Authors: CW Schutter
The Ohana (7 page)
Kohala, August, 1924
Kazuko Matsubara decided if the child struggling to leave her womb was a girl, it would be better if she died at birth. Although the very idea she was thinking such a horrible thing frightened her, it scared her even more to have another daughter born into poverty.
As she walked through the cane field to the midwife Shizue's house, a sharp contraction forced her to stop for a moment. She grimaced. Sweat poured from her wide brow. Like all her other babies, this one was early and eager to leave the womb. Fumbling in her pocket, she withdrew a small piece of cane and bit down hard. The sugary substance dripped into her mouth and slid down her throat. She wanted to cry out, but she was too proud to lower herself to such shameful behavior. After all, she was samurai and she had been taught to bear labor pains in silence. The pain ebbed a little. Kazuko removed the cane from her mouth and slid it back into her pocket.
Sighing, she trudged through the cane again. The towering stalks entangled her in their embrace, keeping her in this cursed land. The cane was a constant reminder of all she had lost when she left Japan. It imprisoned her body and soul.
Japan. The mere sound of it caused explosions in her heart and she cursed the ground she walked on. This land was a deceptively beautiful maiden with a provocative voice and wretched heart. It called, “Come to me, and I will make love to you and return you to the womb from which you came, enriched through my sweet embrace.” Hawaii’s promises were irresistible to the thousands of poor farmers from the far-flung Southern prefectures of the islands of Japan. Driven by dreams of wealth, they came from Kumamoto, Hiroshima, and Yamaguchi. They swallowed their fears and left behind a rigid social structure governed by birth and place, to plunge into the unknown. Enduring difficult sea voyages to follow the white man’s lies, the immigrants promised their families they would return to Japan wealthy men. What did it matter? In Japan, class was far more important than wealth.
Another spasm hit and she tore at the green stalks as she shoved the cane between her teeth. The sun was directly over her, rivers of sweat poured down her neck, her back, and between her swollen breasts. The cheap, blue cloth of her dress clung to her huge stomach.
She felt the baby move, impatient to leave her womb. She bit down on the cane harder. Seeing the end of the field, she stumbled across the clearing to the whitewashed old house standing on crossed boards a foot above the ground.
“O-Shizue!” Kazuko screamed as she collapsed on the ground. Sharp pains ripped through her. The syrup running down her throat made her choke. She squeezed her eyes shut, ashamed she had demonstrated such weakness. She felt herself being half carried, half dragged, across the red dirt. It had to be Shizue. Little clouds of dust drifted up her nose. Kazuko sneezed, bringing on another spasm. She reached out and grabbed Shizue’s arm.
“O-Kazuko!” Shizue’s distant voice exclaimed. “Let go!” But Kazuko held on until the pain passed. Then her body went limp as she felt herself being pulled up the stairs, onto the porch, and into the house. She felt the soft
futons
and
zabutons
supporting her body.
Another pain tore through her and she willed herself not to cry out and add to her shame. She was not an animal. Her father told her more times than she cared to remember, “To dishonor your family is to be less than a dog.”
Kazuko was vaguely aware of Shizue gently lifting her legs and propping her up with clean rags in preparation for birth. She grimaced. Shizue wiped her perspiring brow and carefully pried open her mouth to remove the cane.
Before Shizue could replace the cane with a smooth, hard bamboo stick, Kazuko prayed, "Amida Buddha, let it be a son who will do the family honor and not suffer the indignities of being a woman." Then she clamped down on the stick.
Pain ripped through her body. Kazuko arched her body like a bow. The pain, the wetness, and the need to push engulfed her. She forced herself to think of something other than the pain. Memories of how easy and beautiful life had been in her father’s house flooded her brain.
Kazuko grunted. She clenched the fabric of the
futon
so hard her fingernails ripped through the fabric. Shizue directed her to push harder. Biting her lower lip, she pushed as hard as she could.
“I can see the head,” Shizue cried out.
Kazuko grunted as she felt her burden released.
Minutes later, Kazuko opened her eyes. Shizue’s eyes gazed down at her, her hands deftly wiping Kazuko’s sweaty face and pushing wet strands of her hair behind her ears. “I'm happy for you. You have a girl, as small and delicate as a cherry blossom. Shall I bring her to you?”
Kazuko nodded weakly. Her eyes followed Shizue as she picked up a blue bundle from the laundry basket nearby. “A fine daughter,” Shizue crowed, putting the child next to her. “What will you name her?”
“Mariko,” Kazuko drew her child closer to her.
“Tetsuo san will be happy.”
Kazuko kissed the top of her daughter’s head and whispered, “Our fate is tied to this cursed land, my daughter, but we won't give up. We can't give up.” Her eyes closed and she drifted into an exhausted sleep.
Japan, 1918
She should have been a boy. Her father told her mother that often enough. Willful, obstinate, rebellious, and intelligent, Kazuko chafed at the restrictions put on women and wondered if there was any place in the world where women had the kind of freedom men had.
Kazuko felt closer to her
amah san
Sunae than anyone else in the world. Such an attachment was frowned upon as the rules enforcing conduct between the classes was strictly enforced down to the food they ate. But Sunae had bathed her, brushed her hair, and dressed her for as long as she could remember. Like most upper class children, Kazuko spent more time with her
amah san
than she did with her own mother. She could always depend on Sunae to comfort and tell her the truth. Sometimes Sunae brought her son Tetsuo, a strapping, strong boy with a shock of black hair sticking up from his head. His large expressive eyes, thick eyelashes, and full lips caused the village girls to giggle when he walked by. It annoyed Kazuko he got so much attention. But Tetsuo never looked at them.
Kazuko couldn’t remember a time when she didn’t love him. He was her best friend, her companion, and as she grew older, she wanted to be his lover. It didn't matter to her their relationship was unsuitable. She didn’t much care about convention, anyway. She smoked cigarettes in secret and skipped classes with her tutors to run off to the village to take karate class dressed as a boy—until her father found out. To his chagrin, the
sensei
told him she was one of his best students.
The qualities that would have made her a great son were unacceptable in a daughter. She was too spirited, too independent, too determined to have her way. When Kazuko wanted something, she stopped at nothing to get it. And what she wanted most was Tetsuo.
Tetsuo assisted her father’s gardener, Hikoji. The gardens were a marvel. Hikoji created a starkly beautiful composition by putting together an austere yet complex arrangement of rocks and the treasured bonsai trees he cultivated. The focal point was the central courtyard rimmed with covered walkways and shoji doors leading to rooms covered with
tatami
mats. The rooms reflected the same minimalist elegance of the rock gardens. In the center court, the severe planes were softened by gently rolling hillocks atop a carpet of mossy grass and delicately flowering plants. Under the miniature stone temples and bridges, her father’s prized carp flashed brilliant colors of orange, gold, and iridescent pearl beneath the sparkling water lined with smooth, gray pebbles.
Kazuko often surprised Tetsuo while he worked in the gardens. They stole kisses behind the tool shed and dreamed of running away to a place where they could be together all the time.
Then one day Sunae brought her an elegant blue silk kimono, as serene as the morning sky. It was densely patterned with tiny dots arranged in a floral-type pattern. The kimono was an
Edo Komon
, popular with the samurai class since the
Edo
period. Kazuko stared at the beautiful kimono and exclaimed as Sunae began dressing her, “Am I pouring tea today?”
“For your honorable father.” Sunae put a
hiyoku
, an under-kimono, on Kazuko before draping the formal visiting kimono over it.
Kazuko frowned. “Why?”
“Who knows? Perhaps your father is testing your skills.”
“You know, Sunae san. You always know everything. Tell me,” Kazuko pleaded.
“Only if you promise not to say one word to your father,” she said as she wrapped a red, gold, and silver thread
maru
obi
tightly around Kazuko’s waist, knotting the heavy fabric into an elaborate
Darari musubi
shape with long tails trailing behind her mistress. She then tied a corded, tasseled
obijime
through the knot.
Kazuko promised Sunae she wouldn't breathe a word to her father as Sunae twisted an
obiage
, a sheer pink and white scarf around the top edge of the
obi
as a final accent.
“You are pouring tea for Nakahara sama,” Sunae replied.
“Why?”
Sunae shrugged and put
kanzashi
silk flowers into Kazuko’s hair.
Kazuko put her hand to her heart. “Something is going on and you know what it is.”
Sunae sighed as she stood back to admire her handiwork. “Nakahara sama is here to arrange a most fortunate wedding.”
Kazuko put a fist to her mouth. High-ranking samurai had their children's marriages arranged by someone of the same or higher rank. Kazuko’s father was descended from the
Mujo Daimyo
, upper crust samurais entitled to income. Nakahara sama was a direct descendent of a
Kunimochi Daimyo
, a provincial lord, three ranks above her father. Although the samurai were outlawed when Kazuko’s father was a young boy in the 1870’s, many of them privately held on to the old traditions.
“The man you are to marry is very rich. His family’s name will bring great honor to your family. Your home will be much larger than this and you will have twice as many servants.”
Kazuko’s eyes widened. “Who is it?” Suddenly aware of the older woman’s troubled stare, Kazuko put on her mask of obedient acceptance. It was a familiar look of defeat and despair over the futility of having one’s own desires. It was the face of obedience that hid her true feelings. Hiding one’s feelings was very Japanese. Kazuko sighed, “You might as well tell me. Whoever it is, I'll have to marry him.”
“Kimura sama. The very rich, the very noble…”
Kazuko interrupted. “I know who he is.” Kimura sama was fat with thinning gray hair. His wife died last year leaving him childless.
He was also the richest man in the prefecture.
“You have no choice!” Her father slapped his fan against his open palm. “I have given my word and signed all the contracts. You're your future husband’s property.”
Kazuko bowed, her head touching the
tatami
mat. “Father, I beg you, please don't do this to me.”
Her father leaned over her and said, "May I remind you, we still follow the code of
bushido
-loyalty and honor until death.” With that, he strode out of the room.
Kazuko looked tearfully at her mother. “Mother, help me, please.”
Kazuko’s mother remained silent for a long time. When she spoke, her eyes were void of expression. Kazuko knew the look well. It was the hopeless look of acceptance Japanese women wore. “I can do nothing for you. You must put aside your feelings and desires.”
Kazuko would not accept this. All her life she had been in love with Tetsuo; nothing would stop her from marrying him someday.
“We can run away to Yokohama and catch a boat to the Islands of Heaven,” Kazuko told Tetsuo later that day. “They say money grows on trees and the streets are paved with gold.”
“You'd leave Japan?” Tetsuo touched the sleeve of her kimono and looked into her eyes.
“Of course,” Kazuko grabbed his arm. “It will be an exciting adventure. And we'll be together.”
“But to leave all that you have here.” Tetsuo put his head in his hands. “It’s madness. You don’t even know how to prepare a meal. You won’t have a maid to do everything for you.”
“In the Islands of Heaven,” Kazuko removed his hands from his head and kissed his knuckles, “everyone gets rich.”