and her arm around me
becomes tighter and tighter,
“Is it going to be okay?” Asa whispers.
What is going to happen to us?
STORIES PEOPLE CARRY
More and more people arrive carrying tales of what happened
during their escape: a settlement west of us took
their own lives like we were supposed to,
Never surrender to the enemy. Die honorably.
A girl survived, and she still wraps a thick bandage
around her neck because her mother loved her too much
and didn’t stab her deeply enough, and another settler group
found her amid dead bodies, still alive, but barely.
Another settlement made it as far as the river where we crossed,
but they had to leave the sick and the old and the young behind
so they could pass the river without hindrance. They say
that it was the Japanese Imperial Army that blew up the bridge
so that the Soviets couldn’t follow south. Settlers like us
were caught between the river and the Soviets, and we were told
we were lucky because the river wasn’t as flooded as it had been the days before.
Another settlement was run over by Soviet tanks.
And one person saw the families of officers and the Manchurian Railway
leaving on planes with their furniture and bags three weeks
before the Surrender. They must have known that this was a lost war,
laughing and waving their hands as we settlers had to crawl through mud
and fear, hiding during the day and walking in the darkness
just to get help from the army that had already left.
We are so many here, with tales, with stories,
and mine isn’t the worst.
UNINVITED GUESTS
The Soviets come inside
without knocking,
breaking down the barriers
and locked doors.
We turned in our guns
and swords, our scissors
and razors.
Tochan’s gun
went with them.
Then they returned
demanding watches
and rings and if anyone
refused, the soldiers struck
them with the butts of
their rifles. Then they told
all the men to raise their arms
and get into the truck.
Principal Ohara was one of them.
He told us not to worry.
He told us he’d be back soon.
He walked out of the sixth-grade room,
as if he were still a principal
leading students out to the yard,
his hands in the air, and he got
on the back of the truck with the other men,
and we watched him from
the window until the truck
went through the school gate,
until it turned and disappeared
into the city. We waited for them
for hours to come back, but they never did.
And in the early morning, we heard gunshots.
I whisper to trembling
Asa, “Shhhh, it’s okay, it’s like
firecrackers.” We hear the noises
of trucks and jeeps and gunshots
and gunshots and gunshots.
“Shhh, it’s okay, it’s only firecrackers,”
I tell Asa trembling in my arms,
and my heart keeps pounding,
it’s going to explode soon.
EMPTY PROMISE
There is no Emperor
who can save us.
There is no Japanese
Imperial Army
who can protect us.
There is no one
who can reach over
and pull us out
of this room.
It is up to me
to protect
Auntie and Asa.
It is up to me
to take Asa back
to Japan
because there is no home
anymore for us here.
Because I promised Tochan.
And Tochan promised
that he will come find us
no matter where we are,
he will find us.
But until then—until then
I have to be strong.
INSIDE OUT
The schoolhouse stands
like a skeleton without glass
in the window frames.
They have all been shattered
or taken away by the Chinese
or whomever had looted
the place by the time we arrived.
We try to cover the openings
with discarded newspapers
but the morning steals
into the room, newspapers become sodden
and fall from the windowpanes,
and the schoolhouse trembles
in the cold. Asa stands
in her summer shirt trembling
like a shorn sheep
and I put my arms around her,
wishing I were a blanket
or as big as Tochan.
We shiver together inside.
Inside and out.
MEAN HEARTS
It’s as if everyone’s heart has frozen with the cold air.
We fight over who cut through the meal line.
Someone yells about someone else’s bigger
portion and a fight breaks out.
(I just want to put my hands against my ears.)
Auntie finds a bundle of papers and tells Asa
and me to wrap them around our feet,
wrap them around our legs, our bellies
to keep them warm, says this is what she did
growing up poor back in Japan. I pull off
Asa’s shoes and the leather
crumbles apart like mud, her feet blistered
and toenails crusted with dried blood.
She whimpers. I tell her she was brave
for not crying, but she is crying now.
Someone tells her to shut up.
I tell them to shut up, and they tell me
to shut up, and I tell them to shut up.
(I just want to put my hands against my ears.)
A sick old lady in the corner of the room coughs
all night, and people yell at her that they need to sleep.
She tries to stop by burying her face into her thin shirt,
trying to mute her coughs as much as she can.
I want her to shut up, too. I am getting meaner
and colder as if the autumn air brought meanness
with it and I don’t like it. I don’t like myself.
The room could break into pieces it’s so cold.
(I just want to put my hands against my ears.)
OUR NEW HOME
“Don’t trust anyone here,”
Auntie says, taking our backpacks
every time we go use the bathroom outside.
On the first day, someone stole my coat.
Then a couple of days ago, they stole
Asa’s broken shoes.
Yesterday, someone stole our space
and when Auntie told the new family
to move, they said no, no matter how much
Auntie and I yelled at them,
until finally Asa said, “Let them stay, please don’t fight.”
We moved into the janitor’s closet.
It is like a henhouse, small and smelly
and dark, but I feel safe. Auntie says that here,
we’ll be safe, and we’ll be a lot warmer
than in the classroom. With the door closed
we live in darkness but this darkness is warmer
than the cold and other people, colder still.
ONLY A MONTH AGO
We could go t
o
the well pump
and get the clearest
coldest water
anytime we wanted.
Only a month ago,
we could eat fresh
vegetables. We could eat
bowl after bowl of rice
and the juiciest watermelon
just harvested
from our farm.
Now, a month later,
we are only allowed
two small cups of cold gruel
so raw it hurts to swallow.
It tastes so bad
my tongue curls.
HOPE
People say that the men who were drafted
were run down and completely destroyed
by the Soviets. People say that the men
who were drafted all surrendered
to the Soviets when they came,
but they were released immediately,
and are coming down south as we speak.
People say that the men who were drafted
didn’t fight the Soviets, and are marching
south to fight the Soviets and release us.
People say that Japan didn’t surrender,
that the Americans lost the war and we can
go home any day, any day now.
I know Tochan will come find us. I know.
I know he is coming to get us.
WHO I AM
My name is Natsu Kimura.
My sister is Asa Kimura.
My birthday is July 27.
We are from the X settlement.
My father’s name is Takashi Kimura.
I don’t know where my father is,
he is serving in the Imperial Army.
Here is my family registry.
This is my aunt.
No, she is not my real aunt,
she is a neighborhood woman.
No, please don’t separate us,
she’s family, yes, she’s family,
no, please, please, I was lying,
she is my aunt, my father’s aunt.
Please, don’t separate us,
she’s tired from the long trek here,
that’s why she’s coughing.
Her name is Ume Mitsui …
She’s the only family we have.
She really is my aunt.
WARNINGS
We are told:
Keep your hair short
and dress like a man.
We are told:
No woman should walk
by herself in the city.
We are told:
If the Soviets attack
you don’t resist. Let them.
We are told:
There will be only two cups of gruel per day.
If you want more, you are on your own.
We are told:
Don’t agitate the Chinese,
don’t make them angry.
We are told:
You need to go find jobs
if you want to survive, you are on your own.
We are told:
Japan has lost the war.
There is no more Japan.
HOT SWEET-BEAN BUNS
The cold bites into my skin.
I have been walking around
asking for a job, any job.
I tell them that I am healthy
and that I’ll do anything,
but they all shoo me away
like I am a stray dog.
I can’t walk anymore. I am so tired.
I know how to ride Horse.
I know when the seasons change
by the smell in the air.
I know which watermelon
is ripe and what good soil is.
I know how to milk goats
without getting kicked.
I don’t know how to make money in a city.
My stomach grumbles.
I sit on the freezing street
where the Soviet soldiers
walk around with three,
four watches each on their arms,
their faces already red
from drinking too much.
A mother wearing a fur coat
holds her daughter’s hand,
the girl’s velvet coat as shiny
as Horse’s back.
The girl looks at me. Our eyes meet.
Then she looks away. I sit still
and look at the pavement.
“Little girl, go home,” someone whispers,
and throws a penny in front of me.
I look up, the mother with the girl
stands in front of me,
“Are you Japanese?” she asks.
I nod, painfully, my face burning
in shame. What would Tochan say
if he could see me now?
Tochan always said
that I can’t rely on others.
Someone else throws a coin,
then another, and in half an hour,
I have seven coins,
enough to buy some hot buns.
My face feels hot like that time I had
pneumonia and I dreamed
of flying over a desert. I push
that thought aside. I am the only one
who can come out and earn money.
This is a job, I tell myself. This is a job
like working in a field.
Like feeding the hens.
Like plowing the earth.
I am doing this for Asa and Auntie.
Just as Tochan came home
carrying a rifle and holding
dead rabbits by their ears,
I can go home now
with a bag of hot sweet-bean buns
that will burn the tops of our mouths.
HUNGER
All I can think about is food
as I sit on the street.
Piping hot gruel made out
of real white rice.
Pickled plums Auntie used
to bring over every autumn
after they’d been sitting
in the dark jar underground
for one year.
A fried rice ball
covered in soybean flour
with red sauce and sesame seeds.
Steamed minced pork bun
so hot to touch, too hot to bite into,
but worth feeling burned
stacked up on a tray.
The delicious smell feeds
my imagination, but my stomach
is not fooled by imagined bites.
ANOTHER SUCCESS
I go home with a swagger
like I used to,
when I went home
after winning the first prize
ribbons in a run meet.
I go home with a swagger,
and I enter the hallway
where Auntie and Asa are
mending our clothes by our door.
I pull out the bag of hot buns,
a week running now.
Asa claps her hands.
Auntie looks pleased
as she massages her swollen legs
that pain her every step she takes
even after weeks of resting.
I am proud. I can do this.
I know I can.
BEAUTIFUL ASA
People come and go
from the school,
like the birds making
their way north in spring
and their way south in autumn.
Asa comes back to our closet
with a thumb in her mouth,
“Mai-chan is gone.”
“Mai-chan?” I ask,
and Auntie says
that she was Asa’s friend
who lived in the Third Year’s Room.
People come and go,
and Asa keeps making friends:
Mai-chan one week, Satoko-chan
two weeks ago, Tomo-kun yesterday,
and they keep disappearing
as if they are birds who are
on their way somewhere else
but not here to stay.
HOW EASY IT IS TO BEG
The best place to beg
is in front of the Soviet Army
barrack where they may
not like the Japanese,
but they feel sorry
for a kid like me.
I call out, “Dawai, dawai,”
and soldiers, tall with the eyes
of ice and big red noses,
look sadly at me
and give me what they can.
Sometimes Asa comes and
she begs with me,
sometimes I go alone
and I bring back coins.
Auntie stays in the closet
like a mole, or hibernating rabbit,
her legs still hurting.
I bring back half a loaf
of black bread
that one soldier gave me,
and I split it three ways:
Auntie, Asa, and me.
The black bread, sour and hard,
softens in my mouth,
and goes down in small bites,
filling me up slowly.
WINTER IS HERE
Snowflakes twirl
into the hallway,
into our closet room
through the opening
of the door, swirling
around the portrait
of the Emperor who used
to sit in the locked altar room
of my school back home,
his round glasses perched
uncomfortably on his nose.
He sits next to us,
facedown as we sit
in our little closet home,
but even now, nothing touches
him, not even the bone-breaking cold.
FORGETTING
More and more, I can’t remember
my house by the northern border of the prairie.
I see the chickens. I see the well. I see
the bathtub. I see Horse standing by the stall
waiting for me to feed her in the morning.
I see our door and our windows.
I see the wooden table Tochan had made
when he and Kachan first moved to Manchuria.
I see the altar. But I can’t remember the smell.
I can’t remember Asa as she was back in August,
before all this; all I see is her sunken cheeks,
her bony legs like a newborn calf’s, wobbly and thin.
I can’t remember Auntie scolding me
because nowadays, she sits in the closet,
she can’t walk too fast or too long