The Blossom and the Firefly Read online

“Attention! Attention!” Mariko cries. “We must make ready for a new flight!”

  Shoulders drop. Heads turn. We never know when a new unit will arrive, or when they will leave for their final attacks. The pilots tell us it has to do with weather, ship locations, and strategy. Most depart at dawn, using the dim light as an element of surprise. But the army’s decisions are mysterious to us Nadeshiko. Sometimes I imagine the Emperor as a great bird flying over the ocean, able to see the enemy, to direct his might against them. But then I see flight after flight take off, with few reports of success, and I wonder if we are merely throwing lives away like pebbles into the dark.

  Of course, Sachiko is smiling. “I wonder if there will be any cute ones this time,” she whispers loudly to Kazuko, who has the good sense to shush her. Sachiko wrinkles her button of a nose, but her tongue stops revolving for once.

  “Has something happened?” Poor sensitive Hisako has read our faces as clearly as headlines.

  “The Americans are nearing Okinawa,” Mariko says. Every Nadeshiko goes still. In the silence, I think of my father. His voice, his hands. Are they both raised in fear now? Or righteous anger, as they kill? Okinawa is so close to home . . .

  * * *

  —

  I am the Philippine Sea, the waters of East China.

  I am the Sea of Japan.

  I feel the ships on the water like gnats on my skin, biting, nipping, tearing me raw.

  I feel my dead beneath me. Taihō, Shōkaku, Hiyō—great warships, now gone, along with the sailors they carried, sunk in battle as the winds of war swept through the Philippines last June.

  The newspapers spoke of ships and aircraft loss—not of fathers, of sons. We all heard the whispers—less than half of our aeroplanes returned. It is why our tokkō are so young. Final replacements for what has been squandered.

  Such a scandal! How could our great military have been so wrong? How could they have thrown so many lives away? The prime minister of Japan and his government resigned, so great was their shame.

  And now another American flotilla marches on my back, my waters no longer a barrier, but a road, crawling up the spine of our defenses, moving closer and closer to the heart of my world. What will happen when they arrive?

  CHAPTER 13

  TARO

  Winter 1941

  “Taro! Taro, come down!”

  In 1778, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart wrote the Violin Sonata in E Minor. He was twenty-two years old, and his mother had just died. Taro was proficient in several of Mozart’s other works, but this sonata—the most sublime piece of music he’d ever heard, the very song that dragged him up the street and into the life of a musician—eluded him. And so he was practicing.

  A pebble hit the window. Taro had grown. At almost fourteen, he could now see outside without leaning forward. Two of his friends stood in the street, trying to get his attention. Bundled up against the weather, they shifted from foot to foot, trying to stay warm. They held up two half-finished model aeroplanes—Zero fighters meticulously carved from lightweight wood. Taro smiled and waved them away with a shake of his head, continuing his practice. But the time for such toys was over. He didn’t know if they would let him keep his violin at Shōnen Hikōhei. What if he wasn’t allowed to play for a whole year? Ayugai-sensei had tried to tell Taro he’d be able to start over when the war ended, but that was not how music usually worked. If you left it, it left you. Practice was everything.

  So Taro practiced.

  He could see Mrs. Tanaka across the street humming along as she hung out her clothes on the laundry line. It was a cold day in early December. The futon sheets and yukata she hung would have a thin coat of ice before they ever dried.

  A stray dog, a black-and-white-spotted mutt with brown ears and a shaggy coat, slept in a fading patch of sunlight on the side of the road, the only spot of warmth to be had today. The dog’s back was pressed to the worn wooden planks of the Tanaka house. Its chest rose and fell in metronomic sympathy, but its ears still twitched, alert, following the dip and flow of the music.

  Taro played for Mrs. Tanaka. He played for the dog. The music swelled, filling the room, spilling out of the window.

  “Taro! Come quick!”

  He lowered the bow, resting the violin carefully on the floor, and pushed the sliding shōji screen aside.

  His mother was in the front room listening to the radio. She motioned for him to kneel beside her on the tatami mats. She wore her simple cotton yukata, the robe tied tight across her waist. Her hands rested like nesting birds, one inside the other, on her lap. She sat listening to the radio as she would an honored guest, ready at a moment’s notice to rise and offer it something, an adjustment of the antennae or the dials instead of tea. “There is to be an announcement from the Imperial Palace!”

  They’d bought the radio when his father first went to Manchukuo, so they could follow the path of the war in China. Since then, it had brought them news—first of victories on the mainland, then of the Americans’ attempt to stem the tide of the Emperor’s success by blocking the flow of oil to Japan. Then came news of a pact between Japan, Germany, and Italy—the three nations would join together against the United States, should it ever enter the war.

  At first, Taro had found it confusing. After the Great Depression, everyone knew the United States had no interest in foreign affairs. And hadn’t Italy and Germany been enemies of Japan during the Great War? But, as Taro’s teacher explained it, the United States would never risk a war with all three nations. They would have to give Japan the oil it needed and cease to meddle in its affairs. Then, all of Asia could prosper in the Emperor’s hands.

  Or so he’d been taught.

  And then Taro’s mother leaned forward to turn up the volume.

  On the radio, a man with a clipped Tokyo accent read an announcement from the Emperor:

  “We, by the grace of Heaven, Emperor of Japan, seated on the Throne of a line unbroken for ages eternal, enjoin upon ye, Our loyal and brave subjects: We hereby declare war on the United States of America and the British Empire.”

  Taro’s mother gasped. His stomach clenched as she grabbed his hands. Until now, the enemy had been Chinese, Russian, French. Now they had awakened the sleeping giant of the West. But surely the Americans would not strike back. To do so would risk war with not one, but three great nations. Japan would prevail. It should have been exciting. And yet, with his father away . . .

  “Mother . . .” Taro said, but her eyes were closed. “Please, you mustn’t worry. Everyone knows the Americans are indolent. They do not have the discipline of the Japanese.”

  The radio crackled, continuing to play exaltations of the might of Japan. The announcer described a predawn attack in a voice tense with excitement. Foreign names like “Pearl Harbor” and “Hawaii” filled the air.

  Taro’s mother opened her eyes. She turned the radio dial off with a silencing click. Outside, the rousing shouts of “Banzai! Banzai!” rose from the street, exhorting the Emperor to live ten thousand years. But inside their home, all was silent.

  “Get the incense, Taro. We must pray for our soldiers, for your father . . .” She trailed off, leaving her last words unspoken. But he heard what she would not say: And for you.

  * * *

  —

  The next day at school had the feeling of a holiday. In the school- yard and hallways, students jostled and joked with each other. In all of the excitement, Taro forgot his mother’s worry. Every boy in his class was going to be a soldier. A pilot! They were all going to be heroes in this new war.

  “Silence!” Taro’s teacher called for attention. The class fell still, all eyes on Sensei as he donned white gloves and removed the framed photograph of His Majesty, the Emperor, from the cupboard where it was stored. Silence reigned as he held it up before the students. It was an impressive portrait. The Emperor was young and distingu
ished-looking, in white gloves and a medal-covered military jacket, complete with sash and sword. He wore glasses, which made him look smart, and a serious expression that suited a person of such importance. The Emperor was the 124th descendant of the sun goddess, Amaterasu Ōmikami. Upon assuming the throne in 1926, he had declared his reign to be the Shōwa Era, or the “Period of Bright Peace.” Perhaps, Taro thought, the Bright Peace would come when the war was won.

  At the front of the classroom, Sensei cleared his throat and began to recite the Imperial Rescript for Education. Taro and his classmates joined him in unison, as they did every morning. But today was different. Today they were not just good students—they were citizens of the greatest country on Earth.

  “Ye, Our subjects, be filial to your parents, affectionate to your brothers and sisters, as husbands and wives be harmonious, as friends true . . .” Taro fell into the singsong response of long-remembered words, vowing modesty, moderation, and benevolence, but today he truly listened to the words. He had no brothers or sisters, but Sensei had explained that his fellow countrymen were his family. Taro straightened up and spoke extra loud at the part about cultivating the arts. It meant the Emperor approved of his violin playing, no matter what his father said. The words of the rescript painted the picture of a perfect world, one that he was proud to live in. His chest swelled with thoughts of Bushido as he crowed the next lines, “And, should emergency arise, offer yourselves courageously to the State; and thus guard and maintain the prosperity of Our Imperial Throne coeval with heaven and earth!” The archaic language was both commanding and comforting. The Emperor cared for every child in this room.

  “Very good, class,” Sensei said when they were done. “We are in a new war, and the rescript requires each of us to bravely offer ourselves to the nation. That is why we recite the rescript every day. It is only in times of great striving that we truly show our worth. Some of you are worried. Father is at war in China; Mother is part of the National Defense. But do not be concerned. Our Emperor’s actions are necessary for Japan to grow. This war against America will be brief because of the decisive actions of our military. But also because of the fortitude of our people! The Americans will sue for peace. But first we must set an example for these outsiders, these gaijin. Show them what it is to be Japanese! Be worthy!”

  “Hai, Sensei!” Taro and his classmates promised, pride swelling in every young chest. “Hai!”

  CHAPTER 14

  HANA

  Sensei has us line up at the top of the hill on the path to the barracks to meet the new pilots. “They will be part of a new decisive action,” she says. There is tension in the air, as if the entire base is bracing for a blow. But who will strike first?

  We wait beneath the shadowed pines, listening for the sounds of approaching aeroplanes, of marching men. We are far from the nearest runway, out of sight behind low hills and tall trees. Once upon a time, the barracks were regular buildings in neat rows closer to the main gate. Air raids have forced them to go undercover, spread out—along with kitchens and grounded aeroplanes—scattered throughout the forest. The landing fields are the exception, great black Xs crisscrossing the open land to the north.

  A honeybee-like drone rises on the wind, becomes a roar. I close my eyes.

  I am the airfield. The smooth, dark runway glides down my back. The planes descend one by one, silver combs tucking my hair into place. They adorn my paved tresses, and the men inside hop down, marching into view.

  Eight of them this afternoon, each no more than two or three years older than the eldest of us, who has just turned sixteen. A flying officer leads them up the hill to the barracks, shouting orders and instructions. They follow along like proud young roosters.

  My geta catches on a stone in the path as we turn to follow. By the time I catch up to the group, my tabi sock is smudged with earth, and there is a slight ache in my knee—the stiff one that never seems to mend. I stand outside the barracks, slip my foot out of my shoe and rub the smudge off on the back of my pant leg.

  Through the open doorway, I watch the boys inspect their new home, gazing up at the dark wooden ceiling, choosing futon by some arcane order only they know. Once they are settled, we introduce ourselves. They are set to fly out tomorrow, so there is no point in remembering their names. Instead, I stand in the doorway, making note of uniforms, of needs. I avoid reading tabs marked with their names. After the evening meal, we will ask them for their home addresses and promise to send letters to their families, telling of their time here and how brave they were on their last day.

  I used to think I would remember every pilot I met, that I would never forget them. But even in these few weeks, there have been so many faces, I wonder what I will remember in another month, in a year. Will this war still be going on? Will I still be Nadeshiko, darning socks and serving rice at the air base when I turn sixteen?

  The answer lies with these boys, and how well they die.

  To die for the Emperor is the greatest honor, as everyone knows. But when I died, I was not noble. I was afraid. I knew it was coming, but only for moments, not hours, not days. What would it be to premeditate your death and fly out deliberately to meet it?

  A chill falls over me. Clouds skid across the sky, pushed by the rising wind.

  “This one is a daydreamer,” one of the pilots says, emerging from the barracks. He’s a square-jawed brute whose name starts with N. Mariko has done a better job than I have, learning their names. What I do know is he likes egg custard. He declared it loudly just a moment ago. They always talk about favorite foods here, what they wish they could have. I understand. When I was dying, I lay still for so long, I thought of everything. Of the rain, of my father. How I would never hear him play again. And how I would never eat my mother’s kurobuta-tonkotsu. Perhaps that’s why I have lost my appetite for such things now. Such delectable pork is not possible on war rations. And the dead do not eat.

  “What are you dreaming about, Little Flower?” the pilot whose name begins with N is asking. I feel a chill. He has learned my name is Hana, which means “flower,” and in mocking me has stumbled on the nickname used by my father. Or perhaps he is only thinking of the nadeshiko blossom that gives our unit its name.

  “I am wondering if it will rain,” I say without thinking, and point to the clouds in the sky.

  The girls fall silent, and the boys frown. Only Sachiko, fool that she is, bubbles happily, “She means if it rains, you do not have to fly tomorrow! No one body-crashes in the rain!”

  She treats these boys as new pets, each a delight to be coddled as long as possible. No one else sees it that way.

  My cheeks burn with shame, and I bow my head. My heavy knot of hair slips sideways over my left ear. Would that it could cover my face.

  “Forgive me,” I say, my voice harsh with embarrassment. “I was careless.”

  But he is laughing and declaring tomorrow a perfect day for sunshine. “Besides, battleships don’t fear the rainstorm, so why should we?” he asks.

  Of course. The Americans are coming. Nothing can prevent that now.

  “Reiko’s mother serves egg custard,” I offer by way of apology. “Not as good as your mother’s, no doubt, but it might help you remember her custard better.”

  He smiles, as if already thinking of scooping the creamy dessert into his watering mouth, and I know I have done my job today. We Nadeshiko Tai are here to help these boys do their duty. If they are smiling when they leave, we have done well.

  By now, most of our new pilots are done unpacking. They emerge into the sunlight.

  “Taro, will you come to Tomiya Shokudo tonight?” N asks. “This one says they have egg custard maybe. You could bring your fiddle and play.”

  “Oh, are you a musician?” Sachiko chimes in, twining her hair with excitable fingers. “We have a very musical group here! Not long ago, two of the pilots walked three miles to play a piano again b
efore their flight. It was so romantic! And you’re a fiddle player!”

  The boy called Taro does not look up from his bag. He’s still inside the barracks, perched on the middle futon. I peer into the gloom. His hair is neatly trimmed, and his attention is focused on his task—carefully decanting something precious from his duffel. A black case for holding an instrument.

  He looks up. Large dark eyes in a serious face. Then a smile plays across his lips. “It’s not a fiddle,” he says, and N laughs and laughs. It’s an old joke perhaps, with only a day or two left to be told.

  Sachiko laughs merrily, without understanding the jest, and proposes we walk to the river. The pilots are free until their orders are confirmed, and it is a beautiful day. Taking Kazuko by the hand, Sachiko leads the way.

  * * *

  —

  This is what I see by the river: ten girls sitting in the grass in the dappled sunlight, eight boys standing, leaning, sitting on rocks. One boy lies on his back, watching the clouds. Sachiko is next to him, laughing as he tells her the shapes he sees. Mariko is writing down everyone’s addresses and bowing her gratitude. I should be doing the same, but I am frozen in the shadow of a tsuburajii tree, watching the scene like a painting come to life. If I was the artist, I would call this Last Spring. It is the perfect picture of beauty, but the knowledge behind it makes it exquisite.

  This is what I see when I look at a tokkō pilot: the condition of his clothes—loose buttons, frayed collar—and the shape of his shoes, well-polished or worn and ill-fitting, which betrays the condition of the socks beneath. I look at his hair, clipped and brushed, as it should be, or going shaggy, which indicates a state of mind that no longer cares for appearances. This can be good—he may have already detached from this life—or it can be bad, indicating he has no self-control. The most important thing in the short life of a tokkō special-attack pilot is self-control. Strength of character is the greatest weapon we have against the enemy. After all, doesn’t the Imperial Rescript decree that every citizen of Japan be filial, modest, moral, and courageous? We learn this from the first days of school. We recite it in class and transcribe it into our school journals. Pilots even write of spiritual fortitude in their letters home. If it fails him on his final flight, how will he body-crash successfully?