When the Cherry Blossoms Fell

  When the

  Cherry Blossoms

  Fell

  Jennifer

  Maruno

  Text © 2009 Jennifer Maruno

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, digital, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior consent of the publisher.

  Cover art and design by Vasiliki Lenis / Emma Dolan

  We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts for our publishing program.

  We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP) for our publishing activities.

  Napoleon Publishing

  an imprint of Napoleon & Company

  Toronto, Ontario, Canada

  www.napoleonandcompany.com

  13 12 11 5

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Maruno, Jennifer, date-

  When the cherry blossoms fell / Jennifer Maruno.

  ISBN 978-1-894917-83-4

  1. Japanese Canadians--Evacuation and relocation, 1942-1945--Juvenile fiction. I. Title.

  PS8626.A785W48 2009

  jC813'.6

  C2009-900682-0

  Dedicated to

  Eiko Kitagawa Maruno.

  Arigato.

  One

  March 1942

  When Michiko arrived home from school, her father’s square black case waited on the hardwood floor beside the front door. She sighed. It meant he was leaving. She had hoped he wouldn’t go before her birthday. Next week she would be nine.

  Itsamu Minagawa, “Sam” to all his friends, was a travelling salesman. His leather sample case carried a selection of fine chocolates and candy. The Imperial Confectionary Company of Canada was sending him on the road again.

  The late afternoon sun streamed through the diamond-shaped panels of red glass in the front door. It gave the two cranes on the silk panel hanging above the hall table a rosy glow. Michiko placed her school books on the table, next to a black enamel vase. It looked like it held bare branches, but she knew they would soon be bursting with colour. Her mother was always coaxing something into bloom, even while the landscape slept.

  Michiko entered the living room and flopped into a wide-winged armchair. Her small brother Hiro sat on the carpet next to the piano, banging a wooden spoon against a metal rice pot. Her mother was playing, while her father, in the matching chair, clapped in time to the music.

  Michiko gnawed at the tip of her long, dark pigtail. “How long will you be gone?” she asked her father.

  “Only a week,” he replied. “The children of the world are running out of candy.”

  Michiko didn’t return his smile. She needed to talk to him about something that had happened at school that day.

  She glanced around the front room of the brick bungalow she had lived in since she was born. On the mantle was a collection of photographs. She knew her mother and father had lived in a different part of Vancouver before she was born. Michiko wondered if that was what the girl at school had meant when she’d told Michiko her family should go back to where they came from. Did the girl think her family should move back to the old neighbourhood, where Aunt Sadie and her grandfather still lived?

  Michiko thought about the delicious smells that wafted out of the restaurants in that part of town. She loved to peer into the shop windows at the rows of women pedalling sewing machines, or watch the printing press stamping out wide sheets of paper. The only thing she didn’t like were the tubs of fresh fish, knowing they were about to become someone’s dinner. She always wanted to tip the barrels and set them free.

  Finally, her father Sam hitched up the leg of his pants and kneeled before Hiro. He stroked Hiro’s little round face, mussed his hair and planted a kiss on top of his head. “Goodbye, my little Peach Boy,” Sam murmured. Then he looked up at Michiko and winked.

  Last night, her father had told her the tale of a boy born from a peach. He tried to convince her that Hiro had come from a giant peach they’d found at the market in Japantown. Her father was always teasing.

  Eiko, her mother, removed the sheets of music from the piano ledge and placed them inside the bench. She wasn’t wearing the same clothes she’d had on at breakfast. She had changed from her cornflower print dress and apron into a pink wool skirt and matching sweater. Around her neck lay a single strand of perfectly matched pearls.

  Michiko knew there was no time left to talk with her father. She also knew her mother wouldn’t explain properly. All she ever said, whether Michiko asked about the blackouts, or the broken windows down the street, was “These are terrible times.”

  Eiko removed Sam’s heavy wool coat from the closet and held it open for him. He was proud of this coat, hand-tailored and made to measure. The first time he’d worn it, he told Michiko there was a nose hidden inside, and she shook her head in disbelief. His heavy lidded round eyes sparkled when he showed her the label. Stitched in yellow, across the grey silk rectangle, were the words Matsumia and Nose, Quality Clothes. He’d pulled her inside and wrapped it around her as they’d laughed at his joke.

  Now Sam slipped in his arms and buttoned it up. He removed his dark felt fedora from its peg and placed it firmly on his head. Then he picked up his case. “Goodbye, Eiko,” Sam said. He kissed her on the cheek. Then he kissed Hiro and Michiko. His breath smelled of mint candy. “Take care of yourselves,” he whispered.

  Michiko followed him out on to the verandah. The scents and colours of their front garden were hidden, the lawn and hedge dusted with snow.

  Her mother stood in the front bay window to watch and wave. The sleek black Ford with its long square snout pulled down the driveway. Its whitewalled tires reminded Michiko of her father’s mints. She watched until the car was out of sight.

  “Will he be back for my birthday?” Michiko asked when she came inside.

  Her mother nodded. “He’s never missed it yet.”

  It rained most of the time her father was away. The snow disappeared.

  Michiko spent a lot of time after school drawing at the kitchen table. She used to attend Japanese school before dinner, but it had closed. Michiko didn’t mind missing the Japanese history lessons, but she did miss the writing lessons. She enjoyed holding the big heavy brush, learning how to make the large strokes of the kanji on sheets of newspaper.

  Crayons of every colour littered the kitchen table. Michiko practiced drawing umbrellas. Each day, her teacher selected a student to record the weather, and most of the children drew raindrops. One boy just scratched his crayon across the paper and said it was a puddle. Michiko wanted to draw something special. As she drew a Japanese umbrella, Michiko thought about the place where her father and grandfather were born. One day I will visit Japan, she decided.

  The doorbell rang. Michiko dropped her crayon and ran down the hall.

  Her aunt backed inside, closing her bright red umbrella behind her. Her high-heeled shoes left small puddles on the hardwood floor. Parking her umbrella in the enamelled stand, Aunt Sadie placed a large paisley satchel on the floor.

  Michiko hoped Aunt Sadie would be staying over. When she was around, everything became fun and glamourous.

  Sadie put down her satchel and removed her raincoat. Over her grey, pencil-thin skirt, she wore a long-sleeved white blouse with frills down the front. A red velvet bow peeped out from her collar, above the long row of pearl buttons. Her lips and nails were the same colour as the bow.

  Sadie turned to the mirror and admired her hat. “Pretty, isn’t it?” she said. She lifted the thin dotted veil away from her eyes and pus
hed the box of black feathers with red tips upward and off. “I bought it in San Francisco,” she announced, handing it to her niece. “Mr. Maikawa got me a deal. I only paid $2.98.”

  Michiko thought her aunt was the luckiest woman in the world. Not only did she work in a dress shop, she got to travel with her boss and his family. She knew so much about the world.

  “Don’t tell me you paid three dollars for a hat,” Eiko exclaimed as she greeted Sadie with Hiro on her hip. He was newly awake from his nap, and one of his chubby cheeks still held the red imprint of a crib bar.

  “I wanted it,” Sadie responded with a shrug. “So I paid it.”

  Michiko cradled the hat as if it were about to fly away. She raised it a bit to look at the sides. A cake, she thought. It looks like a cake of feathers. She turned to her mother and said, “This cake isn’t just as light as a feather, it’s made of feathers.”

  Both women stared at her.

  “Your niece has quite the imagination,” her mother responded, “like someone I know.”

  Eiko lowered Hiro to the dining room carpet, and Michiko sat down beside him. Eiko entered the kitchen and returned with a small tray. She set it on top of the white embroidered tablecloth. On it were two black lacquered bowls filled with miso soup. There were small bowls of crisp yellow radish, small green puckered pickles and rice. Michiko had eaten her lunch in the kitchen with Hiro while her mother had made manju. It was the special treat she always made for Michiko’s birthday. Her mother formed soft white balls around a spoonful of sweet red bean paste then dusted them with powdered sugar.

  Michiko watched the two women slide into their chairs. They had similar oval faces, blue-black shiny hair and soft almond eyes. She knew, even though they looked alike, that they were very different.

  Her mother wore her dark hair in a perfectly pinned bun, never a hair out of place. Her aunt’s hair, cut in bangs, was level with her ears. Her hair always swung and flew about her face when she talked. And Sadie talked a lot. She flounced into a room, she laughed loudly and always said what she was thinking.

  Michiko’s mother said very little. She entered a room quietly and spoke softly. She never argued or offered an opinion. She usually made herself invisible.

  Eiko lifted the small iron teapot from its stand. She poured pale green tea into two small blue bowls and handed one to her sister.

  “When do you expect Sam back?” Sadie asked.

  “He will be home soon enough,” Eiko replied confidently.

  Michiko jumped up. “He has to be home tonight,” she insisted. “Tomorrow is my birthday.”

  “That’s right,” Sadie said with a smile, “nine years old tomorrow.” She glanced at the small stack of gifts on top of the piano. “I hope we don’t have to wait until your father gets home before we open your presents.”

  “He’s just a little late,” Michiko’s mother announced. “It’s so rainy. The roads can be bad.”

  “That’s not all that’s bad out there,” Sadie declared. She put her teacup down and leaned across the table. “Did you know . . .?”

  Eiko flashed her a warning look. “Not now, Sadie,” she said. She nodded in the direction of the children. Then she smiled at Michiko. “He will be here in time.”

  Michiko entertained Hiro with the toy monkey her father had brought her from his last trip. After she wound the key in its metal back, the monkey hopped about on his front feet and curly tail. He banged his two cymbals together. Each time they clashed, the small bell on his tiny red hat shook and tinkled. Hiro’s eyes lit up, and he clapped his hands.

  Sadie flipped through a magazine as the clock on the wall ticked. No one spoke until the shrill ring of the phone broke the silence.

  Michiko watched as her mother held the receiver to her ear. She spoke only once. Her face paled as she listened. Then she lowered the receiver, almost missing the two large claws that held it in place. Michiko watched her sink onto the chesterfield beside her sister.

  Something was wrong. Instinctively, Michiko pulled Hiro onto her lap.

  Sadie looked up from her magazine. “What’s going on?” Seeing her sister’s face, she threw the magazine on the floor.

  Eiko’s eyes brimmed with tears. She wrapped her arms around her waist and rocked back and forth.

  “What’s happened?” Sadie asked as she put her arms around her sister. “What’s wrong?” Her eyes pleaded for an answer.

  Finally Eiko mumbled a few words. Sadie had to lean in close to hear.

  “What?” Sadie exclaimed shrilly and sat bolt upright. “Sam is in jail?”

  Two

  Blackout

  Sadie cancelled Michiko’s birthday party. Strangers filled their home instead of her school friends, and all they talked about was the arrest. Eiko served everyone tea, and they ate all the manju that was supposed to be for the party. Michiko watched and listened. Her Japanese wasn’t good enough to understand everything that was said. Every now and then, her mother put down the teapot and stared off into space.

  At the end of the day, the small stack of presents on top of the piano remained unopened.

  That night, Eiko sat on Michiko’s bed studying her fingers. Michiko pushed her storybook across the bedspread and nudged her mother with it. Eiko picked up the book and put it on her lap. The pages fell open.

  “Don’t read that one,” Michiko whispered. “I’m saving that one for Father.” She flipped the pages forward. “Read this one instead.”

  Her mother stood up, paying no attention. The book fell from her lap to the floor. Instead of picking it up, she went to the window and adjusted the drapes.

  “It’s too late for me to leave,” Sadie announced, strolling into the bedroom. She plunked herself on the end of the bed.

  “I think,” Eiko told her sister, “you should stay here from now on.”

  Michiko was glad her mother had asked Sadie to stay. With her father away, their house seemed big and empty.

  Sadie looked at her sister. “It would be better than bunking down with the livestock at Hastings Park.”

  Michiko giggled. Why would her aunt think about sleeping at the Exhibition? It didn’t even open until the summer. She could almost feel the hot July sun and remembered wading into the noise and smells of the Exhibition. She couldn’t wait to hear the mechanical music of the rollercoaster and smell the bright pink cotton candy.

  Last summer, they’d taken Hiro to the fairgrounds. He’d loved the sheep, even though the sawdust had made him sneeze. He brought home a yellow balloon. At the fishpond, Michiko won a red celluloid bird on a stick that flapped its wings in the breeze. She thought about how much fun it would be to live at the fairgrounds.

  Michiko clapped her hands. “I’d sleep in one of the Giant Dipper’s carts.” She turned to her mother and smiled at their joke. “The roller coaster seats are padded.”

  Aunt Sadie nodded. “Good idea, but the midway section is locked.” Then she added, in a quiet voice, “In case someone gets the same idea.”

  “Do you have any food to bring?” Eiko asked.

  “No,” Sadie responded.

  Eiko shook her head and said, “With shops closing down, it’s getting harder to find the things we like.”

  “I’ve got lots of cash. I sold everything.”

  “Everything?” Eiko asked.

  “Everything,” Sadie said. “Even my red feathered hat. In fact, I sold that for exactly what I paid.” She patted her hair, as if the hat were still on her head. “Just think, I wore it all that time for free!”

  Suddenly, Michiko pictured her Aunt Sadie sitting on a stage, wearing her red feathered hat, surrounded by flowers and blue ribbons. “You’ll never win a prize at the Exhibition now,” Michiko murmured, shaking her head.

  Both women stared at her, but this time they did not laugh. They did not even smile.

  “Maybe I should let some things go,” Eiko suggested.

  “Good idea,” Sadie agreed. “These days, you never know what’s going to
happen next.” She took her sister’s hand. “I’ll help you make a list.”

  Michiko retrieved her book from the floor and placed it back on the shelf. The noise of a key in the door in the front hall made them all freeze and look at each other in silence. Michiko pushed her way between them and ran down the hallway.

  Three men crowded into their front hall. Only two of them faced her, but Michiko knew the coat, the hat, and the back of the neck of the third. She especially knew that straight black hair.

  “Daddy,” she screamed.

  He turned quickly and gathered her into his arms. The shoulder of his coat was damp. It smelled like the coarse wool of the lamb at the fair. Did her father sleep with the animals? Was it true what her aunt had said about Hastings Park?

  “Hello, my little princess,” he murmured into her neck.

  Her mother, carrying Hiro, came to his side.

  Sam put Michiko down. He cocked his head to one side and looked at his little son. He smiled and cocked his head the other way. Hiro’s face broke into a big grin, and he put out his arms. His father took him into his and hugged him. He gave Eiko a kiss on the lips.

  Michiko looked at her aunt in surprise. She had never seen her father do that before. He only ever kissed her mother on the cheek.

  The men patted her father on the back and left, closing the door behind them, but, just as the family settled themselves in the living room, there was a second knock on the door. Sadie yanked it open. A man with clear blue eyes above a brown walrus mustache stood on the stoop. His black hat glistened with small drops of rain.

  “Sam left this in the car,” he said, holding out a small square cardboard box. Sadie put out her hands to take it. She grimaced. The bottom of the box was damp. The man tipped his hat and closed the door.

  Seeing the box, Sam laughed. “It’s Michiko’s birthday present.” He put his hand out and tugged one of her braids. “You didn’t think I would forget your birthday?”

  The rough brown string that held it together had several knots in it. He broke the string and lifted out a small round bowl of shiny turquoise gravel. A fat golden fish with two bulging eyeballs fluttered its long translucent fins.