Page 66 of The Gods Will Sing Our Song

“What? But how—how did it decide who to save?”

“There is no answer to such a question,” Akira says. “It’s like asking why you are tall while another mortal is short. Such things are decided by luck and, at the same time, by preordainment from the gods. The two exist at once and are a holy mystery.”

“It’s bullshit.” A sob wrenches my voice, and my mind is a curtain, cut from top to bottom, the halves snapping in the wind. When I asked for the divine favor, did I make the request in a way that condemned one and saved the other? Could I have saved them both somehow?

“No.” Akira’s voice is hard. I don’t know if he can read my mind or simply guesses what I’m thinking. “You could not have saved them both. But you saved one, even though she was doomed.” He sighs impatiently. “I am most glad I am not mortal.”

“Yeah, you should be,” I say bitterly, burning with rage yet empty at the same time.

“Indeed.” Akira’s neck stretches and his face almost reaches mine. He ogles me, loathing and curiosity mixing in his glassy eyes. “Your years are short, and your lives are sand draining out of an hourglass from the moment you are born. And then your ridiculous passions lead to even more ridiculous anguishes and losses. You were meant for sweat, tears, and blood. I don’t understand the point.”

My mind hooks around Akira’s description of mortality. I stare into his endless eyes, seeing tiny copies of myself reflected inside them. They are voids. I think there’s nothing behind them—that if you were to stab one, the blade would never strike bone. Akira’s been around since creation. He is ancient, ageless. He’s seen more than I could ever imagine. He’s never lost anyone and never will.

Something in me breaks. Everything about him is strong and immovable and it makes me more of what I am: human, weak, anguished, gone. I don’t want it anymore. I want to cut out this grief inside me. I want to tear out the frailty that makes people love and lose each other. The tears in my eyes spill. I dash them away with the heels of my hands. I choke down sobs. I uselessly strike the dirt with my fist. Nothing stops them from flowing down my face.

Akira’s head angles and he watches me even more closely. His lips part as though to say something, but he doesn’t speak. One cheek twitches. Sitting up, he whistles a tune. Doesn’t sound like a whistle. It’s sort of like the strain of a violin, verging on a human voice. The melody is soft and mournful; a song tuned to my pain. He holds out a hand and the water swirls and gathers under it. Begins to dash and splatter in time to the music. It doesn’t babble. Not anymore. It runs like tears.

And it feels like I don’t weep alone.

Chapter Nineteen

Violet

Dear Violey-chan,

How joyful I am that our connection has been reestablished! Getting a backlog of your letters and art made your old man’s heart swell. Things have been fine. They have me in a prison hospital even though I’m no longer classified as a prisoner. As soon as my lungs are strong enough, I’m blowing this joint straight to you and Mama. Until then, I can rest and hear my own thoughts. No more endless questioning. Best of all, no more young men sitting across a steel table accusing me of things I didn’t do. They loved to shout, those young men. I think they liked hearing their own voices even more than mine. Shouting at me was their favorite thing to do, and anytime I hear anyone speak louder than normal, it makes me jump.

Now that I can hear my own thoughts, they of course speak of my girls, you and Mama. I am excited to hear you’ve met a god! I’ve always wondered if one would ever cross my path, and it’s confirmation of everything I’ve believed now that I know one has crossed yours. Be wary of him. You never know with a god. As soon as I’m with you, I would love to meet him and see some magic for myself firsthand.

Though I’m most interested in meeting your friend. Ren, right? I’m sure Mama is wary of him and I, of course, feel protective, but I’m glad you have someone special. You are an extraordinary girl, so I know, if he’s caught your attention, he must be extraordinary, too. Though don’t tell him that. Let him be scared of me.

Keep your head up, Violey-chan. I know things have been confusing and hard. I also know, though, that you are my American-born girl and that you see things differently than everyone else. I can tell from every one of your drawings. I want you to remember something. Love always casts a light. Not always very far in dark times, but always ahead.

As soon as I can, I’ll get better and come home to you and Mama. One day, we will walk on the beach together again. It will make Mama mad, because I shouldn’t exert my lungs, but I plan to swim out into the waves, too. The ocean will mend us. It always does.

It’s heart-wrenching to be at the library after Emi’s death.

I have her books to put on the shelves for other people to read. Since the Hamada family wants to take them home when we leave, Mrs. Hata tells me to write their surname in each one. I sit on the floor in the corner with Emi’s books around me and open the first one. I mean to write Hamada inside, but I pause. My fingers flip through the pages. Pressed flowers, advertisements for new dress patterns, receipts, and even buttons are tucked inside. I look at each item. The book tells one story, but the ephemera tell another. It seems Emi treated the book like a diary, trusting it with her memories and special things. Tears gather in my eyes. I blink them away and carefully remove the items. I’ll put them in an envelope for safekeeping and return them when we leave. Picking up the pencil, I take a shaky breath and write Emi Hamada inside each one. They were her books, and they still are.

“Violet,” Mrs. Hata says, startling me. “I was wondering if you’d like to design an invitation for a town hall we will be holding. It would run in the Manzanar Free Press. You can draw it out and add some illustrative elements.”

I lower the pencil. I know the camp’s dynamics. Many resent the community council. Still, I’ve listened closely to the meetings. It seems like the council just tries to make things as best as they can for us, especially Mr. Nomura. I’ve never been asked to draw anything before, much less anything that will be seen by many—and I’ve certainly never been asked to draw anything that matters or has a point of view.

Otōsan always tells me to be my own woman. If I think it will help, then I’ll help. I give Mrs. Hata an affirming nod.

She passes me a few sheets of paper and lets me sit at the table. I come up with a couple of different designs, but as I sketch American flags rippling in the wind and California poppies growing amid desert rocks, my pencil slows. I think about Otōsan being locked up in a jail cell and accused of betraying the country he loves.

“Don’t you resent them?” I ask quietly, half afraid Mrs. Hata might disapprove.

Mrs. Hata, who is surveying our small collection of books like a general inspecting his rookies and finding them tremendously lacking, turns to me. Lately, she’s been wearing different headscarves, and today’s headscarf wraps intricately around her hair. Combined with her perfect posture, she’s like a ballerina costumed for the stage. Her gaze falls on me, and I almost don’t dare to continue, but I’m unsettled, deep inside. “The administration, I mean. They say they give us freedom, but it’s all an illusion. Even the Manzanar Free Press isn’t free, even though freedom of the press is in the Constitution. The WRA approves everything that’s printed.”

“The government is made from people, and people get things wrong.” Mrs. Hata speaks briskly, unemotionally. “They get them wrong all the time.”

“That’s true,” I say, but it doesn’t make anything better. Mrs. Hata seems to notice my reticence because she pauses her work and comes to stand by my table.

“But never forget that wrong things can be made right.” Though she still sounds firm, her voice is slightly gentler. Slightly. “I think one day people will realize what happened to us was wrong. However, it’s a realization that must happen over and over. Did you do well in American history?”

Her gaze becomes steely, as though she suspects I didn’t.