“America will declare war on Japan?” I clutch his arm.
“And on Italy.”
“Italy!” I cry. “But Italy didn’t drop bombs on the American harbor.”
Carolina watches us.
“When America declares war on Japan, Italy will declare war on America,” Papà says. “Remember the Tripartite Pact, Simona? Germany, Italy, and Japan fight together. The enemy of one is the enemy of all three.” Papà’s hands smooth our hair tenderly. “Go to school.”
Carolina and I go out to the street. The group of girls we usually walk with is halfway down the block. We run to catch up. They’re talking about the attack.
“Our air force killed hundreds.”
“Thousands! Many thousands.”
“After we defeat America, everyone will have plenty to eat.”
“Japan will rule the world.”
As we walk, more girls join us and talk. Maybe everyone in every home in Japan is talking about the surprise attack.
Aiko whispers to me, “America is huge. It has more soldiers than Japan, and more planes, more ships.”
And Papà said America is unbeatable. How do Aiko and Papà know these things?
I walk closer to Aiko and pull Carolina with me. Aiko took a chance to whisper those words to me; it would have been awful if anyone else had heard. This is another secret between me and Aiko—the way we can talk about things the radio doesn’t say, the way we can share our own opinions. And she knows things I don’t know.
I look around at the group of girls. Does anyone else have opinions they can’t speak out loud? What do they know?
It’s Monday, and we start the school week with morning assembly. The principal says that today is a stupendous day for Japan. We stand and shout the traditional cheer, “Banzai!” Marching tunes play nearly all day long, so it’s hard to even think. We stay late for extra songs and marching around the school grounds. On the way home, soldiers stand in the streets and hand out the evening editions of newspapers, with giant headlines: JAPAN DECLARES WAR ON U.S., BRITAIN AT DAWN and DEADLY AIR STRIKE ON HAWAII. Loudspeakers on public buildings blast out marching tunes. Men walk past us talking about how much money they are making today, how Japan’s stock market is soaring. Everything feels like a giant celebration.
When we get home, Papà doesn’t say anything about Pearl Harbor. But the radio in the kitchen is constantly on. Papà was right: the next day America declares war on Japan. Days later, Italy and Germany declare war on America. And America declares war on them. But no one in Tokyo talks of fear. Not out loud, at least. The radio spews praise for the imperial Japanese forces, for our victories, for our glorious future.
4 APRIL 1942, TOKYO, JAPAN
The interpreter stands outside the ambassador’s office door with a pile of newspapers in his arms. I peek. The headlines are about Daitōa Kyōeiken—the Co-Prosperity Sphere—how this war will liberate Asia from control by Great Britain and France, and Asia will prosper.
The interpreter gives me a small head bow. I bow back, much deeper, and hurry to the servants’ door.
The school year ended in late March, so Carolina and I are home on school break, and today we’re going shopping with Papà.
Papà pulls his apron off over his head. It’s all one piece, black, crisscrossing in the back, with big pockets on the sides—so different from the white jacket he used to wear in Italy. The three of us walk out the gate and along the street.
“What are we going to buy?”
“Dried salted roe,” says Papà.
“Pessa wants it,” says Carolina. “One. Two. Ha! Look, three, four.” She’s counting the rising-sun flags that hang from windows. The fourth of every month is flag day. People display flags to celebrate how well Japan is doing in this war.
I remember dried salted roe. Back home, Papà grated it over ripe tomatoes or asparagus or plain flat bread. It smells and tastes wonderful. “Do they even sell it here?”
“They do.”
“Thirteen,” says Carolina loudly. “Pessa wants it grated over pasta.” She goes back to counting on her fingers. Lately, when she’s anxious, she counts.
“Pasta?” I turn to Papà. “I thought the flour was gone.” The wheat harvest failed.
“I bought more.”
I almost ask how. But I stop. Tokyo is full of illegal black markets these days. Those are places where people sell food beyond what the government rations out. My teachers warn against them.
“Eighteen,” says Carolina.
A man in uniform passes with a stack of folded red papers in one arm—the call-up notices for military service. The notice is always hand-delivered. My heart flutters. I’m glad Naoki is only ten. The war will be over long before he’s sixteen.
We go to Papà’s favorite fish vendor. He isn’t there. We go to another. Closed.
“Pessa will be sad if we don’t get it,” says Carolina.
The way she says it makes me jealous. They have a bond. I remember the rice candy that Pessa gave Carolina, and the beautiful mantilla that Pessa wanted Carolina to wear to Mass.
Then I think of Denenchōfu Church. After the bombing of Pearl Harbor, the military police took all the foreign priests who weren’t German off to prison. Friar Inayou is still there. He’s Japanese. But Papà says there are no Masses anymore.
I miss that priest and that sweet little church.
Still, Sundays are special. Botan comes to play with Carolina, and Naoki comes to play with me. I can’t wait for tomorrow.
The third fish vendor is closed. Even the fishermen have gone to war. We get on a streetcar and go to the market at Tsukiji, the one Papà doesn’t like because it’s big and confusing. He speaks Japanese decently now, but not quick enough for that market. So we help him, and hurrah! We find dried salted roe. Carolina dances in a circle.
“Dancing?” says the fish vendor. “Are you on your way to the cherry blossom festival on the Meguro River? Will you gobble up candy?”
Carolina stops; her face begs Papà to take us there.
I want to go, too. But ten-year-olds don’t beg. Most girls in my class planned on going to the festival the day after the school year ended. Our teachers say the cherry blossom is important. Soldiers are like those blossoms, fated to have short lives. It is something to be proud of, to die for one’s country. The cherry blossom symbolizes the proud and loyal Japanese spirit.
We went last year with the ambassador and Pessa. I remember the pink and white overhead, so dense that it screened out the sunshine. I remember the constant buzz of bees, and the bitter and sweet smell of the blossoms everywhere, coating my teeth.