Green Patches in the Snow

By Henrietta Isler and Paula Gold Chalef

In 1972, a young Japanese mother inadvertently discovers she is married to a member of an outcast class called the burakumin. As a result she is forced to abandon her husband and nine-month old baby and is sent to the United States. Once there she confronts many other types of prejudice. Her story concerns learning and growing in new ways.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 21, 2009
• ISBN: 9781465328458

Henrietta Isler

We are Paula Gold Chalef, J.D. and Henrietta Isler, Ph.D. We are co-authors of the novels On Such Quiet Streets and Green Patches in the Snow. As social activists we would like to tell an interesting story which has some social impact and causes people to think about important issues. Our first novel is based upon an incident that happened in 1928 in upstate New York. The second novel is about a group of outcasts in Japan called burakumin. Paula is a retired lawyer as well as a sociologist. She served as an Assistant District Attorney in Philadelphia for many years. Henrietta is a psychologist and marriage and family therapist who conducted a private practice and taught at several universities including West Point. We won first prize for fiction at the Santa Barbara Writer’s Conference in 1995 for On Such Quiet Streets.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Tokai City, Japan. 1972

Winter was warming into spring. The new fan-shaped leaves created a filigree of green on the branches of the ginkgo trees. Rays of light coming through the blinds formed narrow pale brown stripes on the highly-polished wooden floor of the Nakamura living room. The morning sun filtering through the windows bathed everything in a yellow haze. It turned the color of the red silk pillows on the floor to orange and made ordinary objects in the small room radiant. Intermittent flashes of light reflected off the silver frame holding Fujiko Nakamura’s wedding picture and refracted the round crystal bowl into multicolored prisms which changed constantly as if viewed through a kaleidoscope.

Fujiko sat on a pillow nursing her son, her fingers combing through his black wisps of hair. Her heart-shaped face had the look of smooth porcelain. Together, they formed a Japanese version of a Madonna and Child. Her feet, tucked under the chair by habit, were large for a Japanese woman.

When she was born, the mid-wife had told her mother she had a little girl with expensive feet. One cruel boy at school had teased her, calling her Big foot. Although her mother always assured her she was graceful, she had remained self-conscious about her feet and hid them under her whenever she could.

The blue veins in her full breasts outlined paths to the nipple where her son ate hungrily, making loud sucking sounds that broke the stillness of the room. She was utterly content, feeling the baby draw on her breast. She sang her favorite cradle lullaby, The canary sings a cradle lullaby, sleep baby sleep, baby, sleep, sleep, sleep. He opened his eyes for a moment, gazing into hers and she knew he understood how much she loved him. While she sang A golden moon shines on the dreams in the cradle, sleep baby . . . ., his dark lashes fluttered and he drifted off to sleep. Lovingly, she ran her finger over the tiny dimple in his chin, a smaller version of his father’s.

Her wide-set eyes, the color of dark tea, were drawn to the teak table by the window. A black oval container held a single purple iris imbedded in white stones, an ikebana arrangement she had created several days ago. Beside it hung an ivory silk scroll with one bold black Japanese character meaning nothing, which in Zen tradition also signified everything. She had everything.

The one discordant note in the room was the Elvis Presley poster on the adjacent wall. She could never understand her husband’s fascination with the American singer. Akira had all his records and said if the singer ever came to Japan he would go to the concert no matter how much it cost. Drawing the baby closer, she remembered how difficult childbirth had been.

When Fujiko was pregnant her mother had warned her that labor would be painful and told her Japanese women were not permitted to cry out for one must not publicize such an event. Her mother then told her the story of the samurai who showed their courage by holding a toothpick between their teeth as if they had eaten, when in fact they’d had nothing to eat for several days. During the delivery when the pain became unbearable, she repeated the maxim over and over, baby birds cry for their food but a samurai holds a toothpick between his teeth. She never cried out, gritting her teeth till her jaw ached as if it had been locked in place.

Now, holding Hideo, she cherished the pain she had experienced in giving birth to her son. He was so beautiful, his tiny ears like question marks, his smooth skin the color of amber, and a second chin peeking out under his chubby face. When she and her husband, Akira, had considered names, they had rejected Sei ichi meaning quiet – first-son, Buichi meaning warrior – first-son, and Kaichi meaning happiness-first-son in favor of Hideo because it meant excellent male. With his sweet disposition and sturdy little body, Hideo was living up to his name. They never even considered girl’s names because every Japanese man had to have a son. It was particularly important to Akira since he was an orphan and needed a son to carry on the Nakamura name. She wanted to please Akira and knew it was important to bear a son, but secretly she would not have been disappointed if her child was a girl and had chosen the name of Yasuko.

Fujiko buttoned her blouse, carried the baby into the bedroom, and gently placed him on his pallet. She felt proud of the creases in his thighs which bore witness to the richness of her milk. As he lay on his stomach she observed the birthmark on the back of his left leg, just below his diaper. It looked like a crimson flower ready to open. Bending over, she kissed the birthmark and tiptoed out of the room, the tatami mats absorbing the sound of her footsteps. She had already folded away the futons, stored them in the cupboards, and cleaned their bedroom before putting Hideo down for his nap. She closed the shoji screens quietly behind her.

In the kitchen, she took a cup and filled it with green tea from the metal urn, inhaling the aromatic scent of broken leaves. She sat at the table enjoying the subtle flavor of the hot liquid and gazed at the cherry blossoms outside her window. Suddenly she felt sad. They bloomed for such a short time, their delicate pink and white blossoms recalling the fragility of living things. She remembered a lesson she’d learned in school about the ancient religion, Shinto. It had a concept called aware that spoke of the transitory nature of life. It said that a single perfect flower blooming in a field was not only lovely. It was exquisitely and heart-breakingly lovely because it would too soon be gone. It was the very brevity of life that made it so precious.

How had Basho described it in his haiku poem?

First day of spring –

I keep thinking about

the end of autumn.

There were so many festivals connected with cherry blossom time. She sighed and took another sip. Maybe this was how people dealt with the temporary nature of life. Maybe it was an attempt to capture the loveliness of the moment before it was gone.

She shook herself out of her reverie. She had a house to clean and dinner to prepare before Akira came home.

Tomorrow the family would go to the festival in Oike Park so everything had to be done today. She had taken out the sage-jubako, the chrysanthemum-shaped picnic box to pack the sushi, utensils and sake. They would spread a blanket under the willow trees and watch the children float their tiny paper sailboats in the pond. Soon Hideo would be big enough to sail his boat.

Fujiko unclasped her tortoise shell hair clip, smoothed back her long ebony hair, and gathered it into the barrette at the nape of her neck. It hung like a black satin ribbon between her shoulders. After rinsing her teacup and putting it on the drain board, she reached for her apron and tied it around her waist. She placed the basket of vegetables on the counter and cut the zucchini, carrots and yams into thin slices for the tempura. Pouring the oil into the tempura pot, she whipped up eggs, prepared the batter and put it in the refrigerator so everything would be ready at dinner time.

As she plumped the cushions around the low table in the living room, Fujiko noticed the box of shells from the kai-awasi game she and Akira had played last night. Akira was much better at matching the pictures painted on the sea shells and he loved to win. He would clap his hands and shout, katta. Taking one of the shells from the polished burgundy box, she gazed at the miniature painting of tenth century lovers inside the shell, dressed in elegant brocade kimonos gazing into each others’ eyes. This was her favorite picture – lovers, as she and Akira had been on their wedding day when they wore their rented kimonos with the graceful white cranes and looked adoringly into each others’ eyes.

Annoyed with herself for daydreaming when there was still much work to do, Fujiko placed the shells back into the box. She polished the table and turned to Akira’s desk. She prided herself on being a good housekeeper but was particularly careful when it came to her husband’s belongings. He was meticulous and became irritable if his things were out of order. Once when she had moved a paperweight from his desk to a table he had flown into a rage, throwing the letter opener he was holding to the floor and warning her through tightened lips never to do that again. Later he had apologized profusely for losing his temper, but from then on she was careful to put his things back exactly as she had found them. She tried to clean his desk when the baby was asleep so there would be no distractions.

Motes of sunlight illuminated the dust on the rosewood desk. Fujiko buffed the hard surface with a soft cotton cloth taking a sensuous pleasure in its smooth satiny finish. Leaning forward to reach a shelf at the rear of the desk, she felt something press into her stomach. She stepped back and was surprised to see a key in the lock of the top drawer. Akira always locked his desk and removed the key. This morning he had an appointment with the tax auditor. He must have been nervous and accidentally forgotten the key. In the past when Fujiko had questioned her husband about why he kept his desk locked, he’d said he preferred to keep some things private.

Fujiko loved Akira. He was a good husband. He rarely stopped off at a bar or Pachinko parlor after work and was considerate in bed, never forcing her against her will. But then she enjoyed making love as much as he did.

Her parents had not been pleased with her choice. Her father was a judge and Akira only owned a noodle shop and had not been educated past high school. According to the aunt and uncle who had adopted Akira when he was three months old, his parents had been killed in an automobile accident and his birth certificate had been lost. When Judge Hashimoto had done a full background search of Akira’s heritage (as was the custom), he learned that Akira had been brought up by his mother’s sister, a person of high caste. Her husband was a potter of renown, so the judge reluctantly agreed to the marriage.

When her parents originally objected to the marriage, Fujiko had told them she loved them and wanted to obey them, but she was determined to marry Akira. He was different from the boys she had been introduced to who were awkward and unsophisticated. He appealed to that vein of rebellion within her which yearned to break the rules.

All through school she had done what she had been told, always striving for perfection. Even when she had bathroom duty, she carefully scrubbed the toilets and floors while others only pretended to clean. But the boys she admired were the ones who were kakkoii, cool. Like Hiroshi who had dyed his hair brown. When the principal told him to dye it black again, he’d refused to apologize and said some day he’d make it red.

Maybe Akira would never color his hair nor was she aware of any rules he had broken but somehow she saw him as fearless; ironically, very much like her father. When Papa-san was a candidate for judge he had refused to cooperate with corrupt individuals despite threats on his life. She was sure Akira didn’t frighten easily and would have behaved in the same way.

What had attracted her to someone who, like her father, was often overbearing and inflexible? She’d never felt loved by her father but she was sure Akira loved her. After having been submerged and intimidated for years by her father’s authority, was she still searching for his love by marrying Akira?

The first time she and her friend Tomiyo had gone into Akira’s noodle shop, she was dazzled by the white walls, the shiny pots, and the heady smell of spices and vegetables cooking in oil. Akira was behind the counter, deftly tossing a strainer full of noodles. He looked up and welcomed them with a smile as white as the walls. Fujiko thought he was the most handsome man she’d ever seen, like a movie star.

When they were seated at the table, Tomiyo had giggled behind her hand and said Akira looked just like the American actor Cary Grant. He had a cleft chin too. Fujiko had trouble seeing the cleft. She wasn’t wearing her glasses. But something about the way he moved and the lock of hair that escaped from the white bandana knotted at the back of his head fascinated her.

After that she hadn’t paid much attention to Tomiyo. She was too busy looking at Akira. From that day, on she went to his shop every day alone after her English classes at Nagoya Meitoku junior college. By then the restaurant was quiet and the help was gone. Fujiko always sat at the same table and always ordered ramen with spring onions.

One day when the shop was empty, Akira prepared a bowl of niku udon, noodles with sliced beef for himself and asked permission to join her.

Hiding her feet under the table, she said, Please, nodding her head and averting her eyes. They’re very good noodles. She felt the color rise in her face and her voice sounded tinny to her ears. What a foolish remark. Of course his noodles were good. She pretended to go on eating and tried to glance at him without seeming to stare. Now that she saw him close-up she guessed he was about thirty years old and hoped he didn’t think she was just a silly school girl.

Akira didn’t seem to notice her discomfort. Soon, she was so relaxed that she told him all about herself. He was interested in everything she had to say. Fujiko knew then and there that this was the man she wanted to marry. Later on she remembered she had done all the talking; Akira had not told her much about himself.

Now, staring at the key, she realized how little she knew about her husband. Why should there be secrets between a husband and wife after four years of marriage? Were there love-letters from a former sweetheart hidden in the drawer? Or did he have a lover now? Fujiko knew her father enjoyed visiting a geisha house from time to time, but that wasn’t something he kept secret. For many years his favorite geisha had been a young woman named Flowering Willow. When Flowering Willow became ill, Fujiko’s mother would inquire about her health and on occasion sent small gifts to the girl. Certainly if Akira had a geisha there was no reason to hide it. What could he possibly have in the drawer that he didn’t want her to know about?

Her hand moved toward the key, pulled back, and reached out again. She touched it. Warmed by the sun, the metal felt hot in her fingers. She turned the key in the lock. What would Akira do if he found out she knew his secret? One of her favorite teachers in an English Literature class had written on the blackboard, Curiosity killed the cat, and with a smile had added, But satisfaction brought him back. She turned the key and opened the drawer.

At first all she saw were pens neatly lined up, the paper clips assorted by size, and postage stamps arranged according to value. So like her neat, tidy husband. Beyond the compartments lay an envelope. Without her glasses she squinted and barely made out the words written in large letters, My Dear Son, Akira. She stared at it, afraid to touch it, almost fearing it would burn her fingers.

Fujiko had always believed what Akira had told her – that he was an orphan who had never known his mother and father. They had been killed in an automobile accident when he was an infant. He had been raised by his mother’s sister and her husband. Fujiko had only met them at her wedding when they came from their farm in Osaka. They were elderly now and could no longer travel.

Who could have written the letter if both his parents were dead?

Fujiko took the envelope from the drawer. A sense of foreboding stirred within her. She held it for a moment, turning it and examining it. Did she have the right to read this letter, something addressed to her husband and kept in a locked drawer?

She saw her wire-rimmed glasses on the red cushion next to the desk. Her eyes, reflected in their lenses, seemed to stare at her, telling her to put them on. She took this as a sign and approached them slowly, her stomach tightening. She reached for them and held them for a moment before placing the temples over her ears. The single sheet of parchment rustled like dead leaves in the wind as she removed it from the envelope. The characters were wavy, written with a shaky hand. In some places there were smudges where the ink had smeared. It was dated April 4th, l968, exactly four years ago. My dear son, Akira, she read:

"I write this letter because I am dying and cannot go to meet my ancestors with my secret heavy on my heart. You were told your parents died in a car crash shortly after your birth and that your aunt and uncle Miyako, who were childless, brought you up. But, my dearest son, this was not true.

My family refused to bring such shame upon the family name and insisted on this lie. I went along because I did not want your life to be crippled by the terrible stigma of your birth. I was very young and did not know the pain that lay ahead for me.

I fell in love with a man who was burakumin, and in a moment of passion you were conceived. My shame was two-fold. I was unmarried and I gave you unclean blood. I never saw your father again.

My penance has been never to see you again. I never married nor have I had any other children. I went to work as a seamstress and built a successful business as a dress designer in Kanazawa. But it has been a lonely life, full of regret. Every time I saw a child of your age I tried to imagine how you looked.

Until now I have kept my word to my family and have never tried to contact you, although I have always sent money for your support. You may ask why I burden you with this now. But when death’s darkness beckons, the promises made in life to protect one’s family honor become less important. I would feel deep shame, even in the grave, if this secret were revealed to you by someone other than me.

But, my son, please listen to me. You must keep this secret as I have. If it were known you were burakumin you would become an outcast. My doctor has told me I have only a short time to live and, therefore, I have no need of money. I enclose my life savings which are rightfully yours. There is some greed in everyone and I am not sure your aunt and uncle would turn it over to you. I know it cannot make up for my having abandoned you, but I will die more content knowing I have given you something to make your life better.

Please forgive me.

Your loving mother,

Shizuko

Fujiko turned the letter over and over. The smudges she saw must have come from tears. The paper itself was spider webbed with many small creases – as if someone (Akira?) had crumpled it up and then, relenting, had tried to straighten it out. What did it mean that her husband was burakumin? She didn’t recall hearing the word before. And yet – as she held the letter in her hand and repeated the word burakumin over and over, there was something familiar about it. Why had the letter said he would become an outcast? Then, as she stared at the shaky calligraphy, she remembered. She recalled two incidents associated with that word.

The first was when she was fifteen years old and had overheard a conversation her father was having with another judge, who placed four fingers on his chest and said, burakumin. When Fujiko asked her father what it meant, he shuddered and said the burakumin were eta, meaning, full of filth. They’d been outcasts since feudal times. The four fingers signified the four-legged animals whose hides they tanned. The tanning stench seeped into their pores. And no matter where they went or what they did, it followed them around like some foul shadow. He cautioned her that it was taboo even to speak the word burakumin. Her father went on to say, Everybody knows when the Americans dropped the bomb on Nagasaki it killed mostly burakumin . . . He paused, his fingers gripping his chin. Maybe that was the only good thing that came out of the war.

The only other time she’d heard the word burakumin was when she was eighteen years old and driving with friends past a village outside of Kobe. They were on the way to a gagaku concert of ancient music. The driver of the car had slowed down, wrinkled her nose and pointed to the village, saying, burakumin. Fujiko hadn’t noticed anything unusual about the people except that they seemed poor and the houses looked dilapidated, but she could tell her friends considered them disgusting. They rode on and she never thought about them again.

But today, burakumin, a word which had been submerged in her memory, stored away with other facts having no connection to her or her life, had surfaced and could now destroy her. If Akira’s mother was right, Akira, Hideo, and she would be outcasts like Akira’s mother, the target of everyone’s loathing. She wished the woman were still alive so she could talk to her and ask her why she had made love with this man, knowing he was burakumin?

She shivered. She felt cold, frozen, as if she were made of ice. She wondered why the sun didn’t melt her. That would be nice, she thought, to evaporate from a puddle into nothingness. She sank into the pillow, her hands covering her face. The sun which had shone so brightly had been eclipsed, and the room was suddenly dark. Was she being punished for excessive pride as Susano had been when Amaterasu, the sun goddess had plunged Susano into a world of darkness for unruly behavior?

Through her fingers she saw the scroll with its black calligraphy denoting sunyata. It mocked her, turning her everything into emptiness, nothing.

Fujiko’s hand opened and the letter fluttered to the floor like a wounded white bird. She stared at the desk and wished she’d never opened it. She wished she could push the drawer back in and not know what was in the letter. But she did know, and there was no turning back.

The sound of the baby crying tore through her thoughts. She went to his room, reached over to lift him from his pallet and shrank back at the thought of touching her own child. His birthmark, which had always appeared like a beautiful flower to her, had turned into a kabutomushi, an ugly beetle.

She remembered the obi iwai celebration in her fifth month of pregnancy, when her mother had given her the special belly-band to protect the fetus. At the time her mother had warned her of several taboos which would lead to a birthmark on the baby. Among them was the danger of looking at fire. Had she inadvertently broken the taboo, permanently scarring Hideo? The guilt seemed to rise in her throat, insistent as morning sickness. Clapping her hands over her ears, she fled from the room. The baby’s cries grew louder and louder.

CHAPTER TWO

Akira arrived home later than usual. He had stopped for a drink of sake with a business associate. They had toasted their successful meeting with the tax auditor, laughing as they raised their sake cups. We were too much of a match for Mr. Sassa, Akira said. Next time they’ll know to send someone with more experience. His companion agreed and wanted to continue drinking but Akira couldn’t wait to get home and share his triumph with Fujiko.

Humming a little tune, he opened the gate and smiled at the lavenders and yellows of the spring flowers in his small garden. Their riot of color celebrated the mood of the moment. The sunflowers, on tall green stems, seemed to bow their copper heads in homage to his success – his two noodle shops, his house, his beautiful wife, and his perfect son.

Entering the house, he sat on the step in the genkan and removed his shoes. As he put on his slippers he found it strange that Fujiko was not waiting at the door with Hideo as was her custom.

Konbanwa, he said as he walked into the living room. Usually he would drop his street clothes on the floor and Fujiko would pick them up, handing him his kimono.