description.
“Hiro,” Kenji whispered from his futon. “Tonight, if there were no war, we would have eaten
obaachan
’s sukiyaki. The bowl would be steaming hot with the shoyu, sweet rice wine, cabbage, rice noodles, carrots, and chunks of tender chicken still boiling to the top. You would have eaten three bowls of rice and
ojiichan
would have teased you about leaving something for the rest of us.”
“So then,” Hiroshi added, “
obaachan
would return to the kitchen and bring out a plate of pork cutlets, fried crunchy the way you like them.”
“And more steaming rice, with layers of marinated eel on top. Red bean cake, for dessert.”
“And
orenji,”
Hiroshi added. Just saying the full, round word “oranges” made his mouth water. He tried to remember the last time a wedge of sweet juice exploded in his mouth. Then he groaned at the dearth of such food, and the hunger that clenched at his stomach. A sourness rose in his mouth and he covered his head with his comforter.
Persimmons
It began with persimmons. Afterward, the stealing became easier, though much more dangerous. Hiroshi had stolen a dozen rotting persimmons from the yard of their neighbors the Odas. The
kempeitai
had taken all the rest, leaving all the rotted fruit scattered on the ground. Such waste seemed careless and arrogant, even though his grandparents might have done the same thing prior to the war. By late 1942, nothing could be taken for granted and the idea of waste filled Hiroshi with anger. Before the Odas dared to come out, he climbed over the fence and took as many as he could carry, at least a dozen. Three for each of them. That’s the way he thought now; it was always “how many were left?” and “how long would it last?” until the rice was gone, until the miso ran out, until they were reduced to eating turnip soup. He would make it up to Oda-san another day, he thought, as he ran with the decaying fruit in the pocket of his outstretched T-shirt, sticky and wet against his stomach, as the juice ran down his arms and hands, and the sickly sweet smell stayed with him for days after.
Long before the war, the tall persimmon tree with its large leaves bloomed brilliant shades of yellow, orange, and red in the Odas’ yard every fall, the dangling fruit like shiny lanterns. The children in the neighborhood called it the
kurisumasu tsuri
, the Christmas tree. Now the real gift was the smile on his
obaachan’s
face as she caressed each one of the rotting, sticky fruits. She then made a persimmon pudding out of them, never once asking where they came from.
After the persimmons, he stole a can of pickled vegetables, snatched from a black marketeer when he turned his back, a few carrots left in someone’s vegetable garden, and a container of fresh tofu from Okata-san, their neighbor down the block, who was rumored to be a puppet of the
kempeitai
. Early on, Okata volunteered to lead the neighborhood association. No one suspected he would betray his friends and neighbors for extra ration coupons, or a carton of cigarettes. It was said he had turned in a neighbor for having as little as a cup more of the allotted rice.
Hiroshi was exhilarated when he set the tofu in front of his grandmother. Stealing from Okata felt better than any wrestling match he’d ever won. His
obaachan
watched him, a glint of fear in her eyes. “No more,” she said softly. And Hiroshi nodded, because he knew it would put her mind at ease. But he wouldn’t promise to stop stealing if it was the only way he could help them survive. So he told her a funny story, to tease her out of her seriousness. “You look as if I’ve come home with the lowest grade in the class,” he said easily. Gradually, she smiled, but not before pleading with him again to be very careful.
108 Evil Thoughts
Every night as they lay on their futons, Hiroshi whispered a new story to Kenji. He had stolen from Okata again, and not just anything but a box of New Year’s
mochi
, sticky
“Hiro,” Kenji whispered from his futon. “Tonight, if there were no war, we would have eaten
obaachan
’s sukiyaki. The bowl would be steaming hot with the shoyu, sweet rice wine, cabbage, rice noodles, carrots, and chunks of tender chicken still boiling to the top. You would have eaten three bowls of rice and
ojiichan
would have teased you about leaving something for the rest of us.”
“So then,” Hiroshi added, “
obaachan
would return to the kitchen and bring out a plate of pork cutlets, fried crunchy the way you like them.”
“And more steaming rice, with layers of marinated eel on top. Red bean cake, for dessert.”
“And
orenji,”
Hiroshi added. Just saying the full, round word “oranges” made his mouth water. He tried to remember the last time a wedge of sweet juice exploded in his mouth. Then he groaned at the dearth of such food, and the hunger that clenched at his stomach. A sourness rose in his mouth and he covered his head with his comforter.
Persimmons
It began with persimmons. Afterward, the stealing became easier, though much more dangerous. Hiroshi had stolen a dozen rotting persimmons from the yard of their neighbors the Odas. The
kempeitai
had taken all the rest, leaving all the rotted fruit scattered on the ground. Such waste seemed careless and arrogant, even though his grandparents might have done the same thing prior to the war. By late 1942, nothing could be taken for granted and the idea of waste filled Hiroshi with anger. Before the Odas dared to come out, he climbed over the fence and took as many as he could carry, at least a dozen. Three for each of them. That’s the way he thought now; it was always “how many were left?” and “how long would it last?” until the rice was gone, until the miso ran out, until they were reduced to eating turnip soup. He would make it up to Oda-san another day, he thought, as he ran with the decaying fruit in the pocket of his outstretched T-shirt, sticky and wet against his stomach, as the juice ran down his arms and hands, and the sickly sweet smell stayed with him for days after.
Long before the war, the tall persimmon tree with its large leaves bloomed brilliant shades of yellow, orange, and red in the Odas’ yard every fall, the dangling fruit like shiny lanterns. The children in the neighborhood called it the
kurisumasu tsuri
, the Christmas tree. Now the real gift was the smile on his
obaachan’s
face as she caressed each one of the rotting, sticky fruits. She then made a persimmon pudding out of them, never once asking where they came from.
After the persimmons, he stole a can of pickled vegetables, snatched from a black marketeer when he turned his back, a few carrots left in someone’s vegetable garden, and a container of fresh tofu from Okata-san, their neighbor down the block, who was rumored to be a puppet of the
kempeitai
. Early on, Okata volunteered to lead the neighborhood association. No one suspected he would betray his friends and neighbors for extra ration coupons, or a carton of cigarettes. It was said he had turned in a neighbor for having as little as a cup more of the allotted rice.
Hiroshi was exhilarated when he set the tofu in front of his grandmother. Stealing from Okata felt better than any wrestling match he’d ever won. His
obaachan
watched him, a glint of fear in her eyes. “No more,” she said softly. And Hiroshi nodded, because he knew it would put her mind at ease. But he wouldn’t promise to stop stealing if it was the only way he could help them survive. So he told her a funny story, to tease her out of her seriousness. “You look as if I’ve come home with the lowest grade in the class,” he said easily. Gradually, she smiled, but not before pleading with him again to be very careful.
108 Evil Thoughts
Every night as they lay on their futons, Hiroshi whispered a new story to Kenji. He had stolen from Okata again, and not just anything but a box of New Year’s
mochi
, sticky
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