Emi barely slept that night, despite the heavy blankets Mrs. Mori laid out for her. The cold coming up from the floor, even though she was in a Western-style bed, was nearly unbearable and when she walked to the bathroom in the morning, her hands were as stiff and ice cold as Mrs. Mori’s.
The sun had barely risen and the house was quiet when Emi returned to her room, which she soon saw was the Moris’ bedroom. She tiptoed over to their dressers, afraid her steps might make the floor creak, and looked at the photos in silver frames positioned on top. She smiled and picked up one of Jiro Mori. He was in his late fifties or early sixties, very distinguished, and standing by a shiny race car on a gravel road. Wearing a handsomely cut 1920s-style suit, he did suddenly remind her of her father. The photo next to it was of Yuka Mori in New York City, though the photo was taken many years earlier, as revealed by her age and clothes. Emi put the frames down carefully, got dressed as quickly as she could, and made her way silently downstairs, only to see the two forms still under the blankets, unmoving. In the light of day, she saw that the sparsely decorated living room was handsomely done in a traditional Japanese style, with low tables and thick pillows for resting on. But it had all been pushed aside to make room for sleeping and a pile of firewood wrapped in a leather sleeve.
Not wanting to disturb her hosts, Emi slipped out the front door and headed, she hoped, into town. Once down the Moris’ muddy lane, she was on the slightly wider road that she had come down with Ayumi. All around her were tall pine trees, thick and full, next to bare maple and larch trees. The dirt was drier and packed down on the road and Emi picked up her step, the sound of birds, more birds than she’d heard since she’d been interned in hotels on the East Coast, helping to wake her up. It was a peaceful, brisk thirty-minute walk into town, and Emi soon spotted the shopping street and headed to Evgeni’s store. She hoped he was there at such an early hour, as she wanted to thank him and his wife for their kindness.
There was hardly anyone about, just a few men in a horse-drawn cart and some older Japanese women sweeping the stoops of the stores. Emi slowed down and watched the horses, their smell reminding her of the animals in Crystal City.
She turned her eyes away as one of the horses lifted his tail to relieve himself, but soon saw all the Japanese women who had been sweeping run over to the horse and start scooping up his dung.
“Kōzan!” one woman screamed, laying her claim to the dung and batting away another’s hands.
“We are much hungrier in my house than you are,” she heard another say.
“They don’t eat it,” said a man’s voice over Emi’s shoulder. “They use it to fertilize their tiny vegetable gardens. Manure is very hard to get now. So when the horses go, the women start running.”
Emi turned around and looked at Evgeni, his thinning blond hair dirty and pressed to his scalp.
“I was hoping to see you,” said Emi, smiling.
He gestured for her to follow him and put his key in the door of his store.
“You made it to the Moris’ all right?” he asked, turning on the lights.
“With you and your wife’s help, I did,” said Emi, thanking him.
“We were happy to help,” he said. “There’s quite a lot to learn about survival here. It’s a strange town now that it’s overrun with foreigners. Many people, not enough food. You will learn in time where certain things hide—watercress, mushrooms, and strawberries in the summertime—and how to eat down to the bone. It’s not ideal, but it’s war.”
Emi was formulating a response when she heard the store door open and a young white woman came in, closing the door loudly behind her. To Emi’s surprise, Evgeni spoke to her in Japanese. Emi tried not to stare, but the sight of two Caucasian people speaking to each other in Japanese was too much for her. When there was a pause in conversation, Emi interjected and asked Evgeni why they were speaking Japanese.
“It must look strange to you,” said Evgeni. “Especially since you are new to Karuizawa.” He gestured to the young woman, vibrant and pretty despite her layers of thick clothes. “This is Claire Ohkawa. Claire Smith Ohkawa. She’s married to Kiyoshi Ohkawa, who works at the Mampei Hotel. She is Australian and doesn’t speak Russian, and I don’t speak much English. But we both speak Japanese. Quite well, I’d like to think.”
Claire bowed to Emi, but Emi just blurted out in English, “You are Australian?”
“And you speak English!” said Claire, reaching out and wrapping Emi in an excited hug. “Oh, English!” she exclaimed. “Come and have a cup of tea with me at the hotel,” she said. “I haven’t spoken English in weeks.”
“Well, I—”
“Oh, please don’t say no,” Claire interrupted her. “You must be new here or I would know you, and I know Karuizawa very well. We can be most helpful to each other, I’m sure of it. Come with me, I beg you.”
“She’s innocent enough,” said Evgeni in Japanese, and Claire opened the door to let them both out, pulling her scarf up to cover her nose and mouth.
“Your husband is Japanese?” Emi asked Claire after she had explained to her why she spoke English and what she was doing in Karuizawa.
“Yes, Kiyoshi,” said Claire. “He is and I love him, and I love it here. I never want to return to Australia. Not that it is even an option. It’s true, it was much better in Japan before the war, but it will be like it was again. Soon, I hope. And Karuizawa is different from the rest of the country. The war hasn’t hit us as hard here. There are food shortages, like anywhere, but everyone says we won’t get bombed and I believe them.”
“Who is everyone?” asked Emi, and Claire made a circle gesture with her hand indicating the town.
“I’ve endured a bombing,” she added. “I was in Tokyo during the raid in ’42. Everyone says it wasn’t much, but it was still something to me. I was walking right down the street in the Ginza. The American planes were flying so low you could almost see the pilots’ faces. And you know the strangest thing? They dropped notes from their windows. Some of them said, ‘I love you.’ I picked one of those up off the ground and waved it at the pilots. I still have it. It just shows you who is dropping bombs—little boys who don’t know any better. If they had ever spent time here, in this great country, they wouldn’t drop bombs on it.”
“Do you think it’s so great?” Emi asked, surprised to hear a foreigner speaking that way. She knew that many Japanese diplomats’ wives who were foreign felt very isolated when they were in Japan.