Page 27 of The Gods Will Sing Our Song

Mrs. Ross

I crumple the letter in my fist. It makes my hand sting after it was brutalized by the pickax but I don’t care. Lovely to meet you? Warmly? She makes it sound like we met at brunch, not that she wants to take my niece or nephew away and leave us behind for dead.

“Screw her,” I mutter. Mama rolls her eyes, like I’m annoying her. “What?” I snap, unable to stay calm. “You don’t think it’s insulting that she sent us a bag of wood chips and a reminder that she wants Emi’s baby? The lady’s basically a fairy tale hag, trying to steal a baby.”

“It’s dried flower petals.”

“What?”

“It isn’t wood chips in the sachet.” Mama takes another sniff. “At least she sent it. She could’ve just sent the note.”

“Why do you want a sachet?”

“I can put the flower petals in a cup for the scent and use the sachet as a tea bag.” Of all things, Mama sounds triumphant, and I fight the urge to tear out my own hair. I tuck the box under my arm and we go back inside. I’m relieved that Emi is still sleeping. I put the box on the floor and kick it under my bed, swallowing down my rage. Mr. Nomura knocks on the wall and Mama tells him to enter. He spends more and more time in our apartment, all the while wearing his uniform.

Settling onto a crate, he picks up the old medical book. He must’ve given up on its usefulness because he carefully removes the first page. He leans back and his hands deftly move to fold it into an origami flower. He hums under his breath. The sound reminds me of the strange man, whistling his way through the camp.

Emi stirs. I go to her bedside. Mama hovers over my shoulder and Mr. Nomura watches, lowering his origami. Slowly, Emi’s blue eyelids flutter open. I let out a sigh. I never knew how much it could mean for someone you love to simply look at you. I pick up the tin cup of water by her bed and give her a drink.

“How do you feel?”

“Tired,” she says, even though she’s been sleeping nonstop. She doesn’t seem feverish, though she’s weak. Maybe the worst is behind us. “I thought our cracked ceiling back home was the worst ceiling in the world.” Together, we glance up at the unfinished pine spreading over our heads, crossbeams stringing between the rafters. “I was wrong.”

“Yeah, this place makes home look like the Biltmore Hotel, doesn’t it?” A small smile crosses Emi’s lips. Makes me happy. “Hey, how about I read to you?”

“I haven’t seen you read in years.” Emi’s voice is soft, but it’s hers. She’s coming back to us. She has to be. “Are you sure you still remember how?”

“Hey, I read…cereal boxes.” I was planning on searching for the man again, but if Emi wants me to read, I’ll read. I’ll do anything to keep her spirits up, especially after she was so upset by Mrs. Ross. “Where’s that book? The French one that I trucked here.”

“Les Misérables.”

“Yes, that one. Leh Misseres.” I exaggerate the title and butcher it at the same time, knowing it’ll get a reaction from her. Emi sighs in annoyance, but her smile widens. I turn to get the book and am startled to find Mr. Nomura standing behind me, holding it out. Slowly, I take it. “Thank you,” I say, but it comes out like a mumble.

He doesn’t respond but returns to his crate and carefully continues his origami. I flip open the giant book. It’s so heavy, you could use it as a dumbbell. Emi has saved her place with a button. She’s always used random items as bookmarks—I’ve even seen her use a coffee mug once. Who needs a bookmark when you can use your brother’s pocketknife, even if it leaves him searching for it?

I begin reading. Every few moments, Emi exasperatedly corrects my horrible French pronunciation, but soon the story kind of melts off the pages. It pops up around us. I can see it clearly. At some point, Mama leaves and comes back with a mound of rice and boiled Vienna sausages in a napkin for Emi and a mug of coffee for Mr. Nomura. It’s my turn to go eat but I don’t stop.

Mama settles on her bed. Mr. Nomura keeps folding paper flowers. Emi ignores the cold hot dogs and undercooked rice. I keep reading. A hot morning sandstorm hollers outside and the barrack rattles, but we are all here, together. It’s a weird scene—me, Emi, Mama, and Mr. Nomura. This is what our living room would’ve been like every night if Papa hadn’t left. Four of us instead of three. I don’t know what to do with the thought, so I keep reading, glancing up every now and then. Everyone listens.

Hell, I think even the baby is listening.

I hate this place. But, bizarrely, this is the least alone I’ve felt in a long time.

An hour later, I head to work, the story vivid in my mind. I keep looking for the man. Don’t find him. Maybe he’s used his powers and gotten the hell out of dodge. I certainly would. Why would some sort of god or spirit want to be here, anyway? Makes sense that he poked around and then took off.

When I arrive, I get right to work. Kai isn’t there yet. He’ll come after school. I want to ask him if Violet is at school and have even considered passing by myself to see if she’s there. But if I say her name or see her face again, I’ll give her more space in my head. And it’s already consumed by her.

Back home, I unloaded oranges, strawberries, raspberries, and peaches driven in from the Orange County orchards. Here, everything passes through my hands. A lot of it is in questionable condition, like wilted vegetables and strange cuts of meat packed in slushy ice. There are also vials for typhoid, diphtheria, and whooping cough immunizations, construction materials, sewing machines, and our rations, which include coffee, sugar, and chocolate bars, though I’m told those are rare because of wartime restrictions. A guard oversees us, but he leaves to go smoke and doesn’t return.

Chirp, chirp.

Peeps come from a truck. I look inside and discover white chicks nestled in cardboard boxes full of straw. They bob about, covered in soft, fluffy down.

“We get two thousand white leghorn chicks a week,” James tells me. He’s appointed himself my unofficial boss. “The administration is having us set up coops with lawns and everything. At the very least, we’ll have fresh eggs.”

“Great,” I say, and pick up the first crate. My shoulder aches, but at least the chicks aren’t as heavy as the furniture for the WRA offices. I spy something blurry on James’s arm and squint. He notices me noticing and gives a wolfish grin. It’s a tattoo, I realize. Its borders are uneven, the ink driven deep under the skin. The penmanship is poor, and the tattoo is ridged in red, clearly irritated. I fight the urge to smirk.

“You like this? I made it here with ink from a pen and a razor blade,” James says proudly. “It means freedom. They think we’re weak and submissive, when samurai blood runs through our veins. Or”—he looks me over in a way that suggests he assumes I have more rice paddy farmer lineage than samurai—“at least through mine.”