We were on that train for many hours, without food to eat. The sight of Mr Satoru taking a wrapped-up lotus leaf from his bag, and unwrapping it to reveal a rice ball sprinkled with sesame seeds, certainly got my attention.
But when he took it in his bony fingers and pressed it into his mean little mouth without so much as looking at me, I felt as if I couldn't take another moment of torment.
We got off the train at last in a large town, which I took to be Kawasaki; but after a time another train pulled into the station, and we boarded it.
This one did take us to Kawasaki. It was much more crowded than the first train had been so we had to stand.
By the time we arrived, as evening was approaching, I felt as sore as a rock must feel when the waterfall pounded on it all day long.
I could see little of the city as we neared Kawasaki Station. But then to my astonishment, I caught a glimpse of rooftops reaching as far as the base of hills in the distance.
I could never have imagined a city so huge. Even to this day, the sight of streets and buildings from a train often makes me remember the terrible emptiness and fear I felt on that curious day when I first left my home.
Back then, around 1930, a fair number of rickshaws still operated in Kawasaki. So many were lined up before the station that I imagined no one went anywhere in this big city unless it was in a rickshaw—which couldn't have been further from the truth.
Perhaps fifteen or twenty of them sat pitched forward onto their poles, with their drivers squatting nearby, smoking or eating; some of the drivers even lay curled up asleep right there in the filth of the street.
Mr Satoru led us by our elbows again, as if we were a couple of buckets he was bringing back from the well. He probably thought I'd have run away if he'd let go of me a moment, but I wouldn't have.
Wherever he was taking us, I preferred it to be cast out alone into that great expanse of streets and buildings, as foreign to me as the bottom of the sea.
We climbed into a rickshaw, with Mr Satoru squeezed tightly on the bench between us. He was a good deal bonier under that kimono even than I suspected. We pitched back as the driver raised the poles, and then Mr Satoru said, "Tominaga-Cho, in Gion."
The driver said nothing in reply but tugged at the rickshaw to get it moving and then set off at a trot. After a block or two, I worked up my courage and said to Mr Satoru, "Won't you please tell us where we're going?"
He didn't look as if he would reply, but after a moment he said, "To your new home."
At this, my eyes filled with tears. I heard Yukiko weeping on the other side of Mr Satoru and was just about to let out a sob of my own when Mr Satoru suddenly struck her, and she let out a loud gasp.
I bit my lip and stopped myself so quickly from crying any further that I think the tears themselves may have come to a halt as they slid down my cheeks.
Soon we turned onto an avenue that seemed as broad as the whole village of Yoroido. I could hardly see the other side of all the people, bicycles, cars, and trucks.
I'd never seen a car before. I'd seen photographs, but I remember being surprised at how . . . well, cruel, is the way they looked to me in my frightened state, as though they were designed more to hurt people than to help them.
All my senses were assaulted. Trucks rumbled past so close I could smell the scorched rubber odour of their tires. I heard a horrible screech, which turned out to be a streetcar on tracks in the centre of the avenue.
I felt terrified as evening settled in around us, but I was never so astonished by anything in my life as by my first glimpse of city lights. I'd never even seen electricity except during part of our dinner at Mr Hiroki's house. Here, windows were lit along the buildings upstairs and down, and the people on the sidewalks stood under puddles of yellow glow.
I could see pinpoints even at the far reaches of the avenue. We turned onto another street, and I saw for the first time the Minamiza Theater standing on the opposite side of a bridge ahead of us. Its tiled roof was so grand, I thought it was a palace.
At length, the rickshaw turned down an alleyway of wooden houses. The way they were all packed together, they seemed to share one continuous facade—which once again gave me the terrible feeling of being lost.
I watched women in kimonos rushing around in a great hurry on the little street. They looked very elegant to me; though, as I later learned, they were mostly maids.
When we came to a halt before a doorway, Mr Satoru instructed me to get out. He climbed out behind me, and then as if the day hadn't been difficult enough, the worst thing of all happened.
For when Yukiko tried to get out as well, Mr Satoru turned and pushed her back with his long arm.
"Stay there," he said to her.
"You're going elsewhere."
I looked at Yukiko, and Yukiko looked at me. It may have been the first time we'd ever completely understood each other's feelings.
But it lasted only a moment, for the next thing I knew my eyes had welled up with tears so much I could scarcely see.
I felt myself being dragged backwards by Mr Satoru; I heard women's voices and quite a bit of commotion.
I was on the point of throwing myself onto the street when suddenly Yukiko's mouth fell open at something she saw in the doorway behind me.