rice with red bean in the middle, given to Okata by the military police for his exemplary service as head of the neighborhood association. “I heard everything,” Hiroshi said. “I was waiting just outside his kitchen window. When Okata showed them out, I took the box of
mochi
off the table and walked right out.” Hiroshi snickered and spread his body full length on his futon. “He shouldn’t leave his back door open.”
Kenji could feel his brother smiling in the dark. With Hiroshi next to him in their small room, it felt like the safest place in the world. How could everything change so quickly? The once vibrant streets of Yanaka had turned gray and drab, the bright-colored clothbanners hanging from shops torn down, replaced with blackout curtains or black inked-out windows. Everyone walked around like hungry ghosts, while he moved carefully down the alleyways to the mask shop. But what Kenji hated most of all was the noise—the air-raid sirens that blasted in the early hours of the morning and brought them outside, shivering as they squeezed into a makeshift air-raid shelter, the high, scratchy voices that came over the radio, the whimpering ones begging for food in the streets, and the low, worried whispers between his grandparents that hummed through the house like persistent flies.
Just yesterday, Kenji had turned down a quiet alleyway, away from the noise and crowds, lost in his thoughts. A sudden, high-pitched shriek made him glance up; two
kempeitai
stood not ten feet away, watching something on the ground and laughing. A terrible burning smell rose through the air and a squealing sound came from a small twitching heap on the ground. Kenji hesitated, put his hand over his nose, and kept walking, thinking he might draw more attention to himself if he suddenly turned back and went the other direction. If he could just make it past them, the mask shop wasn’t far.
“What are you looking at?” one of the men turned and snapped at him.
Kenji bowed quickly and kept his gaze downward, heart beating as he walked faster. He heard the men laughing but didn’t dare look up. When he was far enough away, he turned back, saw them kicking the small bundle on the ground, a rat, he guessed from the long tail that twitched as smoke rose from the dark, convulsing creature. Kenji turned around and felt sick to his stomach as he hurried away. He never said a word about it to anyone.
Kenji shook his head in the darkness of their room but couldn’t tell his brother what was really on his mind. He was proud of Hiroshi, but even more so, he was afraid for him.
“What did
obaachan
say?” he asked.
“Nothing. I haven’t given the
mochi
to her yet. I told her I would stop stealing.”
Kenji swallowed. Like his
obaachan
, he didn’t want his brother stealing anymore, taking chances that might get him hurt or in trouble with the military police and taken away to prison. Even his brother’s skill and speed as a wrestler wouldn’t help him then. For as long as Kenji could remember, Hiroshi had never backed down from what he believed. It was what he admired about him, and also what he feared. If his brother’s life were a Noh play, Hiroshi would be an
Ayakashi
, the warrior who returns to earth to avenge his family and good name. Yes, Hiroshi would always be the avenger. Kenji could see the mask now, the sharp piercing gaze and dark flowing beard. He’d also come back and seek the love he’d left behind. Kenji’s mind wandered and he wasn’t sure how long they had remained silent until he recaptured his train of thought, breathed in deeply, squared his shoulders, and whispered from his futon, “I think you should stop stealing, before something really goes wrong.”
There, he had said it. When Hiroshi didn’t answer, Kenji waited in the darkness of the room as the winter winds blew, rattling the shoji windows behind the rough blackout curtains. In the dimness, he reached out, let his fingers lightly brush against
mochi
off the table and walked right out.” Hiroshi snickered and spread his body full length on his futon. “He shouldn’t leave his back door open.”
Kenji could feel his brother smiling in the dark. With Hiroshi next to him in their small room, it felt like the safest place in the world. How could everything change so quickly? The once vibrant streets of Yanaka had turned gray and drab, the bright-colored clothbanners hanging from shops torn down, replaced with blackout curtains or black inked-out windows. Everyone walked around like hungry ghosts, while he moved carefully down the alleyways to the mask shop. But what Kenji hated most of all was the noise—the air-raid sirens that blasted in the early hours of the morning and brought them outside, shivering as they squeezed into a makeshift air-raid shelter, the high, scratchy voices that came over the radio, the whimpering ones begging for food in the streets, and the low, worried whispers between his grandparents that hummed through the house like persistent flies.
Just yesterday, Kenji had turned down a quiet alleyway, away from the noise and crowds, lost in his thoughts. A sudden, high-pitched shriek made him glance up; two
kempeitai
stood not ten feet away, watching something on the ground and laughing. A terrible burning smell rose through the air and a squealing sound came from a small twitching heap on the ground. Kenji hesitated, put his hand over his nose, and kept walking, thinking he might draw more attention to himself if he suddenly turned back and went the other direction. If he could just make it past them, the mask shop wasn’t far.
“What are you looking at?” one of the men turned and snapped at him.
Kenji bowed quickly and kept his gaze downward, heart beating as he walked faster. He heard the men laughing but didn’t dare look up. When he was far enough away, he turned back, saw them kicking the small bundle on the ground, a rat, he guessed from the long tail that twitched as smoke rose from the dark, convulsing creature. Kenji turned around and felt sick to his stomach as he hurried away. He never said a word about it to anyone.
Kenji shook his head in the darkness of their room but couldn’t tell his brother what was really on his mind. He was proud of Hiroshi, but even more so, he was afraid for him.
“What did
obaachan
say?” he asked.
“Nothing. I haven’t given the
mochi
to her yet. I told her I would stop stealing.”
Kenji swallowed. Like his
obaachan
, he didn’t want his brother stealing anymore, taking chances that might get him hurt or in trouble with the military police and taken away to prison. Even his brother’s skill and speed as a wrestler wouldn’t help him then. For as long as Kenji could remember, Hiroshi had never backed down from what he believed. It was what he admired about him, and also what he feared. If his brother’s life were a Noh play, Hiroshi would be an
Ayakashi
, the warrior who returns to earth to avenge his family and good name. Yes, Hiroshi would always be the avenger. Kenji could see the mask now, the sharp piercing gaze and dark flowing beard. He’d also come back and seek the love he’d left behind. Kenji’s mind wandered and he wasn’t sure how long they had remained silent until he recaptured his train of thought, breathed in deeply, squared his shoulders, and whispered from his futon, “I think you should stop stealing, before something really goes wrong.”
There, he had said it. When Hiroshi didn’t answer, Kenji waited in the darkness of the room as the winter winds blew, rattling the shoji windows behind the rough blackout curtains. In the dimness, he reached out, let his fingers lightly brush against
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