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  For Deborah,

  who believed in this more than I did

  —M.N.

  PART ONE

  SUMMER

  A MANCHURIAN BIRTHDAY

  Horse presses herself against me,

  and I press my hand against her neck,

  excitement running through us

  like the summer wind.

  “Remember not to go too far.

  Ride close to the Wall.

  I’ll keep my eye on you

  from the gate,” Tochan says

  and raises the rifle to his chest;

  Asa glares at me

  next to him, still angry that I get

  to ride Horse instead of her.

  We take off, fast and then gallop

  even faster, and soon enough,

  the Wall becomes a dot behind us.

  My braids bang against my back,

  as if they are urging me

  to go faster, faster, farther away.

  Way too soon, Horse slows

  down to a canter, and then stops altogether

  as if she remembers Tochan’s warning.

  “A bit more,” I urge her,

  “a little farther.”

  Just a bit more so I can go

  to where the sky meets the earth,

  where the sun explodes

  into brilliant colors before it hides

  to let the night take its place.

  Horse’s heart beats in the same rhythm

  as my heart, our hearts beat

  together. Her steps are my own steps.

  She is me and I am her.

  It’s my birthday. I am twelve.

  TOCHAN’S WARNING

  Horse keeps walking slowly

  but suddenly she stops

  and cranes her neck back,

  her eyes peering into mine.

  “Yes, I know,” I pat her neck.

  It’s as if she knows that we have

  gone far enough. Tochan says

  that outside the Wall,

  anything can happen:

  the sudden cold can make you

  lose feeling and make you fall

  asleep, never to wake up.

  He says that outside the Wall,

  there are Chinese, Russians,

  bad men all. One of the first

  things he did when Kachan

  —my mother—died,

  even before we were done missing her

  was to show me where he hides

  his gun. “Just in case,” he said as he pulled

  it out, along with a hand grenade,

  from under his pillow.

  This is how you load the gun.

  This is how you pull the trigger.

  This is how you pull the pin out

  of the grenade, but count one-two-

  three before you throw it.

  And he told me that before the Japanese

  moved into Manchuria, this land used to

  belong to the Chinese, and that they are still

  angry after all these years. That’s why

  there’s the Wall, two meters thick

  and high as the sky around the settlement.

  That’s why when we walk to school,

  I have to go with Asa

  and come back in a group.

  That’s why we have to carry rifles

  when we go to the neighboring settlement.

  That’s why the gate closes after the curfew.

  That’s why I can never ride Horse out

  to the plain without asking Tochan first.

  Horse neighs. The sky is still

  light—it’s summer and the sun won’t set

  until ten—but we need to go home.

  I turn Horse around, and she seems happy

  that we are returning, away

  from this dangerous big prairie

  where anything can happen.

  Wind blows, carrying with it

  a hint of the cold night to come,

  and with it an imaginary baying of a wolf.

  GOING TOO FAR

  The sky is still lit white,

  though half the sky is deep blue,

  deep purple-black—the color

  of the water when you grind

  the ink against the stone

  for calligraphy, the colors swirling

  then darkening with each grind—

  when Horse and I head back.

  I pass by a Manchu’s broken-

  down hut, and a pig snorts loudly,

  and the house spits out angry

  smoke. I click my tongue

  to let Horse know we need

  to move faster.

  She goes into a slow canter.

  And the Wall the size of a dot

  becomes bigger and bigger,

  and I see someone standing there.

  It’s Tochan waiting with a rifle,

  his anger crackling like firecrackers

  at New Year’s. I flinch

  as if he’s just slapped me,

  and Horse shudders hard

  as if she can feel my fear.

  TOCHAN’S ANGER

  From the way he is standing—

  his back straight and his legs apart—

  I can tell it’s the stance he gets

  when he is worried-angry,

  just like he was when Kachan’s

  water broke too early and she was howling

  from so much pain. Then Tochan stood

  with his legs apart, as well—

  this time by the doorway

  to our hut, angry-worried. Angry

  at the world, angry at the baby

  for being stubborn, and even more worried

  at Kachan, especially when she started to give up,

  breathing slower and slower,

  until Asa came sliding out slower still.

  Auntie told me to catch the baby,

  and I held wet, sticky Asa in my arms,

  while Kachan closed her eyes and stopped

  breathing and Asa wailed loud.

  Tochan stood by the doorway,

  not letting Kachan’s soul out of the house.

  He stood there, with his legs apart,

  trying to hold on to her, trying to make her

  stay, but she left and he got angry-sad.

  Then he got angry-worried about me

  and Asa, just like he’s worried-angry

  about me right now.

  BROKEN PROMISES

  “You promised,” Tochan starts,

  “you promised you wouldn’t go

  beyond the hill where I couldn’t see you.”

  Tochan raises his arm

  and I flinch and Horse flinches,

  but instead, he puts his hand

  under my elbow and gently

  pulls me down from Horse

  the way he touches Asa’s cheek,

>   the way he roughens my hair,

  the way he talks to chickens and Horse,

  gently, in a hushed tone,

  and I know he’s not worried-angry anymore.

  We pass by Auntie’s house, pass

  the communal well and the latrines,

  pass the bathhouse and our chicken coop,

  to our home where I see Asa’s face peering out

  from the lit window, her eyes laughing

  and her mouth moving, You’re in real trouble.

  I stick my tongue out; Asa laughs.

  Tochan doesn’t look at me.

  He doesn’t say a word.

  He keeps walking fast

  as if I am a ghost he doesn’t see.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper,

  and Tochan turns around.

  “I’m just relieved that

  you are safely home. I’m just happy,

  especially since this is your birthday, Natsu,”

  and everything is all right between us.

  THE BEST BIRTHDAY PRESENT

  Asa bursts out

  of the front door

  like a colt bolting out

  from the stable,

  “Are you in trouble?”

  she chants, “Are you in trouble?”

  Tochan grabs her

  and lifts her onto

  his shoulder,

  “It’s Natsu’s birthday,

  of course she’s not

  in trouble,” and he laughs.

  “Happy birthday, my little summer,”

  he says softly, just like

  Kachan used to call me,

  my little summer. Asa laughs

  from her high perch on Tochan’s

  shoulder, and pulls out a piece

  of paper from her pocket.

  There I am: on Horse

  dashing through the golden prairie.

  “Happy birthday, Natsu-chan,”

  Asa chants, “happy birthday,

  my big big sister!”

  LETTERS TO THE SOLDIERS

  Tochan sits on the mat woven

  from corn husk, cleaning the blade

  of the hoe for work in the fields tomorrow,

  and Asa sits next to him,

  drawing pictures on the months-old

  newspapers. I sit at the table

  and write letters to the soldiers

  fighting for Japan on the islands

  in the Pacific so I can put them

  in the comfort packages

  we’ll be packing at school.

  I lick the lead

  of the pencil,

  and I start

  in my best handwriting,

  Thank you for fighting for the Emperor,

  for Japan, and for all of us “behind the guns”

  at home. Don’t worry about us.

  We will fight to the last man and woman

  if the American devils come,

  so please kill as many Americans as possible

  and please die honorably like a soldier

  of the Japanese Imperial Army and Navy.

  Just like I was taught at school,

  our teachers telling us this is the only

  kind of letter fit for our fighting soldiers.

  I fold the letter in fourths, put one

  of Asa’s drawings inside, seal them

  into an envelope, and start on the next.

  All around our cottage,

  the darkness has yet to arrive,

  the sun lingering in the horizon

  like a lazy cow in July.

  But inside, the temperature drops

  and darkness is creeping one inch

  at a time along the wall.

  KACHAN’S GHOST

  Some nights like tonight when I can’t sleep,

  I count memories of Kachan like people count

  sheep. I remember her singing:

  she only sang one song about a girl who went

  to America wearing red shoes. I remember

  when she used to sit really close by the lamp

  to sew or mend, she would always lick the end

  of the thread, squinting her eyes, before she put it through

  the eye of the needle. It made Tochan laugh every time.

  Laughing is something that Tochan doesn’t do now.

  He must have buried his laughter inside

  Kachan’s coffin with her body. I remember Tochan yelling

  at me to keep the water boiling so he could melt

  the frozen ground. Only then could he bury Kachan.

  I remember Goat living in our hut

  that long winter so we could give milk to Asa.

  And when Goat died, we were all sad

  but thanked her for a good dinner that night.

  I remember before Asa came, Tochan,

  Kachan, and I slept in the shape of the Chinese

  character for river, three parallel lines, with me in the middle.

  And when Asa came, I slept where Kachan once slept,

  with Asa in the middle. Tochan calls my mom

  Kachan—mother—and that’s why I call her this.

  I also know that every morning,

  Tochan talks to Kachan at the altar,

  asking her to look after Asa and me.

  That makes me real sad, though I don’t tell

  Tochan I hear what he says. Sometimes, I know why

  Kachan died: because I didn’t love her enough.

  If I had loved her enough, she would’ve wanted

  to stay with us. And sometimes,

  I remember that feeling right after she died,

  the feeling of my heart breaking

  into pieces like an icicle

  shattering against the ground in early spring,

  and I never want to feel like that, ever again.

  That’s why I don’t like to remember Kachan that much—

  All I remember is sadness.

  ON THE WAY TO SCHOOL

  “Horse, see you later,”

  Asa yells, as we run

  out of the house

  past the well, and past

  Auntie’s hens,

  “Natsu and Asa,

  are you late again?”

  Auntie yells, making

  the hens flap their wings,

  as if they’re keeping time

  with her voice, and even

  they are chiding us.

  We run toward the Wall,

  “Natsu-chan, you are

  too fast,” Asa whines.

  So I slow down

  to let her catch up.

  “Oh look,”

  Asa points to the sky,

  “that cloud looks

  like a camel.”

  “You don’t know what

  a camel looks like,”

  I tell her, keeping

  my ear alert to the bell.

  “I do, too, and I want

  to be a camel when I grow up.”

  I roll my eyes. “You wanted

  to be a goat, too, before Goat died

  so you could talk to her.

  Before that, you wanted to be a hen.

  Then a wolf. A bird before that.”

  The bell starts ringing;

  school’s about to begin. “We need

  to run now,” I yell, running even faster,

  and I hear Asa behind me: “Don’t leave

  me, I can’t keep up!” One. Two.

  Three. The bell will stop soon

  and we’ll have to clean

  the bathroom for the next seven

  days if we’re late again.

  I run. And run. I hear Asa behind me,

  and we both run away from the Wall.

  We run through the wheat field,

  we run through the blue sky.

  AT SCHOOL

  Put the rolled-up bandages,

  a total of three, in the bottom of the hemp bag.

  Place a packet of cigarettes, t
he ones

  with a golden chrysanthemum insignia

  on the right side atop the bandages;

  put the box of sweet caramels

  in a yellow box in the opposite

  corner, and put the senninbari—

  a good-luck charm of one thousand

  red stitches of embroidered tiger—

  between the candy and the cigarettes.

  A tube of toothpaste. A shaving razor.

  Slide the magazine, any magazine,

  into the bag. Don’t forget the letters.

  I tie the neck of the bag.

  I start on another one.

  All around me, hands blur,

  almost like fast-flapping wings of chickens,

  all moving quickly to finish the quota

  for our brave soldiers.

  WE ARE THE EMPEROR’S CHILDREN

  We stand at attention

  with bamboo spears in our hands.

  Vice Principal yells,

  Stab the American devil!

  And I thrust the bamboo

  spear to the left.

  Kill the enemy!

  And I thrust the spear

  to the right,

  the imaginary enemy

  in the shape of a straw

  scarecrow. We move

  as one with the call:

  Kill the American devil!

  We thrust the spears

  as one: Take down as many

  enemies as you can!

  Kill as many enemies

  as you can when you die!

  We are the Emperor’s children.

  We are the children

  of the Sun Goddess.

  We are the citizens

  of the Rising Sun.

  We are from the country

  where the wind from the gods

  blows in times of need to bring us victory.

  We will die for the Emperor,

  just like those special forces pilots

  who smash their planes against the American

  ships in the South Sea.

  We will die for the Emperor

  just like those brave soldiers

  who make their last charge

  to protect His Majesty the Emperor.

  Stab the American devil!

  And I thrust the bamboo

  spear to the left.

  Get ready to kill the enemy!

  We throw down the spears

  and grab the dried corncobs.

  One, two, three, throw the grenades.

  Yellow jagged cobs hit the vice

  principal. No, no, not me!

  I try to hold my laughter