by CW Schutter
She looked up at him. “It’s Mary now. And please don’t judge me or pity me, George.”
Her beauty and strength struck him. “I won’t.” He shook his head. “I don’t.” Silence hung between them. “What about your family?” he finally asked.
She turned away. “As I said, I’m kamikaze.”
“How do you survive?” he asked after her.
“Don’t worry about me,” Mary looked back at him and forced a smile. “I’m all right.”
“How can you be all right?”
“George, please don’t question me too closely.” Mary hugged her rice bag to her chest.
George grabbed her hand and held on to it firmly. “What about the baby’s father?”
Mary bit her lip before answering. “I told you. I’m kamikaze. He’s haole. He doesn’t know about the baby.”
“You don’t have to have this baby. There are ways …”
Mary withdrew her hand. “No. It’s my baby.” She blinked a few times before going on. “At first I wanted to get rid of it, but when I felt it move inside me it became a person. How can I destroy my own innocent baby?”
George’s brow knit together. “What will you do, Mary?”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do. I only know I’m going to have this baby.”
He wanted to tell her he would take care of her, marry her, and take away her shame. But he knew he couldn’t. The specter of the faceless haole intervened. “I ship out tomorrow. Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?”
Mary shook her head. “I don’t do well with last nights and good-byes.”
George nodded. “Will you write to me? Let me know how you’re doing?”
“Why?” she asked.
“A lonely sailor overseas can never have enough letters.” He squeezed her hand.
Mary smiled. “All right. I’ll give you my address.”
He grinned. “Fair enough.”
She scribbled her address on a paper. “Take care of yourself, George. You’re the only friend I have.”
“Promise me you’ll take care of yourself and the baby.”
“Oh, I will.”
George shifted on his feet. “Goodbye, then.”
“Can I kiss you farewell?” Mary asked.
“Right here in front of God and everybody?”
“Why not?” Mary brushed his cheek lightly with her lips. “Good-bye. And thank you.”
George put his hand to the cheek and watched her walk down the street until she turned the corner.
Chapter Twenty-one
Honolulu, 1944
Mary lay between the cool sheets on the narrow hospital bed feeling more alone than ever. Partitioning the cubicles off from one another were sheets so flimsy she could hear everything that went on in the room. Her eyes strayed to the empty chair beside her bed. It made her feel even more alone. Noticing her gesture, the nurse shrugged and said, “Want me to take it out?”
Mary tried to relax. When she did, the pain wasn’t as bad as she thought it would be. But then, nothing was as she thought it would be.
Once she’d nurtured dreams of escaping the Big Island to live a cultured life somewhere in the city. An American life where she would have her hair done on Fridays, dine out Saturday evenings, attend the movies, ballets, and concerts. Although she was Buddhist, she wanted to dress up in a pretty pastel dress and go to church on Sunday the way other Americans did. It didn’t seem like a lot to ask. Yet it had been too much.
An enormous pain ripped through her groin. She arched her back, gasping. Grabbing the base of her belly, she cupped it with both hands and grimaced.
On the other side of the divided sheet, she heard a young girl screaming like a wild animal, “Help me! Oh, God, I can’t stand it. Please help me!”
From another side an older woman calmly said, “Nurse? I think it’s time. I feel like pushing. The baby’s coming.”
The girl whimpered. “Mommy! Mommy!”
Another contraction shot through Mary. The contractions were closer together now, building up to an excruciating level before tapering off again. Mary checked the clock. She had been in labor for five hours.
The nurse entered. “Time to take your temperature and blood pressure.”
Mary inclined her head to the right. “That girl there must be close.”
The nurse shook the thermometer. “No closer than you.”
“But the yelling…”
“She can’t take it,” the nurse stuck the thermometer in Mary’s mouth then gripped her wrist between tight fingers. Mary watched as she studied her watch.
“Get this baby out of me!” the girl shrieked. “Get it out of me!”
“She’s too young to have a baby,” the nurse removed the thermometer and wrapped Mary’s arm with a blood pressure cuff. “How far apart are your pains?”
Without warning, another contraction ripped through Mary. She gripped the sides of her hospital bed and squeezed her eyes shut. She could feel the sweat pouring down her forehead. As the pain eased she replied, “Too close. How long do you think it will be?”
Before the nurse could answer, the young girl started screaming again. Mary covered her ears with her hands. “Make her stop. I can’t stand it.”
The nurse peered at her watch again. “Three minutes between contractions. Very good, Mrs.?”
Mary closed her eyes. “It’s Miss.”
“Oh, well. None of my business.”
The nurse disappeared behind the partition around her bedside.
Mary wanted to cry out, but she was too embarrassed. She didn’t want to humiliate herself like the young girl.
She remembered hearing agonized sounds coming from the house next door when she was a young girl. Her mother turned to her and said, “That lady has no shame, she screams like an animal.” Mary was taught decent Japanese women never cried out. No matter how bad it got, they were expected to remain silent. Mary knew her mother would disapprove if she vocalized her agony. The fact she was about to become an unwed mother had already disgraced her entire family. The words of her mother and Japanese school teachers resounded in her brain, "If you do something wrong, you shame not only your family but the entire Japanese race.
"Forgive me, Mama," she whispered to herself, "forgive me for bringing shame to the family."
The first thing Mary thought of when she awoke from her drug-induced state was her child. She rang for the nurse. “Where's my baby?”
The nurse smiled. “In the nursery. You have a lovely baby girl. Five pounds, ten ounces, twenty inches long.”
Mary sat up. “Can I see her?”
“Yes, it’s almost feeding time. Don’t look so worried.”
The nurse left. The flimsy partitions had been pulled back and now she could look around the room. An empty bed was on one side of her. On the other a plump Hawaiian woman beamed at her. “Bet this your first keiki?”
Mary smiled. “Can you tell?”
The woman laughed. “First-time mothas always scared. Worry all da time. When you get to numba seven like me, no sweat.”
“Seven?” Mary’s eyes widened. The woman looked to be her age.
“My name Maile. What’s yours?”
“Mary.”
“That’s nice. Bet you have one cute baby. Your husband get nice face like you?”
Mary looked down. “I don’t have a husband.”
“Listen,” Maile shrugged. “Sometimes I think mo’ betta no have husband. Some men mo’ trouble, know what I mean? No feel shame about no husband. 'Cuz of da war going have lots of hapai women having soldier babies. At least you nevah kill your baby. I no think God like that.”
“I wish everyone were as understanding as you.”
Maile cocked her head. “Most people too interested in other people’s business. Your family, what they think?”
Mary shrugged. “I don’t know. My family doesn’t talk about such things. They’re ashamed.”
“So who going help you?”
“No one. But, I’ve read a lot of books.”
“Auwe!” Maile put her hands on her cheeks, “No sista, no motha? Mo’ betta you hanae. I know some families want babies. You like hanae, I fix.”
“Hanae?” Mary bit her lip, “I won’t give my baby away, not for anything.”
“No worry. My sista, when she give her baby away to doctor, everyone happy. Little girl lucky, has everything. My sista happy for her baby. She got five other keikis. Hard take care of baby yourself. No keiki, mo’ easy find husband.”
Mary knew Maile was right. Life would be so simple without an illegitimate baby. She could pretend nothing happened, her life would go on. No one would know she was kamikaze.
Mary had very little money and lived in a cramped furnished room. Six people shared one bathroom and a communal kitchen.
Just then the nurse entered carrying a tightly swaddled bundle in her arms. Tenderly, she transferred the baby from herself to Mary, whose eyes went to the sleeping form of her child. Mary felt such wonder. Could this tiny, perfect thing really be hers?
The baby opened her eyes. They were dark and unfocused. She yawned. One hand uncurled slightly. Mary put a finger in the petite palm. Her baby’s fingers closed and her daughter stole her heart. She felt tears slip down her cheeks. Then she looked up at Maile.
Maile shook her head. “Auwe, mo betta you nevah see baby.”
“Maybe. But it’s too late now, Maile. This child is mine.”
France, 1944
Sean liked Dallas Johnson from the start. His real name was Hubert Ray Johnson, but was called Dallas because he was from there. Dallas was unlike anyone he'd ever known.
“How did y’all end up here?” Dallas asked him the first night in the trenches.
“I asked to be here.” Sean crushed a cigarette butt under his boot. He and Dallas were sitting against an oak tree in a quiet forest outside Paris. Their unit had moved slowly through bombed-out villages and ransacked towns. Buildings standing for hundreds of years lay in ruins, victims of a madman who had turned Europe into a world of gunpowder and ashes. All across Europe, planes buzzed overhead dropping bombs while tanks rolled destruction across the countryside.
“You a patriot?” Dallas tipped his helmet to the side to scratch his dirty head.
They were all dirty and smelly out here.
“No.” Sean always dreamed of going to Europe. He never expected to see it this way. The odor of death hung in the air like a deadly shroud and what should have been beautiful fields were burnt out.
“Why would a classy, ivy-league type like you join the army and ask for the worst duty this side of hell? What are you running away from?”
Sean flicked a fly off his sleeve. “I’m just putting in my time, soldier. Just like you.”
“You ain’t like me, no way.” Dallas shook his head. “Where y’all from anyway?”
Sean rubbed the barrel of his machine gun. “I went to Stanford. But I spent most of my life in Hawaii.”
“No kidding?” Dallas’s eyes brightened. “Do the native gals really run around half-nekkid? Does everybody live in grass shacks?”
Sean laughed and put his machine gun down on the ground. “The women usually wear baggy muumuus that cover them from their necks to their ankles. And we don’t live in grass shacks.”
“Shucks. I wouldn’t mind going there anyway.” Dallas grinned and took off his helmet. “It sure is hot here.” He looked back at Sean. “Tell me, why would anyone leave Hawaii?”
“Sometimes things happen.” An owl hooted and Sean looked up. He wondered where the rest of his unit was. He could hear sporadic gunfire but it sounded far away.
Dallas nodded and leaned back. “Know what you mean. I had me a real fine woman with the most beautiful red hair. Couldn’t believe she loved me. I never had anything good in this world ‘cept Tina. But one day she disappeared. Her mother said I wasn’t good enough. So I joined up. If I were more like you, she would have liked me better. But, that’s the way it goes. Sure do miss her. Ever feel like that about a gal?”
Sean noticed the silhouette of the leaves made a lacy pattern in the moonlit sky. He used to miss his mother and Jerel terribly. He loved Meg and was drawn to Mary. But he didn’t miss them. He hadn’t been with any woman long enough to miss her. “Not quite the same.”
Dallas clicked his tongue. “Sure would like to see a hula girl someday.”
Sean slapped him on his shoulder. “If you’re ever in Hawaii, I’ll personally introduce you to some of the most charming ones.”
“Make it a ring ting tooter!”
Dallas’ teeth shone in the moonlight right as a sharp report sounded in the air. A black hole appeared in the center of his face. His body sagged before rolling against Sean.
“Dirty Kraut bastards!” Sean yelled to the night. He thought of his brother Jimmy, who wanted to see Hawaii. Of Seamus, whom he’d worshipped as a child. He saw the tears in Katherine’s eyes, the passion in Mary’s, and the scorn in Meg’s. He jumped out from behind the tree, jammed his machine gun under his arm, and shot wildly into the night. His entire body vibrated from the force of the gun.
Bullets whizzed around him. One bullet caught him in the left arm. He winced and kept shooting. Another bullet lodged in his thigh. He faltered, gritted his teeth, and charged the enemy trying to kill him. He heard the Nazis calling out to each other and knew they were close. Grabbing a grenade, he pulled the pin with his teeth and threw it at the voices. He got lucky. The explosion and screaming splintered the night, lighting the trees around him. He stood frozen, his machine gun held high. Then something clanked against his helmet and he went down.
San Francisco, August 1944
George Han smoked a cigarette and stared down Geary Street in San Francisco. He could hear the brassy big-band sounds of Trummy Young, Duke Ellington, and Count Basie coming out of a building a block away. The upbeat music took some of the sting out of the war years for some Americans. George tapped his foot, one hand in his pocket. This could be a terrific city if he had money and there weren’t so many haoles looking at him like he had a disease. He looked at the narrow houses across the street, jammed against one another, each one a different color. He had never seen houses like that. He wondered what they looked like on the inside.
He shivered. It felt like winter. Despite the cold, he enjoyed walking up and down the steep hillsides looking at the Bay. He loved breathing in the salty air at Fisherman’s Wharf. The smells and sounds of Chinatown’s great restaurants and stores reminded him of home. The Chinese here seemed more Chinese than they did back home.
“’Ey, Han, let’s go already.” Tommy, his Hawaiian-Chinese shipmate, spoke from behind him. “I no like trouble with the haoles. They not going let us local boys in. We the wrong color.”
George took a swig from his tenth bottle of beer. Beer made him mean and courageous. “You yellow or what, Tommy?” George continued to stare down the street. Pointing to his chest he said, “See our uniforms? We’re on the same side.” He gestured to the lighted building where music blared. “We have the right to go to USO dances. We’re servicemen, just like the haoles. Us local boys are dying in the fields too.”
“C’mon, Han,” Tommy grabbed his arm. “You know what I mean.”
The merry sounds of the band blasting popular songs enraged George. He shook off Tommy’s hand. “Why shouldn’t we go in there?”
“Because we going get our okoles kicked.”
“Let's take ‘em all on.” George straightened up.
“’Ey brudda, no be crazy.” Tommy put his palms up. “Must be five hundred of the buggas in there. We in Frisco now, not Hawaii. Nobody going come help us. They going call you a Jap and me a nigger.”
“Haole trash. We fight on the same side and they tell us to get off the sidewalk and walk in the gutter. They think they own the world.”
“But there’s two of us against all of them. Not good.”
“I’m going in.” George took
another swig of courage and threw the bottle against the wall. It shattered into a hundred pieces. Drops of beer landed on George.
Tommy grabbed his sleeve.
George threw off Tommy’s hand. “Do what you like. I’m going up there. My father was a Hwarang warrior. He taught me how to fight.”
“What kind of warrior?”
George crossed the street to where a couple of MP’s and other servicemen lolled about the entrance. As George climbed up the steps, they nudged one another and laughed.
One of the MP’s, a square, stocky man with dirty blond hair and the face of a bulldog blocked the entrance. “No Japs allowed!”
George glared and pointed to the dance hall. “This a USO dance?”
“That’s right, it’s a USO dance.” The dirty blond MP grinned and turned to his companions. “Hey, fellas, the Jap can read English!”
George pointed to his uniform. “U.S. Navy.”
“No Jap spies allowed,” the MP scowled.
George drew himself up proudly. “I’m not Japanese, I’m Korean.”
The MP lifted him bodily by his shirtfront. “No yellow Jap chinks allowed. This is for white Americans. See?” As casually as if he were nothing but a trash bag, he tossed George down the stairs.
George tasted the blood streaming out of his nose. He touched his upper lip and looked at the blood on his fingers. His head was spinning. Rage took over.
Tommy rushed to help him up. “Let’s go, George.”
“No!” he roared. “I’m an American! I’m in the navy! I have the right!” The men at the top of the stairs looked down at him. George shook his fists at them. “I'm just as much an American as they are!” With effort, he stood and climbed the stairs. He felt his face hot with alcohol, rage, and blood.
He pointed to the entrance. “I’m going in.” A small group of men were now gathered at the door watching the spectacle.
One man snarled and pushed his finger hard against George’s chest. “No, you’re not.”
“Hey, nigger!” one of the soldiers yelled at Tommy. “Take your Jap friend away!”