Chapter Thirty-One Violet #2
A guard comes over, ready to escort the group out of the camp.
It’s happening so quickly. I don’t know if I’ll ever see Mrs. Hata again.
She bends down and rummages through her carpetbag.
Most of it is books, carefully wrapped in sweaters, skirts, and camisoles.
“This is my favorite novel, Violet. Take it.” Mrs. Hata hands me a book.
It’s gold with blue flowering vines and opulent starbursts pressed into the hardcover.
It’s elegant, soft, and pretty, and nothing like this horrid, bewildering place.
“There’s a line that has always helped me throughout my life but especially here.
It is ‘I am no bird; and no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will.’ As you grow, you’ll learn people want to put you in cages.
Sometimes, they are real cages, like right now.
Other times, they are figurative cages, but you’ll find those can be just as confining.
Whichever they are, remember that your soul holds the key to every one. Do you promise?”
“Ma’am?” the guard interrupts her. “We need go now. Trucks are waiting.”
“Violet?” Mrs. Hata prompts, ignoring him.
“I promise,” I say. “And I promise I’ll return your book one day.”
“I look forward to it,” Mrs. Hata says with a genuine smile that isn’t teacherly, just sad and sincere at once.
I don’t move until Mrs. Hata is out of sight.
I hold the book with both hands. Jane Eyre.
I’ve had it assigned for school, but I only read the parts for my essays.
When I flip it open, faint pencil markings greet my eyes.
Mrs. Hata has made orderly notes in the margins.
I put the book into my pocket and place my hand over it.
One day, I’ll give it back to Mrs. Hata.
After all of this is over, I’ll find her and visit her.
Maybe we’ll meet at her house for tea or a café for brunch and I’ll know her exactly as she is, in the real world.
Mama will be back soon, but I suddenly want to see Ren. I think he’ll be back at his barrack with Cosette, but if he isn’t, I’ll leave a note. If he isn’t there, I’ll leave a note. I grab one of my sketches and a pencil, just in case.
When I arrive at Ren’s barrack, I knock.
Mrs. Hamada opens the door, startling me.
Usually, she’s in the back shadows of the apartment, taking care of the baby, smoking, or sleeping.
Today, she’s wearing a silky, lacy slip and holding a crochet hook and a baby blanket.
I think suddenly that there are many different women within her, and perhaps I’ve only noticed one.
“Hello, Mrs. Hamada,” I say. “Is Ren here?”
“He’s not,” she replies. Her eyes narrow and she scans behind me, as though looking for him. “He’s at the hospital with Cosette.” Someone else might tell me it isn’t safe to be out right now, but she stares blankly at me.
“Can I leave a note for him?”
She shrugs and steps aside to let me in. “You come here often and never stay long.”
“My mother doesn’t like me out, but I come to visit Ren,” I say, not having expected the comment. Mrs. Hamada nods and she glances out the door again, as though still looking for him.
“He’s a good boy,” she says, so forcefully that I pause.
“He is,” I agree.
“A good boy.” She repeats it again. “But a stupid boy. And you’re a smart girl.” Her face is so empty that I cannot read it. I can only hear the catch in her voice, a snag where her worry betrays her.
“I like Ren,” I say. “I like him a lot.”
Stiffly, she fiddles with the crochet. Her shoulders arch and she stares at me as though I’m beneath her. Then, abruptly, she walks away into the apartment.
“Did Mr. Nomura come back last night?” I ask. “They were after him yesterday. He came to the library to hide.”
“Don’t know.” Mrs. Hamada acts like I’m asking after a stranger.
I abandon any hope of establishing a rapport with her and cross to Ren’s bed.
I’ve sat on it with him many times before, but I’ve never been here without him.
My eyes catch on his things, which are arranged atop a dresser.
Everything is placed with intention, as though each possession is a treasure to him.
Emi’s Les Misérables is there. A bookmark bisects the pages.
The bookmark has never moved, not since Emi died.
There’s also the cord from which his pendant once hung.
He’s draped it across the corner of the book, like a rosary or a string of prayer beads.
Mrs. Hamada clears her throat.
I’m taking too long. Quickly, I pick up a pencil and remove the sketch from my pocket. It’s the one I did of him. I always meant to keep it, but I’ll draw another one. I write,
I came by and wanted to say I love you. Also, keep this sketch. I finally finished shading it, and think it’s not the worst thing I’ve ever drawn. Particularly because I had such a handsome model. I’ll see you soon. Stay safe.
Hastily, I say goodbye and leave. Outside, Mr. Wozumi stands with the kids, letting them get a little fresh air after being cooped up in the barrack.
They bound about while he stands like a sentinel, scanning around every few minutes for trouble.
The kids call me over to the pond, which was finished a few weeks ago.
I’m usually rushing by to see Ren, but today I stop to quickly admire it, knowing I need to get back.
It’s lined with rocks, and ice crusts over the water.
Deep below, perch, minnows, and carp nestle, protected from the cold.
Three islands rise from the pond, and I know from the kids that below the surface, there are fish tunnels and water lily boxes.
Mr. Wozumi is planning on ordering Japanese water vegetables and water lily seeds to plant next spring.
“It’s a fish mansion,” Jace declares, gesturing to it with his ever-present sword. “Biggest and best one you’ve ever seen.”
“I think you’re right,” I say.
“What are you going to fill it with?” a soft voice asks. Ethan is near my elbow. He’s so quiet, I didn’t hear him approach. “You said we can fill it with anything. What are you going to fill it with?”
I look from his sweet brown eyes to the pond, remembering how I told the children they could fill it with courage and bravery. But what would I use? Especially after last night? I smile at him.
“That’s a good question, Ethan. I’ll think on it, and I’ll be certain to tell you once I figure it out.”
Rumors fly. The death tally is elusive at first and changes throughout the rest of the day.
None dead. Twenty dead. A child dead. Then, before nightfall, it clarifies.
One dead and one likely to die, both rioters.
Our own. A young man hovers on death, likely to succumb to his injuries. Nine others were shot.
I know the victim who died. He went to Mrs. Hata’s classes and was in my grade. He was gunned down in the firebreak. He was only seventeen.