Island War

by Patricia Reilly Giff

  “It was all I could fit in the suitcase,” she’d said.

  I wore the bracelet every day and wouldn’t go out of the house without those warm gloves.

  War hadn’t come to us, even though people shook their heads, worried after the island of Guam fell.

  But we were safe. At least for now.

  Soon it was spring again. I’d finished another islandstyle basket which I’d given to Mom for her birthday.

  One morning, Maria stood outside our house, a book under her arm, as always. “Let’s climb the cliffs and watch the gulls swoop in. They’re beginning to nest.”

  We slogged through the field over stones and mud, the mountains in front of us.

  Maria stopped. “Wait.”

  She broke off a long sticklike plant and waved it in front of my nose. “Hey, Izzy, it’s poison!”

  She peeled down the outside and took a huge bite of the pale green inside. “Arghh,” she moaned, and threw herself down on a rock.

  I swiveled around, ready to run for help. But she was up, laughing. “Just the outside. The inside is delicious. Wild celery. Try some.”

  I put my hands in front of me. “No, thanks.”

  Still laughing, we reached the top of the cliff and rested on our elbows, watching the gulls. Maria looked up as a bird flew over our heads. “I never saw one like that before.”

  I glanced up too, but there was just a flash of color, a whirr of wings, before it was gone.

  “In a couple of weeks, we can hold each other’s legs and take turns. We’ll steal an egg, just one, from each nest. The poor birds can’t count; they’ll never know we’re taking their almost chicks.”

  Dangle over the edge?

  Why not? I could do that.

  “And berries!” she said. “The juice is so sweet; we’ll eat dozens of them.”

  Wispy bits of mist lifted here and there, almost like smoke. I stared out at the water, watching the waves curl up and over on themselves, listening to their hiss and boom. Dad must have stood somewhere up high, hearing them too.

  A gull flew high and dropped a shell that smashed on the rocks below, then dove down to eat the meat inside.

  I shaded my eyes; my glasses were filthy. “A ship is out there, but I can’t see the flag. Can you?”

  “American, of course,” Maria said. “But not to evacuate us. I think they’ve forgotten all about that. They’re probably too lazy to raise the flag on a Sunday.”

  And then I said it aloud. “Sunday, Maria!”

  We stared at each other, hands over our mouths.

  Church. We’d forgotten all about it.

  My shoes were a mess, my hair in knots. And Maria didn’t look any better.

  We brushed off our knees, straightened our hair, and ran, sliding, racing through the mud, and, heads down, sneaked into the last pew.

  Mom turned, eyebrows raised when she saw me. I grinned at her, shrugging, and grabbed up the hymnal. She grinned back, running her hand over her forehead, motioning to me to wipe the dirt off mine.

  The sermon seemed too long for a gorgeous day, with sunlight beginning to splash in from the stained-glass windows, lighting the walls and the altar in reds and blues and even purples.

  I swung my feet, impatient to be outside. It was the perfect day for exploring.

  The moment church was over, Maria and I tiptoed down the aisle; we were first outside on the wooden steps.

  I bent down to give the gray-and-white dog a quick pet, wishing for the hundredth time that he were mine. But when I told Maria that, she said he belonged to everyone.

  It was clear enough now to see the ship’s flag in the harbor: not the stars and stripes, but white with a huge red sun in the center.

  Soldiers, dozens of them, stood on the path in front of the church.

  For a moment, they didn’t move. It almost seemed as if they were listening to the music still coming from the tiny organ inside.

  But they weren’t listening.

  They began to shoot.

  UP late, we hadn’t gone to church this morning. Still half dressed, we were sitting in the kitchen when we heard a pop-pop sound, then the shattering of glass in the living room.

  Pop reached out with one hand, pushing my head down hard on the table, just missing my plate.

  “Slide underneath,” he said.

  I didn’t stop to think. I did what he said, feeling my heart pound.

  Had war finally come? Was Pop right when he’d told me it would happen sooner or later?

  He sat on the floor next to me. “In a minute,” he said, “I’ll crawl into the bedroom. There’s something I have to do. I want you to stay here.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  He shook his head. “I have to hide”—he shrugged—“a radio.” He reached out and grabbed my arm. “I have a place for it under the floorboards. If something happens to me, you’ll have to get rid of it right away. If enemy soldiers find it…”

  My mouth went dry. A radio, of course, in his room all this time! Suppose soldiers did find it? What would happen to us?

  Pop must have seen how frightened I was. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I knew this was coming. I’m prepared for it.”

  I wasn’t going to stay there under the table while he moved toward the bedroom. I followed him on my hands and knees. He was irritable and impatient, but I believed him. He was prepared. I wasn’t alone. For the first time, I thought of the kayak. He’d made sure I had the boat, trying, I guess, to make things better between us.

  Now I was so glad to have him there.

  We lay flat on the bedroom floor, listening to bullets ripping into the wooden walls. Pop was under the bed, dragging out the radio.

  I glanced under to see him lift floorboards, push the radio underneath, and close the wooden slabs over it. “Safe for now,” he said.

  There was no time for more. We heard a loud cracking sound as the front door splintered.

  A soldier stood there. “Out!” he shouted.

  MARIA and I scrambled back inside the church, smashing into each other. Someone was crying. In front of me, someone else was screaming over and over: “I knew it would happen, I knew there’d be an invasion!”

  I saw Matt and his father come inside, a soldier carrying a rifle in back of them. A few minutes later, I heard the dog, still outside, whining.

  Poor dog!

  I reached back and opened the door a few inches. The dog pushed it farther with his nose. He padded inside and stood in the aisle, shaking.

  Mom reached for me, her warm hands on my shoulders. She pushed me under a pew and crouched down, almost covering me.

  The dog followed and lay next to me. I put my hand on his back as we listened to the sound of firing, the crackle of glass breaking.

  I shoved my glasses into my pocket and covered my eyes with my hands. I didn’t want to see what was happening. What might happen next!

  My fist went to my mouth as I heard someone call out, “Stop! We’re not armed!” Maria’s mother whispered, “Please, please…”

  For the first time, I thought we didn’t belong here on an island, we should be in Connecticut, where there were no guns, no enemy soldiers.

  At last, the firing stopped. Inside, the village chief was saying, “Calm. Try to be calm, everyone.”

  None of us moved. I’d never been so afraid.

  We lay there for hours, wondering what would happen next. Mom’s arm was heavy on my shoulders and there wasn’t enough room to stretch my legs. Pins and needles shot through my hands and feet.

  But Mom kept whispering, “We’ll be all right, Izzy. I know we will.”

  Mom never lied. I knew she believed it. But I was sure she was wrong.

  The day wore on, with nothing to eat, nothing to drink. I saw Matt standing in back with his father.

  Then the door scraped open.

  Mom’s arms tightened around me.

  “Out!” a soldier shouted. “All out now!”

  No one moved. Th
e village chief came down the aisle, calling to us. “We’ll have to do as the soldier says.”

  I reached for my glasses as one by one we stood and followed him past soldiers who lined the path. They waved their rifles, pointing at the houses.

  Were we free to go inside?

  I glanced at the dog, who was running up the hill, and then at our own house, at bare openings where windows had been; at the pockmarked wooden walls.

  But yes, that was what they wanted. Mom and I went up the path slowly, in case they changed their minds.

  One of them looked angry; another looked as if he didn’t care what happened to us. A third one nodded at me as I tripped over a stone, but I looked down quickly, not sure of what that meant.

  Our neighbors moved slowly, the village chief helping the old grandmother hobble up her steps. She looked back and furiously waved her cane at the soldiers.

  It almost seemed as if one of them, a man with a smooth face and a thin moustache, smiled.

  Mom opened our door. All the food that had been neatly stored in boxes was gone. The beautiful baskets that had been made for us lay on the floor, crushed. In the bedroom, pillow feathers drifted in the air like snow; the blankets and sheets were scattered around, full of holes.

  “Water.” Mom pointed at the large jug in the corner that somehow had escaped ruin.

  We found two glasses and drank; the water dribbled down my chin and neck. I wet my cheeks with my dirty fingers.

  “Think of the cherry blossom trees in Washington,” Mom said, “a gift from the Japanese people.”

  I thought of Dad smiling at Mom: You always think of the good side of everyone.

  I sank down on the floor, my stomach gurgling from the water, but still so hungry. I began to cry, and Mom sat next to me, putting her arms around me, holding me close. She began to sing a song she loved, “I’ll Get By.”

  And stopped, holding up her hand. “I know where there’s food,” she said. “At least, I think it might be still there.”

  She knelt, reached under the bed for her purse, and pulled out a small bag of raisins. She must have tucked it inside when we’d left Connecticut so long ago.

  “A good omen,” she said, tearing the bag open.

  We ate, licking our fingers. Mom ate less than I did, trying to give me more, so I tried to hold back, but it was hard to do.

  She put the bag on my lap, then brushed my hair and straightened my glasses. “Dear Izzy,” she said, and I reached out to put my arms around her wide waist.

  The wind blew in through the shattered windows, a williwaw, strong and fierce.

  “We’ll go to sleep now; things always look better in the morning,” Mom said. “We won’t think of anything more tonight.”

  But I couldn’t stop thinking. Soldiers with blank faces. Guns. Bayonets. What if…

  What if…Mrs. Dane had said it a hundred times a day. That’s how you begin a story. That’s how history might have been changed.

  Forget about Mrs. Dane and her what-ifs.

  Think of the gulls flying. Think of hiding in Dad’s cave, all of us, Mom and Mrs. Weio, Maria and her family.

  If only I could find it.

  I dreamed I was home in Connecticut. It was a rainy day, but that didn’t matter. I was in the rowboat, oars up, head back.

  I opened my eyes. It was still dark, probably the middle of the night. Soldiers were outside somewhere. And a radio was hidden under the floor.

  What would Mom think if she knew what had happened? I was afraid and homesick. I felt it in my chest, in my throat.

  The only time I was happy here on the island was when I was out on the sea in the kayak, the baidarka. Sometimes the mist was so strong the island was hidden and ghostly; it seemed like a different world, not at all the way it really was.

  Pop would say I was feeling sorry for myself.

  Yes, I was. Anger bubbled up.

  Suppose I took the kayak out?

  Impossible.

  But I knew the small coves, the rocky shores; I knew this island.

  Pop had secrets. So I’d have secrets.

  Against Pop.

  Against the soldiers.

  Against everyone on this whole miserable island.

  I leaned back against the pillow, figuring it out. I’d have to get the boat from the shed before it was light, before the soldiers saw me, before Pop figured out what I was doing.

  The kayak was light. I’d hold it over my head, not making a sound as I went toward the water.

  It could be done.

  Why not?

  I slid out of bed and grabbed my jacket and boots. I took my time, moving slowly. After all, Pop was in the next room, his bed next to the wall between us.

  I opened the door just a little and looked out to see what was happening. A soldier marched along the front path. He disappeared as he passed the house, but I heard his footsteps as he kept going.

  I’d have to be quick before he came back this way. I put my leg over the sill and climbed out, dashing down the alleyway toward the shed.

  I slipped inside, hearing myself breathe, trying to be calm. The kayak was in front of me. I could feel the sea lion skin, stiff against my fingers.

  As I raised the boat up, I listened; I heard a night bird, but the soldier wasn’t coming after me. I opened the door farther, an inch at a time, until there was room to move the kayak.

  Amazing. I didn’t pass a soldier, or even see one, all the way to the harbor. I slid the kayak into the water and paddled through the rough waves in the dark, thinking of the best place to hide the boat.

  A place I could get to when things were too much. A place to be peaceful.

  I should have been paying more attention to what was going on around me. I should have been listening. Instead, I didn’t hear anything unusual in the sound of the waves booming against the shore, until the motorboat was almost on top of me: a boat filled with four men, with the enemy!

  I took a huge breath, leaned to the side of the kayak, my whole body into it, leaned hard. Turn over, I thought desperately. Turn over now.

  Above the surf, above the sound of the motor, I heard one of the men shout. They’d seen me!

  That was my last thought before I felt the shock of the freezing water, before I swallowed a huge gulp of it.

  I didn’t try to right myself until there was no air left inside me, until I couldn’t stay under for another moment.

  I pushed, turned, and I was up, coughing. It was moments before I could breathe easily again.

  The motorboat was gone, somewhere in the mist. Who knew what they thought? Where they were searching?

  But there was the cove I was looking for. I was shivering, my teeth chattering. I slid the kayak in, fastened the rope to a small heavy rock, and sat there as the boat slid up and down in the waves.

  A rim of light came from the east, almost morning.

  I stepped out of the kayak, climbed the rocks, and rushed back to the house, trying not to make a sound. Inside, I hurried out of my wet clothes, cleaning the drops on the floor before Pop knew what I’d done.

  Before anyone knew.

  WE’D slept in the same bed that night, Mom on the outside, me against the wall, our heads on the flattened pillows. I couldn’t stop shivering, but after a while, I closed my eyes and dreamed of Dad standing in a cave near the top of a mountain, plovers flying over his head.

  Morning came, filling the room with wisps of fog, and the sounds of shouting outside. I tried not to think about how frightened I was, and how hungry.

  I crawled over Mom, who was still sleeping, and onto the floor. A small shard of glass sliced into my bare foot.

  Nothing, I told myself, it hardly even hurts, even as I heard Mrs. Dane’s voice, Slow down, Izzy.

  I pulled out the glass and held my foot tight until the drops of blood disappeared. I slid into my shoes and went into the kitchen, closing cabinet doors, as I walked on one side of my foot.

  By this time, Mom was up. She stood behind m
e, running her hands over my shoulders. “We have to make the best—” she began.

  There was a tremendous banging on our door.

  We looked at each other. I could see terror in Mom’s eyes, feel my heart ticking up into my throat.

  We threw on our clothes while the furious banging went on.

  Mom touched the top of my head. “Stay in the bedroom, Izzy.”

  I nodded and sat on the bed, my feet tapping, my hands clenching. If only Dad were here with us.

  We both heard those words again: “Out!”

  Slowly I went to the door. People stood in front of their houses, and one of the soldiers began to speak. “The men will fish today as normal.”

  As if anything might be normal.

  “Some of us will go with them,” he said. “The others will remain here.”

  The fishermen went forward. Maria cowered behind one of the house posts, and the old grandmother next door leaned on her cane, her wrinkled face filled with anger.

  A toddler escaped from his mother and darted across the path toward the soldiers. “Peter, come back!” she called after him frantically, afraid to follow. After a moment, she took a chance, running to scoop him up as the soldiers watched.

  I turned to go inside with Mom but glanced at the men as they went toward the dock, Matt walking along next to his father.

  In the living room, Mom and I tried to straighten the baskets, but they were ruined. We swept aside the last bit of glass and sat close together on the floor in our jackets. It felt safer to be there than to be sitting on chairs where the soldiers could stare at us through the square openings that used to hold the windows.

  Would the soldiers feed us? How could I even think of food? I couldn’t help it, though; I felt my stomach turning over.

  Mom reached for her notebook and paged through, talking about a Laysan albatross she had seen hovering over the water, its head snow-white and its wings so dark they were almost black.

  “If something happens to me…” she began.

  What if…“No!” I raised my hand to cover her mouth. I’d be alone. What would I do?

  “It won’t.” Her voice was muffled. “But I want to be sure you’ll see the birds for me.”