But maybe Masako was born that way, thought Mrs. Asaki as she shuffled down the lane. Having grown up in the country, she knew firsthand how gestational environment affected the personalities of young animals. During her first pregnancy Mrs. Kobayashi had been happy; she had been in love. She was constantly nibbling on some newfangled treat Shohei had brought home: imported bananas, buttered popcorn, Chinese pork buns. But her second pregnancy was filled with worry and grief. She had scraped by—as they all had—on a substandard diet.

This very lane, now covered over with gravel, had once been their only source of greens. The neighbors had farmed it until it was nothing but a narrow dirt path cutting through rows of radishes and chrysanthemum shoots and spinach. In between their black-market trips to the country, the Asakis, too, had coaxed vegetables out of the meager city soil, which they fertilized with human excrement carried out discreetly in covered buckets.

The things that shape us, she thought.

Take her own life. What if she had adopted a child like Yoko? What if she had given birth to her own children? What kind of person would she have turned out to be?

And most important: what if she had allowed her only chance for a child to slip through her fingers?

War had created an opportunity. And Mrs. Asaki had grabbed it, with a cunning aggression that surprised even herself.

Heart pounding, she had broached the first part of her plan to her sister-in-law. “Why not marry Kenji?” she said. “He’s coming home from Manchuria soon. And he’s always been sweet on you.” It was the perfect solution. They both needed spouses; the children needed a mother and father. All their family problems could be solved at once.

This time, when she saw the trapped look on her sister-in-law’s face, she felt only a faint irritation.

Mrs. Kobayashi’s lips worked silently as she searched for a polite excuse. “But—his child is the same age as Masako!” she said finally. It was a good point. Second marriages, especially those with children from both sides, were best forgotten by the public. But how was this possible, with two siblings so close in age? It would be obvious they came from different parents.

“I have a solution,” said Mrs. Asaki. She was starting to sweat under her kimono. She shrank with distaste from what she was about to do.

“We’ve always wanted a child of our own,” she began. She steeled herself to meet Mrs. Kobayashi’s startled eyes. The words poured out: they could adopt little Masako. The neighbors could be trusted to keep quiet. All the children could still grow up together, right on the same lane. No one would have to miss out on anything.

“After all,” she concluded, “these kinds of arrangements have been going on for centuries.”

The amazement in Mrs. Kobayashi’s eyes changed to gradually dawning awareness. For a brief unguarded instant, her eyes narrowed with hate.

Mrs. Asaki’s own shame twisted into an answering flash of anger. This young woman had an inflated sense of what life owed her. How quickly she had forgotten the staggering debt her family owed. Where was her gratitude now?

“It seems to me you’re forgetting how society works,” Mrs. Asaki told her coldly. “Families survive by helping one another. We were there for you and your family in your worst hour of need. Who’ll be there for us, when we’re old and helpless with no children to look after us?”

Mrs. Kobayashi hung her head and said nothing.

“You already have children,” Mrs. Asaki said. “You’re young and healthy.” She was stung by the unfairness of it. “You can still have many more.”

Years later, when Mrs. Asaki broke the news to Masako about her adoption, she related these events in a far more benign light. In her version, both parties came to a mutual decision in the spirit of what was best for the family. Which, if one really thought about it, was exactly what had happened.

She told her daughter on her twentieth birthday, when she turned legally of age. She took her into the parlor to formally deliver the news.

“What a pity your father’s not here,” she said. Mr. Asaki had died two years earlier from lung complications. “He wanted so much to see you grow up.”

Masako listened carefully as her mother told the story. But she didn’t seem shocked. She asked no questions. Did she already know? That possibility had never occurred to Mrs. Asaki.

Masako finally asked one question. “Was she sad,” she asked, “the day she gave me up?” She said this calmly, almost conversationally. But the nakedness in her eyes gave her away.

“Why yes, of course she was!” cried Mrs. Asaki. Then she paused. Part of her wanted to keep going, because it was what her daughter needed to hear. But the other part of her was reluctant.

So she compromised. “She shed a tear, and she stroked your head one last time before she handed you over to me,” she said. “Then she bowed, and I bowed, and she thanked me for agreeing to raise you as my own.”

In reality there had been no tears. Mrs. Kobayashi had seemed vacant, almost distracted; her complexion had a yellowish cast and there were dark circles under her eyes. And there was no ceremonial handing over of the child. When Mrs. Kobayashi took formal leave of the Asaki house, baby Masako had been sound asleep upstairs. While the two women exchanged formal bows and polite phrases in the outer guest vestibule, little Yoko stood quietly by, her shoes on and ready to go. She made no fuss, she did not ask after her little sister, she did not clutch on to the hanging sleeve of her mother’s kimono. She seemed to sense that her mother was no longer strong enough to deal with childish demands. When Mrs. Kobayashi finally ushered her down the garden path toward the outer gate, the little girl had looked back with an expression of such gravity, such adult sentience, that Mrs. Asaki had shivered.