Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes by Eleanor Coerr, Ronald Himler Page A

bomb was dropped on our city. It is a memorial day.”
    Mr. Sasaki came in from the back porch. “That’s right,” he said. “Sadako chan, you must show respect. Your own grandmother was killed that awful day.”
    “But I do respect Oba chan,” Sadako said. “I pray for her spirit every morning. It’s just that I’m so happy today.”
    “As a matter of fact, it’s time for our prayers now,” her father said.
    The Sasaki family gathered around the little altar shelf. Oba chan’s picture was there in a gold frame. Sadako looked at the ceiling and wondered if her grandmother’s spirit was floating somewhere above the altar.
    “Sadako chan!” Mr. Sasaki said sharply.
    Sadako quickly bowed her head. She fidgeted and wriggled her bare toes while Mr. Sasaki spoke. He prayed that the spirits of their ancestors were happy and peaceful. He gave thanks for his barbershop. He gave thanks for his fine children. And he prayed that his family would be protected from the atom bomb disease called leukemia.
    Many still died from the disease, even though the atom bomb had been dropped on Hiroshima nine years before. It had filled the air with radiation—a kind of poison—that stayed inside people for a long time.
    At breakfast Sadako noisily gulped down her soup and rice. Masahiro began to talk about girls who ate like hungry dragons. But Sadako didn’t hear his teasing. Her thoughts were dancing around the Peace Day of last year. She loved the crowds of people, the music, and fireworks. Sadako could still taste the spun cotton candy.
    She finished breakfast before anyone else. When she jumped up, Sadako almost knocked the table over. She was tall for her age and her long legs always seemed to get in the way.
    “Come on, Mitsue chan,” she said. “Let’s wash the dishes so that we can go soon.”
    When the kitchen was clean and tidy, Sadako tied red bows on her braids and stood impatiently by the door.
    “Sadako chan,” her mother said softly, “we aren’t leaving until seven-thirty. You can sit quietly until it is time to go.”
    Sadako plopped down with a thud onto the tatami mat. Nothing ever made her parents hurry. While she sat there a fuzzy spider paced across the room. A spider was a good luck sign. Now Sadako was sure the day would be wonderful. She cupped the insect in her hands and carefully set it free outside.
    “That’s silly,” Masahiro said. “Spiders don’t really bring good luck.”
    “Just wait and see!” Sadako said gaily.
    PEACE DAY
    When the family started out, the air was already warm and dust hung over the busy streets. Sadako ran ahead to the house of her best friend, Chizuko. The two had been friends since kindergarten. Sadako was sure that they would always be as close as two pine needles on the same twig.
    Chizuko waved and walked toward her. Sadako sighed. Sometimes she wished that her friend would move a bit faster. “Don’t be such a turtle!” she shouted. “Let’s hurry so we won’t miss anything.”
    “Sadako chan, go slowly in this heat,” her mother called after her. But it was too late. The girls were already racing up the street.
    Mrs. Sasaki frowned. “Sadako is always in such a hurry to be first that she never stops to listen,” she said.
    Mr. Sasaki laughed and said, “Well, did you ever see her walk when she could run, hop, or jump?” There was pride in his voice because Sadako was such a fast, strong runner.
    At the entrance to the Peace Park people filed through the memorial building in silence. On the walls were photographs of the dead and dying in a ruined city. The atom bomb—the Thunderbolt—had turned Hiroshima into a desert.
    Sadako didn’t want to look at the frightening pictures. She held tight to Chizuko’s hand and walked quickly through the building.
    “I remember the Thunderbolt,” Sadako whispered to her friend. “There was the flash of a million suns. Then the heat prickled my eyes like needles.”
    “How can you possibly remember