I go out the door. Hatsu isn’t there. I look and look. I’m sure of it.
I turn in a circle. No Aiko anywhere. My stomach does flips.
A girl from my class walks by. She sticks out her tongue and puts her finger under her eye and pulls down, so her eye is distorted. She says something fast and pokes her fingers toward my face, and I know that whatever she’s saying is nasty and is about the shape of my eyes.
Everyone pours outside and away from the school. Until I’m alone. Hatsu isn’t coming. Aiko is gone. I quickly walk two blocks, and I’m at the big road with the sidewalks. I turn left and keep walking. I can do this. Except that nothing looks familiar. Maybe I can’t do this. I taste salt, and I realize I’m crying.
A shout comes from behind me. I turn around. It’s Aiko. I gasp with relief. She chatters at me and makes all kinds of crazy motions, and I know she’s trying to explain something to me. Oh! She’s mimicking sweeping and cleaning. She’s telling me she had to stay late to do extra cleaning; she’s apologizing. As I nod, it dawns on me that Hatsu must have asked Aiko to take care of me all day long, including walking me home. I slip off my book bag and take out the cloth—the furoshiki—and wipe my nose and try to smile.
We walk, and Aiko points at things and says the Japanese word for them. I repeat. It’s not really that hard. I just have to memorize. There are so many words to learn, and I’m so glad to be learning them…and from Aiko.
When we get to the embassy, I turn to hug Aiko in gratitude. But she backs up fast, then runs off. I go in through the side door.
“You’re alive!” It’s the ambassador’s wife. She’s standing in the hall in a green dress, fingering the pearls around her neck. I can’t believe how wonderful it is to hear Italian. “How did you ever manage?”
I don’t know how to answer this woman, dressed fancy, talking so loud. I just smile. I’ve seen her only once before, on Friday night, the day we arrived. She came home from a dinner party with the ambassador, and her long hair was swept up with a tiara on top. Like a princess’s.
“I told your father. When I learned that he’d sent you off to some horrible public school this morning, I told him. You should go to the Sacred Heart School, a good Catholic school. That’s where foreign children go. The school is full of diplomats’ children.”
Papà appears in the hall. “Simona.” He comes up and hugs me tight.
“Just look at her,” says the ambassador’s wife. “She must have had an awful day. You have to change her school immediately.”
“I appreciate your interest in my daughters, Ambasciatrice,” Papà says, using her title as ambassador’s wife. “But the public school is free.”
“She can’t speak the language. She’ll fail her grade. At the Sacred Heart School they teach the children Japanese.”
“Indeed, that’s quite right. But Sacred Heart is over in the Hiroo district. Mita Elementary, instead, is close. Simona can walk to it. And the school year starts here in April—not like in Italy. So she’s entering in the middle of the third grade. She already finished third grade in Italy. That means she’ll have time to learn the language before she has to move on to new schoolwork.”
“What they teach in each grade here could be different from in Italy. Who knows? Besides, you can’t learn a language that fast.”
“Thank you for your concern, Ambasciatrice. But Simona’s smart. She’ll work hard and do fine.” He looks at me. “Right?”
I do my best to nod.
“Now go find Carolina,” says Papà. “Play. You can tell me all about your day tonight.”
8 DECEMBER 1940, TOKYO, JAPAN
“You gobbled up the last piece of birthday treat after church, didn’t you?” I say.
Carolina clutches her rag doll, Lella, to her chest and looks up at the sky, then along the wall around this yard, and finally at me. “I love lemons.”
That wasn’t exactly lemons, but it’s as close to lemons as Tokyo has. It’s my job to race through the markets to find substitute ingredients so Papà can make the ambassador Italian dishes. We’ve been here three months already, so I know the markets. “Pears would have been better, but there are none left.”
“Lemon is perfect. I want crust with lemon every birthday from now on. So does Lella.”
Papà made that treat last night for Carolina’s sixth birthday. We ate it in the kitchen, after everyone else had gone home or to bed. It was a disappointment in comparison to birthday cakes back home, but it was still good. Papà mixed the fruit into a custard, and the smell as it baked was heavenly. Maybe I’ll ask Papà to make that for my birthday, too.
“Konnichiwa!” Botan comes racing out the side door of the embassy, shouting the greeting that I know so well, and bows to Carolina and me. Carolina and I bow back
I’m surprised Botan is here. Today is Sunday, and Botan’s mother, Hatsu, doesn’t come on Sundays.
Botan chatters away, and Carolina nods happily. Carolina is learning Japanese as well as Japanese ways from Botan, so she’ll be prepared for first grade.
Already Carolina knows a lot more Japanese than I do. Hardly anyone at school ever talks to me. I can speak some now, but slowly, and I have to search for words. Still, I’m starting to understand things, and I talk to Botan at home. I understand what Carolina and Botan are talking about now. Botan just learned a new game, Daruma Otoshi. She brought it in a bag, and she’s explaining it to Carolina, who keeps asking more and more questions. I know that game from school recess. It’s nearly impossible to explain it without showing it.
“Please,” I say to Botan. “Please show.”
Botan dumps the bag out onto the ground. There are four round stacking pieces, which she arranges into a tower. On top goes the fifth piece, a Buddha head. Botan picks up the only thing left, a little wooden hammer, and knocks out one of the round pieces. The whole stack falls. She makes a face and stacks them again and swings the hammer. All the pieces fall, and Botan makes an uglier face. The point is to knock out the bottom blocks, one at a time, without making the Buddha head fall.
Hitomi, Papà’s best kitchen helper, comes out the side door. She makes a quick bow of the head. A boy stands half hidden behind her, staring.
“Party,” Hitomi says to me loudly in Japanese. “Your sister. Carolina. Party. With friend.” She clasps her hands below her stomach. “Naoki. See? He come. You have friend, too. Party.”
Ah. Papà asked Hatsu and Hitomi to make this feel like a party for us.