Dolls of Hope (2 page)

T
he large house looked like a bright chain of festival lanterns. Light shining through translucent shoji screens gleamed over black stepping-stones freshly washed in welcome and the dark glimmer of ponds set into the lawn.

Yamada Nori stood silhouetted in the open doorway. To Chiyo, the gleaming stones formed an arrow pointing straight at the owner. He could be no one else. Even the way he stood commanded attention. He owned the house, the ponds, and all the land around. One glance at him told her that.
He is dangerous,
she thought.
Masako should stay away from him.

She lowered the basket lid silently while her family exchanged greetings with Yamada-san. They had joined him at the entry and, from the sound of their voices, were walking with him into the house.

Chiyo reached for the basket lid, but a servant murmured to the ox, and the cart moved again. Soon the animal’s hooves clattered over a stone floor. Nearby, a horse whickered. A horse! Few people kept an animal so expensive to feed and maintain, yet Yamada Nori owned one. Chiyo risked raising the lid again and discovered that the cart had been led into an open shed.

From the sounds it was making, the ox now grazed happily on a mound of hay. A single lamp cast a glow of light, enough for her to see the horse peering curiously over a wooden barrier. Where was the servant? She listened hard and just made out footsteps moving away.

It was hard to wait, but she stayed silent in the basket for a few minutes longer while the ox chewed noisily and occasionally the horse shifted in the stall. At last, she climbed from the basket and eased from the cart to the stone floor. Even the back of the house glowed with light. She no longer saw a festival lantern. Now she saw a demon with fiery eyes.

She must learn the truth about this place. And about Yamada Nori.

After a quick glance in every direction, she crossed a lit area to try to see into the nearest room. Like a moth, she moved from glowing screen to glowing screen, working her way down the back of the house and along one side to the front.

At last, she stood beside a stone lantern, looking past a partially open screen into a room where a polished table stood on short legs above glowing tatami mats. Her family sat there with Yamada-san, all of them on low cushions, while they enjoyed the first part of their meal.

Masako took tiny bites, as if she feared she might be asked a question and dared not be caught with her mouth full. At home, Masako ate quickly, as they all did. None of the family had time to waste over food.

Strong hands grabbed the back of Chiyo’s kimono. Choking, she fought to loosen the cloth at her throat. A man’s voice exclaimed, “Now I have you! Let us see how Yamada-san deals with intruders.”

The servant pushed her ahead of him into the house, pausing only for her to slip off her shoes and place them by the door. She heard again her mother’s warning that none of them must shame the family, that Yamada-san must not have cause to change his mind about the marriage. The enormity of what she had done crashed over her.

Her family would never forgive her. Masako would hate her. She had ruined her sister’s life. And her own.

Shame overwhelmed her. There was nothing left but hara-kiri, she told herself. She must plunge a sword through her worthless body like a humiliated samurai. She wondered how much it would hurt. And for how long. She wondered where to find a sword.

The watchman thrust open a carved
fusuma
screen and flung her to her knees in the room beyond. “Your pardon, Yamada-san. Forgive the intrusion, please. I have captured an intruder peering into the house.”

Chiyo remained on her knees, pressing her forehead to the thickly woven tatami in the deepest bow of her life.
“Sumimasen, sumimasen,”
she said in a voice thick with shame, unable to stop saying she was sorry and using the most formal word for it, though she knew words would not help.

With disbelief,
Okaasan
said, “Chiyo?”

“No!” Denial burst from Masako as if she saw her future shattering.

“You know the intruder?” Yamada-san asked.

Otousan
answered in a heavy voice that pressed Chiyo even deeper into the tatami. “
Hai,
Yamada-san. It shames me to tell you that this unworthy person is our younger daughter, Chiyo.”

“Your daughter,” Yamada-san repeated. “Stand please, younger sister.”

It was not possible to move. Her muscles would not obey. What did it matter? Her life was over. She turned her head to the side to search the nearest wall for an ornamental sword.

Her search stopped abruptly at an astonishing display of
hina ningyo
for Hinamatsuri, the Girls’ Day festival in March. The dolls, which must have belonged to Yamada-san’s daughters, were traditionally arranged on a series of red-carpeted platforms, each higher than the last. At the top, the emperor and empress sat on cushions over gold-ornamented black stands.

Below them stood nobles, and below them, musicians. Tiny tables and lamps and dishes filled with small cakes, fruit-shaped candies, and sweet red beans filled the lowest tier. There was more, so much more!

It was early to set out the display. Yamada-san must have been hoping to impress Masako. The splendid, expensive dolls were handed down from daughter to daughter in families that could afford to buy them. Her shame momentarily forgotten, Chiyo strained to see into the tiny dishes.

A
gain, the watchman’s strong fingers grasped the back of her kimono. She gasped as he hauled her to her feet. She could not look at any of them. She should not have looked at the dolls.

“How did you come here?” asked Yamada-san.

She spoke to the floor in a whisper. “In the basket.”

His voice sharpened. “I cannot hear you, younger sister. Look at me, please.”

Her head felt too weighted to lift. She managed to lift her chin but not her eyes.

Yamada-san said again, “How did you come here?”

She raised her voice just enough to be heard. “I hid in the basket.”

Otousan
explained. “I keep a large basket tied into the cart.
Gomenasai,
Yamada-san. The fault is mine. I did not look beneath the lid before leaving home. I believed the basket to be empty.”

“Ah. The only question remaining is what should be done with her.”

Chiyo glanced around and felt the hand on the back of her kimono tighten. The watchman thought she might try to run away. But she was looking for a sword.

“She came here in the basket,”
Otousan
said. “She will wait there for us. You have my word, Yamada-san. She will not again step onto your property.”

Chiyo expected the servant to haul her out like a bag of rice, but Yamada Nori said, “I am sorry. I must disagree, Tamura-san. I will not have a child go hungry in my house while others eat.”

He called another servant to set a place where Chiyo’s back would be to the shoji screen and she would have to face her family instead of the glow from the stone lantern on the lawn. She would far rather have waited in the basket.

As she sank onto a cushion placed for her, she inhaled the citrusy fragrance of yuzu and soy sauce served with an expensive baked red sea bream. It was a fish chosen to bring luck on a special day. She pushed her share around with her chopsticks. If she put one bite into her mouth, her stomach would rebel.

She risked another fleeting look down the table and noticed her sister turning quick interested glances toward their host. Masako probably thought she was keeping her expression calm, but a pink flush touched her cheeks, and when she raised her eyes, their glow told all that she was feeling.

She likes him,
Chiyo realized.
She is pleased he didn’t send me to wait in the basket. Masako wants to marry him and live here, even though it will mean leaving all of us.

An hour ago, she would have been overjoyed to hear Yamada Nori say he had changed his mind and would not marry Masako. Now she realized that her wish to keep her sister at home had been selfish.

What if I ruined her chance for happiness?
Chiyo heard nothing but the click of red sandalwood chopsticks against china. She felt completely alone at the table.

Belatedly, she realized that Yamada-san was speaking to her and forced herself to listen. As if repeating his comment, he said, “You may have noticed my display of
hina ningyo.
”

“Hai.”
She whispered her answer.

“You will soon see dolls of another kind. Do you know of America, a country beyond our sea?”

She nodded. They had learned about America in school.

Why was he talking to her? Hadn’t she earned his disgust?

“American children,” he said, “have sent more than twelve thousand dolls to the children of Japan.”

Chiyo caught her breath. She could not imagine so many! They would not be
kokeshi
dolls. They might even have yellow hair. She had seen a picture of a doll with yellow hair in a book at school.

“They are called Dolls of Friendship,” Yamada Nori continued. “It is said that more than two million children donated pennies to buy the dolls and send them to us.”

Masako exclaimed, “Why?” and looked down swiftly after her mother’s warning glance.

Yamada Nori did not seem concerned by Masako’s second outburst but answered, “The hope is that friendship will develop between children of our two countries. Perhaps the dolls will prevent us from ever going to war.”

“A beautiful hope,”
Okaasan
said softly.

“I have heard rumblings,” said
Otousan,
“talk of expanding our borders. The hope for peace may be a foolish one.”

He, too, caught a look of concern from
Okaasan
and pinched a bite of sea bream in his chopsticks. “Where are those dolls now?”

“They arrived in Yokohama in mid-January.”

Masako raised her head to look at her mother, probably thinking as Chiyo did that the date could mean bad fortune.

“A sad time,” Yamada-san said, agreeing with their dismay. “The dolls arrived on the day Prince Chichibu returned home from England to mourn the death of our beloved Emperor Taisho. More than two thousand children greeted them for a reception held in a primary school, but they could not be welcomed with the celebration expected.”

Poor dolls,
Chiyo thought.
Taken away from all they have ever known and sent to a strange country, only to arrive on a sad day.

“However, there is happier news.” Yamada-san’s eyes brightened. “The dolls are to enjoy a grand welcome in Tokyo during Hinamatsuri on March third. Afterward, they will be given to schools throughout Japan. One will certainly arrive at the Girls’ School in Tsuchiura.”

Chiyo felt as if she had missed hearing something important. Her mother and sister had been giving her glances that were by turns accusing and concerned. Now they both looked pleased. Everyone did.

What had she missed? Why was he talking about a school in distant Tsuchiura?

“As I said, the school usually accepts only the daughters of military men and high officials,” Yamada-san told them, “but the headmaster is an old friend who owes me a favor. I will arrange for a place to be found for Chiyo.”

They were sending her to Tsuchiura? She had never been there, but she had heard of it. The city sprawled along Lake Kasumigaura, which reached almost to the sea. This was her punishment. She would be so far from home! Would she ever see any of them again?

Yamada-san turned to her parents. “One of the young ladies there is the daughter of General Miyamoto Hiroshi. She is called Hoshi and is highly praised by her teachers for her poise and dignity. Our Chiyo will do well to become friends with Miyamoto Hoshi and follow her example.”

He studied Chiyo while her face grew warm and she put down the piece of preserved peach she had picked up with her fingers. “She will learn proper behavior in the school and put her hill country wildness behind her.”

Chiyo picked up chopsticks, her fingertips whitening with her tight hold. The school might be better than hara-kiri, she told herself, but not by much. In a near whisper, she asked
Otousan,
“When will I be sent to that place?”

She didn’t dare ask how long she must stay away from her home and everyone she loved. She was pretty sure she knew what he would say:
You must stay away until you learn to behave like Miyamoto Hoshi.
Already, she could not like the girl.