42.

Wartime Japan

APRIL, 1945

Tokyo

Chiyo zigzags through the crowded streets, making her way toward the maze of alleyways surrounding Ueno Station. As shortages grow, so does the station’s unofficial marketplace, as buyers and sellers of legal and not-so-legal goods gather to do business.

The silk cloth that had ferried the Okuda ancestors’ death tablets to safety on the night of the bombing is now knotted around boxes containing two fans, an incense burner, two tea bowls and a gourd-shaped sake flask. She hurries along as quickly as the crowd will allow. It’s nearly noon, and today her luck is scheduled to change from bad to good as soon as the clock strikes twelve. She’ll need all the time and luck she can muster to find a buyer before sundown.

She’d spent the morning improving her chances. Her grandfather always told her the more desperate you are to sell, the more it pays to look like you don’t need the money. So she’d scrubbed her face, pulled her hair up in a twist to look older, and pinched her cheeks to give the impression she had plenty to eat. She’d borrowed a mostly undamaged kimono from a refugee woman who had stubbornly refused to dye it for mourning, and draped her mother’s shawl over her red coat’s burned patches.

Mincing toward the outskirts of the market with kimono-hobbled steps, she marvels at how unchanged everyday life is, in the unbombed parts of Tokyo. Linen curtains hang before the entrances of uncharred wooden buildings, housewives shop, children squabble, dogs chase cats. Fragrant grilled chicken smoke follows her, and the call of the roasted sweet potato man rings out as he pushes his cart through the streets. Ordinary life now strikes her as unbearably exotic, almost as if she’d journeyed to a foreign country.

She clutches the stolen boxes tighter as the crowd jostles her along, then slows as the lane is narrowed by hollow-eyed bombing victims who have spread their blankets on the ground along either side. She averts her eyes from the battered household goods they’re desperately trying to turn into enough cash to feed themselves. Orphaned rice bowls, matches being sold by the piece, blackened kerosene heaters for which fuel has become vanishingly scarce.

As the crowd spills into a wider avenue, refugee blankets give way to tables and stalls lining the street, and she slows to scan the merchandise. The goods here look less pitiful, but the crowd of shoppers still flows briskly along. Most are saving their meager yen for those who deal in rice, boiled sweet potatoes, miso, anything that will supplement the government rations that aren’t nearly enough to live on. Her own stomach growls as the fragrance of ramen broth wafts from a noodle stand, but she ignores the temptation. Lunch is a luxury she can’t afford.

Chiyo lets the crowd steer her, searching right and left for stalls selling more expensive goods. But as offerings of secondhand household junk and used clothing give way to unappealing displays of grubby carrots and homemade pickles, her hopes falter. Had it been a mistake, bringing valuables to this place? Her biggest problem might not be unloading the goods before the theft becomes known, it might be finding a buyer at all.

She reaches an intersection, not sure which way to turn. Even standing on her tiptoes, it’s impossible to see if any of the stands ahead deal in goods more costly than the mismatched dishes she brings here after digging duty. Dizzied by the sheer number of people milling in every direction, she makes her way to the side of the street to gather her wits. Hungry, thirsty, her head is beginning to pound. But time is racing by, and there won’t be another good luck day until next week. Upending an empty wooden crate, she climbs onto it to get her bearings. Every able-bodied man between seventeen and forty is either farming or fighting, so the market crowd is made up mostly of old men, women, and children whose schooling has become spotty or nonexistent since the war news turned bad.

Oof.

“Watch where you’re going, young man!” a matron barks at a gangly youth in a schoolboy cap who has just careened into her at the stand next to Chiyo.

The boy sweeps off his cap, but as he bows and apologizes, Chiyo spots his other hand emerging from the deep sleeve of the woman’s silken wrap, holding a rice ball that he deftly drops into his book bag. None the wiser, the matron accepts his apology, then turns back to the counter to receive her package of used clothing. The boy glances up, catches Chiyo watching. She gives him the tight smile of a fellow thief, and he flashes her a crooked grin in return. Then his eyes widen in alarm and he melts back into the crowd.

Chiyo swings around to see what spooked him. A pair of sharp-eyed patrolmen is moving through the throng, scanning faces as they saunter along, their long bamboo nightsticks swinging by their sides. The younger of the two is looking in her direction. He turns to say something to his partner, and Chiyo hastily steps down, heart in her throat.

Now they’re changing course, angling toward her through the crowd. She squeezes between the used clothing stall and the pickle vendor, tugging her burden through the tight space to the no-man’s land behind the stalls. Scurrying along as quickly as her kimono will allow, she hears a commotion behind her and is nearly bowled over when the pickpocket bursts through the line of stalls and races toward her. The younger patrolman isn’t far behind. Chiyo flattens herself against the wall as they barrel past. The policeman’s partner pops into the alley just as the swifter one catches up with the running boy, grabbing his jacket, throwing him to the ground. The boy’s hat goes flying and he rolls onto his back, holding up both hands in surrender. The police loom over him.

She can’t hear what he’s saying, but they allow him to stand without using their nightsticks. The boy dusts himself off, digs into his bag, and hands over the stolen rice ball. Instead of arresting him, the first policeman breaks it in half to share with his partner and, with a wave, they continue on their way. The boy watches them go, then retrieves his cap and swats the dust from it. He looks up to find her standing there. She shuts her mouth.

“You okay?” he asks, stopping a few paces from her. “You look lost.”

“I’m fine.”

“Haven’t seen you here before.”

“I . . . uh, it’s my first time.”

“No kidding,” he says with a laugh. Eyes her bundle. “You buying or selling?”

She clutches it tighter. “None of your business.”

“Don’t worry. Whatever you’ve got in that fancy silk carrying cloth is way above my pay grade.”

He takes a step closer, but she doesn’t hear his next question, because over his shoulder, she sees a man emerge from between two stalls farther along, clapping a gray fedora onto his head.

Is that . . .? No, can’t be. She hasn’t seen the youngest Itoh son since the night of the bombing. But when he pokes a cigarette between his lips and cups his hands around it to light it, she’s sure.

“Itoh-kun!” she cries.

He’s too far away to hear. Hitching a bulging bundle more securely onto the shoulder of his Western-style suit, he sets off so purposefully that he’s almost to the next corner by the time she figures out what’s wrong.

Tetsu Itoh is walking without a limp. How is that possible? He’d been sent home after the battle of Guadalcanal with a bum leg, and has been staggering around the neighborhood with a crutch ever since. Too crippled to return to the fighting, too crippled to volunteer for fire duty. Had he been faking?

She’s so shocked, she nearly misses that his carrying cloth is tied around wooden boxes just like hers. He must be here to sell too. And anyone who can afford to waste a match on a cigarette must be doing well. She hurries to catch up with him.

Before the war, the Itohs had been no more successful than the Okudas, but judging by how the youngest son is dressed now, that’s changed. And he’s navigating the market without hesitation. He’s been here before, knows where he’s going. She drops back, keeping the gray fedora in sight. Maybe he’ll lead her to the kind of buyer she’s looking for.

Sure enough, they’re soon in a part of the market she’s never seen before. Crowds are thinner, and the stalls display goods that are whole and unbroken, some actually new. Cigarette lighters, winter coats trimmed in fur, real leather gloves. She can almost pretend it’s not wartime.

Itoh stops, taking a few last puffs on his cigarette before pinching it out and stowing the nub in his pocket. At least some economies die hard.

She bends to inspect a pair of gloves as his gaze sweeps her way. Can’t let him know she’s following him. His family doesn’t deal in boxed wooden art objects any more than hers does, which means neither of them has come here to sell goods that are rightfully theirs.

When she looks up again, he’s gone. Has she lost him? No, there he is, coming out of that stall at the end, with a man in an even snappier hat and sharper suit.

She follows them into the backstreets of the surrounding neighborhood, to a quiet lane of wooden-fronted shops and expensive-looking teahouses, with stands of bamboo and unlit lanterns outside. They disappear into one of them.

She stops outside, hears the lock click behind them. There’s no curtain hanging in front, no light showing through the shutters that blind the windows facing the street. Judging by the lack of signage, this dealer does business by invitation only. Should she knock while Itoh-kun is still there, or wait until he leaves?

If she forces him to make an introduction, that would pave her way. But what if he refuses? Denies knowing her? If she were him, she’d want as few rivals as possible. She retreats to the shadowy entrance of a shuttered tobacco shop across the street and makes herself still and small, waiting for him to leave.

A woman in full white-face makeup and a kimono worth more than everything in the Okuda store emerges from a teahouse down the block, and lights a cigarette. Cherry blossom ornaments twinkle in her elaborate hairdo, as she tips her head back and blows smoke up into the clear blue sky. Before she finishes her second cigarette, Itoh reappears, tucking his folded carrying cloth into his jacket. As soon as he’s around the corner, Chiyo stands, smooths her hair, and steps up to the dealer’s door to knock.

He opens it, minus his hat. Up close, he’s more handsome than anyone she’s ever met, and she blushes at herself for noticing. A thin pencil moustache draws attention to his chiseled lips, and his lazy eyes give her the once-over, settling for a beat on her silk carrying cloth, before returning his gaze to her face.

“What can I do for you, young lady?”

Flustered, Chiyo has trouble answering.

“I’m . . . I’m a friend of Tetsu Itoh.”

No flicker of recognition.

She kicks herself. Itoh-kun had been smart enough not to use his real name. She tries again.

“The thing is, he uh, said he was coming here today to sell some things, and if I met him here before noon, he’d introduce me. But it took longer to get here than I thought. Is he already here?”

“I think you just missed him.”

“Oh no! Am I too late?”

“That’s all right.” He eyes her bundle again, then stands aside, inviting her in. “We’ll just have to introduce ourselves.”

Inside, he bows, telling her his name is Yoshizaburo Arashi. She follows his cue, introducing herself as the actress who was cast opposite the film idol in The 47 Ronin.

“Did you have something you’d like me to take a look at, Miss?”

“Yes, if it’s not too much trouble.”

She follows him through a shuttered showroom that’s luxuriously appointed in the exotic art deco style fashionable before the war. It’s the most opulent place she’s ever been, and she has to remind herself not to gawk. Once they get to the back room, though, she relaxes. It had obviously been a workshop, although the tools that once hung on the wall pegs are missing, and the workbench is now cluttered with wooden boxes like the ones she brought.

The dealer makes a fresh pot of tea and sets a cup before her on a lacquered saucer. Clearing a space at one end of the long counter, he switches on a lamp and seats himself on a wooden stool. Chiyo unpacks her burden, hands him the first box.

She sips her tea as he examines the pieces one by one, encouraged by his approving murmurs and the speed with which he assesses them. He must really know his stuff, she thinks, watching him expertly turn one of the tea bowls in his slender fingers and snap open the black and gold war fan.

Finally, with a practiced hand, he reknots the cord around the last box and stacks it with the others.

“This is a fine selection, Miss.” He steeples his hands before him. “And in very good condition. I’ll give you four hundred yen for the lot.”

Four hundred yen? That’s all?

“But . . . but . . . that sake flask is over two hundred years old!” she objects. “And this tea bowl has a name. See? Hikitoru. It alone should be worth more than four hundred yen!”

“Perhaps in happier times, it would be,” he says. “But there’s a war on, and I’m afraid four hundred yen is the best I can do.”

Her eyes sting with tears. How could she have risked so much for only four hundred yen? The goods in the boxes are worth a lot more than that, she knows they are. But if she doesn’t take this offer, she’ll be back on the street, and what are her chances of finding another buyer before the theft becomes public knowledge, and she can’t sell them at all? She bites her lip. She can’t refuse. But she can’t bring herself to say yes, either. What would her grandfather say? Don’t let your desperation show. Don’t be too eager.

“Can I . . . think about it?” she asks.

“Think about it?” The dealer’s face hardens.

She begins to stack the boxes on her cloth.

“Hey, what are you doing?” His voice grows less friendly. “What’s there to think about?”

She reknots the carrying cloth, her fumbling fingers betraying her growing conviction that this was a mistake.

“Four hundred yen is a lot of money,” he says, moving closer. “You’re lucky I’m being so generous, considering.”

She freezes.

“What do you mean?”

His mouth widens into a menacing grin. “Where did you say you got these, exactly?”

She feels her face grow hot.

“I thought so. You’re not really in a position to refuse, are you?” She rises, clutching her bundle.

“Thank you for your offer, but I’m afraid I have to go now.” His hand latches onto her carrying cloth. “Don’t be so hasty.”

She tries to pull it away, but his grip tightens.

“You can leave these things with me. For safekeeping.”

“No,” she cries, struggling to free the boxes. “Let me go.”

Then a rock smashes through the window, skittering across the wooden floor in a shower of broken glass. The dealer lets go and lunges toward the window with a curse.

That’s all the opening she needs. She scrambles for the door.

The dealer turns to stop her just as another missile demolishes what’s left of the glass and hits him on the back of the head. He falls.

She scurries through the showroom, out the front door, then hikes up the front of her kimono and runs. She doesn’t stop until a stitch in her side forces her to slow to a walk. Breathing hard, she slumps against a postbox and hangs her head.

When she recovers enough to look around, she doesn’t see a single familiar landmark. She’s drained from her ordeal, but the lengthening shadows and deepening chill remind her it will soon be dark. She’ll have an even harder time finding her way back to the refugee barracks if she doesn’t push on.

A shopkeeper points her at the glinting water of Shinobazu Pond at the end of the next cross street. If she follows the shoreline, it will lead her back to the refugee camp.