Paper Wishes (10 page)

“You love your teacher,” he says. “You love Miss Rosalie. Perhaps you understand how I can love her, too.”

And he is right. I can understand. I do understand. But I remember Father's words from last night.

“Forbidden,” he said.

“Wrong,” he said.

I remember Mother's words, too.

“Dangerous,” she said.

“Impossible,” she said.

I also remember Grandfather's words.

“Beautiful,” he said.

“Love,” he said.

This is the same word Ron says to me. Love.

“Can you understand how Miss Rosalie might love me, too?” Ron asks.

Yes. But:
Forbidden. Dangerous.
I understand these words, too, and I am afraid for my brother.

*   *   *

Kimmi is so happy to see me that she jumps up and down and squeals. She hugs me and spins me in a circle.

“You're back!”

Other children gather around. They smile and say hello. Even Ryo shouts, “Hey, Manami is back!”

When Miss Rosalie sees me in line during the pledge and song in the school yard, she hurries over. “Thank you for coming,” she says.

Kimmi is behind me, Miss Rosalie is beside me, and Ron is across the way.

And I am happy to be at school.

 

OCTOBER

Every day, the air becomes a little bit colder and the days become shorter.

There are long shadows when I leave my classroom to walk home. The flagpole shadow spikes backward across the school yard. And the baseball diamond is dark before dinner.

Ron says the wild boys have not been in class for a few days. I would be happy about this except that Ron has been looking for them. I want Ron to stay far away from the wild boys who slink in shadows. I want the wild boys to stay far away from Ron.

On my way home, I see Ron under the long shadows talking to two wild boys he's caught.

I tiptoe closer.

I hear:

“What are you doing with this?” Ron asks, holding a paper.

“They are informers. Everyone on that list,” a wild boy says.

“Passing along papers like this will get you into trouble,” Ron says. “Let the men pass their own messages. You need to stay out of it.”

“They spy,” the other wild boy says. “Even on you! Then they tell the camp police.”

“Come back to school,” Ron says. “You want to get out of here? You need to be in school.”

The wild boys leave, and Ron tears up the paper and puts the pieces in his pocket.

I do not move.

But Ron still sees me.

“Manami!” Ron says. His voice is angry and, I think, frightened. “Go home now!”

I run.

*   *   *

Mother's garden has dwindled to just three mounds of herbs. I help Mother cut the tops off the fruit and vegetable plants. Their stems are brown and the plants have stopped growing. All of the garlic and onions were dug up last month, and their dirt mounds are hard. Mother digs the dirt until it is soft and crumbly again. Then she pokes holes in it and shows me where to drop a tiny onion or garlic. These tiny onions and garlic are the ones she saved from the harvest. They will grow new onions and garlic for next year.

“They must freeze over the winter,” Mother says. “Then they will grow strong for next summer.”

We leave the herbs. If we don't trim them, they will make flowers. When the flowers grow as large as they can, Mother will cut them and collect their seeds.

When we are finished, Mother and I sit on the ground next to the herbs.

“This was a fine garden,” Mother says. “Better than the island garden.”

I look at Mother, and she must see my surprise. This garden grew tiny tomatoes and cucumbers. Mother's island garden grew large tomatoes and cucumbers.

“The island garden had plenty of rain,” Mother says. “So much rain that it only grew shallow roots. This garden never had enough rain. So it had to grow deep roots. The island roots would never have survived the desert summer.

Mother takes the bowls I used every morning to water the garden and sets them next to my feet. She lifts my chin to look in my eyes. “You saved this garden, Daughter,” she says. “Thank you.”

Then she stands and returns to our room.

I'm not ready to go inside yet. I sit in the garden and look at what's left of it.

Mounds with onions and garlic buried inside, hibernating through winter's freeze.

Mounds with herbs at the end of their life cycle, growing flowers so that there will be herbs for next spring.

Mounds that sit empty, waiting for new seeds to grow new plants.

Strong plants.

Plants with deep roots.

Plants that survive.

*   *   *

One morning, Mr. Warden waits by the flagpole in the school yard. This is the first time I've seen him since I returned to school.

Today, he has brought camp police with him.

Mr. Warden and his policemen make me nervous.

When the students are lined up and waiting, he speaks.

“Salute! Pledge!”

My classmates' voices drone around me. When they stop, Mr. Warden walks up and down the lines of students.

“So many of you do not pledge,” he thunders. “Why?”

My heart starts to pound and I wish I had stayed in bed.

Mr. Warden stops next to me.

“I remember you,” he says. “You are the mute one.”

Then he walks to another line. The wild boys.

“But you?” he says.

“And you?”

“And you?”

“And you?”

“You are not mute. So I ask again: Why do you not pledge?”

Ron steps forward.

“We will practice today,” Ron says. “Tomorrow…”

Ron stops talking when Mr. Warden holds up his hand.

Mr. Warden motions to the camp police standing at the edge of the school yard. Their stomping boots make dust clouds as they walk toward us. Mr. Warden holds a paper up for Ron to see.

“I've seen these boys skulking in shadows.”

He reads the paper.
“No freedom behind barbed wires.”
He shakes the paper and looks at Ron.

“They are young,” Ron says.

“Yes,” Mr. Warden says. “They are young. But they are writing subversive tracts. And they are passing their subversive tracts around the camp for others to read. Do they write this with their teacher's guidance?”

Miss Rosalie puts her hand on her chest. But Ron is silent.

“Worse, there have been reports that they also act as messengers,” Mr. Warden says. “They carry messages for some of the men about resistance and protest and violence.”

Ron takes a step back. He looks at the wild boys. They do not look so bold anymore. Ron looks at me. Then he looks at Miss Rosalie.

“I know about the messages,” he finally says. “I've tried to stop them.”

Mr. Warden motions to the camp police again. “Bring him in for questioning.” Then he leaves the school yard.

The policemen grab Ron's arms.

“I come willingly,” Ron says.

The policemen release him and let him walk.

All I can think is that the camp police are taking Ron away. And something is wrong. But I do not understand what has happened.

“Take care of her!” Ron shouts over his shoulder.

Take care of her? Mother? Is that what he means?

I want to ask him what he means.

I want to ask him what is happening.

I want to ask him where he is going and when he will return.

But my throat is covered with dust.

I sway.

Miss Rosalie wraps her arms around me.

“Ron,” she whispers.

Miss Rosalie stares at the wild boys.

“What have you done?” she says. “What have you done?”

Another teacher walks up the steps to the closest barracks and turns to face us. “No school today,” he says.

I feel the eyes of the other students staring holes in my skin.

I stand in the school yard, my arms around Miss Rosalie, her tears wetting my hair, until we are the only two left.

Take care of her.

I will.

*   *   *

By evening, everyone in the prison-village knows what has happened.

In Block 3, they say Ron is honorable. He tried to help his students, the wild boys. But they would not be helped.

In other blocks, they say Ron is a traitor. He told Mr. Warden and his policemen the names of the men who send the wild boys to pass messages.

For now, Ron is in jail.

Father is allowed to see him for a moment. Long enough to be assured that Ron has not been harmed.

That night, Mother and Father and Grandfather sit around the table in our room. Like me, they do not speak. I wonder if dust has begun to coat their throats, too.

*   *   *

The day after Ron's arrest, rain comes. This rain pounds the remaining stalks and stems in Mother's garden into the hard ground.

“No matter,” Mother says. “I have collected the flowers, and we have harvested all we can.”

The rain brings thunder and lightning. Dogs cower under steps. Chickens squawk and flap inside their coops.

The rain churns the paths and roads of the prison-village into frothy puddles.

Mother and Grandfather both offer to walk to school with me the first day without Ron. But I do not want their company.

I get to the school yard and see that the students have already gone inside.

I take a deep breath of the rainy-wet air.

The rain has already started to flood the school yard, turning it into slick and sticky mud.

The mud makes the school yard look different.

It makes the school yard feel different.

It makes it easier for me to go to school without Ron.

Like it is a new place now. A place Ron never was.

*   *   *

I walk past Ron's empty classroom. His students now go to teachers in different barracks. It is temporary. Just until Ron comes back.

The students are quiet.

The teachers are quiet, too.

A worried kind of quiet. An afraid kind of quiet.

I stay after school to help sweep my classroom. Usually, Miss Rosalie chatters to fill up the empty space my throat leaves. She flits from one part of the classroom to another and shows me the curious things she's found around the school, like a heart-shaped rock or a tiny purple sage blossom.

But today she sits silently at her desk and stares out the window until I am done. Then she hands me paper and says, “Thank you, Manami. I'll see you tomorrow.”

Already, I do not think I am doing a good job of taking care of Miss Rosalie.

 

NOVEMBER

When Father is home, he glowers. His anger blames the wild boys. It blames their fathers. It blames Mother and me. His anger blames Miss Rosalie.

Mother watches and waits. Her sorrow fills her eyes, brimming over when she thinks I am sleeping.

Grandfather's hands do not stop working. In his worry, he twists wires and sands wood pieces, making tiny boats and tiny houses.

Miss Rosalie's face grows more and more gaunt. Her grief causes shadows to ring her eyes.

Three days after Ron's arrest, the rain finally stops. No tapering off for this rain. One minute roaring and pounding, the next minute silence.

After dinner, I run to my classroom. The light is still on. I take Miss Rosalie's hand and bring her home with me. It is the only way I can think to take care of her.

At our small table, Mother feeds Miss Rosalie. Grandfather pats her arm. And, finally, Father speaks.

“He should have returned to Indiana,” Father says.

“Yes,” says Miss Rosalie.

“But he stayed here for you,” Father says.

“Not for me,” she says. “I begged him to go.”

Mother whispers to Father.

He is still angry, but his voice is softer when he speaks again.

“You should be careful,” he says.

“If you hear anything…” Mother says.

“I will tell you,” Miss Rosalie says. “Thank you for welcoming me.”

Mother grasps Miss Rosalie's hands. Then she motions to me to open the door.

I walk with Miss Rosalie through our block.

When we reach the administration buildings, Miss Rosalie stops.

“Thank you, my dear. Ron said…” Her voice breaks. “Ron said, ‘Manami is the best little sister.' Hurry home.”

I watch Miss Rosalie walk toward her home. When the darkness swallows her, I trudge through the mud to Block 3.

Just as our door closes behind me, I look in the direction of the school yard. In the faraway glow of a streetlight, I see the silhouette of a dog. It is hard to see clearly—the lamp is dim, the dog is far, our door closes quickly. But I think I see pointed ears. I think I see a small, firm body. I think I see a nose raised in the air. Has Yujiin finally come?

I push the door open again.

But the dog is gone.

I wonder where it has gone.

I wonder why I did not see it when I stood there with Miss Rosalie only minutes ago.

I take a step outside when something else catches my eye.

Gleaming white letters against black walls:
Watch out, traitors.

The letters are so fresh that they drip.

I hurry back into our room, grab Grandfather's hand, and pull him with me. Father and Mother follow us.

When Father sees the letters, he says, “Go inside.”

Mother and I wait in our room. After many minutes, Grandfather and Father return.

“It is gone,” Father says. His sleeves are wet around his wrists and he has white smudges on his clothes. “I have to report this. But I want you to stay inside. From now on, none of you are to go out alone.”

*   *   *

The next morning, Father doesn't go to work.

“We're going to visit Ron,” he says.

When I don't move from the table right away, he picks up my coat and drapes it over my shoulders. “Come,” he says.