So Far from the Bamboo Grove (2 page)

For part of our school day we would do labor service for the army, collecting empty cans or going to the ammunition squadron to sort flawed bullets from large boxes, wearing stiff army gloves. I hated that work. Mother often said she did not like killing, and I felt I was helping the army kill people, even though they were our enemies.

Whenever Father came home, he and Hideyo worked, digging a shelter in the thicket large enough for the whole family to crawl into.

“Why, Father?” I asked.

“Just in case of an air raid. It's wartime.” He sent
Ko and me to find tall thin bamboo shoots and tie strings around bundles of them, to make a cover for the shelter.

He also told us to pack emergency rucksacks, with rice, dried fish, a mess kit, some changes of clothing, and a blanket each. He said these should be left at the main entrance so that if a raid came we could each grab our own and run to the shelter.

For herself Mother prepared a huge double wrapping cloth. Besides emergency items she put in important papers such as our health records, insurance policies, and even report cards from school.

I saw her sewing on her cloth. “What are you doing, Mother?”

“I am making pockets.”

“What for?”

“For various things.”

The pupils began digging ditches around the school
in case an air raid came
and we had no time to get home. I was given a shovel, but the handle was much taller than I and heavy. I could not dig that hard rocky ground. I huffed and puffed, just wrestling with the shovel.

We learned which siren was an alert and which an all-clear. We were digging when our first air raid alarm came. The alert siren burst out; our teacher, Mr. Enomoto, shouted, ordering everyone to flatten on the ground. I heard engines roaring over my head.

I had never seen an airplane, but when I looked up, I saw clearly: American planes in formations of
three flying over us. Mr. Enomoto yelled at me to put my head down. His scream was angry and frightening. My heart raced, and, face down, I breathed heavily, my breath scattering the dirt around my mouth. When the all-clear sounded I wanted to go home, but we continued to dig.

When I did get home I was exhausted, and I could not concentrate on my calligraphy lesson. My hands were still shaking from handling the shovel, and I could not hold the brush steady. My first air raid experience, and Father was not home! I felt very insecure.

Even with the war upon us, my parents insisted that I continue with all my special lessons, not only calligraphy but The Way of Tea—an art of serving and receiving tea—flower arrangement, poetry writing and reading, and Japanese classic dance lessons. After that first air raid I asked Mother if I might be excused from all the extra lessons from now on and just be at home with her.

“You mean to quit?” she asked.

“I am not talented in any of my lessons. Besides, I am so tired.”

“Your being talented or not doesn't matter,” said Mother. “This learning will be useful someday. And the lessons help polish your mind. As for being tired, just go to bed early.”

I thought back to the terrible news that had come from our homeland in April. The last school bell of the day had rung on a warm sleepy afternoon. We
all stood and bowed to Mr. Enomoto and he returned the bow. He reminded us of our cleaning assignments. Then, pale and serious, he broke the news.

“I am sorry to tell you, but American bombers have attacked Tokyo and the city is demolished. How many of you have relatives in that city?”

A few classmates raised their hands. “I am sorry,” Mr. Enomoto said, looking at each one in turn. “The noon news was that almost all of the people are dead.
Tokyo is a billow of fire
.”

Children began sobbing. I felt terrible for them, but I was relieved that my grandparents lived in northern Japan.

I wanted to get home fast to be with Mother. How I wished we did not have those cleaning assignments, but my group, ten of us, had to clean the first graders' classroom and their toilets, as usual.

As soon as the cleaning was over I dashed outdoors. I took a shortcut home. As I ran down the grassy bank, sparrows rose suddenly and flew away into the high deep blue sky, humming as they went. The tributary of the Tumen River ran swiftly, bouncing around large rocks and leaving sparkling beads.

I took off my shoes and stockings and stuffed them in my pockets. I walked in the shallow stream of the river, then straight into the bamboo grove, and ran all the way home.

“Mother! Tokyo is demolished!” I cried.

My family, unlike most in Nanam, had a radio. “I know.” Mother's shoulders drooped. “I only hope the fighting will not spread to us.” She sighed deeply. “I've just heard that the army has established another division at the foot of Kyojo Hill.” That was only a mile from us. “Also, the Imperial Navy is docking warships in Rashin.” Thirty miles away. “And,” she went on reporting, “the army has taken farming land from the Koreans by force to expand the army hospital. Little One, the Koreans have established a group they call
the Anti-Japanese Communist Army
.” The Koreans were part of the Japanese empire but they hated the Japanese and were not happy about the war.

“It's terrifying,” Mother said.

Then she changed the subject, away from war. “Your performing day at the hospital is tomorrow. Why don't you practice before supper?”

I was one of the children who had been chosen to perform for the wounded soldiers at the army hospital. Dancing lessons were something Father had decided Ko and I should take, and I detested them. I had to give up play time. My unwillingness showed in the many mistakes I made in steps or in lifting my leg when I should not, or skipping a turn. The teacher, Mr. Fukui, sang the difficult notes of the music, his voice quivering high and low as his freshly shaven head wiggled up and down.

A khaki-colored army truck with
a big red cross
on the hood came to get our instruments and cos
tumes next day. Mr. Fukui and Hideyo went with the truck, and Mother, Ko, and I followed in a taxi amid clouds of dust.

The military base was off-limits to civilians and I was curious. We were halted at a gate by army police, then waved on. We came to a huge white building where Major Ryu, an army doctor, greeted us. He said all of the wounded soldiers had been looking forward to this day.

There were other children backstage in a giant auditorium, here to show their talents in singing, poetry reading, and
koto
playing.

While I was changing into my
kimono
costume I began to hear people entering the auditorium, and I peeked through the heavy curtains. Wounded soldiers, wearing white hospital gowns, came streaming in. Some wore slings, some walked with crutches, some, their eyes bandaged, were led by nurses. Some had no arm, or no leg, and what shocked me most was a man on a stretcher who had no arms or legs. I pulled Mother's kimono sleeve, wanting her to look. She said she couldn't, her heart ached.

Suddenly I began to feel very nervous. “I don't want to dance,” I whispered. My lips were dry from seeing all those wounded.

“Are you nervous about making mistakes?” Mother asked.

I shook my head. “A soldier out there has no arms or legs.”

“That is why you are here—to give them a little happiness.”

The stiff, high-ranking officers marched in and took side seats. The doctors and nurses took their seats. Major Ryu stood on the stage and announced that the gifted children of this town had come to give a performance.

The program began. Between the performances of other children, singing and playing the koto, I danced. I was the littlest in the whole group, so when I came on the stage and bowed there were yells. “How old are you?” “Do you still wear diapers?”

Everyone burst out laughing, and even serious Mr. Fukui, who was on the stage ready to sing with the
shamisen
so that I could begin, put his hand over his mouth. I felt better and decided to dance my very best to make them all happy.

But I was glad when it was over, and hungry. I wanted to go home. I was taking my
tabi
(socks) off when Major Ryu hurried in. Would we, he begged, come and see some badly wounded soldiers? “We connected speakers to the rooms,” he said, “but it would be very nice if you could show yourselves in costume.”

We made the rounds. Ko was sweet to everyone, shaking hands and wishing a speedy recovery. “Aren't you scared to touch the wounded soldiers?” I whispered.

“No!” she said. “They fought for our country.”

I didn't see any rooms ahead so I thought we could
go home. But—“One more,” said the doctor. “He is a very difficult patient. He refuses to eat. His recovery would be much faster if he would eat and let us treat him.”

“I don't want to,” I said. “It makes me feel too sad.”

“I know,” said the doctor. “But please, one more.”

The card on the door said “Corporal Matsumura.” I was told to knock and I knocked timidly, but it took considerable persuasion from the doctor before a weak voice said, “Come in.”

What I saw chilled me. Corporal Matsumura's entire head and face were bandaged heavily. There were holes for ears, mouth, and the tip of his nose. His eyes were covered. He looked like a mummy.

The doctor explained that we had just performed. He introduced Mother and Ko. “And this is Miss Yoko. She is a very little girl.”

I wanted to say “Good day,” but my mouth was trembling. I bowed.

“Miss Yoko bowed to you, Corporal,” said the doctor.

The Corporal brought his right arm from under the sheet. His arms were bandaged but not his hands. I did not want to shake hands with him, but Ko put my hand in his. His soft, warm, huge hand fingered mine. “How old are you?”

“I . . . I . . . I'm almost twelve, sir.”

“So tiny, this hand. Like a miniature maple leaf,” he murmured.

There was silence. I felt very uncomfortable. Then, gently, the Corporal's hand moved up my shoulder and touched my forehead. He found a small scar. “Where did you get this?”

“I . . . I fought with boys, sir.”

I could almost see a smile. “Did you win?”

“No, sir.”

The smile seemed a little broader. Now his fingers examined the material of my costume. He touched my
obi
, the sash. “What a beautiful costume you are wearing,” he said. “I wish I could have seen you dance in this costume.”

I did not know what to say.

“You take dance lessons?” he asked. Twice a week, I told him.

“When these doctors release me, may I come and see you dance?”

Mother nodded at me and I said, “Ye—yes. Please.”

Then he asked about my name. “There are lots of characters for ‘Yoko.' How do you write your Yoko?”

Ko poked me and her lips said, “Answer!”

“My name Yoko means to protect or to embrace, sir.”

“That is a difficult character,” he said. “Will you show me how to write your name when I visit you?”

This time Mother and Ko were both nodding. “P-p-please,” I said.

Then Ko, Mother, and Mr. Fukui wished the Cor
poral a speedy recovery and we left, to my great relief. How could I know this man was to be important in my life?

A few weeks later, in May, we were having dinner and I had been complaining about the cooked carrots and
tofu
that we had had for three days straight. Not only rice, but vegetables and fish were rationed, and Mother added oats, barley, or vegetables when she cooked rice. Every time she was able to get fish she cooked it, dried it, and packed it in our emergency kits. Although I did not like rice cooked with oats or barley, I ate that. But plain carrots . . .

“Don't complain, Little One,” Hideyo scolded me. “You should be glad there is food on your plate.”

“I don't like carrots. Cooked or uncooked.”

“Stupid One. Someday you'll wish you had these.” And he reached over with his chopsticks and picked up all the carrots.

Someone called, “Good evening.”

“Yes, right away,” Mother replied. I was surprised when she returned with Corporal Matsumura. By chance, he had come on the day of my dancing lesson. He was wearing a hospital gown of white canvaslike material in kimono style and his face was uncovered. It was disfigured and the scars looked fresh and painful.

He ate the supper that Mother brought to him on a small vermilion-lacquered table, and drank the tea Ko poured. “You've made a fantastic recovery, Corporal,” Hideyo told him. Hideyo was acting the role of Father.

“Meeting your sisters made me want to get well,” the Corporal said.

Mr. Fukui came and tuned our shamisen. I bowed deeply to him and began my lesson, doing my very best this time, for our special guest.

Corporal Matsumura visited often and we grew to like him very much. We relaxed when he came and listened with interest to what he told us of his hometown in Japan. He was knowledgeable in classical poetry and had translated many poems into modern Japanese.

Summer warmed the night air, but the city hall ordered us to drape all windows with dark and heavy cloth, so that enemy planes could not spot the least light. Ko helped Mother make drapes. She was good at sewing and taught me how to make simple nightclothes as consolation gifts for battlefield soldiers. I made two of the garments. When I wrapped them, I slipped a letter in the pocket that gave all the news of our town and ended with, “When you happen to invade a village, please do not kill or beat women, children, and aged.” When I wrote the last sentence, I thought of the mean army police who had recently come, and automatically put my hand over my side.

Now day after day we heard the air raid siren. If we were at home, we rushed to the shelter, grabbing our emergency bags. If the air raid came while we were laboring outside, we flattened ourselves on the ground. The American bombers always flew in formation. Mr. Enomoto said they looked like B-29s,
the same model that had been attacking Tokyo and major cities in the homeland. Every time they flew over, I was scared that this town would also turn to waves of fire and we would be burned to death.