Free The Street of a Thousand Blossoms by Gail Tsukiyama Page B

Sumo was community. That was what Tanaka missed most now.
    “Hai,”
he whispered back in her ear. “They’ll be back.”
Refuge
    Since the Pacific War began, Kenji’s world had grown frenzied. At school, he studied ethics and composition, listened to the increasing fervor of his teachers’ lectures on militarism and nationalism, marched in step to martial music during physical education, and then hurried after school down the alleyways, his heart racing for fear of reaching the mask shop and finding it deserted. What if Akira Yoshiwara were no longer there? What if he’d been called up to fight, as so many of the younger men had already been?
    The once quiet streets of Yanaka were now filled with tumult, from the kempeitai-organized rallies, to the slogans of national devotion plastered on walls—Kenji’s favorite being “Luxury is the enemy.” He thought America was. Women cheered at train stations as men left for the front, only to turn to tears once the train was out of sight. Newspapers and magazines were filled with victory reports. The capture of Singapore and Bali by the invincible imperial forces blared constantly from radios. A manic feeling seemed to speed the very pulse of the town.
    Kenji stopped at the door of the
sembei
rice cracker store. Even Fukushima-san, the owner, who appeared much too old to fight, had been drafted. Women from the neighborhood associations were visiting his shop this afternoon, congratulating him on being able to serve his nation, and leaving him small sums of farewell money. Kenji watched as Fukushima bowed low, saying to them, “I am truly the fortunate one, to serve our emperor and country.”

    The only place Kenji heard any conflicting views about the war was at the corner bar with his
ojiichan
and his friends. As the men huddled around the battered wooden table where they had met for thirty years, there was little room for secrets. His grandfather’s brother had been killed years ago at Mukden, and Kenji could see that his
ojiichan
disapproved of what his old friend Tokuda-san was saying.
    “So, Yoshio, you don’t agree this war will make Japan a world power?” Tokuda-san ran his hand through his gray hair and sat back on the wooden stool.
    His grandfather smiled and looked right at his old friend, his cloudy eyes revealing nothing. “It saddens me to think that war must be the means to power,” he answered.
    “Would you rather we sit back and allow America and all the other Western nations to strangle our culture, and that of our neighbors, just as they’ve done for centuries?”
    Kenji listened as their talk turned hard and serious, watched his
ojiichan
’s face grow stern, as it did when he and Hiroshi were bad. The set stare reminded him of one of Akira Yoshiwara’s masks.
    “Is it worth the lives of so many?” his grandfather asked, his voice low.
    Kenji watched Tokuda-san lean forward, his face inches away from his grandfather’s. “It’s what our divine emperor believes, and what we as a nation must also believe. Yoshio, you’re beginning to sound like one of those young
hikokumin.”
    Kenji held his breath. He didn’t know how his
ojiichan
would react to being called a traitor. He thought Tokuda-san a stupid, insensitive old man. It was widely known that the son of Uncle Taiko’s cousin, the painter Wadao Miyami, had refused to paint propaganda art for the war effort and was imprisoned as a traitor. A month ago, the
kempeitai
came for him in the middle of the night and he remained in prison, awaiting trial.
    Then Uncle Taiko cleared his throat and said, “All this talk is making me thirsty. It’s my turn to buy.”
    “There’s nothing left to buy, no rice for sake,” Tokuda-san then said, his voice lighter. “Isn’t that right, Yoshio?”
    Kenji saw his grandfather’s slow smile as he took a breath and released it. “No, there’s very little left.”

    By late fall, as the war intensified, the government allowed some theaters and movie