Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes

  THE GOLDEN CRANE

  The next morning Sadako woke up slowly. She listened for the familiar sounds of her mother making breakfast, but there were only the new and different sounds of a hospital. Sadako sighed. She had hoped that yesterday was just a bad dream. It was even more real when Nurse Yasunaga came in to give her a shot.

  “Getting shots is part of being in the hospital,” the plump nurse said briskly. “You’ll get used to it.”

  “I just want the sickness to be over with,” Sadako said unhappily, “so I can go home.”

  That afternoon Chizuko was Sadako’s first visitor. She smiled mysteriously as she held something behind her back. “Shut your eyes,” she said. While Sadako squinted her eyes tightly shut, Chizuko put some pieces of paper and scissors on the bed. “Now you can look,” she said.

  “What is it?” Sadako asked, staring at the paper.

  Chizuko was pleased with herself. “I’ve figured out a way for you to get well,” she said proudly. “Watch!” She cut a piece of gold paper into a large square. In a short time she had folded it over and over into a beautiful crane.

  Sadako was puzzled. “But how can that paper bird make me well?”

  “Don’t you remember that old story about the crane?” Chizuko asked. “It’s supposed to live for a thousand years. If a sick person folds one thousand paper cranes, the gods will grant her wish and make her healthy again.” She handed the crane to Sadako. “Here’s your first one.”

  Sadako’s eyes filled with tears. How kind of Chizuko to bring a good luck charm! Especially when her friend didn’t really believe in such things. Sadako took the golden crane and made a wish. The funniest little feeling came over her when she touched the bird. It must be a good omen.

  “Thank you, Chizuko chan,” she whispered. “I’ll never never part with it.”

  When she began to work with the paper, Sadako discovered that folding a crane wasn’t as easy as it looked. With Chizuko’s help she learned how to do the difficult parts. After making ten birds, Sadako lined them up on the table beside the golden crane. Some were a bit lopsided, but it was a beginning.

  “Now I have only nine hundred and ninety to make,” Sadako said. With the golden crane nearby she felt safe and lucky. Why, in a few weeks she would be able to finish the thousand. Then she would be strong enough to go home.

  That evening Masahiro brought Sadako’s homework from school. When he saw the cranes, he said, “There isn’t enough room on that small table to show off your birds. I’ll hang them from the ceiling for you.”

  Sadako was smiling all over. “Do you promise to hang every crane I make?” she asked.

  Masahiro promised.

  “That’s fine!” Sadako said, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Then you’ll hang the whole thousand?”

  “A thousand!” Her brother groaned. “You’re joking!”

  Sadako told him the story of the cranes.

  Masahiro ran a hand through his straight black hair. “You tricked me!” he said with a grin. “But I’ll do it anyhow.” He borrowed some thread and tacks from Nurse Yasunaga and hung the first ten cranes. The golden crane stayed in its place of honor on the table.

  After supper Mrs. Sasaki brought Mitsue and Eiji to the hospital. Everyone was surprised to see the birds. They reminded Mrs. Sasaki of a famous old poem:

  Out of colored paper, cranes

  come flying into

  our house.

  Mitsue and Eiji liked the golden crane best. But Mrs. Sasaki chose the tiniest one made of fancy green paper with pink parasols on it. “This is my choice,” she said, “because small ones are the most difficult to make.”

  After visiting hours it was lonely in the hospital room. So lonely that Sadako folded more cranes to keep up her courage.

  Eleven ... I wish I’d get better.

  Twelve ... I wish I’d get better ...

  KENJI

  Everyone saved paper for Sadako’s good luck cranes. Chizuko brought colored paper from the bamboo class. Father saved every scrap from the barbershop. Even Nurse Yasunaga gave Sadako the wrappings from packages of medicine. And Masahiro hung every one of the birds, as he had promised. Sometimes he strung many on one thread. The biggest cranes flew alone.

  During the next few months there were times when Sadako felt almost well. However, Dr. Numata said it was best for her to stay in the hospital. By now Sadako realized that she had leukemia, but she also knew that some patients recovered from the disease. She never stopped hoping that she would get well, too.

  On good days Sadako was busy. She did her homework, wrote letters to friends and pen pals, and amused her visitors with games, riddles, and songs. In the evening she always made paper cranes. Her flock grew to over three hundred. Now the birds were perfectly folded. Her fingers were sure and worked quickly without any mistakes.

  Gradually the atom bomb disease took away Sadako’s energy. She learned about pain. Sometimes throbbing headaches stopped her from reading and writing. At other times her bones seemed to be on fire. And more dizzy spells sent Sadako into deep blackness. Often she was too weak to do anything but sit by the window and look longingly out at the maple tree in the courtyard. She would stay there for hours, holding the golden crane in her lap.

  Sadako was feeling especially tired one day when Nurse Yasunaga wheeled her out onto the porch for some sunshine. There Sadako saw Kenji for the first time. He was nine and small for his age. Sadako stared at his thin face and shining dark eyes.

  “Hello!” she said. “I’m Sadako.”

  Kenji answered in a low, soft voice. Soon the two were talking like old friends. Kenji had been in the hospital for a long time, but he had few visitors. His parents were dead and he had been living with an aunt in a nearby town.

  “She’s so old that she comes to see me only once a week,” Kenji said. “I read most of the time.”

  Sadako turned away at the sad look on Kenji’s face.

  “It doesn’t really matter,” he went on with a weary sigh, “because I’ll die soon. I have leukemia from the bomb.”

  “But you can’t have leukemia,” Sadako said quickly. “You weren’t even born then.”

  “That isn’t important,” Kenji said. “The poison was in my mother’s body and I got it from her.”

  Sadako wanted so much to comfort him, but she didn’t know what to say. Then she remembered the cranes. “You can make paper cranes like I do,” she said, “so that a miracle can happen.”

  “I know about the cranes,” Kenji replied quietly, “but it’s too late. Even the gods can’t help me now.”

  Just then Nurse Yasunaga came out onto the porch. “Kenji,” she said sternly, “how do you know such things?”

  He gave her a sharp look. “I just know,” he said. “And besides, I can read my blood count on the chart. Every day it gets worse.”

  The nurse was flustered.

  “What a talker!” she said. “You are tiring yourself.” And she wheeled Kenji inside.

  Back in her room Sadako was thoughtful. She tried to imagine what it would be like to be ill and have no family. Kenji was brave, that’s all. She made a big crane out of her prettiest paper and sent it across the hall to his room. Perhaps it would bring him luck. Then she folded more birds for her flock.

  Three hundred and ninety-eight.

  Three hundred and ninety-nine...

  One day Kenji didn’t appear on the porch. Late that night Sadako heard the rumble of a bed being rolled down the hall. Nurse Yasunaga came in to tell her that Kenji had died. Sadako turned to the wall and let the tears come.

  After a while she felt the nurse’s gentle hand on her shoulder. “Let’s sit by the window and talk,” Nurse Yasunaga said in a kindly voice.

  When Sadako finally stopped sobbing, she looked out at the moonlit sky. “Do you think Kenji is up there on a star island?”

  “Wherever he is, I’m sure that he is happy now,” the nurse said. “He has shed that tired, sick body and his spirit is f
ree.”

  Sadako was quiet, listening to the leaves on the maple tree rustle in the wind. Then she said, “I’m going to die next, aren’t I?”

  “Of course not!” Nurse Yasunaga answered with a firm shake of her head. She spread some colored paper on Sadako’s bed. “Come and let me see you fold another paper crane before you go to sleep. After you finish one thousand birds, you’ll live to be an old, old lady.”

  Sadako tried hard to believe that. She carefully folded cranes and made the same wish.

  Four hundred and sixty-three.

  Four hundred and sixty-four...

  HUNDREDS OF WISHES

  June came with its long, endless rains. Day after day the sky was gray as rain spattered against the windows. Rain dripped steadily from the leaves of the maple tree. Soon everything in the room smelled musty. Even the sheets felt clammy.

  Sadako grew pale and listless. Only her parents and Masahiro were allowed to visit her. The bamboo class sent a Kokeshi doll to cheer her up. Sadako liked the wooden doll’s wistful smile and the red roses painted on its kimono. The doll stood next to the golden crane on Sadako’s bedside table.

  Mrs. Sasaki was worried because Sadako didn’t eat enough. One evening she brought a surprise wrapped in a furoshiki bundle. It contained all of Sadako’s favorite foods—an egg roll, chicken and rice, pickled plums, and bean cakes. Sadako propped herself up against the pillows and tried to eat. But it was no use. Her swollen gums hurt so much that she couldn’t chew. Finally, Sadako pushed the good things away. Her mother’s eyes were bright as if she were going to cry.

  “I’m such a turtle!” Sadako burst out. She was angry with herself for making her mother sad. She also knew that the Sasaki family had no extra money for expensive food. Tears stung Sadako’s eyes and she quickly brushed them away.

  “It’s all right,” Mrs. Sasaki said soothingly. She cradled Sadako in her arms. “You’ll be better soon. Maybe when the sun comes out again ...”

  Sadako leaned against her mother and listened to her read from a book of poems. When Masahiro came, Sadako was calmer and happier. He told her news from school and ate some of the special dinner.

  Before Masahiro left, he said, “Oh, I almost forgot! Eiji sent you a present.” He dug into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of silver paper. “Here,” he said, giving it to his sister. “Eiji said this is for another crane.”

  Sadako sniffed the paper. “Ummm! It smells like candy,” she said. “I hope the gods like chocolate.”

  The three burst out laughing. It was the first time Sadako had laughed in days. It was a good sign. Perhaps the golden crane’s magic was beginning to work. She smoothed out the paper and folded a bird.

  Five hundred and forty-one...

  But she was too tired to make more. Sadako stretched out on the bed and closed her eyes. As Mrs. Sasaki tiptoed out of the room, she whispered a poem she used to say when Sadako was little:

  “O flock of heavenly cranes

  Cover my child with your wings.”

  LAST DAYS

  Near the end of July it was warm and sunny. Sadako seemed to be getting better. “I’m over halfway to one thousand cranes,” she told Masahiro, “so something good is going to happen.”

  And it did. Her appetite came back and much of the pain went away. Dr. Numata was pleased with her progress and told Sadako she could go home for a visit. That night Sadako was so excited she couldn’t sleep. To keep the magic working she made more cranes.

  Six hundred and twenty-one.

  Six hundred and twenty-two...

  It was wonderful to be home with the family for O Bon, the biggest holiday of the year. O Bon was a special celebration for spirits of the dead who returned to visit those they had loved on earth.

  Mrs. Sasaki and Mitsue had scrubbed and swept the house until it shone. Fresh flowers brightened the table. Sadako’s golden crane and Kokeshi doll were there, too. The air was filled with smells of delicious holiday food. Dishes of bean cakes and rice balls had been placed on the altar shelf for ghostly visitors.

  That night Sadako watched her mother put a lantern outside so that the spirits could find their way in the dark. She let out a happy sigh. Perhaps, just perhaps, she was home to stay.

  For several days a steady stream of friends and relatives come to call on the Sasaki family. By the end of a week Sadako was pale and tired again. She could only sit quietly and watch the others.

  “Sadako certainly has good manners now,” Mr. Sasaki said. “Oba chan’s spirit must be pleased to see how ladylike her granddaughter has be come.”

  “How can you say that!” Mrs. Sasaki cried. “I would rather have our lively Sadako back.” She dabbed at her eyes and hurried into the kitchen.

  I’m making everyone sad, Sadako thought. She wished she could suddenly turn into her old self. How happy her mother would be then!

  As if he knew what was in Sadako’s mind, her father said gruffly, “There now, don’t worry. After a good night’s rest you’ll feel fine.”

  But the next day Sadako had to return to the hospital. For the first time she was glad to be in the quiet hospital room. Her parents sat beside the bed for a long time. Every now and then Sadako drifted off into a strange kind of half-sleep.

  “When I die,” she said dreamily, “will you put my favorite bean cakes on the altar for my spirit?”

  Mrs. Sasaki could not speak. She took her daughter’s hand and held it tightly.

  “Hush!” Mr. Sasaki said in a funny voice. “That will not happen for many, many years. Don’t give up now, Sadako chan. You have to make only a few hundred more cranes.”

  Nurse Yasunaga gave Sadako medicine that helped her rest. Before her eyes closed, Sadako reached out to touch the golden crane.

  “I will get better,” she murmured to the Kokeshi doll, “and someday I’ll race like the wind.”

  From then on Dr. Numata gave Sadako blood transfusions or shots almost every day. “I know it hurts,” he said, “but we must keep on trying.”

  Sadako nodded. She never complained about the shots and almost constant pain. A bigger pain was growing deep inside of her. It was the fear of dying. She had to fight it as well as the disease. The golden crane helped. It reminded Sadako that there was always hope.

  Mrs. Sasaki spent more and more time at the hospital. Every afternoon Sadako listened for the familiar slap-slap of her plastic slippers in the hall. All visitors had to put on yellow slippers at the door, but Mrs. Sasaki’s made a special sound. Sadako’s heart ached to see her mother’s face so lined with worry.

  The leaves on the maple tree were turning rust and gold when the family came for one last visit. Eiji handed Sadako a big box wrapped in gold paper and tied with a red ribbon. Slowly Sadako opened it. Inside was something her mother had always wanted for her—a silk kimono with cherry blossoms on it. Sadako felt hot tears blur her eyes.

  “Why did you do it?” she asked, touching the soft cloth. “I’ll never be able to wear it and silk costs so much money.”

  “Sadako chan,” her father said gently, “your mother stayed up late last night to finish sewing it. Try it on for her.”

  With a great effort Sadako lifted herself out of bed. Mrs. Sasaki helped her put on the kimono and tie the sash. Sadako was glad her swollen legs didn’t show. Unsteadily she limped across the room and sat in her chair by the window. Everyone agreed that she was like a princess in the kimono.

  At that moment Chizuko came in. Dr. Numata had given her permission to visit for a short time. She stared at Sadako in surprise. “You look better in that outfit than in school clothes,” she said.

  Everyone laughed. Even Sadako. “Then I’ll wear it to classes every day when I’m well again,” she joked.

  Mitsue and Eiji giggled at the idea.

  For a little while it was almost like the good times they used to have at home. They played word games and sang Sadako’s favorite songs. Meanwhile, she sat stiffly in the chair, trying not to show the pain it caused
her. But it was worth the pain. When her parents left, they looked almost cheerful.

  Before she went to sleep, Sadako managed to fold only one paper crane.

  Six hundred and forty-four...

  It was the last one she ever made.

  RACING WITH THE WIND

  As Sadako grew weaker, she thought more about death. Would she live on a heavenly mountain? Did it hurt to die? Or was it like falling asleep?

  If only I could forget about it, Sadako thought. But it was like trying to stop the rain from falling. As soon as she concentrated on something else, death crept back into her mind.

  Toward the middle of October, Sadako lost track of days and nights. Once, when she was awake, she saw her mother crying.

  “Don’t cry,” she begged. “Please don’t cry.” Sadako wanted to say more, but her mouth and tongue wouldn’t move. A tear slid down her cheek. She had brought her mother so much grief. And all Sadako could do now was make paper cranes and hope for a miracle.

  She fumbled with a piece of paper. Her fingers were too clumsy to fold it.

  I can’t even make a crane, she said to herself. I’ve turned into a real turtle! Quickly, quickly, Sadako tried with all her strength to fold the paper before she was swept into darkness.

  It might have been minutes or hours later that Dr. Numata came in and felt Sadako’s forehead. He gently took the paper out of her hands. She barely heard him say, “It’s time to rest. You can make more birds tomorrow.”

  Sadako gave a faint nod. Tomorrow... tomorrow seemed such a long, long way off.

  The next time she awoke, the family was there. Sadako smiled at them. She was part of that warm, loving circle where she would always be. Nothing could ever change that.

  Already lights were dancing behind her eyes. Sadako slid a thin, trembling hand over to touch the golden crane. Life was slipping away from her, but the crane made Sadako feel stronger inside.