Notification: Again, it's been ages since this story had an update, so older readers should reread the prologue and the first chapter. Well, everyone should. The childhood era builds the foundation, but also foreshadows future events; events that take place in the middle, and events that take place closer to the end.

Timeline: 1913, Ayumi Fujimoto (nee Ito) arrives in San Francisco. The Fujimoto family expands: 1914, Kenji's born; 1915, Toshiyuki's daughter is born; 1916, Sakura's born; 1917, Toshiyuki's son is born; 1919, Toshiyuki's second son is born; and 1920, Toshiyuki's third son is born. 1921, Toshiharu and Toshiyuki's mother arrives.


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II: Imo [no Ko] o Arau Yoo

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Friday, the day when Toshiyuki popped by to deliver vegetables, the man arriving and leaving in a whirlwind of activity. Friday, the day that Kenji restlessly waited for when the school week started once again, because it meant no teachers, no rules, no reading. (It meant he could umpire as many games as he could—the young boy was quickly earning a reputation as well as a nickname in the enclave. But the nickname? Well, it was Umpire, of course!) Friday, the day when Little Tokyo abruptly changed from a gentle, sometimes sleepy, buzz of activity to resemble, well, the sea.

Friday (in this case, the last Friday of the month) was the day when the farming families came to town to shop, to visit, and (in this case, the younger members) to go out with their urban cousins to the Fuji Theatre where they could follow the exploits of cowboy heroes. It meant that the enclave was busier than usual. Meant that the usual buzz of activity was now a confounding din of sounds and smells and many a child got lost in the crowd, helplessly pulled away from kith and kin like a struggling swimmer being pulled out to sea.

It was a Friday afternoon, hours after the schools had closed, so that meant that the Fujimoto family (like many other families) was visiting the local park. Enjoying a picnic (organized by Ayumi and her sister-in-law), enjoying the meal (prepared by Toshiyuki who still, after all this time, liked to try new recipes), and enjoying their conversation about the children's experiences at school (noting the differences between the larger urban school Kenji attended, and the smaller one Toshiyuki's daughter went to.)

It was then that Sakura was told she was starting school soon, and that day, she threw another rare tantrum that made quite a few eyebrows arch up, up, up. (The umbrella-wielding old woman, who had been introduced to Sakura a few months ago—"Sakura-chan, this is your grandmother, please greet her."—who had been living with said girl's uncle since arriving in the country, watched the unfolding drama over the rim of her teacup. Rei Fujimoto, the wife of a long-deceased samurai, the mother of four sons, didn't say a word. But she didn't have to. The look in her eye communicated her displeasure.) Who knew that little, shy Sakura, someone as meek as a kitten, could scream like that?

That day, on a Friday, when Sakura was still five years old—when her world came crashing down around her because she could no longer spend every waking moment with her okaasan—she found out that her otosan held the supreme position in their family. (Later, she would realise that every otosan in the Japanese immigrant family had that position.) He was the oldest son, and everyone, even his own okaasan—Sakura's obaachan—had to listen to him.

Toshiharu Fujimoto was a good man. He worked hard, listened to his wife, indulged his son, and teased his daughter. He was constantly reading (he enjoyed translating British literature), listening to the radio, and making sure that he was up to date with the state of his motherland. ("Japan," he had told Sakura, "has frequent earthquakes.") He was a calm man who had laugh lines etched around his eyes—Sakura was always poking at the folds of skin, poke, poke, poke-poke.

But when he lost his temper, he lost it.

That day, on a Friday, Toshiharu shouted.

He commanded Sakura to stop. At once!

And Sakura did.

But she also ran.

Right into the heart of Little Tokyo.

Most days, the enclave was a thrilling kaleidoscope of colours. Of voices. People, here and there. But that day, the community was an incomprehensible whirlwind of signs—bookstores, newspapers, tofu shops, department stores—and of smells—bowls of steaming chop suey, small rounds of manju. Then, there was the press of limbs and the stomping of feet—Sakura squealed when a heel dropped down on her foot, but the throbbing pain was swiftly overshadowed when an elbow came out of nowhere and struck her on her head.

Ayumi had always said that during peak hours, Little Tokyo was like washing a bucketful of potatoes. So crowded that they could hardly turn around. But Ayumi would say the same about their own home when Toshiyuki and his family visited for the weekend, and then every room and bathroom and chair would be occupied.

But there was a difference between a busy (somewhat unfamiliar) Little Tokyo and a busy (familiar) home.

One moment, Sakura was seething, clenching her fists.

Seconds later, she clutched her head as she turned this way and that, anxiously looking for a familiar face—otosan, okaasan, even niisan! With watery eyes, she looked from one strange face to the next, but she was too small. No one seemed to notice her. No one seemed to care. Sakura breathed in, opened her lips to say something, to ask for help, but then her heart was in her throat, robbing her of her ability to speak. A strangled breath of air whooshed from her lips.

It was on a Friday that Sakura threw a tantrum.

And then experienced what it was like to be lost in a sea of people.

To be there but to be invisible. Meaningless. Worthless.

Voiceless.

But it also made her aware of something else, something important. Something—or rather someone—she rarely focused on. This person, this someone, slithered his way through the crowd, shoving aside arm after arm as he craned his neck, eyes flicking to and fro. This person, normally the centre of attention (happily the centre of attention unlike Sakura), was only thinking of her. Only concentrating on her.

And when Kenji appeared at his sister's side like an unexpected wraith, he looked down his nose at her. Crossed his arms, and then announced that she was too young to go off by herself, that she couldn't run away again—why, he would sit on her and make her feel real sorry, indeed!

He grabbed her hand.

Was his hand that clammy? Or was it hers?

"… making everyone worry," Kenji muttered under his breath, then added, as though it personally offended him, "can only count your age with one hand."

"Onii-chan …" Big brother, she mumbled, but big brother was dragging her through the crowd, dragging her down the street, dragging her past their obaachan (who was using her umbrella as a walking stick), and depositing her in their otosan's arms. Sakura breathed in deeply (otosan always smelled of soap), accepted his admonishments ("Never run off again!"), and glanced at Kenji out of the corner of her eye.

Little Sakura wasn't aware of this, but on that Friday, a Friday that should have been as relaxing as any other Friday, a seed sprouted. It would quickly grow roots, threading itself into the very essence of her being. It was a small thing, it didn't mean much to her at that moment, but older Sakura would look back at that Friday and know: this, this moment made two siblings who were living two very different lives care for each other, watch out for each other, and listen to each other.


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(Sakura would only realise years and years later how her obaachan had changed the intricate bonds between her children and grandchildren. She would only realise years and years later that obaachan was a master puppeteer.)

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There was one room in the house that Sakura (and even Kenji) avoided. Oh, they could wonder around in the room, glance at the old newspapers and letters, but they knew that space was their otosan's office. They all had their own space—Ayumi had a little table in the bedroom she shared with Toshiharu—but the office became off-limits when Toshiharu entered the room and then shut the door behind him.

Sometimes, he would close the door because he had to finish writing a report. Sometimes, he would be entertaining a friend—most of the time said friend would be John Lazo, a friendly man who worked for the Santa Fe Railroad, painted houses, and always stooped down to give Sakura some candy. (Most family friends were entertained in the front of the house, but because John lived further away, he couldn't visit as frequently as he could. When John could visit, Toshiharu would spirit him away to his office so that he could have John's undivided attention.) Sometimes, he simply needed some peace and quiet.

But of course, Toshiharu wasn't at home all the time, and that meant the rest of the family could use the desk (Ayumi would sit there when she wanted to doublecheck their finances), take a book from the shelf (Kenji never liked to sit still for too long, but books? Books could always capture his attention) or sit in one of the over-stuffed armchairs (Sakura was frequently found dozing in one of said armchairs.) That was their routine.

However, their routine had been changing, all because of one person: obaachan.

For as long as Sakura could remember, Rei Fujimoto had existed in letters and in crinkled photos. Had existed in bedtime stories and in outlandish tales that Toshiyuki loved to tell. (A woman of her age couldn't have killed a shark with her bare hands!) The oldest Fujimoto hadn't been there, so she hadn't been real; and Sakura had believed that up until the day she and Kenji and her cousins and the rest of the family had met obaachan in the harbour.

It had been such a formal event, with a considerable amount of bowing, that Sakura hadn't known what to do.

Because Toshiyuki was smiling, but it wasn't the same. (His smile was noticeably subdued.) Ayumi and her sister-in-law were standing to the side, behind their husbands. (They always, always, stood beside them.) Two of her cousins kept looking at each other, shuffling their feet, and pursing their lips. (They had been ordered to be on their best behaviour.) Kenji kept brushing the palm of his hand across his coifed hair. (Normally, his hair was a natural disaster, pointing in all directions.)

And Sakura? Sakura hadn't been able to move, bodies pressed against her to her left, to her right. Once again, it was like washing a bucketful of potatoes. So crowded that they could hardly turn around.

She had expected them to leave soon, since they were never at the harbour for long—they only went there for important business, important shopping, and then they would return home. But the Fujimoto family remained in the harbour for hours, the chilly breeze ruffling Sakura's carefully styled hair.

(The next day, she would be confined to bed, shivering and sneezing and feeling oh so terribly warm.)

That feeling of being crushed, of being unable to go where she wanted to, followed her home. Because from thereon, their little home wasn't just theirs—it was also obaachan's, when she came visiting every month, and it was also Toshiyuki's, because he and his family would tag along. And so, their home became crowded.

(That feeling of being crushed, of being unable to go where she wanted to, vexed little Sakura. But as time would pass, she would get used to having more family around, used to bumping into and nearly tripping over the extra limbs. Eventually, it would feel strange to move around freely.)

Their routine changed, and Rei Fujimoto was initially the old woman with the ever-present lacquered umbrella, speaking about faceless people left behind in Nihon, instructing Ayumi how prepare a certain dish—even though Ayumi had ample experience with said dish. Then, as time passed, obaachan's role in Sakura's life changed: she was now the old woman with the ever-present lacquered umbrella, seating herself at Toshiharu's desk and instructing both Sakura and Kenji on their calligraphy.

She was now the old woman with the ever-present lacquered umbrella, seeking to instil a sense of oyakoto—filial piety—in her grandchildren. Who was impressed with Kenji's seriousness, murmuring under her breath, "Yoh-yaru na." You surely do well. (Even at five, Sakura wanted to bark out that that wasn't her niisan, that he was just playing, but Kenji always seemed to know when she wanted to speak out of turn, discretely pinching her side.) Who would always stress what was expected from Kenji, as the first-born son, and from Sakura, the daughter.

To Sakura, obaachan would say: "When a woman is young, she obeys her father. When she is married, she obeys her husband. When she is widowed, she obeys her son." But Sakura would never respond—she only listened, tracing doodles into her skin with her fingertip—and the elder Fujimoto did the one thing that made the little siblings sit up with a start, eyes widening and hearts racing.

The loud thwak! of the umbrella hitting the surface of otosan's desk was as sudden and as disturbing as lightning zipping down through the midnight sky. That umbrella wasn't a shield from a storm. No, it was an extension of obaachan's right hand, forever and always. And the elder Fujimoto knew how to wield the umbrella: she used it as a walking stick, used it in place of her index finger, and used it to move people out of her way when she was walking down the street.

In the end, little Sakura feared the umbrella more than its owner.


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(Sakura would only realise years and years later that her obaachan had her own way of loving and caring for someone. She would only realise years and years later that, even though obaachan was a master puppeteer … Rei did love her.)

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It was a Friday, an ordinary Friday in Sakura's first year of kindergarten, but it was the day when Toshiyuki popped by to deliver vegetables, the man arriving and leaving in a whirlwind of activity. The day that Kenji restlessly waited for when the school week started once again, because it meant no teachers, no rules, no reading. The day when Little Tokyo abruptly changed from a gentle, sometimes sleepy, buzz of activity to resemble the sea.

And it meant that home was busier than usual.

It meant that home was, once again, crowded.

(Toshiharu no longer had to look at his daughter to make sure that she wasn't staring at her extended family with that, at times amusing, sneering pout—he could sense that she was getting restless, that she was irritated at the fact that her favourite armchair was already in use. So, with an almost silent sigh, he would reach over to drape an arm around her little shoulders, pulling her close to his side.)

Their routine had changed, and now most of Friday was spent in the kitchen, where Ayumi and her sister-in-law would cook, and cook, and cook. They cooked so many dishes the family didn't have to spend that much time on dinner preparations for a few days, and it also meant that Sakura could stay by her okaasan's side, because—according to obaachan—she had to learn!

Little Sakura was happy to simply sit on her stool and watch.

Watched as the white daikon radishes were used in many different ways. As the wild mustard was blanched for a few minutes and then cooled under tap water. As her okaasan and obasan—her pretty aunt who loved to test-taste every dish she made, to the point that she wasn't that hungry when everyone was called to eat—took turns to grind succulent roots inside the suribachi mortar. As coated vegetables sizzled in oil. As the cover of the rice pot began shudder and shiver, white foamy water dripping down the sides.

Friday was the busiest day of the week, the house smelling of cigarette smoke and onions, and there wasn't a quiet moment to be found once the last member (the eleventh) of the Fujimoto family closed the front door behind his back. Every room was bustling with activity, and once dinner was ready, once every Fujimoto was seated around the large, oil cloth-covered table, Sakura felt her oncoming headache recede just a bit.

She was seated next to Kenji, and two of her cousins—unusually subdued—were to her right.

(To the cousins, obaachan would say: "Children must not laugh out loud and show their teeth. Chatter in front of guests or interrupt adult conversation. Cross their knees while seated or ask for a piece of candy. Or squirm in their seats. Listen, respect other people, don't talk back, never bring shame to the family.")

She was seated next to Kenji, who nodded at the right moments and passed her some more rice when she made her whispered request. She was seated next to Kenji, and he would lean forward so that she was hidden from view, so that he was the centre of attention, so that she could happily eat in peace and quiet. Sakura was seated next to Kenji, because—even at that age—she seemed to know that he understood her quite well.

(Even as adults, he was the one who understood her the best.)

The oil cloth-covered table was the centre of activity, was so crowded that Sakura could barely move her arms, but she lived happily in her little bubble beside her niisan. Happily ate, and observed, and ducked her head when obaachan looked her way. Happily listened to her cousins' whispered conversations.


(Sakura would only realise years and years later that she should have cherished those dinners with her family. If only she had given them her full attention. If only.)


* Imo [no Ko] o Arau Yoo, like washing [a bucketful of] potatoes – a Japanese proverb. So crowded you can hardly turn around, jam-packed, mobbed with people.

* obaachan – grandmother.

* tofu – a bean curd.

* chop suey – a dish consisting of vegetables and meat. Typically served with rice.

* manju – sweet pasty.

* onii-chan – a Japanese word for "older brother" commonly used by women to address men who are slightly older, often regardless of their blood relations.

* oyakoto – filial piety.

* "A woman has no way of independence through life. When she is young, she obeys her father; when she is married, she obeys her husband; when she is widowed, she obeys her son." The Three Obediences were a set of basic moral principles specifically for women in Confucianism. Confucianism is a system of philosophical and "ethical-socio-political teachings" sometimes described as a religion. Confucianism (as well as Buddhism) was introduced to Japan from Korea and China.

* daikon – big root.

* suribachi mortar – a traditional Japanese ceramic mortar.


Notes: First thing's first, I'm going to reread this chapter and edit it. I've done the same for the prologue and the first chapter. Part of me feels that I'll never stop correcting earlier parts. There will come a time that I'll stop editing old sections; for example, when I'm in the middle of this story. Also, I've just seen the comments and PMs you've all left for me. Thank you and I'm sorry for not responding.

I love stating that this character and that character were real people. So, here goes: John Lazo was the father of Ralph Lazo, who was an interesting man. Probably a rare man, considering the '30s. If you're curious you can look him up, but that means future scenes will be spoiled for you. I can't wait to develop the friendship between Sakura and Ralph (and between Sakura and other people, if you get what I mean!) Also, certain lines I've paraphrased from autobiographies, like Kiyo's Story by Kiyo Sato. I think I'll include a list of the books I've read for this story once the story's done. Also, I'm not American, so I'll make mistakes concerning the schooling system. I don't mind those mistakes—they're not important. On the other hand, I'm not Japanese, and I'll make mistakes, probably create stereotypes, so I apologise in advance—do correct me, but I must say that I use autobiographies (written by Japanese-Americans) as a reference. Another thing: I've been thinking about uploading this story at AO3 because it will be easier for us all to communicate—other readers will be able to see my response to comments.

Lastly, once again, I must apologise for abandoning the story for months on end. Here's the truth: I was unemployed for a long time, and eventually, I couldn't write, couldn't really do anything that fun, because that issue was constantly in the back of my mind. I have work now, it's not a 9 to 5 position, but it's work. And I'm happier, I'm busy. I'm also gardening and gaming—extra hobbies that keep me active. But recently, I couldn't fall asleep, and I had this sudden thought: I want to continue writing Nanakorobi Yaoki. So here I am. I don't expect feedback, so I'll probably go ahead with uploading this story at AO3—I'm there more than I'm here.