Little Lily. Chapter 17. A Stone for Names

January arrived on Okinawa with heavy, lingering rains.

They poured for three days straight—fine, slanting, piercingly salty torrents brought in from the ocean. The air smelled of wet iron and cooling ash. The red clay of Mawashiasato turned into a liquid, bubbling mush that clung tenaciously to wooden geta and bare feet, as if the island itself refused to let anyone go. The thin plywood walls of the Nakayama house swelled from the dampness, became covered with dark streaks, and rustled softly with every gust of wind, like an old folding screen. The rusty tin roof hummed incessantly, turning the shack into the womb of a huge, unevenly beaten drum.

But by Sunday morning, the lingering storm had exhausted itself. The sun rolled out over the hills sharply, greedily, and blindingly, as if in a hurry to scorch away the traces of bad weather. The island gleamed, washed down to its very bones: the mangled earth shone with a deep burgundy luster, the pandanus leaves sparkled like polished copper, and thick white steam rose above the flat roofs of the camp barracks. Okinawa was breathing—heavily, humidly, but with full lungs.

Death on this island did not go deep underground. It lay on its very surface, like a scattering of chipped shells after a fierce storm. By winter, Okinawa, stubbornly overgrown with young, toxic-green grass, had come to look like a magnificent emerald shroud beneath which thousands of unburied fates rested.

Every Sunday, as soon as the first rays broke through the fog, groups of surviving volunteers would set out for the southern coast. Old people, women, teenagers—they slowly made their way along the coastline of the Kiyan and Mabuni cliffs. Where the sharp, jagged coral rocks, resembling the fangs of prehistoric monsters, tore footwear and skin to shreds, people searched for what months of winds, rains, and tides had left behind. They didn’t dig. They gathered. Fragments of bone, pieces of rotted army cloth, rusted buckles, buttons engraved with cherry blossoms, American dog tags, darkened chains with Buddhist amulets. The shore returned its dead reluctantly, in pieces.

In the jungle, it was even harder. Over half a year, the tropical greenery had swallowed the traces of battles: it entwined broken artillery with vines, buried cave entrances under ferns. But the locals—hunters and herbalists who knew every crevice—found what nature had hidden. Sometimes a skull fragment, sometimes just the darkened bolt of a rifle and a heavy, sweetish smell that could not be mistaken for anything else. At the site of a discovery, they would drive in a wooden peg wrapped in a piece of white parachute fabric.

Seiko and Usagi became the coordinators of this grim, patient labor. The same two girls from the unit who had once brought the news of Kobayashi’s return to the school. Over these months, their faces had acquired the hue of old rice paper, and dry camp dirt seemed forever ingrained beneath their fingernails. Now, with the cold diligence of archivists, they sorted the findings. Seiko drew maps on scraps of American cardboard ration boxes, marking spots with crosses. Usagi kept the records: names, if an engraving could be made out, or simply numbers if only a piece of metal remained of a person.

Yuriko and Miko usually joined them on weekends, when the school tent was empty. Their fingers, accustomed to chalk and book pages, uncomplainingly touched the earth’s cold memory. But not this Sunday. On this day, they were expected at home.

Soma returned from the Makishi market by noon.

He walked in heavily, and the house shuddered from his steps: first the dull, hard thud of the wooden prosthesis against the threshold, then the creak of a sagging floorboard, and immediately after that—the smells. Lately, Soma smelled not only of cedar shavings and sweat. He brought with him the sharp, bitter smoke of cheap Japanese tobacco, which he smoked at the market with a cigarette clamped in the corner of his mouth, and this smoke ate into his broad, calloused palms.

The Makishi market had become a new front line for Yuriko’s older brother. Amidst the chaos, rusted iron, and rotten planks, he had cobbled together a small workshop: an awning made of holey canvas, a workbench out of boards from an American warehouse, and three artillery shell crates instead of chairs. He fixed stools, sharpened ax handles, and planed boards for fences. People went to him because his work was honest and cheap.

But carpentry was not Soma’s only trade. At the market, people whispered that one-legged Nakayama knew how to get things that not even the administration distributors had: American condensed milk, medical alcohol, coils of copper wire, bars of real factory soap. His prosthesis, thudding dully through the mud of Makishi, had become a sort of pass into the world of gray-market contraband, where survival was measured by the ability to keep quiet and quickly exchange what one had for what one needed.

Hinata went with him on Saturdays. The boy hung around the workbench, handed over tools, and absorbed the laws of market life faster than katakana. It was Hinata, dangling his bare legs on the porch, who had first blurted out Soma’s secret a week ago.

“Uncle Soma found someone,” he had announced then, diligently smudging charcoal on a piece of cardboard. “A woman. Beautiful. She came to the workbench three times. He fixed a chair for her. And then they drank tea from a thermos together. She’s quiet. Very quiet. Like Miko-nee. Only Miko-nee is quiet because she’s thinking, and this one is quiet because she’s sad.”

Yuriko had been amazed then at how accurately the six-year-old child had caught the difference between the two types of silence. Soma had only blushed deeply through his black stubble and said nothing. And today, this woman had come to their house.

Nanami Kato crossed the threshold of the shack as if she were entering an ancient teahouse, not a plywood barrack. Beneath her shawl, she wore a real silk kimono—a faded, gray-blue color, with a barely discernible pattern of withered autumn leaves. It was old, faded from frequent washing, with neat, almost invisible patches on the fold of the right sleeve, but impeccably clean and pressed. The fabric rustled softly, nobly, bringing with it the dry, clean aroma of sandalwood and wormwood—the smell of an old trunk in which the garment had been kept safe throughout the war. Nanami’s hair was gathered in a low, tight braid, held by a simple horn comb.

She was about twenty-five. Fine, regular features, dark skin, and deep, attentive eyes that looked at the world with a hard-won, calm seriousness. And a thin scar on her cheek, slipping down to her collarbone.

Soma led her in, and by his movements—too abrupt, stiff—Yuriko realized how intensely nervous her brother was. His prosthesis tapped on the floor hurriedly: tap-tap-tap, without its usual pauses. His healthy hand kept crumpling the hem of his clean shirt. At this moment, he didn’t seem like a stern frontline soldier, but rather a boy who had brought someone infinitely important home for the first time.

“This is Nanami,” Soma said hollowly, looking somewhere at the floor. “We… met at the market. Nanami is the fiancée of Kero Keano. My comrade-in-arms. We were together in the Philippines. He died there. Right next to me.”

The word “died” fell into the room heavily and ordinarily. In their world, the dead introduced the living more often than visiting cards.

Kohaku, wiping her hands on her best, clean apron, bowed low:

“Come in, Nanami-san. Our home is modest, but guests are welcome.”

They sat around the low wooden table Soma had knocked together. Miko poured the hot, emerald liquid into mismatched ceramic cups. The smell of tea steam instantly filled the room—it was real green tea scented with roasted rice, dry and tart, brought by Soma from the market. The smell of a pre-war, peaceful home. Yuriko watched as Nanami’s slender, cool fingers carefully clasped the warm, rough clay covered with fine glaze cracks, and how the guest’s shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly from this warmth.

Lunch dragged on unhurriedly: rice, boiled sweet potato, spicy radish, fish. Hinata ate in silence, not taking his round, studying eyes off Nanami. He seemed to be weighing this rustling silk and quiet voice, deciding if she could be trusted. Nanami talked about pre-war Shuri; Soma interjected with short, dry remarks. The shared pain of loss made their conversation even, devoid of anguish.

When Kohaku cleared away the rice bowls, leaving only the steaming teapot on the table, Nanami straightened her back. The silk of her kimono let out a soft, sighing rustle.

“Soma told me what you are doing,” she said, looking straight at Yuriko and Miko. “About how you collect remains on the coast and in the forests. I know what happened to the Himeyuri unit in the Haebaru caves. My younger sister… she was also mobilized. But they were taken to the north of the island. She didn’t come back.”

Nanami fell silent, lowering her eyes to the cup, where a tea leaf floated on the green surface.

“You can’t just leave them in nameless forest graves or write them down on pieces of cardboard,” she continued, and a firmness appeared in her voice. “They need a monument. A cenotaph. A place where people can come to weep not over empty, indifferent earth, but before a stone that preserves their names… A stone on which the names are carved. Everyone. Whom you can find. Whom you cannot—too. Because even the unfound deserve a stone.”

“Where will we get the stone?” Miko asked quietly, and her voice sounded uncharacteristically hollow. “There are no intact workshops left on Okinawa. Everything has been smashed to rubble.”

“My father is a stonemason,” Nanami raised her gaze, and in her eyes Yuriko saw the same stubborn strength that had led them through the war. “Before the war, he carved tombstones and built walls in Shuri. He is alive. He still has his tools. When I told him about your school and the girls, he himself asked me to pass this on. He will carve the cenotaph. Without payment. It is the least an old master can do for the daughters of his island.”

Such a deep silence hung in the room that one could hear the canvas of the school tent cooling down outside. Yuriko shifted her gaze to Miko. Her friend’s fingers, clutching her cup, had tensed so much that it seemed she was about to crush it. A real stone. Heavy, eternal, light-gray coral limestone that no typhoon could wash away, no fire could burn.

“Where?” Miko asked curtly. “Where will we put it?”

“On the hill,” Nanami answered. “Where the buildings of your First Women’s School stood. The foundation is still there. The stone will stand on the very spot where you studied. The earth will unite with memory.”

“Thank you, Nanami-san,” Yuriko exhaled, feeling a hot wave catch in her throat. “We accept this gift. Please convey our deepest gratitude to your father.”

When the sun touched the peaks of the hills, painting the plywood walls a thick, anxious gold, Soma stood up. Throwing on his jacket, he went to walk Nanami to the road. The tapping of his wooden leg—tap, tap, tap—slowly faded in the evening twilight, mingling with the rustling of Nanami’s silk.

Kohaku watched them go for a long time through the open door. In her eyes, surrounded by deep wrinkles, shone a quiet, maternal sadness. She returned to the table and began wiping it with a damp cloth, sweeping crumbs into her palm.

“A good woman,” Kohaku said thoughtfully, without looking at the girls. “Quiet, proper. And Soma seems to have come alive with her. Started smiling for the first time, even if he hides it.”

The mother stopped her hand, brushed the crumbs into the bucket, and as if in passing, in the most everyday tone, added:

“It’s time you girls also started thinking about the future. Enough digging around in the dead and babysitting other people’s children. Life goes on, look at how the grass shoots up after the rain. You should find yourselves good grooms… reliable ones. Maybe even someone with a car…”

Yuriko, who was about to take a sip of cooled tea, froze. The air caught in her throat. Her mother’s hint was so transparently dense that it felt like it could be touched with bare hands. An army Willys. Ren Kimura. Kohaku, with her eternal busyness by the well and cooking pots, saw everything. She had noticed both the interpreter’s frequent visits and how long his car took to cool down under the banyan tree.

Miko, sitting opposite, slowly turned her head with the precision of a metronome. Her dark eyes settled on Yuriko’s face. It was that very same look—the calm, studying, slightly ironic gaze of a doctor recording the predictable deterioration of a patient’s condition. “I told you so,” read in her pupils.

Yuriko felt a thick, scalding flush rapidly flood her neck, cheeks, and the tips of her ears. She lowered her head, ready to fall through the dirt floor.

And then the silence of the shack was shattered by the ringing, enthusiastic shout of Hinata, who until then had been peacefully tinkering in his corner with his shell casings:

“Can I find grooms for them?!” the boy jumped to his feet, his eyes burning with excitement. “I know so many guys at the Makishi market! I’ll be right back! I’ll pick the strongest ones, the ones who carry sacks of condensed milk! We need strong ones!”

At this, Kohaku couldn’t hold back. She threw her head back and laughed—genuinely, loudly, at the top of her voice. It was the first real, pure laugh in this house in many, many months. The sound made the plywood walls seem to widen, and the kerosene lamp swayed, spilling an even golden light.

“A bit early for you to sign up as a matchmaker, boy,” Kohaku said through her laughter, playfully flicking the boy on the nose. “First you finish school and learn to read without stumbling. And the strong grooms will run away on their own at the sight of you in torn pants.”

Hinata scowled, examined his knees sticking out through the tears, but stubbornly shook his head:

“Well, let them run! I’m not looking for myself, but for them!”

He pointed a finger at Yuriko and Miko with such unwavering, adult seriousness that even Miko couldn’t hold back—the corners of her lips twitched, and she laughed silently, with her shoulders, squeezing her eyes shut, together with Kohaku.

“Better eat some more fish,” she said, pushing a plate with a second helping toward Hinata. “You need to grow.”

Soma returned late, when the lamp was already smoking and the “matchmaker” was asleep, his nose buried in a sugar sack. Her brother undressed in the dark, unstrapped his prosthesis with a clatter, leaned it against the plywood partition, and sank heavily onto his mat.

The room smelled of cold tea, Soma’s bitter tobacco, and wormwood—the faint, barely perceptible trace of Nanami Kato.

Yuriko lay with her eyes open, listening to Miko’s even breathing nearby. She thought about the stone. About the large, gray block that would soon rise above the red-gray earth of the school hill. Names would be carved on it. And the stone would stand in the wind, washed by rains, and speak for those whose voices had been taken away.

She remembered her mother’s words about “someone with a car.” She remembered Miko’s gaze. Yuriko’s heart beat faster, pounding against her ribcage from the inside. Miko noticed someone else’s interest, noticed Ren, but remained absolutely, perfectly blind to what was happening half a meter away from her, on this very mat.

Yuriko turned on her side, pressing her palm to her chest. The scars on her left palm were silent. She closed her eyes, slowly drifting into sleep, to the equally slow, measured sound of the night ocean crashing against the jagged cliffs of Mabuni.

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Chapter 18. April Rain →