Little Lily

Chapter 6. The Wall of Paper Birds

By the end of the second week, the Shimabuku camp had acquired its steady, frightening geography. In the center, where rain-washed brown Okinawan clay had once been, the distribution square now gleamed white – it always smelled of bleaching powder, rusty iron, and sweet powdered milk. From it, “streets” radiated in regular spokes, formed by endless rows of green canvas tents.

Each sector had its own ritual, its own hierarchy, and its own sound. Near the medical tent, it smelled of iodine, gangrene, and death; there, lying on stretchers, were those whose survival the American doctors measured in hours. In the northern part of the camp, where fishermen and old people from the destroyed village of Itoman had settled, Buddhist memorial prayers hummed monotonously in the evenings, like the surf. And here, on the southern outskirts, between the field kitchen and the engineer supply depot, Miko’s kankara-sanshin chimed, and forty orphaned voices shouted alien, angular words in unison.

The camp’s morning began at six with a sluggish line at the water standpipe. The water ran brackish and warm, but women and children stood for it for hours, carefully holding aluminum buckets. At seven – the distribution of gray, sticky porridge. At eight – inspection, when American patrols made the rounds, counting heads and checking lists as if tallying surviving livestock. And at nine, school began.

This fragile little world, built from tin cans and English phrases, was interrupted by a new sound.

Tap. Tap-tap. Tap.

Not the sound the ears of Shimabuku were used to – not the flapping of storm canvas, nor the clanking of water drums – but a frequent, dry, wooden tapping. A hammer. A real iron hammer with a wooden handle. The sound was so domestic, so peaceful, and therefore so impossible in the middle of the camp, that the children on the mats fell silent all at once and turned their heads – like a flock of birds – toward the square.

There, four American soldiers in green shirts with rolled-up sleeves were digging heavy wooden posts into the ground. To the posts, methodically and with cheerful banter, they nailed wide, smooth, freshly sawn boards. Bulletins. Ten. Twenty. Thirty… White wooden walls smelling of fresh timber and damp forest. They lined up in a long, even row along the entire square, and their clean, untouched whiteness exuded something frighteningly new. In the camp air, possibility appeared.

Kimura sat on an overturned wooden ammo crate, a notebook resting on his knee, and watched. Not the soldiers. Not the boards. Them.

For Ren, this war had long turned into a surreal immersion into the hell of an alien, fractured consciousness. He was a Nisei – a hafu, half-blood, from Sacramento – a man stuck in between. In America, boys had called him a “Jap,” while in the POW camp, Japanese officers spat at his feet, viewing him as a traitor to his blood. At home, his mother always spoke a language his father was ashamed of, and prayed into her pillow. Out of this eternal loneliness, Ren had learned the main thing – to look and notice what others missed.

Every day, thousands of tragedies passed through his translations, but these two girls from the Himeyuri corps made his heart squeeze differently.

Miko frightened him. In her was steel – the very absolute, unyielding bearing that the Imperial newspapers trumpeted, but directed not toward a glorious death, but toward fierce, stubborn survival. She moved steadily, her back a bastion protecting her small school from the entire world. She was a fortress without a single visible crack.

And Yuriko... Yuriko was different. Ren caught himself following her with his eyes as soon as the staff jeep drove into the southern sector. In Yuriko there was no such efficient armor. She moved hesitantly, nervously, as if afraid to take up space, as if constantly trying to make herself invisible, to shield some inner, ringing brittleness. Dark, tangled hair, thin wrists, a pale collarbone protruding from under a bunch of washed-out school uniform... She seemed to Ren like a glass furin wind chime that had miraculously survived at the epicenter of a typhoon. In her defenselessness lay the beauty of an open palm – honest, wounded, unable to hide pain – and strong. And he felt a desire – painfully, to the point of clenching his teeth – to walk up to her. Not because she was beautiful – he had seen beautiful women in Sacramento, in San Francisco, in hospitals. And not as an employee, a junior officer of the US Army, but simply – to walk up, push back a strand of hair fallen over her face, and do something that would make her thin lips quiver into a smile.

Ren pulled a long, dry blade of grass from his pocket and mechanically began tying a complex Native American knot his mother had taught him in childhood. It helped calm the trembling in his fingers.

He stood up, walked over to the girls, and handed Miko a spool from a field cable, around which several meters of fine copper wire were wound: “Here. For your instruments.”

Then Ren turned to Yuriko. He unbuttoned his shirt's breast pocket, took out his notebook, carefully tore out a few clean, dazzlingly white sheets, and handed them to her along with a pencil.

“What is this, Mr. Kimura?” Yuriko asked quietly, looking at the paper with inexplicable fear.

“Those are bulletin boards,” Ren pointed to the wooden panels where soldiers were already finishing nailing supports. “Command gave permission to put them up in all sectors. You can write your names. And the names of those you are looking for. If any of your loved ones survived in other camps – they will see it. It... it’s like paper boats, Yuriko-san. Or like birds. You release them into the ocean and you don't know if they will reach the other side. But you can't not release them.”

Write a name. For Yuriko, this was the scariest moment since the day she had thrown the grenade under the roots of the banyan tree.

As long as the names of her mother, her brother Soma, and her father remained unspoken, they existed in a state of tangled, blissful uncertainty. They lived in her memory whole and unharmed. Writing them on the board meant setting off the ruthless mechanism of reality. It meant admitting: they were lost, the world was destroyed, and perhaps there would be no one left to check the ashes. To write was to give the world the chance to shatter you completely.

Miko was pale as camp lime. Her hand trembled, but she took the pencil and quickly, in a clear, almost teacher-like handwriting, rendering every stroke, wrote on the scrap of paper: “Nishida Miko. First Girls’ School. Alive. Looking for family.”

Yuriko swallowed a dry lump in her throat. The pencil felt heavy as a gun breech. Her fingers wouldn't obey; the dirt on her wrist mixed with fresh sweat. She pressed the paper against the smooth pine board of the bulletin and wrote: “Nakayama Yuriko. First Girls’ School. Alive. Looking for mother and brother Soma. Father – don't know.”

“Father – don't know.” Two words beneath which lay an abyss. Not “died,” not “missing,” but precisely this “don't know” hanging between heaven and earth, which was worse than any certainty.

They were far from the first. The white boards were already dotted with scraps of paper, torn pieces of American cardboard, rags from undershirts. Written on them in charcoal, pencil, or squeezed berry juice were names and descriptions. “Tall woman with a mole on her cheek,” “Five-year-old boy, without left arm,” “Look for us in Sector B.” This entire huge wall rustled in the warm wind like a giant living creature woven from hope and horror. Dozens, hundreds of paper birds, pinned with nails to a wooden raft in the middle of an indifferent ocean. And every description was a portrait: small, uneven, written with love on a piece of wood – and every portrait screamed: Are you alive? Are you here? Answer me.

Miko stepped back slightly. Yuriko stood unable to tear her gaze away from her note, and suddenly felt hot tears flowing silently down her cheeks. She didn't sob – just trails of clear water cutting through the camp dust on her face. She felt unbearably ashamed of her weakness in front of Ren, in front of Miko, in front of the sleeping camp.

Ren Kimura stepped toward her. His voice sounded steady, professional – like the voice of an interpreter – but deep within it vibrated something entirely different: “Don't worry, Yuriko-san. The war will end soon. The checkpoints will be removed, and you'll be able to go home.”

He faltered, looking into her wet eyes, at the pulsing vein on her temple, and added quietly, humanly: “If there is still a home.”

And fell silent.

“There is no home,” Yuriko finally wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. “Our village, Mawashiasato... it burned down. Nothing is left.”

“I know,” Ren answered softly, looking away so as not to give himself away. “You will find them. Or they will find you. And if not... Let it be another home. One that you build yourselves.”

He turned sharply and walked toward the staff jeep – tall, in a foreign uniform, but no longer frightening.

Miko walked up to Hinata. The boy stood nearby, barefoot, in his constant three-button shirt, staring spellbound at the rustling notes. He couldn't really read yet, but his sensitive, childish heart understood everything.

“Hinata,” Miko squatted softly in front of him. “Would you like us to write your name too? Your mom's name?”

The boy looked at the swaying paper wall for a long time. His lips quivered; he bit his lower lip hard, and then slowly shook his head.

“No,” he said very quietly.

“Why, Hinata?”

“Because... if we write it, and Mom doesn't come...” he swallowed, hiding his eyes, “then it will be like I lost her completely. For good. But as long as it isn't written here – I haven't lost her. She's just far away. In the jungle. She will come.”

Miko fell silent. Yuriko pressed her palm to her lips. The paper birds on the wall kept rustling under gusts of wind as if breathing.

Yuriko turned to call Hinata back to the mats, but her gaze met something heavy.

About ten meters away, by the large camp water cauldrons, stood a group of women from the northern sectors. They did not move. Their faces, dried by the sun and grief, were gray, and their gazes were motionless and cold. The women whispered, covering their mouths with their palms, and in those gazes there was neither pity nor gratitude for the girls teaching the orphans.

There was something else there. A sharp, sticky contempt.

Yuriko physically felt that glare against her back – exactly the way she had felt the stalk of an alien beast in the jungles of Ihamigama. She could almost hear their snakelike whisper: “Himeyuri... The pure daughters of the Emperor should have stayed in the caves. All respectable schoolgirls blew themselves up with grenades or threw themselves off cliffs. But these ones survived. Ran away. And now they smile at the long-nosed demons, take their clean paper, eat their chocolate. Traitors.”

Yuriko shifted her shoulders as if from a sudden draft. Hinata, instantly catching her movement, dropped his ration biscuit, ran over, and wrapped his thin little arms tightly around her legs with all his strength. He glared angrily from under his brow at the women whispering by the cauldrons, shielding his Yuriko with his body.

Yuriko placed her palm on his stiff cowlick. Miko had seen those looks too, but her face remained a flawless, impassive mask. She straightened her back even more and walked toward the tent with a steady stride.

In the evening, the inflamed, crimson sun sank behind the rows of barbed wire. The camp submerged into precarious twilight.

Yuriko sat on the edge of the mat. Hinata was already asleep, as usual burying his nose in her hakama and tightly, to the point of white knuckles, clutching her index finger with his small palm. Miko sat beside her, shoulder to shoulder. In the dark, her silhouette seemed carved from ebony. As always, she was darning the torn hem of her skirt with a thread pulled from the strap of an American parachute.

“I wrote a note,” Miko whispered without turning her head. “And I’m... I’m terrified, Yuriko.”

Yuriko remained silent. Against such fear, no words existed. It was their shared fear – one for two, of the exact same temperature and depth.

Instead of an answer, she placed her free left hand on the warm, dust-scented earth in front of them. Miko did not look up, her fingers continuing to move the needle rhythmically, but a moment later her palm – warm, with hard calluses from washing clothes – faintly, weightlessly covered Yuriko’s fingers.

Just for a second. And her hand stopped trembling.

Far away on the square, the wind fluttered thousands of pinned sheets. The white boards stood in the dark like the sails of ships stranded in a harbor at the edge of the world. The paper birds rustled, whispering to each other about all who had died and all who had survived, and from that rustling, the camp night became, for one brief moment, a little quieter.

Chapter 7. New Skin

By the end of July, the Shimabuku camp had learned to breathe.

But he breathed differently – not like healthy people breathe: evenly, deeply, without noticing his own breathing – he breathed like a seriously wounded but surviving creature breathes: with wheezing, long pauses, twitching of the canvas roofs, but alive.

July was past its midpoint, and the camp had ceased to be a temporary shelter, turning into a vast, dusty city living by its own harsh laws. The heat was so dense that the air above the tents shimmered, distorting the outlines of the water towers.

Yet through this suffocating dust, a routine began to emerge. Rice was handed out on time. Water flowed from the standpipes – brackish, with a taste of rust and lime, but flowing nonetheless. American engineers had repaired the latrine trenches. The children were no longer just shouting foreign words – they had turned into an obedient little unit that obeyed the two girls. And when they raised their hands, calling out English phrases, it felt as though the school's canvas tent grew somehow cleaner.

The children shouted “Gud mornig! Ai em hangri” – no longer in a chorus, but individually, raising their hands like in an arithmetic lesson – and from this shouting, from this funny, ridiculous, childish “I am hungry” in a foreign language, the tent felt warmer. Not from the temperature. From the rhythm. From the fact that the world had found an order, and that order was not military, not camp-like, but school-like: the bell (a stick striking the bottom of a tin can), a lesson (letters, numbers, sanshin), recess (peanuts and banana peels), another lesson.

Thus the world found a new rhythm: life adapted to the emptiness, the way water adapts to the shape of its vessel.

Their own clothes by this time had turned into a translucent concept of the past. Miko’s dark maroon hakama had become rags, held together only by her stubbornness and parachute thread. Yuriko’s white sailor suit was so deeply soaked in insidious brown Okinawan dust that it seemed sewn from gray burlap. This school uniform no longer protected – it had thinned out, turning into a monument to a world that no longer existed.

Lessons had just ended. The sun hung so low that the shadows of the tents covered the entire southern edge of the camp. Hinata sat on the mat, intently sorting through empty shell casings that served as an abacus for the children, when an army Willys jeep rolled up to their patch, kicking up a white cloud of dust. The engine sputtered and died.

A woman stepped out of the vehicle.

Yuriko recognized her immediately – it was the very same woman with the Red Cross armband who had come to them at the very beginning with cold, appraising questions. But now there was no cross on her. She was dressed in an austere, dark-blue dress of heavy cotton fabric with a high collar. There was nothing feminine about it – no darts, no folds, no ruffles; it resembled workwear or a buttonless closed tunic, cut so as not to hinder movement. On the fabric there were no patches, no insignia, no stars. And in this absence of symbols, in this stern cleanliness of the cloth, there was more weight than in any military uniform.

Two American soldiers quickly unloaded four huge canvas bales tightly bound with twine from the back of the jeep, dropped them straight into the dust, and stepped aside.

The woman walked over to Miko. She stood straight, hands clasped behind her back.

“Hello,” her voice was low, businesslike, with a strange lilt to her accent. “We’ve met before. I am Mrs. Sanchez. Umi Sanchez. I represent the civil affairs section of the island’s military administration.”

She paused, peering into the girls’ faces, and then added in pure, soft Okinawan dialect – quietly, as if sharing a secret:

“My parents are from the island. From Urasoe.”

Urasoe. At the sound of that name, something inside Yuriko gave a brief, blind tug. It was right next to her home village of Mawashiasato. It was her former world – shattered, turned upside down, having once crossed the ocean and now returned in an American jeep.

Miko straightened up. Her back turned completely rigid, her shoulders squared – a habitual reflex when facing any unknown. There was no defiance in this movement, only absolute readiness to take a blow.

“Can we help you with something, Mrs. Sanchez?” Miko asked. Her voice sounded steady. Slightly steadier than it should have been.

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