So Far from the Bamboo Grove by Yoko Kawashima Watkins

pushed with his head to open it. The rusty hinges squeaked.
    â€œMakoto!” Hideyo whispered.
    No response.
    There were four toilets, all the doors reaching to the floor, all closed. Hideyo stood up.
    â€œShoichi, Shinzo, Makoto! It’s me, Hideyo,” he whispered.
    The third toilet door opened slightly. Makoto peeked out. “You! Alive!” he gasped. Shoichi and Shinzo came from the same cubicle, shaking, their faces ghostly white.
    â€œWe heard the machine guns,” said Shinzo, his lips trembling. “We hid together. They never looked. Who got killed?”
    â€œYasuo was killed right in front of me,” Hideyo told them. “I don’t know who else. They’re going to blow up the building. We have to get out.”
    Makoto peered cautiously from the window. “They’re making the captured ones walk toward the street. They’re pointing machine guns at them.”
    Stealthily they crept to their bunkroom next to thewashroom. They crammed belongings into their rucksacks. Then they went back to the washroom and carefully, slowly, so as not to make a sound, they pushed the window open. The soldiers’ backs were turned. One by one the boys jumped out and ran around the building toward the mountain.
    They had not gone far when they heard the explosion. They turned and watched the factory exploding into the air. Hideyo thought of Yasuo.
    â€œIt’s almost noon,” he said, looking at his watch. “If we take the mountain path now we can be home by early morning.”
    They began walking. Suddenly Hideyo wondered what had happened to his mother and sisters. He walked faster and faster, the others following.
    They walked until they were so weary they had to stop, and Makoto said, “Hey, I’m hungry. Does anyone have any food?”
    They all searched their sacks. Mother had packed only six days’ rations for Hideyo, as he had expected to go home the next afternoon for the weekend, so he had only some strips of fish and dried biscuits. They sat on the roots of a tree and shared what little he had.
    â€œWhat time is it?” Makoto asked.
    â€œFive o’clock,” Hideyo answered.
    â€œI’m still hungry,” said Shinzo.
    â€œLet’s look for mushrooms,” Makoto suggested.
    â€œYes! Roasted mushrooms are good!” Shoichi agreed.
    Hideyo said, “Look, my friends, let’s look for mushrooms as we walk. Every moment is precious.”
    At dawn they reached Hideyo’s home, our home, which stood in its bamboo forest at the edge of the village.
    â€œWhat the hell!” yelled Hideyo. The main entrance door had been burst open. The service entrance door stood wide. They rushed into the house.
    â€œMother!” Hideyo called.
    Makoto surveyed the desolation before them. “The Korean Communist troops have been here,” he said.
    â€œI’m going to my house!” Shinzo cried.
    â€œLet’s meet at Shoichi’s house later,” Hideyo called after them.
    He was shocked at the ransacking of his home. He examined the rooms carefully. The hanging scroll painting in the receiving room had been slashed to pieces. Closet doors stood open, their contents pulled out. Fur coats, hats, and his sisters’ muffs had been stolen, except for a tiny fur coat lying on the floor.
    Little One’s, Hideyo thought, and picked it up. Holding it in one arm, he continued to check the rooms. The phonograph-radio was gone. The collection of classical records lay scattered on the floor. Kimono drawers were empty.
    He saw the treadle sewing machine. Why had the robbers not taken this? Probably because they did not know how to use it. The machine was covered, asalways when not in use, with a black velvet cloth, but a rice bowl sat perched on top. Strange, Hideyo thought. Mother never left anything on top of her machine. He went up to the machine and then he saw Mother’s note in script writing beneath the bowl. He read