In a Flash Read online

  ALSO BY DONNA JO NAPOLI

  Alligator Bayou

  Dark Shimmer

  Daughter of Venice

  The King of Mulberry Street

  This is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, and all characters with the exception of some well-known historical and public figures, are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life historical or public figures appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning those persons are fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or to change the fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2020 by Donna Jo Napoli

  Cover art copyright © 2020 by Qu Lan

  Map art copyright © 2020 by Mike Reagan

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Wendy Lamb Books, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  Wendy Lamb Books and the colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Visit us on the Web! rhcbooks.com

  Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at RHTeachersLibrarians.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Napoli, Donna Jo, author.

  Title: In a flash / Donna Jo Napoli.

  Description: First edition. | New York : Wendy Lamb Books, [2020] | Includes bibliographical references. | Audience: Ages 8–12. | Audience: Grades 4–6. | Summary: Caught in Japan and separated from their father when World War II begins, Italian sisters Simona, thirteen, and Carolina, ten, embark on a trying journey hoping to reach safety. Includes historical notes.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019039937 (print) | LCCN 2019039938 (ebook) | ISBN 978-1-101-93413-5 (hardcover) | ISBN 978-1-101-93414-2 (library binding) | ISBN 978-1-101-93416-6 (paperback) | ISBN 978-1-101-93415-9 (ebook)

  Subjects: CYAC: Sisters—Fiction. | World War, 1939–1945—Japan —Fiction. | Survival—Fiction. | Italians—Japan. | Japan—History —1926–1945—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.N15 In 2020 (print) | LCC PZ7.N15 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  Ebook ISBN 9781101934159

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

  Penguin Random House LLC supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to publish books for every reader.

  ep_prh_5.6.0_c0_r0

  Contents

  Cover

  Also by Donna Jo Napoli

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Postscript

  Notes on Research

  Bibliography

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  To my grandchildren

  24 JULY 1940, LIDO DI OSTIA, ITALY

  I close my eyes and fall back into the sand with my hands clasped under my head. All I see through my eyelids is the red fire of the sun. All I smell is the sea. It makes me think of lemons. The waves pound close by as Carolina shovels sand into her tin pail. Scrape, scrape.

  I wipe sweat from my eyebrows and around my lips. Everyone says the summer of 1934, when Mamma was pregnant with Carolina, was the hottest. I don’t remember it because I was only two and a half. But they say this summer is nearly as hot.

  I pinch my nose and prepare to be buried in sand by Carolina.

  Nothing.

  I sit up and blink. I see a dazzling spray of colors—blue water, dark streaks in the sand, the white swan painted on Carolina’s yellow pail. But no Carolina. My throat clutches. Where is she?

  Salty water drips onto my head, stinging my eyes. I grin up at her as she sprinkles me with my watering can.

  “Grow!” she screams.

  I squat and gradually rise, like the enchanted bean plant in a fable. Soon I’m too tall for Carolina to water; I’m eight and she isn’t even six yet. Carolina dances around me, laughing. “A giant Simona!” she shouts to Nonna.

  Nonna sits on a turned-over wooden box, like all the other grandmothers on the beach. She shades herself with her pink umbrella and smiles.

  “Lunchtime!” Nonna calls.

  Carolina runs into the waves to rinse her pail and my old watering can, with the faded blue flowers. We didn’t buy new ones this year. There weren’t any in the shop because all the metal is needed for our wars. Papà said smart people are frugal these days anyway.

  I brush the sand off the wooden box Nonna was sitting on and balance it on my head as we walk. Nonna holds her umbrella. Carolina holds everything else.

  “Want to guess what I’m making for lunch?” Nonna asks, and smiles.

  “Pasta.” Carolina skips ahead.

  “Of course. So guess what else.”

  “Zucchini flowers,” I say.

  “How did you know?”

  “The vines are full of blossoms.”

  “Orange flowers, green salad, red sauce on the pasta,” says Nonna. “The eye will be as happy as the stomach.”

  She loves cooking so much, it sometimes seems she must be Papà’s mother rather than Mamma’s. Papà is the best cook in Ostia; some say the best in all of Rome. Nonna says the best cook in all Italy.

  Nonna goes in to start cooking while Carolina and I pick the zucchini blossoms. Then we walk inside to the welcome of the cool dark.

  Papà is home! The way he is standing now, with his black c
urls tight to his head and his thin beaky nose, he makes me think of the black stork we saw in the marsh once. Carolina runs into his hug, crushing the flowers in her arms. Having Papà in the middle of the day is a treat.

  I smile. Then hesitate. Lunch is the busiest meal at Papà’s tavern. Why is he home?

  Nonna sits at the kitchen table, hands limp in her lap. She should be at the stove.

  A big suitcase stands on the floor beside Papà. I’ve never seen it before. “What’s going on?”

  “Your father has lost his mind,” says Nonna.

  Papà gives a quick laugh. “I’m going to be the cook in an embassy.”

  “That sounds…good,” I say.

  “I’ll make more money,” says Papà. “A man from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs heard about my cooking and came to the tavern to taste it. I didn’t know. Today he came back and offered me a job. Think of that. I’ll be the cook at the Italian embassy.”

  I nod happily.

  “In Japan,” Nonna says. “Halfway around the world.”

  Carolina and I look at each other.

  Carolina snatches her rag doll, Lella, from the shelf and goes to sit beside Nonna. Her fingers comb through Lella’s yellow yarn hair, as though the conversation doesn’t matter. But her shoulders bunch up.

  “The new Italian ambassador to Japan has been in Tokyo barely a week, but he hates the food,” says Papà. “He needs real Italian food. My food.”

  “Japan,” says Nonna. “Luciano, Japan is at war with China.”

  Papà stands taller. “The man from Foreign Affairs predicts Japan’s war with China will be over soon. Maybe even before I start the new job.”

  “Hasn’t that war been going for years already? Maybe he’d say anything to get you to take the job.”

  “I doubt that. Besides, all the fighting is on Chinese soil. Japan is safe.”

  Nonna gapes at Papà. “Safe?”

  “Safer than Italy. Europe is at war: Poland, Norway, Denmark, Belgium, the Netherlands.” Papà counts off the countries on his fingers. “And now France.”

  “Germany invaded those countries.” Nonna shakes her head. “Germany won’t invade Italy. Mussolini and Hitler have a pact. The Pact of Steel. Italy and Germany are friends.”

  “But that pact is exactly the problem.” Papà comes toward the table, palms together. He shakes his hands as he walks. “That’s why Mussolini declared war on France and Great Britain.”

  Carolina looks at me, baffled, but I remember that announcement. On a Monday in mid-June—a month ago. Papà was home because the tavern is closed on Mondays. He was slicing tomatoes for dinner and listening to the radio news. He cried out in pain. I ran in because I thought he’d cut his finger. He sat me down and explained that because of the Pact of Steel, Germany’s enemies were Italy’s enemies; Germany was at war with France and Great Britain, so Italy was, too.

  Now Papà puts both hands on the table and leans across toward Nonna. “Italian troops invaded France right alongside German troops. Mamma Raffaella, dear sweet one, you listen to the radio. You read the newspapers. You don’t want to believe it, but you have to. There’s going to be fighting in Italy,” he says quietly. “Soon.”

  Fighting here? At school the boys dress in black shirts and gray-green trousers to look like soldiers’ uniforms. It shows their loyalty to our leader, Mussolini, and the Fascist party. The boys have mock battles. Our teachers talk about real battles all the time, but those battles are far away—in Egypt, Spain, Albania—and Italy always wins. No one says anything about battles here in Italy. My teeth clench so hard my jaw hurts.

  Nonna has her hand over her mouth. Now she lets it fall into her lap again. “If you’re so sure of that, how could you accept the job? Your poor girls. They’ve lost so much already. Their mother…” She stops. Then, “They’ll miss you.”

  “Miss me? No, no. We’re all going. All four of us. There’s room for the whole family, right in the embassy.”

  Nonna is shaking her head again. She fingers her watchband.

  Papà looks at me, then at Carolina. “Do you want to go with me, girls?”

  “Yes!” shouts Carolina.

  A new country. A new school. But safe. With Papà and Nonna. I try to smile.

  Leaving behind friends. And this house. Where Mamma lived, till she died in January.

  Everything is different in a flash.

  “I’m too old for this.” Nonna puts on her headscarf and goes out the door. She shuts it so softly, it swings open again. She’s going to church. That’s what she does when she’s upset.

  Papà is looking at me. Waiting. “Don’t worry about Nonna. I’ll talk to her. We’ll go for a year, two at most. Simona. Carolina. You’ll get to see a bit of the world. An adventure. And…” His voice is nearly a whisper now. “A change would help us in lots of ways, Simona. We’ve all been…sad….I don’t know how to say it. But you’re smart. You know what I mean.”

  Loss. Lost. Ever since Mamma died. Ever since she got so sick. That’s what’s in my head. And now, fear.

  No! I mustn’t be afraid. Papà wants a change. And it’s only for a year. Two at most.

  Papà looks at his watch and taps the face lightly, thoughtfully. “It’s seven hours later in Tokyo than it is here. We’d be eating the evening meal if we were there now. So much would be different. But some things would be the same. Our family would be the same.” He turns his face up to us and smiles. “Girls, will you help me pack? They’re going to rush our documents through. I agreed to leave in four days. We’ll take a ship—a long, long way. With good weather, we should arrive in time for you to go to school.”

  The smell of the zucchini flowers still perched in my arms is overpoweringly sweet. This room is overpoweringly dear.

  I look at Papà. He is waiting. Hopeful.

  I swallow. Then smile. I can bring Mamma’s church scarf. It smells of her hair. I grab Carolina by the hand. “Let’s go talk to Nonna. She might listen to us better.” I nod to Papà, and we rush out the door.

  We follow the path; it is so familiar, we could go there with our eyes closed. We sit on the wide stone steps of the entrance to the church, hot from the sun. Carolina herds ants with a leaf while I watch the door.

  Nonna finally comes out. She gives us a small smile and plops down between us with an Umpf, taking off her scarf. Her gray curls spring up. “Is this an ambush?”

  “It will be an adventure,” Carolina says, patting Nonna’s shoulder, as though she’s the old lady and Nonna’s the child. “You love adventure.”

  Nonna laughs. “Adventures at the beach or at a farm or wandering around the streets of town—that’s very different from…what your father is talking about.” She pulls Carolina onto her lap. “I’m old. And tired. Oh, my treasured girls, I can’t face all that travel. A strange language. Different ways of behaving.”

  “We’ll face it together,” I say. “The whole family, like Papà said.”

  “I love you more than life itself, girls. But…”

  “And we love you,” I say. “We need you.”

  “No. I’d only hold you back. I’ve been thinking and praying. If you go, you have to go fresh and alert. I’m going to make a list for you. Things you should know. We’ll talk about it a lot before you go.”

  “We’re going in four days,” says Carolina.

  “Four days?” Nonna practically yelps, as though she’s been pierced. Her dark eyes shine. “Then we’d better start talking now.” She scoots Carolina off her lap and stands. “Stay alert. Always. Pay attention to everything and everyone. Pay attention to how things are done in your new country. Be kind. Be grateful. Smile a lot. Take care of each other.” She’s counting off on her fingers, like Papà does. Then she stops, takes us each by a hand, and lifts our hands high. “Forza e coraggio—that will be your motto.”


  Forza e coraggio. Strength and courage. I close my eyes and still my heart. We can do this.

  2 SEPTEMBER 1940, TOKYO, JAPAN

  It’s Monday, the second of September, my fourth day in Tokyo and my first day of school. Hatsu inspects me closely. She’s on the kitchen staff here at the embassy. She and others make the Japanese food for the embassy employees, while Papà runs the kitchen and makes Italian food for the ambassador, his wife, and their guests. Hatsu has a daughter a little younger than Carolina, so when we arrived three days ago, it was decided that Hatsu will take care of Carolina while I’m in school, and her daughter will come to work with her, as Carolina’s playmate. Right now, though, Hatsu smooths the cuffs of the little cap sleeves on my white shirt. She straightens the blue jumper-dress that goes over that shirt and nods, satisfied. She sewed this outfit for me fast. If Nonna had come with us, she would have sewn it just as fast. I blink now to keep from crying. Nonna promised to write often. Our uncle, Zio Piero, promised, too. Nonna lives with him now.

  I could have made clothes for myself, because Nonna taught me. But I didn’t know what school clothes looked like here. I couldn’t even ask what I needed to make them; Hatsu doesn’t speak Italian. So I just watched while Hatsu worked on my shirt and dress all day Saturday, and I smiled at her a lot and said “Thank you” in Japanese. But I’m glad. This is a pretty, deep-blue dress, and the shirt has a rounded collar. Hatsu undoes the top button and spreads the collar open like wings. That’s good. That must be how they do it here. I touch the tip of the collar, nodding hard, and say, “I like it.” She seems to understand.