Dolls of Hope Read online

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Author’s Note

  Glossary

  Foothills Northwest of Tokyo

  February 1927

  Breathless with possibility, eleven-year-old Chiyo clung to the side of her father’s oxcart. A big wicker basket tied in the back usually carried bamboo wind chimes her father made to sell at village festivals. It would be easy to climb inside and pull the lid over her head. She could ride unseen to the omiai with her seventeen-year-old sister and their parents. She could see the widowed man who had arranged to marry Masako.

  No one would even know I’m there. The risk tantalized her. None of the family really knew Yamada Nori. Chiyo longed to investigate him. In secret.

  “He’s too old and lives too far away,” Chiyo said aloud to the ox. She glared into the animal’s soft brown eyes. “Lie down! Refuse to get up! Do not take my sister and parents behind that rich man’s high walls.”

  The ox turned its head as if to say it was only an ox and must do as its master ordered.

  Masako called from the doorway, “Chiyo-chan, I am to be married, not taken prisoner.”

  “You may cry every day behind Yamada Nori’s locked gate,” Chiyo warned. “We will be too far away to know.”

  Masako’s eyes shone. Chiyo thought she looked more like five than seventeen. “That is why the marriage broker arranged the omiai tonight. When Otousan, Okaasan, and I meet Yamada-san over the formal dinner, we will learn if we should object to the arranged marriage.”

  From the glow in Masako’s eyes, Chiyo didn’t think her sister would notice if Yamada Nori’s big house was on fire. Would their parents? “I would notice anything wrong.”

  “You!” Masako teased. “Younger sisters never attend an omiai. You might steal his attention from me!” Her smile became gentle. “You have your friend Yumi and her little sister, Kimi, to play with. You won’t be alone when I marry, Chiyo-chan. Look, I am giving you Momo.”

  Chiyo reluctantly accepted the little doll shaped like a column with a round head. She had only one doll of her own, another wooden kokeshi. Masako’s Momo had a prettier kimono painted on her limbless body and a sweeter smile. But owning Momo wouldn’t make up for losing her sister.

  “Masako,” their mother called from inside the house. “We must finish your hair. We will leave soon.”

  “You should marry a man from our mountain village so we can visit you,” Chiyo called as her sister rushed inside. Masako didn’t answer. She was determined to travel down to richer land where Yamada Nori hired men and women to work his vast rice fields.

  To the ox, Chiyo said, “My sister is making a terrible mistake.”

  The ox mooed in its low voice, clearly agreeing with her, and drawing Chiyo’s attention back to the basket. If she did go — if she hid in the basket — she could slip through the dark and learn what Yamada Nori kept behind his high walls.

  She might see something frightening for Masako and warn their parents. At the very least, she would see where her sister was to live. Then she could picture her sister’s life when they were separated and feel Masako close in her heart.

  She climbed onto the side of the wagon and hesitated. She was risking her honor, but she reminded herself softly, “No one will ever know if Masako is miserable once those high gates close behind her!”

  Her parents and sister were coming. The sound of their voices rushed Chiyo over the side of the cart and into the basket. When she lowered the lid, darkness closed around her. She smelled nothing but wicker and, more faintly, the scent of bamboo.

  The clatter of geta told Chiyo that her family had reached the wagon. She knew they wore their finest kimonos. The cart swayed as they climbed onto the bench seat behind the ox.

  Again, her conscience prodded. All her life, she had been told that honor was everything. She could still call out that she had only been pretending to go with them.

  Instead, she braced herself in the jolting basket as the ox started forward down the winter-damaged road. Streams crossed in many places, carrying spring melt and washing out small crevices. The ride would not be easy for those on the bench seat, but even if the basket turned on its side, she would not make a sound.

  She heard her mother say with gentle approval, “Our daughter has captured the heart of a wealthy man. May he also be kind.”

  Masako’s voice held nothing but confidence. “He is kind, Okaasan. While I worked among the others from our village harvesting his rice, none were whipped and all were treated fairly.”

  Her father sounded strained. “He is more than twice your age, with two half-grown daughters in school in Osaka.”

  Too old, Chiyo thought, but her mother spoke gently. “Do not fear, daughter. Otousan knows this is a fine match. He will not let doubts cause Yamada-san to question the marriage.”

  Their father did not answer, though he must have known that the words were meant for him.

  A smile sounded in Okaasan’s voice as she added, “No man is worthy of our daughter in our eyes, my husband. We are fortunate that such an excellent man has looked favorably on Masako.”

  Silently, Chiyo rebelled. True, Masako would live in a grand house with servants to tie her obi and obi-jime. She would have more elaborately patterned kimonos than ever before and so much fine food that she would never again be hungry.

  But that was not the same as a loving, happy family. What if those two daughters did not wish for a new mother? They could make life horrible for Masako. And she did not love Yamada Nori. She had never even spoken to him, simply worked in his fields. He had noticed her. Of course he had. Masako was a hard worker and the prettiest young woman in their village.

  The cart jolted over a large rock, slamming the basket up, then down. Chiyo bit her lip but didn’t make a sound. She braced more carefully against the sides.

  Although the cart rolled and jolted behind the plodding ox, Chiyo almost dozed and came fully awake only when the way became smooth. Otousan said, “Here is the border of Yamada Nori’s property.”

  “He does well to keep the road between his boundaries free of winter damage,” Okaasan replied with approval.

  Chiyo’s father was not as impressed. “He would do even better to smooth the road before and beyond.”

  “Surely there is no need to repair property that is not his own,” Masako dared to say.

  Chiyo was not surprised when her father’s answer was sharp. He was not used to his daughters questioning him. “I spoke of a thoughtful gesture to his neighbors. Be careful, elder daughter. While we are here, do not speak unless spoken to.”

  “Yes, Otousan.” Masako answered so softly she could barely be he
ard. Was her sister to lose herself when she married?

  “The open gate welcomes us,” Okaasan said.

  Too curious to be still, Chiyo lifted the basket lid just enough to peer beneath as a servant led the oxcart through the gate. Her lips parted on a quick, startled breath.

  The 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.

  Again, 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.”