*I plan on writing more very soon. Sorry guys. Law school has taken over my life. AHHH! Thanks for all the lovely reviews. I might have another chapter up again by tomorrow.

The war was here.

I knew that much for certain. As much as the turmoil that Hatsumomo and Nobu-san wrought in my world, I knew this event…the trouble that would eventually ruin the still of our little intrepid pond, was here at last

It started out small. Little luxuries were harder to get. Make-up and hair wax became dearer. Then it was soy sauce that was rationed and stored away. But the biggest thing that made me certain that war had indeed come upon us was when we were unable to get rice every day.

Nobu was not a government official. But he paid a fortune to Mother, who was able to get a few bags of it on the black market that had started to operate in Gion.

I entertained at a vast rate. I did this so I did not have time think of all things that Nobu could not give me. In my foolishness, I had imagined that he was unlike other men, that he alone could give me what my heart desired. I spent too many years away from the poverty of our fishing village. I realized that my mind was given to flights of fancy, not to important things like hunger and survival.

With my mind on more consequential things, like fish and rice for our stomachs, I managed to ignore Hatsumomo's growing belly. I found that the more I worked, the more I could avoid seeing Hatsumomo and her gloating smile. I smiled and poured tea and sake like I had never done before. At long last, I was devoted to my work.

Mameha was right. We are geishas because we have no choice. Work was my only escape from the reality that was now my life. Other geisha were wary around me, perhaps expecting that I would break down at the unfairness of my Donna openly acknowledging a liaison with my rival. Others were happy I think, to see me fall from grace. My career was too good to be without rivals and jealousies.

The grey eyed geisha was at last getting what she deserved.

If Nobu had not paid Mother a handsome sum for Hatsumomo's upkeep, I think she would have cheerfully tossed her into the street. But money and rice was dearer than ever now. So she kept silent and told Hatsumomo that she should pray for a daughter for the okiya.

A daughter that someday would take my place. Hatsumomo might have gotten her wish after all. She had wanted to tie herself permanently to the okiya through Pumpkin. A true daughter would do as well.

I had the small fortune of not seeing the Chairman. I don't think I could be around him without blushing. This time it was not a girl's infatuation that would make my cheeks glow red. It was the idea that the Chairman, my former idol, would stoop so low as to bed with a woman like Hatsumomo. But worse, I never thought that the Chairman would abuse Nobu's honor thus.

I saw Nobu a handful of times after the night I learned who the true father of Hatsumomo's child was. We were always in the company of other people. Nobu had encountered business troubles with the Government. They wanted his company to make fighter planes and other such things. Nobu was frantic with his efforts to show them that Imamura Electric did not have the ability to do that.

Our conversations were short and to the point. He told me vaguely of his business troubles. But mostly we talked of how much rice Mother was getting off the black market and the price of gasoline. He always inquired after my well fare. I was grateful that he was concerned with the wellbeing of our okiya. He proved Mother's words to be true. He was a good provider. We were not starving. We had enough rice to last us for some time. We even had soy sauce and dried fish.

While Nobu's behavior towards the Chairman proved to be an impediment to my sense of worth, my earthly body would not shrivel away from hunger.

Romantically, I thought about this though. I thought about my body withering away from lack of nourishment. I imagined my soul blowing about in the wind. I thought about my fragile beauty dying like wilted lilac blossoms. But then Mother would push a bowl of rice into my hands and I would give up my notions of dying. My own mother had died from stomach cancer. A slow lingering death. In my early days at the Okiya, I used to dream about her corpse. I thought about the damage that the cancer had done to her coarse, plain face.

Death was not always beautiful.

I worked harder and harder each day. I smiled at worn out and weary faces of my customers. We told jokes and played games, trying to keep light humor in the tea houses. But often the men would drink and then sing sad songs in tears.

War was a terrible thing.

So we sang songs, poured sake and worked. Using our rationed watered down make-up, our cheeks were a little less white, our lips a little more pale. Our eye brows did not stand out as darkly, like the dark shadows of butterfly wings. But we were still geisha. This was still our work.

Mother approved of my work load. It was only a matter of time before the government stopped our activities all-together. One day, as Auntie and I were sewing up some of our finer Kimonos in cotton bags to keep them from spoiling from disuse ( and to hide them from any prying officials looking for extra silk) a government agent dropped off a letter with the maid. The maid sprinted up the stairs and gave me the letter.

Auntie looked at me with mournful eyes.

It was the tidings that we had come to fear. The end of the Hamanachi in Gion. The Geisha district was to close down in a month's time and we were all to report to work in the factories. I told Auntie all of this in a slow, halting voice.

I remembered that Auntie stopped what she was doing. She rolled the Kimono that she was holding in her hands up into a ball. Tears started from her eyes. Her old shoulders hunched up and she made a small keening sound.

In all my years at the Okiya, I had never seen Auntie cry. When I was younger, she was often in charge of punishing me and Pumpkin for our infractions. The time I fell off the roof and broke my arm, she was instructed to whip me until my back was bruised.

I recall that at the time, she told me it was a kindness that it was her doing it and not Granny. I was a small child, and my mother had recently died. Auntie knew this, and yet she had no qualms about beating me for my foolishness.

She did not cry.

I did.

Years later, our roles were reversed. The world was beating at her. This life was all she knew, and it was ending for how many years the war might last.

It seemed that she had a good reason to cry now, with her world falling apart all around her.

I gently took the kimono from her hands and gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. The kimono had tear stains on it. It was one of our best, meant only for ceremonies. It might be ruined. But at that moment it seemed fitting.

"It will be alright" I told her. Her small frame shook with unvoiced sobs. I smoothed out the kimono as best I could and put it in the bag. Tomorrow it would be sewn up for many years.