by Kirby Larson
“You heard something. I can tell,” she said, then closed her eyes. “Please let it be good.”
I told her and we ended up bawling right there in the hall. It was contagious — even girls who didn’t know me or Hank were crying.
Debbie Sue cried the loudest but knowing her, that was for show.
Wednesday, December 24, 1941
DeeDee —
Christmas Eve services started early tonight so the Japanese families could get home before the curfew. In past years, it’s been such a big deal preparing for Christmas — shopping, baking, and decorating the church. This year, we didn’t even hang our stockings at home. It’s funny how things you always thought you couldn’t live without — like a Christmas tree or fruitcake — don’t matter as much when something really important, like a war, happens. I mean, last year, I thought I would die if I didn’t get that heathered green cardigan sweater and this year I don’t care if there’s one present under the tree with my name on it. I got my brother for a present and that’s all I care about right now.
Right before the last hymn, all the lights in the church were turned off. The choir members handed out candles to everyone. They lit their own candles from the ones on the Advent wreath and then carried the light to someone in the congregation. As each candle was lit, the dark room flickered to life with soft, warm light. Miss McCullough played the first notes of “Silent Night” and the congregation began to sing together.
It was so beautiful, with the lights and the music, that I started to cry. The tears ran down my face for so many reasons — the biggest one was feeling joy and relief over Hank. But I was crying out of sadness, too.
I thought about what happened to Betty at school, and Mr. Tokita getting beat up, and Mr. Harada being in jail, and those boys throwing rocks at Pop’s car, and wondered when we’d be able to sing “all is calm, all is bright” again and really mean it.
Thursday, December 25, 1941
DeeDee —
We got a telegram after all. I nearly threw up when I saw the delivery boy standing on our front porch, shivering in the rain. I tried to call for Pop, but only a squeak came out of my mouth. Margie and I held each other while Pop fished out a dime for a tip.
But it wasn’t bad news! It was from Hank, telling us that John, one of the Musketeers, was in San Francisco. And he’d be in Seattle by the New Year, so could we please go visit him.
“Why does John get to come back and Hank doesn’t? And what about Del?” I wanted to know. Pop looked at the telegram one more time before he answered. Only the injured sailors and soldiers were being shipped home. “So that must mean Del’s all right, too?” I said, but Pop didn’t say anything.
We didn’t have a tree or presents and dinner was macaroni and cheese, but today was one of my best Christmases ever. I know there’s a war going on, but I was so happy about Hank that nothing could dampen my holiday spirit. I felt like we were living Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol, and I hobbled around pretending I was Tiny Tim, saying, “God bless us, everyone,” in a terrible British accent. Pop and I made divinity fudge, and Stan came over and we all listened to Christmas carols on the radio and talked about what we’d do to make John feel welcome. We were almost as excited as if Hank were coming home. Almost.
Sunday, December 28, 1941
DeeDee —
Now the police are telling the Issei that they have to turn in their radios and cameras and stuff. If it weren’t so scary, it might be funny. Imagine — Grandma Harada taking photos of top secret Army stuff! She’s so frail, she’d probably fall over just trying to pick up the camera.
But they took the Haradas’ camera, anyway. And their radio, too.
Tuesday, December 30, 1941
DeeDee —
Today’s letter from Hank looked like one of those paper snowflakes I made in first grade. Pop said the censors have to cut out anything that might hurt the war effort. There was one part that I wished had been cut out. It was bad news. Only two of the Three Musketeers made it off the Arizona. Along with over one thousand other crewmen, Del had gone down with the ship.
I prayed extra hard for John. It would be horrible to lose your brother.
Wednesday, December 31, 1941
DeeDee —
The last night of the old year. A sad year. I’m praying that we win the war, and quickly.
I heard Debbie Sue Wilkins was throwing a New Year’s Eve party. And that all the cool kids in seventh grade were invited.
Trixie and I made popcorn and fudge and played charades and planned never to invite Debbie Sue to any of our parties when we were rich and famous. We laughed ourselves silly and ate ourselves sick, all the while wondering if Bud and Eddy were at her party.
Once, Trixie got all sniffly. “Eddy’s the only boy for me,” she said. “What if Debbie Sue gets her hooks in him?”
“Let her have him!” I told her. “Boys. Who needs ’em? Besides, we’ll always have each other, right, pal?”
That made Trixie laugh all over again. I laughed, too, extra loud to cover up the fact that I’d been worrying the same thing about Bud.
Thursday, January 1, 1942
DeeDee —
I’ve made some New Year’s resolutions:
I resolve to spend more time on my studies
and my photography.
I resolve not to waste my time on boys.
Bud was at Debbie Sue’s party. Not that I’m going to talk to him again when school starts. But if he does try to talk to me, I’m going to listen without saying anything and then when he’s done, I’ll say, “Good day, Mr. Greene,” just like the leading ladies do in the movies.
That’ll show him.
Sunday January 4, 1942
DeeDee —
There is one more empty seat in the congregation now. Yesterday, the FBI went to the Satos’ house. I overheard Mrs. Sato telling Pop about it after church. I found Betty down in the fellowship hall, getting juice and cookies for her little brothers.
I asked her if she was okay. She nodded yes, but bit her bottom lip. I think she was trying not to cry.
I grabbed us each an oatmeal molasses cookie and took her into the far corner of the hall. “Here,” I said. “This is Mrs. Harada’s special recipe. Guaranteed to fix anything.”
She gave a weak smile, but just played with her cookie. “Nothing can fix this, Piper.” She ducked her head down and sniffled.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I handed her a tissue from my pocket. First she shook her head no, then she blew her nose and started talking.
“They pounded on the door about eight o’clock last night. Dad was already in bed. Jim answered the door and there were these two men on the front porch. They said they were FBI and wanted to search the house. Jim called for Mom and she came out of the kitchen. By then the guys were already inside, picking up couch cushions, dumping books off the shelf onto the floor, shuffling through my piano music. They even came in my bedroom!” She blew her nose again. “They took my radio and Jim’s binoculars. They even took Mikey and Tommy’s Indian-head penny collection.” She looked at me. “Why would they do that?”
I didn’t answer. How could I?
“Mom started hollering at them that we’re American citizens and they have no right to search our house without a warrant. That’s when one of the guys pulled out a piece of paper and said that they did have a warrant. A warrant for Dad.”
I felt like Betty and I were in a bad dream. This couldn’t be happening.
She crumpled up the soggy, shredded tissue. I handed her another one. “You can’t imagine what it’s like to see the FBI take your dad away. We don’t even know where they took him.”
I patted her arm. “It’ll be okay. Pop will find him.”
Betty looked straight at me. “Your father may be able to find him. But it won’t be okay. Nothing is okay.” She stood up. “Thanks for the tissue. And for listening.”
She tossed her uneaten cookie in the trash on her way ou
t of the fellowship hall.
I did the same.
Monday, January 5, 1942
DeeDee —
I stopped at Wright’s Drugstore after school to pick up a box of aspirin and some Vicks VapoRub for Pop. I was in line behind Jim Sato, Betty’s big brother, but the clerk started to ring up my things first. I pointed out that Jim was there before me. The lady got all scrunch-faced and glowered at Jim. “But he’s a J —” Before she could finish her sentence, Jim took off his baseball cap and swept it in front of him, bowing low like some grand gentleman, and said, “Ladies first, of course,” in this fake English accent.
So I curtsied and said, “Oh, no, my good man. Age before beauty.” We were both laughing. Jim started to bow again but the lady rolled her eyes and grabbed the market basket from his hands and rang up his purchases. When she rang me up, she didn’t even say, “You’re welcome,” when I said, “Thank you.” She pushed my sack with the aspirin and VapoRub in it at me and told me to get on home.
Jim held the door for me and tipped his hat again when we were outside. I always thought he was so quiet. Maybe it was because Hank and his other buddies were so loud and rowdy that I didn’t have a chance to get to know him. He has awfully handsome eyes behind those glasses. And what he did in the drugstore was what Hank would’ve done, trying to lighten a tight situation with a joke. As we went our separate ways, he told me not to take any wooden nickels.
That’s what Hank says, too. It must be a big brother thing.
Tuesday, January 6, 1942
DeeDee —
Bud cornered me after homeroom. “Where were you?” he asked.
“In class,” I said, in my primmest voice.
He tapped me on the arm. “I don’t mean just now, you nut. I meant on New Year’s. I only went to Debbie Sue’s party because she said you’d be there.”
“What?” I looked into his green eyes. How could they be telling anything but the truth? “I guess my invitation got lost.”
“So I’m forgiven?” he asked.
“For what?” I said, pretending I hadn’t been ignoring him since school had started up again.
“For everything. Anything!” He laughed. “Friends?”
How could I resist? “Friends.”
“Then I’ll meet you at your locker after school.”
When he did, there was a note taped to my locker. Bud handed it to me and we read it together: “We don’t need any Jap lovers here.”
I asked him if I should show it to Miss Mahon and he said she wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. He’s right.
We both stood there a second, then he grabbed it out of my hand, crumpled it into a tight ball, and slammed it into the nearest garbage can. He said that’s where that kind of stuff belonged. Only he didn’t say stuff. “You’re not letting this get to you, are you, Piper?” he asked me.
I looked into those dreamy green eyes and lied. “No, of course not. Sticks and stones, and all that.”
How could it not get to me? The other day, the Star reported that Pop and some other ministers had been questioned by the FBI for their “work on behalf of the Japanese.” And it wasn’t even true. At least, not yet. It makes me so angry but Pop says we’ve got to turn the other cheek. That’s easier to say than to do. Last night, some man called. He asked to talk to Pop and when I said he wasn’t home, he asked, “Is this his daughter?” I was reaching for a pencil to take a message and said yes. The man’s voice got angry. “What’s it like to have a Jap lover for a father?” He said some other things, too, but I can’t write them down. They’re too ugly. I hung up the phone and didn’t answer it when it rang again a few minutes later.
I’m running out of cheeks to turn.
Wednesday, January 7, 1942
DeeDee —
Betty Sato and I happened to go through the cafeteria line at the same time today and both reached for the same tapioca pudding for dessert. I could’ve easily asked her right then if she wanted to sit with us at our table. I mean, after all she was going through with her dad … I tried to make my mouth move. It was one thing to goof around with Jim at the drugstore. But here at school, in front of all of my friends … I lost my nerve. I went to sit with Trixie and the gang.
And Betty sat off by herself.
Like she has every day since Pearl Harbor.
Thursday, January 8, 1942
DeeDee —
When Bud walked me home today, he asked why I’d never taken his picture. I ran right inside and got my camera and then posed him in front of the rhododendron bush by the front porch. I made him take his trumpet out of its case and pretend he was blowing it. It took about twelve tries because he kept cracking up, then I’d crack up, but we both finally got a grip and I got the picture I wanted. I think. Through my viewfinder, with the low sun behind him, it looked like he was standing in a spotlight, playing taps.
Friday, January 9, 1942
DeeDee —
Another telegram from Hank. John arrives tomorrow. Pop, Margie, and I are going over to the hospital. Seeing John will be like getting ahold of a small piece of Hank. Not the real thing, but better than nothing.
Saturday, January 10, 1942
DeeDee —
Even though I’m not officially old enough to visit patients at the hospital, Pop said I was fourteen. Under his breath, he added, “Next August,” so it wasn’t a total lie.
It’s a long walk from the front entrance of the hospital to the burn ward. That’s where John is. The ward was full of sailors and soldiers from Pearl Harbor, some wrapped in so much gauze that they looked like mummies.
When we opened the door to the ward, all these horrible smells pounced on us like wild animals. Some of the smells I could identify — rubbing alcohol and cooked hamburger and bedpans. Some I had no idea what they were and I didn’t want to know. It was better after Margie gave me a peppermint. That canceled out some of the odors.
This ward is packed. Bed after bed after bed filled with burn victims. It’s because of all the fuel, pouring out of the sinking ships. It not only turned the harbor inky black — the men called it “black tears” — it caught on fire.
I forced myself not to cry when I met John. But it was hard not to. There are lots of things wrong with him, inside and out. He lost an arm, for one thing. His left ear is mostly gone and his neck looks like a washboard, covered with glistening rows of scarred skin. There’s a big gash across his forehead and some other things that I couldn’t see under the bandages and sheets.
The minute he found out who we were, his sad face lit up like we were his oldest friends. He shook Pop’s hand and told him we should all be very proud of Hank.
“That day started out sunny. Blue sky. But by eight, the sky was so thick with Zeros. Too many to count, seemed like.” He closed his eyes as if he was closing out the memory.
“You don’t have to talk about it, son,” Pop said.
“No. I want to. It helps.” John reached for the cup of water on his nightstand, not even realizing he was reaching with the arm that wasn’t there anymore. Margie quickly handed him the cup and he took a swallow. “It seemed like they’d just said, ‘All hands, man your battle stations,’ and we were hit. Black greasy smoke was thick as tar. I could barely see where I was going, let alone breathe. Everything happened so fast. One minute, I was loading powder bags and the next I was in the harbor. I thought I’d died and gone to hell — sorry, sir.” John looked over at Pop, who nodded at him to go on. “Instead of water, that harbor was full of fire. I figured if I wasn’t already dead, I was gonna be soon. Then someone grabbed me. It was Hank. He held tight like I was some kind of glamour girl. I screamed at him to save himself but he would not let go.” John blinked back some tears. So did I. “It seemed he dragged me along in that water for hours. But it couldn’t have been. The first lifeboat we came to, Hank threw me in like he was firing a long throw in from center field. We tried to grab him, too, and pull him in, but he pushed off. He swam back toward the ship,
grabbed another guy, and did the same thing all over again.” John shook his head in disbelief. “I don’t have any idea of how many men that crazy fool son of yours saved.”
John said he didn’t remember much about getting ashore. “All of a sudden, there was a nurse, sticking a needle in me. Morphine, for the pain. To make sure I didn’t get another dose, she drew an M on my forehead with her lipstick.” John grinned. “True Red, it was. I asked.” He was hazy about what happened next. But as soon as he was able to travel, they put him on the ship to San Francisco, and then on the train to Seattle. “They’re taking good care of me here,” he said, “but nothing they do can get the taste of oil out of my mouth. I think I’m going to taste it until the day I die.”
Pop got out his handkerchief and blew his nose. Even Margie was snuffling. I was teary, too, but I also felt like my heart would burst with pride. I hadn’t wanted Hank to go to Pearl Harbor, but because he did, there were some sailors who didn’t die.
I have the bravest brother in the world. But I want him home, quick, before he does something too heroic.
Tuesday, January 13, 1942
DeeDee —