light and in such a big box?
I undo the bow carefully and open the box. All I can see are big handfuls of crumpled tissue paper. I wonder if it's a joke and Mitzi's brought me an empty box.
"Keep going," Mitzi says as I take out the paper.
I take out more crumples. And then—and then—I see her. It's Baby! It's the dearest sweetest doll in the world. I can hardly believe it. I put my hands down into the crumples and lift her up gently. She's wearing a brand new pink knitted dress with little pink booties and a pink and white bonnet. Her bottle is around her wrist with an elastic band.
"Oh!" I hold her in my arms.
"Isn't she pretty?" Mitzi says. "Mommy made the dress."
I hardly dare to ask if I can keep her.
"It's your birthday present," Mitzi says.
I want to laugh and cry at the same time. I must be the luckiest happiest girl in the whole world. I wrap a tea towel around Baby and cradle her in my arms.
"Can I really keep her?" I ask.
"Yes," Mitzi says.
11
Early one m
orning I waken while it's still dark outside. Obasan and Uncle are awake. Stephen is still sleeping in the bunk below me. His mouth is squished open on his pillow.
Yesterday Stephen came running home shouting that the war was over.
"We won we won we won!" he cried. He ran behind the house with both hands high in the air. His fingers were raised in the V-for-Victory sign. He pulled the flag out of the rock garden. Then up he climbed onto the shed and still higher to the roof of the house. The flag was up as high as it could go.
This morning there's no shouting. A log drops "thud" as it burns in the wood stove. The coal-oil lamp is on. Beside the lamp Baby is sitting on a tin of sardines. She's looking out the window.
Last week Mitzi and Raggedy Ann and Baby and I had a tea party in the playhouse. A chipmunk came to visit. It was the first time Baby had seen a chipmunk up close. Baby threw a temper tantrum when the chipmunk went away. She's getting quite spoiled. After she came home she wanted to sit on the table every night to watch for chipmunks. I'll have to put her to bed.
"Stephen," I whisper, leaning over the side of the bunk. I blow at his face. "Wake up," I say. Stephen keeps snoring.
"So early?" Uncle whispers as I take Baby off her sardine tin.
"You should sleep some more." Obasan is also whispering. Her long braid is dangling down her back. She hands me a piece of toast. "Sh," she says.
I give a crumb to Baby and another one for her to give to the chipmunk.
I can hear a dog barking outside. A light wind is blowing through the branches of the trees.
While I finish my toast, I notice that the other room has been changed around. The shelf is no longer against the wall and there are piles of boxes everywhere. Nomura-obasan went away months ago to stay with her daughter. But her cot is in the room again. Has she come back?
"Who's here?" I ask, standing on tiptoe.
The sleeping person is facing the other way and an arm covers the head. The arm moves then. I can see the back of the head, the straight black hair just like Daddy's.
Is it Daddy? Can it be Daddy? My hands drop with a slap to my thighs. It is! It is!
Without turning his head, he lifts his finger and beckons.
"Good morning, my Naomi," he says.
How does he know it's me? I haven't made a sound.
He turns then, and smiles. It's my very own father. My Daddy who plays the violin and sings. My Daddy who rocks me in the rocking chair. My Daddy who munches my tea biscuits and climbs up the peach tree for the ripest peaches.
I jump over a box onto the cot and I am in his arms again—my father's arms.
His hands touch my face. I wrap my arms around his neck. The button of his pajama top presses into my cheek. I can feel his heart's steady thump, thump.
We are quiet as moon song. As quiet and still as resting swans. Into this quiet I fall like a lost feather returning.
We do not talk. Only Uncle says "Ah," as he swallows his tea. Obasan's butter knife makes a scrape-scrape noise on the toast. And the neighbor's dog outside barks excitedly.
Then suddenly Stephen is in the room. He stands there barefoot, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His flutes are in his hands.
"Good morning," Daddy says.
"Dad!" Stephen howls and jumps on us. Daddy holds us both in his arms. We rock and sway together on the little cot.
Then Stephen hands Daddy a flute and they play and play until the sky grows light.
"Whoo," Daddy says finally. "Not bad, young man."
"Not bad," Uncle adds.
Obasan turns down the coal-oil lamp. She cups her hand behind the chimney and blows out the night light. Then she gives us all pieces of toast.
12
After breakfast Daddy and Uncle talk quietly. I don't understand what they are saying, but Daddy looks sad.
"We're moving," Stephen says.
"Moving? Are we going home?"
“No.”
“Why not?"
"We can't."
"Why not?"
Everyone, Stephen tells me, is going away again. But we don't know where.
I pack my Mickey Mouse and the red, white, and blue ball in a crumple of newspapers. I'm not going to pack Baby. I'll carry her myself. Stephen wraps his flutes carefully in the sleeves of his sweater.
"Are you coming with us, Daddy?" I ask. He's working more slowly and looks tired.
"No, my Button," Daddy says. "I can't. But all God's angels are going with you."
"Why can't you come with us?" I ask.
Obasan hands me a dish. She asks me to wrap it in newspaper. I know she doesn't want me to ask questions right now. And I know Daddy has to go back to a hospital. But I want to be near him. I want him to be near us. It's not fair. I want to run away with him. But there's nowhere to go.
When it gets dark we can hear music wavering through the trees. A loudspeaker is playing "Auld Lang Syne." While we're packing we hear voices and footsteps. Some people are coming towards the house.
"Good evening," a familiar voice calls.
Obasan opens the door and Nomura-obasan comes in bowing deeply.
"Such a busy time," she says. She's thinner than before and holds a cane. Behind her is an old man I know. He's wearing a suit.
"Good evening," he says. His voice sounds as scratchy as the screen door.
"Ah, ah," Nomura-obasan says when she sees Daddy. There are tears in her eyes. "I have not seen you for such a long time."
"Such a long time," the old man says. He puts his shaking hand on Daddy's shoulder.
Obasan pushes the boxes aside as the minister comes in. He takes a long black gown and a shorter white gown out of his black bag.
"Let us pray," he says as people kneel on the floor. "This is the last supper."
The old man tries to kneel but he can't. He leans on his stick.
My eyes are supposed to be closed. But I'm peeking at everyone's feet. The minister's boots rock back and forth as he prays. His words sound like the rustling leaves in the fall when the wind blows them about.
The old man's false teeth make a clacking sound. His voice wheezes as he stumbles to keep up to the others. Nomura-obasan can't keep up either. She's shaking so much that Obasan has to hold her.
When all the prayers are finished, everyone sings a goodbye song.
"Till we meet
Till we meet
God be with us
Till we meet again."
Daddy's eyes are closed. He's trying to sing too but sometimes he stops. The old man's singing is out of tune with the others.
"Once more," the minister says. "Let us sing again."
The voices fill the tiny room. I feel I will always hear them singing—the dear old man and Nomura-obasan and the rest of us.
When the song ends for the third time, Obasan holds the old man's bony hands.
"Let us meet again some day," she says.
Nomura-obasan takes a handkerchief from her sleeve. She holds it over her trembling face. The minister puts his hand on her back.
"We will trust in God," he says.
"There is a time for crying," the old man says in his wavery voice. "Someday the time for laughing will come."
"Yes, that must be so," the minister says. "We will meet again."
He puts a hand on Stephen's head. "Be a great musician like your father," he says. Next he turns to me. "Be sturdy." He bows to everyone. Then he is gone, trotting rapidly down the path to the next waiting group.
13
Daddy goes back to the hospital the next day. After a few more days the time comes for us to leave.
"We have to say goodbye to Mitzi now," I tell Baby.
Obasan and I take a cake with us. When Obasan visits anyone, she always takes a present.
"Goodbye, Baby," Mitzi says, kissing her.
"Goodbye, Raggedy Ann," I say to Mitzi's doll.
We say goodbye to all the dolls and the bunnies, Patsy and Gruff. There are new little baby bunnies and we say goodbye to each one.
We say goodbye to the swing and the playhouse. We start giggling as we say goodbye to the tea set and the table and the doll dresses and the coloring books and the chipmunk who isn't even there.
"God bless you all," Mitzi's mother says as we leave.
At the train station there are boxes and luggage and hundreds and hundreds of people. It's like the day when we first came to Slocan. The black noisy train clangs its bells and hisses back and forth.
Some of the children we used to meet at the bath and at school are here. Above the noisy crowd, the scratchy loudspeaker plays "Auld Lang Syne." Kenji's older brother is in front of Stephen with a black bag over his shoulder. I can't see Kenji.
Hoo-oot! goes the train. One by one we move along. We're like a giant caterpillar. Uncle is behind me and lifts me up onto the steps.
Inside, it's just like three years ago except that Uncle is with us. We sit in two seats facing each other. Kenji's brother is ahead and there are some others I recognize. The minister's on this train too.
People outside are waving and waving. Some are crying. It's so sad to have to say goodbye. I'm remembering the time at the boat in Vancouver when Mama went away. I wonder where she is now. And where, I wonder, is my old doll.
The train shudders and starts to move. I press my face against the window. Stephen and Uncle stand up to wave as we pull away from the station. Then almost right away we're into the thick trees and can no longer see anyone.
It's goodbye to the mountains, the lake, to Rough Lock Bill, the school, the bathhouse. "Goodbye everything. Goodbye everyone," I whisper to the train window.
We enter a high tunnel as we race along. Clackity clack, clackity clack, clackity clack. "So long, Slocan."
14
Finally we come to our new home. What a dusty, lonely place. The air here is angry and hits out suddenly like a wild man. It blows dust and dirt into your eyes and your hair. You turn around and turn around and squeeze your eyes shut. But you can't escape. The flat brown earth stretches on and on till it meets the sky. Dried bunches of scratchy weeds tumble along the fields and roads. They get stuck on the miles and miles of barbed-wire fences. No trees can stand this awful place.