Every square foot of dirt was tilled and planted, with hopes of producing enough food for the neighborhood.
As the demand for food increased, Hiroshi watched his grandmother kneeling by the patch of earth in the front courtyard, while she hummed the folk songs that she sang to them as children.
“It reminds me of my childhood,” she said, instructing Hiroshi to water each sprouting plant. “Not too much,” she directed.
“I didn’t know you were such a gardener.”
“Your great-grandmother had the gardener’s touch. I believe she could bury a pebble and something would bloom from it.” She rubbed the dirt from her hands and pushed herself up from the ground.
Hiroshi helped her to her feet. “Just think what her daughter will grow with real seeds,” he said.
She looked at him and smiled, then reached up and patted his cheek. “How did you grow so tall and strong? With so little to nourish …”
“Because of you,” he said, laughing. “You have the gardener’s touch.”
Hiroshi liked working in the garden, digging down into the earth and dropping the small seeds, always amazed that with a bit of watering, the strong stems would rise from the plot of dirt no larger than a tatami mat. It gave him hope that miracles could still happen. Funny how he’d paid no attention to that patch of earth before, and now it produced vegetables that the
kempeitai
picked over, leaving only some spinach and the few turnips that graced their table. He felt overwhelmingly proud the first time they sat down to eat their own wilted leaves and soft turnips.
And while he and Kenji often helped their
obaachan
in the garden, Hiroshi knew his
ojiichan
was frustrated that he couldn’t do more. His eyesight was failing, shadows now, Hiroshi thought. It seemed his
ojiichan
was disappearing more and more into his own world. The last time his grandfather tried to help, he accidentally stepped on some newly sprouted shoots. He heard the distress in his grandmother’s voice as she said, “No, Yoshio, no! Perhaps you should stand over here.” She took his arm and led him away like a small child. Now every bright spring morning, when Hiroshi went up to the tower to fetch his grandfather down to help in the vegetable garden, his
ojiichan
refused. He never ventured near it again.
By the warm summer evenings of 1942, they ate in silence. Hiroshi listened to the empty clink of the bowls and decided he had to do something to appease their hunger. He watched his
obaachan
ladle awatery stew made of the last of the turnips and carrots on top of his half bowl of rice and felt whatever happiness he’d had slowly dissipate. His
obaachan
placed the bowl in front of him, her gaze avoiding his. Hiroshi remembered her wide smile when he was a little boy, as she told him how each bite of food would make him bigger and stronger, filling his bowl with choice morsels of fish, chicken, and thin slices of beef. He remembered the laughter, the buzz of all their voices humming through the kitchen. Now as his
obaachan
hardly ate, he knew she was saving her little bit of rice for him and Kenji.
Like their grandparents, he and Kenji learned to battle their hunger in different ways. Lying on his futon at night, Hiroshi slowly came to see that the war and rationing were depleting not only their bodies but also their spirits. He saw that when there was so little, everything mattered, and even fantasies provided nourishment. While Kenji lost himself in his theater books, Hiroshi dreamed of sumo, of what it might have been like to enter the Katsuyama-beya and become a champion. Sometimes these small hopes and dreams helped to divert his thoughts from his empty stomach.
On other nights, he and Kenji lay on their futons in the dark and faced their hunger head-on; they would remember something they particularly loved to eat, describing it so vividly that Hiroshi’s mouth watered and his stomach ached from the want of it. Kenji was especially good at
As the demand for food increased, Hiroshi watched his grandmother kneeling by the patch of earth in the front courtyard, while she hummed the folk songs that she sang to them as children.
“It reminds me of my childhood,” she said, instructing Hiroshi to water each sprouting plant. “Not too much,” she directed.
“I didn’t know you were such a gardener.”
“Your great-grandmother had the gardener’s touch. I believe she could bury a pebble and something would bloom from it.” She rubbed the dirt from her hands and pushed herself up from the ground.
Hiroshi helped her to her feet. “Just think what her daughter will grow with real seeds,” he said.
She looked at him and smiled, then reached up and patted his cheek. “How did you grow so tall and strong? With so little to nourish …”
“Because of you,” he said, laughing. “You have the gardener’s touch.”
Hiroshi liked working in the garden, digging down into the earth and dropping the small seeds, always amazed that with a bit of watering, the strong stems would rise from the plot of dirt no larger than a tatami mat. It gave him hope that miracles could still happen. Funny how he’d paid no attention to that patch of earth before, and now it produced vegetables that the
kempeitai
picked over, leaving only some spinach and the few turnips that graced their table. He felt overwhelmingly proud the first time they sat down to eat their own wilted leaves and soft turnips.
And while he and Kenji often helped their
obaachan
in the garden, Hiroshi knew his
ojiichan
was frustrated that he couldn’t do more. His eyesight was failing, shadows now, Hiroshi thought. It seemed his
ojiichan
was disappearing more and more into his own world. The last time his grandfather tried to help, he accidentally stepped on some newly sprouted shoots. He heard the distress in his grandmother’s voice as she said, “No, Yoshio, no! Perhaps you should stand over here.” She took his arm and led him away like a small child. Now every bright spring morning, when Hiroshi went up to the tower to fetch his grandfather down to help in the vegetable garden, his
ojiichan
refused. He never ventured near it again.
By the warm summer evenings of 1942, they ate in silence. Hiroshi listened to the empty clink of the bowls and decided he had to do something to appease their hunger. He watched his
obaachan
ladle awatery stew made of the last of the turnips and carrots on top of his half bowl of rice and felt whatever happiness he’d had slowly dissipate. His
obaachan
placed the bowl in front of him, her gaze avoiding his. Hiroshi remembered her wide smile when he was a little boy, as she told him how each bite of food would make him bigger and stronger, filling his bowl with choice morsels of fish, chicken, and thin slices of beef. He remembered the laughter, the buzz of all their voices humming through the kitchen. Now as his
obaachan
hardly ate, he knew she was saving her little bit of rice for him and Kenji.
Like their grandparents, he and Kenji learned to battle their hunger in different ways. Lying on his futon at night, Hiroshi slowly came to see that the war and rationing were depleting not only their bodies but also their spirits. He saw that when there was so little, everything mattered, and even fantasies provided nourishment. While Kenji lost himself in his theater books, Hiroshi dreamed of sumo, of what it might have been like to enter the Katsuyama-beya and become a champion. Sometimes these small hopes and dreams helped to divert his thoughts from his empty stomach.
On other nights, he and Kenji lay on their futons in the dark and faced their hunger head-on; they would remember something they particularly loved to eat, describing it so vividly that Hiroshi’s mouth watered and his stomach ached from the want of it. Kenji was especially good at
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