Dolls of Hope (5 page)

It was too late to return her unexpected bow. Belatedly, Chiyo, too, bowed to the sensei. As she did, Masako’s
kokeshi
clattered to the floor from the pocket of her borrowed shirt. Girls giggled while she snatched it up.

“What is that, Miss Tamura?” Sensei asked.

Chiyo held out the doll. “My sister gave it to me to remind me of home.”

“Place it on my desk, please.”

Everyone seemed to hold their breath, waiting to see what she would do. For a rebellious moment, Chiyo thought of shoving Momo into her pocket.

As if the doll spoke with her sister’s voice, she imagined Masako saying,
Stay calm and make us proud of you.

She could do that. She would do that. Softly, she said, “
Hai,
Sensei,” and placed the doll on a corner of the desk before retrieving her cushion and returning to the chair at the front.

She wondered if Sensei had asked her to sit there in order to keep an eye on a possible troublemaker. The thought brought new heat to her face.

The teacher displayed the doll to the class. “
Kokeshi
are made by craftsmen in Northern Japan. Each is signed on its base.” She turned the doll, showing the artist’s kanji signature at the bottom. “As all of you know, dolls have long held an important place in our culture.”

She placed Momo on her desk. “You also know of the American Friendship Dolls now in Yokohama.”

In the back, Hoshi must have raised her hand. The teacher said, “Miss Miyamoto? Does General Miyamoto welcome this gesture of friendship?”

Hoshi spoke with a mixture of sorrow and iron in her voice. “My father says our country must expand our borders, not hold our hands out for dolls like children offered sweets. If expansion requires war, then war will come. Friendship Dolls will not prevent it.”

Everyone had turned in their seats to look at her. Now they swiveled back for the teacher’s response.

“Thank you, Miss Miyamoto,” Sensei said. “Your honorable father is highly respected, but I feel I must point out that none of us can see the future.”

“Father says America is a weak, frightened country to send dolls to us,” Hoshi answered. “I am sorry, but I cannot welcome them.”

“Our emperor has welcomed the dolls,” the teacher reminded her quietly. “During a ceremony to be held in Tokyo, the granddaughter of the shogun Prince Tokugawa will accept the first doll. I believe the exchange will be charming.”

“May it go well,” Hoshi said, adding sadly, “My father says Japanese children must show they cannot be bought with pretty dolls.” She bowed her head, but not before Chiyo saw a surprisingly unpleasant glitter in her eyes. That glitter said that Miyamoto Hoshi agreed with her father.

Kaito-sensei rang a small bell on her desk, calling for order as several of the girls spoke at once. “While I greatly respect General Miyamoto,” she said when they were quiet again, “in this case I must agree with our emperor and empress, who are welcoming the dolls.”

Chiyo stared at Masako’s
kokeshi
on a corner of the teacher’s desk while trying to understand Miyamoto Hoshi. Of course the girl must respect her father’s views.

“We are told that the American children donated pennies for the project,” Sensei continued. “Our emperor will express our country’s gratitude. You — all of you — are invited to help pay for dolls to be made by our finest doll makers and sent in return to the children of America.”

Chiyo sat straighter on her cushion, thinking of the coins that Yamada Nori had given her. “I would like to donate a sen.”

“
Arigatogozaimasu,
Miss Tamura. I will place a donation box on my desk.”

Chiyo waited to hear Hoshi offer to donate a sen, or even several, but the girl remained silent. Maybe she felt insulted by the teacher’s failure to agree with her father.

Sensei continued, “The
Torei Ningyo,
or, in English, Dolls of Return Gratitude, will be ninety centimeters in height — thirty-five inches — the size of a small child.”

Again, a murmur moved about the classroom. Chiyo thought of Yumi’s three-year-old sister. She was about ninety centimeters tall. The dolls going to America would be the size of little Kimi. Yamada-san had described the American dolls as much smaller, small enough to carry about in her arms.

“Japan will send fifty-eight beautiful
Torei Ningyo
to America,” Sensei added. “Who can tell me why that number was selected?”

The girls looked at one another. No one raised a hand. Maybe they were afraid to give a wrong answer. At last, Kimiko, a girl next to Chiyo, said, “It cannot be for the number of prefectures in Japan. There are only forty-seven.”

Another girl risked asking, “Will they be named for our cities?”

“You are both correct,” Sensei answered, and a soft sigh of relief swept the class. “Most of the fifty-eight will represent our prefectures. Others will bear the names of territories and of our largest cities.”

She glanced around the class. “Can you tell me what the fifty-eighth doll is to represent?” She glanced toward the back. “Miss Miyamoto?”

“I am sorry, Sensei,” Hoshi answered. “I do not know.”

Chiyo saw several girls glance at one another. Was Hoshi sulking and refusing to answer? Then a girl near Kimiko suggested, “The emperor and empress.”

“You are close,” the teacher told her.

Chiyo raised her hand as inspiration struck. “Will the last doll represent all of Japan?”

“Hai,”
Sensei said. “The finest doll will be given by the emperor and empress and will be called Miss Dai Nippon, or, in English, ‘Miss Japan.’”

Sensei marked a mathematics problem on the board, explaining the distance from San Francisco to Yokohama and telling them that the American dolls’ journey had taken ten days.

“Use your slates to work out answers. How fast did the ships travel? How far did they travel in one day?”

Chiyo tried to work out the problems, but her thoughts kept drifting from the ships to the dolls they had carried. What would they look like? Some might have blond curly hair and even blue eyes, far different from dolls made in Japan. She hoped she would have a chance to hold one of them.

“Miss Tamura.” Sensei’s voice wrenched her back to the classroom. “Do you have the answer?”

“No, Sensei,” she answered, regretting the seat in the front row. “I am still working on it.”

Hoshi spoke into the pause, again sounding sad. “Be careful of opening your hearts to the dolls, my friends. My father, General Miyamoto, would give his life for our emperor, but he fears that someday we will regret welcoming these foreign dolls. They should be destroyed. The emperor will come to see that.”

The other girls murmured in dismay, and for a moment, Chiyo felt sorry for Hoshi. What must it be like to have a father who wanted the emperor to wage war against dolls?

When class was dismissed, the girls left the room in orderly rows to go down the walkway to dance class. Chiyo looked wistfully at Masako’s
kokeshi.
She didn’t dare step out of line to take it, and reminded herself that Momo was safe on Sensei’s desk. She would come back for the doll at lunchtime.

T
he other girls in dance class moved like reeds on a pond, in graceful steps familiar to them but not to Chiyo. Yet the music flowed through her as it did when she sang with the wind while following paths through the hills near her home.

“Sumimasen,”
she said in apology to Oki-sensei, the dance teacher. “I have never learned this dance. It isn’t taught in my other school.”

“Just follow the steps of the girl in front.” The teacher guided her into line and hurried across the room to correct another group.

The girl in front was Hoshi. She seemed unaware of Chiyo behind her. Hoping she wouldn’t turn around, Chiyo concentrated on copying her steps.

Hoshi’s foot moved sharply.

Chiyo followed. Too late, she saw Hoshi pull her own step back. It was a trick.

The teacher hurried to straighten the line. “I’m afraid you are far behind the others, Miss Tamura. Please sit on the side. Watch how the others move.”

Chiyo found a seat beneath a window, telling herself,
I should have pulled my step back when Hoshi moved sharply. Everyone behind me became confused.

It was not entirely my fault!
Inside her head, resentment spoke louder as the lesson began again. In her mind, she removed dance class from the bad side of the scale where it had landed. The general’s daughter had deliberately made a false step.
That should not weigh against me.

During a break near the end of the session, Hana slipped onto the seat next to her. “It’s too bad you don’t sing. That could put Hoshi in her place.”

Chiyo looked at her, startled. “I do sing. I like to.”

“Are you good?”

“They said so at my other school. What does that have to do with Hoshi?”

“Nothing. I should not have mentioned it.” Hana slumped forward, one hand on her chin. “The vocal group is filled, with Hoshi singing the lead. She always sings the lead.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“She’s good,” Hana said, “but not as good as the teachers say. They rave over her because her father is important. And . . . his wealthy family gives a lot of money to the school.”

Can I sing better than the girl the teachers favor?
As pleasant as it would be to outshine Hoshi, Chiyo longed to join the vocal group for another reason. There, she would be judged by her ability, not by her family’s lack of wealth. But Hana had said the vocal group was filled.

She realized that all the other girls were surging to their feet and bowing. As she rose with them, Chiyo saw that Headmaster Hanarai had come into the room.

“Why is he here?” Hana whispered. “He never comes in.” Oki-sensei’s assistant strummed her koto, and all the girls were told to resume their dance. “
Everyone,
please, Miss Tamura.”

Everyone? This was the one time she wanted to sit out a dance! She concentrated hard, trying to sway like a reed but feeling more like a stick. Headmaster spoke to the teacher, then looked directly at Chiyo with his mouth turned down.

Her heart sank.
They’re talking about me. Maybe Yamada-san has asked for a report.
Her knees felt weak, and as the others swayed to the left, she jerked to the right.

“Miss Tamura,” Sensei called. “Come to my desk, please.”

Chiyo felt Hana’s encouraging touch on her arm, while down the room pitying murmurs could only have come from Hoshi.

Chiyo’s feet felt even more leaden than when she had missed the dance step. The smooth wood floor clutched her as if she trudged through mud. Headmaster Hanarai’s troubled expression drove her gaze downward. His voice was as troubled as his face. “You are not doing well with dance.”

Chiyo told the floor softly, “I am trying to learn.”

“Yes, well. It cannot be easy to join a more advanced class in the middle of the session.” He added to the teacher as if Chiyo no longer stood listening, “I will be sorry to disappoint my old friend Yamada Nori. He had hopes for the girl.”

Chiyo wanted to say,
I had hopes for the school!
She swallowed the words. She could almost hear
Okaasan
warning,
A worthy woman is never sarcastic.

Must a worthy woman remain silent while told she is nothing? Should she be quiet while her chance to attend her sister’s wedding vanished?
All Hoshi has done has only made me stronger.

Although she had not been invited to speak, Chiyo said, “I am sorry the school has no singing group. My teachers have said my voice is good.”

Headmaster Hanarai’s expression lightened. “You sing? As a matter of fact, Miss Tamura, we do have a vocal group. The group is filled, but perhaps an exception can be made. Come with me. We will speak to Watanabe-sensei at once.”

Even a small victory over Hoshi felt good, but beneath it, Chiyo worried. Maybe she should not have spoken. The dances were all unfamiliar. Songs here might also be different than the ones her old classmates and family enjoyed.

Only the teacher was in the music room when she reached it with Headmaster Hanarai. A slender man with a small pointed beard and intense eyes, Watanabe-sensei sat on a floor cushion fingering a koto and making notes on a music sheet. He rose at once to bow to the headmaster. While Chiyo waited just inside the doorway, the two argued at length. It was clear that Watanabe-sensei did not wish to add even one more voice.

At last, with a resigned expression, Sensei motioned her forward. “Very well, Miss Tamura. I will hear you sing, but I make no promises.” He aimed the last comment at Headmaster Hanarai.

“Do not disappoint us,” the headmaster warned as Chiyo stood beside the koto, her hands folded at her waist. When Watanabe-sensei indicated that she should sing, Chiyo did not think of Hoshi’s muffled laughter. Her heart and mind filled with the natural music of home so that she was barely aware of the koto following her lead.

She sent her voice soaring with the wind as it danced through canyons, rippling the leaves of trees, challenging birds as they dared fly against it, and at last rising again to the sky. She put her heart and love for home into her song while the classroom fell away. When the music students arrived and quietly took their places, she scarcely heard or saw them. She was alone in the mountains she loved.