“I could certainly use another pair of monpe,” said Emi cheerfully, knowing that she did not have any use for new clothes. What she needed was food, but with two children and Ayumi, Evgeni didn’t have any more than she did, and none to sell.
“You have no use for them,” said Evgeni, who had already sold Emi five pairs since she’d arrived in Karuizawa. “But I can’t say no to your generosity.” He motioned for her to follow him into the nearly empty store.
“Am I your first customer today?” asked Emi as Evgeni turned on a light.
“My second,” he said, pulling a pair of pants down from the wall for Emi. “Tom Tóth was here just after I opened.”
“Tóth?” asked Emi, shaking her head and handing her money to Evgeni. Sugar cost six hundred yen on the black market, if it could be found, but handmade pants were nearly free. “Too many gaijin to get to know in a few months,” she said of the foreign name.
“He’s a Hungarian . . . Jewish,” Evgeni explained as he went to package the pants. Emi stopped him and took them unwrapped and folded them under her arm. “He’s a photographer, a very talented one. Too bad he’s not allowed to photograph anything right now. All his cameras were taken away by the Kempaitai. I wonder what they are doing with them. Taking pictures of each other’s disagreeable faces.”
Emi laughed, but stopped short as she noticed that a group of German soldiers and officers—some of whom she recognized from the party—were walking on the ginza. She moved back from the large front window, out of sight.
“Avoiding the Germans? Not after you played at their New Year’s party. You need to get used to seeing them, as there will be many more coming this year,” said Evgeni.
“Why aren’t they fighting their own war at home?” asked Emi incredulously.
“Not soldiers, but citizens,” Evgeni clarified. “The government is rounding them up. They are no longer allowed to live freely in Japan but must either go to Hakone or come here.”
“It’s not the citizens I want to avoid,” said Emi, relieved, watching as one of the officers spit on the ground. “This photographer you mentioned,” she said. “Do they know he’s Jewish?” she asked, motioning with a tilt of her head to the men outside.
“Of course they do,” said Evgeni. “They know who every Jew is, even if they aren’t forcing them to wear a Star of David. It’s quite obvious, and besides, the Kempeitai keeps watch on all foreigners, Jew or not.”
“They don’t care? They never harass the Jews, more than the others? The Germans or the Kempaitai?” Emi had been told many times that it was the case in Karuizawa, but she still had trouble believing such behavior was possible.
“The Jews here live in peace,” said Evgeni with finality.
“I doubt that will last.” Emi looked longingly at the hibachi, wishing she had something to cook on them.
“Then no more piano playing for Hans Drexel?” asked Evgeni, appearing happy to give Emi a difficult time for her indiscretion.
“Never again,” said Emi, though she knew how much Jiro would have been helped by a fattening German meal in his state. Hesitating before she left Evgeni’s shop, Emi asked, “Do you know about the farm? That the German military has its own farm?”
“I know something about that,” said Evgeni after a pause. “Claire Ohkawa mentioned it before. It’s out that way,” he gestured, his voice uneasy. “North of the hotel. It’s not far from Kazuko Takahashi’s house. I saw it before, the fence, when I was helping her outside. But best not go anywhere near it,” said Evgeni, in a warning tone. “If that’s what you’re thinking.”
Emi’s face gave away that it was exactly what she was thinking.
“They may be different here toward the Jews, but they’re not entirely different from the men you encountered in Austria,” he warned.
“Jiro Mori is ill,” said Emi, her hand on the doorknob. “In the past few weeks, I think his hunger has developed from an annoyance to malnutrition. Where else is there to get food besides the Germans? Our rations are getting scanter. Even if you line up before the sun is out, the food they are providing is nearly spoiled. There is almost nothing to buy on the black market. I bought butter for an exorbitant price and it was extremely bitter. Nearly inedible. We had to cook it down until we could only use it for browning mushrooms and potatoes.”
“More goods might be available soon,” said Evgeni, not one to lose hope. “Until then we have hunting, a barter with friends, making do with rations like we’re supposed to. Ice fishing,” he added. “You might learn to ice fish.”
“I don’t think that will be good enough,” said Emi, thanking Evgeni for the pants and leaving the store.
Emi had complained many times to Christian about the food in Crystal City, but what she would have done for it now. She had written to her parents, finally explaining the food shortage in Karuizawa, but still not mentioning the Moris’ ill health. They had written back to say it was the same in Tokyo. They had given her what they could when she was home, but the situation had become dire in the capital city. They insisted that she was still better off in the countryside, where she could forage for food.
Emi walked slowly back to the Moris. Ahead of her she saw two young foxes scampering across the dirt road and she sped up to see them better. They were hidden in a thick grove of Japanese larch and white birch trees before she could catch up to them. Of course catching a fox with her bare hands was not an option, and she wondered if she should learn how to shoot a gun, if that was something that could help save Jiro Mori from declining. Like most of the able-bodied Japanese women in Karuizawa, she was working for the women’s volunteer labor corps, as was encouraged by the government, but they certainly hadn’t armed her or shown her how to shoot.
Feeling like she was made of nothing but worry, Emi reversed her route, deciding to walk out of town, past the Mampei Hotel, in what she surmised was the direction of the German farm. She knew Evgeni was right to warn her against it. The German military may have been keeping to themselves in Karuizawa, but they certainly wouldn’t if their food was stolen, and the Kempeitai was always there to punish with very harsh methods. She had heard stories about their torturing Japanese as well as foreigners.
As she walked, and the hours passed, Emi tried to remember what she had eaten that month. What the Moris had eaten. It was enough for a week, not four, she decided, thinking of the small pickled plums, the leathery squirrel meat, dried fish, and homemade cheese that Claire had brought them.