The peaceful spring day
With the sun beaming far away,
Why must blossoms fly
With calmless heart . . .
—Kino Motonori
During the week of New Year’s festivities we visited many friends and relatives, always traveling in the riksha. When we traveled down the slopes at great speed, I held my breath and shut my eyes. On the seventh day the pine decoration was taken away from the gate. I leaned against the gatepost and watched the gardener remove bamboo and pine. Many days would pass before the next New Year.
IN THE SUMMER of 1914, Father decided that we should remain in Tokyo instead of going to the beach where we had gone for many years. We were in mourning for the Empress Dowager who had died a few months before; I was still wearing on my kimono a little black bow such as I had worn all through the year following the Emperor’s passing. But as the weather grew more sultry and unbearable, Father saw no good reason for our remaining in town, and he sent my second mother and us children to the beach.
The trip was always a joyous and happy one. Katase beach was not far from Tokyo, only two hours by train. Yet it seemed to us a long journey. Elder Sister and I spent much time selecting the books, toys and hair ribbons to carry with us. Jinrikishas took us and our baggage to the station. On the train we sat near the window so as to look out over the fields as we passed. Through the open window the summer breeze came softly, with lovely scent of fresh grass. The trees in the fields, the electric poles, and the adjoining hills seemed to run faster than the train. Green waves of wheat in a sea of yellow calza flowers made a picture like pretty patterned kimonos put out to air. In the distance the fields and hills moved slowly. Farmers in the fields straightened their bent backs and looked at the passing train.
We stayed at the same inn every year and occupied the same quarters. From our room we could see Katase River flowing into the sea. Beyond the river soft hills spread out to the horizon. When the sky was clear, snow-peaked Mount Fuji appeared beyond the sand hills. If at sunset Mount Fuji turned deep purple against the red sky, I would say to Elder Sister, “Tomorrow will be a nice day.”
Before breakfast we walked on the beach, collecting shells and seaweed. We washed the seaweed, dried it, and made bookmarks of it. Often on our early morning walks the shell trumpets of fishermen signaled their homecoming from the sea. Then Nobu would say, “Let’s watch the fish nets come in.”
As we watched, the small gray spot on the horizon grew slowly into ships approaching the shore. The morning mists dispersed, and the bright sun sparkled over the water. The sound of the shell trumpets brought wives and children of the fishermen running to the shore. The women wore short white garments which exposed their legs and thighs. They were barefooted, as were the dark-faced children, and they left a design of footprints behind them in the washed sand.
Low bass voices greeted the women and children as the boats drew near. One by one the fishermen stepped into the water, where the women were waiting to welcome them. Men and women lined up together to haul in the heavy nets. The copper-brown skin of the fishermen was emphasized by the strips of white or red cloth covering their loins. Men, women and children chanted the song of the fisherman, “Eiyara ye-e-e Yotto Ko-Sho-o-o,” the rhythm of the chant meeting the rise and fall of the waves. When the heavily burdened net was pulled onto the sand and the silver and blue-scaled fish jumped vigorously inside it, they all shouted with joy. Each of the children received a few fish for his part in the task, and ran off noisily, holding the fish by the tails.
These children were all familiar to us, but we never exchanged greetings with them. When we met them face to face, we never smiled, but only returned their expressionless stares. We would meet them again in the hot afternoons when everyone went swimming. The boys swam naked and like fish behind the rocks. The girls in their cotton garments swam with us. Their garments clung to them when they emerged from the water, and we thought that they looked longingly at our pretty bathing suits. Two or three years later we were surprised to see these same fishermen’s daughters working in souvenir shops in the business street and acting quite grown-up. Also in the back section of the town I saw some of them, my own age, sweeping and washing stairways and doing other menial work around hotels and inns. I could not understand why they had gone from childhood to womanhood without, like us, passing through a period of girlhood.
After swimming we usually had cold drinks at the refreshment stand. We wished that Father would visit us, for then we would have special chikara-mochi cakes with syrup poured over them. We knew that this summer Father would be particularly happy because Younger Brother had learned to swim.
But Father visited us only once, late in August. We sat on the beach eating our cakes, and Father read his newspaper. His face looked tired as he read. Suddenly he put the paper down and told Mother in solemn words that an Imperial edict had just been issued involving Japan in war with the Allied countries.
We all were quiet.
Younger Brother Taro broke the silence with, “I shall be a general and win the war.”
Mother looked at him anxiously, then said in listless voice, “Our soldiers fight well.”
To me the news had no significance, but with the others I was silent. Then Younger Brother plunged into the water, and Father beamed as he exhibited his swimming skill.
In the twilight the water turned deep dark blue, and the sky glowed red, purple and orange. After supper Elder Sister and I strolled on the beach, dressed in gay flowered kimonos with long wide sleeves that danced like butterflies in the wind. We looked at the sea, spreading endlessly before us. Nobu said, “Far away, beyond that horizon is America.”
We watched the sea and horizon melt together in dark purple. Out in the distance we saw the faint glimmer of the lighthouse. Beyond this gathering darkness I tried to picture that strange and exotic country, America, filled with blond children eating ice-cream and chocolates. Elder Sister had the same thought. As our faces met in the darkness she said, “I wish we could go to America some day.”
Bright stars began to appear in the buoyancy of space. I imagined that I had wings and could fly skyward. What would I find in that fairyland of the sky? The music of the waves washed the shore in appealing song. The soft breeze touched my cheeks, and dreamily I remembered the fairy story of Urashima Taro, which Nobu had read to me when I was very small.
Long, long ago, the story told, there lived a fisherman named Urashima Taro. . . . The story was so familiar to me that I could see Urashima come walking on the beach. . . . One day he saw some children playing with a turtle. Being a kind-hearted man and thinking the poor turtle might be tortured, he bought it from the children and set it free in the sea. The next day, drifting along in his boat, he heard his name called. There on the surface of the water he saw the very turtle which he had freed the previous day. The turtle thanked Urashima for his kindness and invited him to the palace of the sea. The turtle grew and grew till Urashima could sit on its back; and down to the bottom of the sea they dived and reached a palace of coral where beautiful princess Oto-hime, dressed in a golden gown, greeted them with a smile. She told Urashima that he was to be her prince and live with her in the land of eternal youth because he had saved her turtle-emissary. There in the palace of coral with many-jeweled walls, what he thought was three days passed like one moment to Urashima. Then he asked if he could return to his native village to see his parents. The princess said it could be arranged, and, giving him a lacquered box as a token of her love, she said, “This contains something very precious. You are never to open it.” When Urashima returned to his native village he found the same hills and the same shore, but all the people were strange. A strange man came to the door of his own home and asked, “Who are you?” When Urashima told him, the stranger said, “Yes,