Eleanor Coerr (1922–2010)

"I will write peace on your wings and you will fly all over the world." ~Sadako Sasaki


When Sadako Sasaki was two years old she lived in Hiroshima with her family. That was the year the atom bomb was dropped. Although she and her family survived, in the coming years it would be clear that there were lasting impacts from the bombing. As she was growing up Sadako loved to run. She planned to win races for the track team one day. Unfortunately, when she was ten years old she began to feel tired show more all the time. It took her a long time to tell her family, and when she did they took her to a doctor who diagnosed her with leukemia, also called the "atom bomb disease." This was devastating for Sadako and her family. But, there's a Japanese legend that gave her hope. It says that if one thousand paper cranes are made by someone who is ill, the gods will make them well again. Since Sadako spent so much time in bed, she began making paper cranes, each one giving her hope. The cranes were made with different paper and strung from the ceiling with string. Sadako was able to fold six hundred and forty-four cranes before she no longer had the energy to make another one. The rest were made by her classmates. Sadly, the cranes were not able to keep Sadako well, but throughout it all she remained an inspiration for those around her.

Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes by Eleanor Coerr is based on a true story. Although I had heard of the book, I did not know the story. It was a very fast read and I learned so much about Sadako. The legend of the paper cranes was new to me, but I thought it was beautiful. I could see how it gave Sadako hope. They also made beautiful decorations for her to look at while she rested. This story makes you think about sad things, like war and how people’s lives can be changed as a result of it. It's also an inspiring story of believing that something good will happen. I found out that there is a memorial in Hiroshima Peace Park dedicated to Sadako. It's a place where children and adults can visit and leave paper cranes to remember her. I think this is a book that kids and adults in fifth grade and up will really learn from. After reading it I have tried to make my own paper crane, but so far mine need a lot of work. It isn’t easy to read books like this, but the lessons we learn are so valuable. show less

I loved "Mieko and the Fifth Treasure," and I would give it five stars. I liked that I was able to see the effects of the bombing of Nagasaki in WWII through the lens of a child survivor, which is a unique perspective that I have not come across in other children's books and novels. I have read several books that have mentioned the bombings, like "When my Name was Keoko," but very few of the books I read feature Japanese protagonists. The few books that I have read from the Japanese show more perspective, like "Shin's Tricycle," are told from the perspective of adult survivors, so when I read "Mieko and the Fifth Treasure" I found it very interesting to read about these historical events through the eyes of a child. I think that this book helped me to better understand the impact that the bombings had on the citizens who did survive and had to radically change their lives as a result. I thought that Mieko was a great character because I found that she was very relatable, even though I have never experienced anything like Mieko had. What I could relate to were Mieko's emotions about the world and about herself after the event. Mieko had sustained an injury on her hand when the bomb had hit Nagasaki, and as a result she had a large scar and could not move her hand normally. As a result, Mieko felt embarrassed about how her hand looked and frustrated that she was not able to paint "word-pictures" like she used to, so she grew bitter and angry. Several times in my life, I have felt angry and bitter as a result of failure or loss, and I believe that to be a universal reaction to events over which we have no power. Mieko could not make the scar on her hand disappear and she could not go back to Nagasaki with her parents, so she reacted by turning her sadness into anger. My late grandmother lived for several years with dementia, but she only had full-time care for the last few weeks of her life. For years I knew that she was not receiving the level of care that she needed, and I allowed myself to become angry at my grandfather for refusing assistance. I began to blame my grandfather, my father, and my aunts for my grandmother's declining health. I convinced myself that it was their fault that she was getting worse even though I knew that they had no control over what was happening. While she should have had more assistance, it would not have changed the progression of the disease in any way. I found that placing the blame on others and becoming angry to be much easier than admitting that there was nothing that I or anyone else could do to make my grandmother better. Only within the past couple of months I have been able to let go of that anger and come to terms with the fact that my family and I were powerless to stop what was happening. In "Mieko and the Fifth Treasure," Mieko did not want to face the fact that there was nothing she could do to make her scar go away or to make her hand work the way it used to, so she decided to "hate everyone." She gave up on painting and chose to stew over her misfortune, but eventually she learned that this anger was only hurting her. I believe that the "big idea" of the story is that harboring anger is not productive, but learning to accept changes and move forward with life can help to heal emotional wounds. When Mieko opened herself up to Yoshi and her other classmates, accepted that her "word-pictures" would be different but still beautiful, and allowed herself to make mistakes, Mieko was able to find "the fifth treasure," her ability to see beauty and translate it into art, within her heart once again. By making herself honest, open, and vulnerable, Mieko was able to let go of her hatred and begin to enjoy life again. show less

THIS BOOK IS NOT ABOUT THE ATOMIC BOMBINGS. They are barely mentioned and mostly serve as plot background for a story about overcoming one's one fears and shortcomings. If that slight change-up does not discourage you, then you should definitely read this book.
I read this book because I was far more familiar with Eleanor Coerr's other book, Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes. I know the story, and I have seen the site where all of the paper cranes are collected near the remains of the last show more remaining building from the Hiroshima bombing (quite a sight). As such, I thought another fictionalized story about a young girl who was injured during an atomic bombing (this time at the far less discussed Nagasaki) would also be enjoyable. It was, but maybe not in the way that I was hoping.
I feel weird comparing this to Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes because they are definitely different stories, but they have similar formats and themes. Both are fictionalized accounts of real life tragedies. Both focus on young girls recovering and rebuilding after the devastation of atomic bombings, and both feature an uplifting message. Unfortunately, for me, this account was simply not as compelling as Sadako's. The comparison is unfair since it is two different situations, but since both feature atomic bomb backstories and are technically fiction, why couldn't this have been more about Nagasaki. It is true that her injury as a result of the bombing is sad, but when you have the context of what happened to thousands of others in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, her injury feels rather slight. I understand she is sad about her injury and her lack of desire to create calligraphy art, but the story around her is written like any child who doesn't fit in with new surroundings after they move. It works okay, but it is honestly rather mundane and dull compared to Sadako or other stories like this.
In terms of its narrative structure, it is perfectly serviceable. Coerr has a good ear for dialogue and she writes likeable characters even if they often do not have much to do other than tell the main character to do what she wants to do. The main character's constant self pity and sullen, sulky behavior make her difficult to root for regardless of her tragic past because she is so unintentionally mean to everyone who is trying to help her. The book's plot is never all that surprising and its character arcs are rather stock despite its horrifying backstory and occasional dark imagery.
I feel like the book cannot tonally decide if it wants to be more somber and reflective or just charming and serene. Some stories can manage that balance, but this one did not find as good of a balance. It was fine. It is serviceable. show less

It is a difficult question: how to breach, for our children, the concepts of death, of war, of hope, and of the inescapable. When we scale it down, to one person, to one pain, that is when we feel it the most. But when we do this, we miss out on all that surrounds it. By concentrating on one person, you can turn a mutual war into a directed crime, and there lies the danger.

It is not uplifting to see a little girl die slowly, of something she cannot understand, to have her promise of a life show more revoked, but this is not all there is to the matter. As human beings, it is easy for us to look at the suffering of a few, especially a spectacular suffering: nuclear weapons, the Holocaust, 9/11, and feel enraged.

And it should upset us. War is unequal, unfair, and makes a mockery of beauty, art, and humanity. But it is always too easy for us to forget the other side.

So many people react to this book with sorrow for the little girl, with a sense that the nuclear weapons were a tragedy, unnecessary, and inhumane. I cannot argue those points, there is far too much there, and I would never suggest that mass death is a beneficial thing.

However, we might ask ourselves where are the books about all the children the Japanese soldiers killed? Perhaps they didn't use nuclear weapons, but the Japanese practiced total war, which meant hundreds of thousands of civilians dying every month. They slaughtered children, they took slaves and worked them to death in mines.

The Japanese planned to recruit every man, woman, and child during the final invasion, to blow up American tanks with fifteen year-old boys strapped to bombs. Even after the first atomic bomb was dropped, the Japanese command--including the Emporor--rallied to continue the war, even passing off the bombing itself as an industrial accident.

It is important to recognize the suffering of others, but it seems we too often concentrate on the suffering of one person over another. Perhaps it is easier for us to concentrate this way. Perhaps it is easier to see something spectacular and terrifying like the 2,752 deaths of 9/11, and ignore the 1,311,969 Iraqis dead since. Or look at the death of Jews in the Holocaust and ignore the Poles, Romany, Atheists, and Homosexuals who died alongside them

I sometimes fear that by hiding death from our children, we do not allow them to think about death except for isolated, melodramatic stories. If we cannot learn confront death except when it spectacular, then we will never really try to stop it, because we will only focus on the rare cases, and fail to notice that people death is no less final from untreated disease as from a gun.

There is another curious fact in this story: that the little girl does not finish her thousand cranes before she dies. In the real-world events this story is based on, she did finish the thousand, and continued on until her death. Of course, since the book posits that her wish was to stay alive, perhaps the author thought that to have her reach her goal and still die would be too sad.

I find this disappointing, as the author could have transferred the wish here: that no one can stand against their own death, but even as we face our own, we may fight for something greater, we may try to fight against a world of senseless death.

Are we afraid to tell our children it is a fight we can never win? Does that make it less worth fighting? Wouldn't it be better for them to learn that now, from someone they love and trust, rather than to discover it later, when they are already in the middle of the confusions of life? What could be more disheartening than suddenly having that dream snatched away?

Perhaps I am silly to expect more of children's books than I do of adult books, but then, I've found I can expect more from children than from adults. I am of the opinion that the best way to prevent children and adolescents from sex is by giving them all the difficult, unpleasant details. I think the same goes for war. This doesn't mean showing them footage of either act, but an open, honest sit-down beats a dramatized, nationalistic euphemism any day of the week. show less