Eagle & Crane

by Suzanne Rindell

  When Kenichi walked through the front door, he looked tired, rumpled, and bleary-eyed. Shizue wept with a mixture of joy to see them again, and a fresh tinge of fear to see that—written on her husband’s face—something had permanently changed. The flame of bright optimism that perpetually flickered in Kenichi’s eyes had been dampened, and knowing her husband as well as she did, Shizue knew that was not easy to do. She only hoped it had not been snuffed out completely.

  * * *

  “America has changed for us,” Harry’s father said later that evening, after Harry’s mother had successfully forced them both to eat a bowl of hot sōmen, wheat-flour noodles. “They say it is always changing, and I have always known this to be true. But not all changes are good, and I fear this change is too big for us to survive.”

  At his father’s use of the word “survive”—ikinokoru—Harry noticed his mother’s alarmed expression. Harry’s father immediately attempted to correct his phrasing.

  “I don’t mean they intend to kill us,” he corrected himself. He sighed. “I don’t know what I mean.”

  “Whatever else you mean, you mean we will lose our home and our land,” his mother concluded in a frank voice. “All the things you’ve worked so hard to earn.”

  Harry’s father answered with a firm nod of his head. “It is not unreasonable to expect so, yes,” he said. “Already they announced their intention to confiscate the Stearman.”

  “When do they plan to collect the Stearman and take it to their impound?” Harry’s mother asked.

  Harry perked up, listening now. The first thing he’d done since returning home was to tell Ava he was back; he knew she had likely heard and was worried. But after a brief reunion with her to let her know he was okay—neither injured nor under arrest—Harry had retreated to the house to spend some time with his now-exhausted family. After walking in the door, he had sat slumped on the sofa, tired, dirty, and depressed. He had always known he would never look quite like what people expected the “all-American boy” to look like—his brush with Hollywood had certainly reminded him of that—but America was the only home he had ever known. He had always felt that, deep down in his bones, he was American. Now he wasn’t so sure. The confusion drained him, made him lethargic.

  But at the mention of the Stearman, Harry sat up and wiped the sand from his eyes. He was all ears. His father glanced at him from out the corner of his eye.

  “They have no plan to collect it,” he answered.

  “What?”

  “I told them I do not own it, so they cannot take away from me what is not legally in my possession in the first place.”

  “Otōsan . . . why did you tell them that?” Harry demanded. His mind was swirling. Why had his father told the F.B.I. such a lie? It only ensured the Stearman’s confiscation, and now they would find themselves in deeper trouble for lying to the government.

  “Because it is true,” his father replied.

  “I don’t understand . . .”

  “I signed the title to the Stearman over to Louis Thorn last week,” his father said. “It was the next morning, after . . .” His voice trailed off, but the words “Pearl Harbor” hung in the air nonetheless. “I didn’t want to wait too long. It seemed the wisest course of action. And now I am glad I did not wait,” he finished, curtly nodding.

  Harry’s jaw dropped.

  “You did . . . you did what? You gave the Stearman to Louis?”

  “In legal title, yes. It was the only way,” his father replied. “If I hadn’t, it would belong to the government right now.”

  This was true, but . . . but . . .

  “But what about Ava? Or her mother? Why Louis?”

  “Though she cannot locate him, Mrs. Shaw is still married to Earl Shaw, and that might present complications,” his father explained in a tired, patient voice. “Earl Shaw is not a man to be trusted. And Ava . . . Ava is seventeen . . . not yet eighteen. That might cause complications also. Louis was the best hope to keep the Stearman safe. The only hope.”

  The head-splitting confusion Harry had experienced all day and all night grew even thicker. Why was he so upset to learn that his father had appointed Louis the legal owner of the Stearman?

  “Louis Thorn is an honorable young man,” his father continued, as though reading his son’s thoughts. “He says he will keep the Stearman safe, and see that it comes back into our possession, if and when there is an appropriate time.”

  “Yes, Otōsan,” Harry replied, rote, limp.

  They were all exhausted—all four of them. They sat around the kitchen table now, eating hot soup and noodles, aching for a measure of comfort. But Harry’s father, sensing his son’s swirling feelings, sat up, focused.

  “Listen to me, Haruto,” he commanded.

  Harry was caught off guard, surprised to hear his father’s voice so forceful all of a sudden.

  “I believe your friend Louis is a man of honor,” his father said. Then he paused, as though considering carefully. “Or, at the very least, he wants to be a man of honor and is on his way. None of our lives will be simple during these coming years. You must trust in me, as I trust in him.”

  He reached for Harry’s hand where it lay on the kitchen table but wound up gripping Harry’s wrist—it was an extremely uncharacteristic gesture for Kenichi—and gave it a squeeze.

  “Yes, Otōsan,” Harry said. “I understand.”

  He bowed his head before his father. Kenichi gave one final, definitive squeeze and released Harry’s wrist. Then he turned his attention to the cup of hot tea Harry’s mother was pouring for him.

  50

  Yamada property * April 30, 1942

  The Yamadas might have moved east. Other Japanese families were packing up, selling their land, and heading to Chicago or New York. The prices these families received for the sale of their homes and land were ridiculously low, an example of the banks’ greed and the government’s callous indifference. Kenichi Yamada had enough saved to weather such gouging. But every time he contemplated moving his family eastward, he could not imagine it. He was eighty-one years old and had spent sixty-two years of life on that land, in those orchards. He could not imagine leaving. The Yamadas stayed.

  There was hope—for a little while, at least—that the whole business would blow over, that the war would be over quickly, or that the question of Japanese-American loyalty would be settled once the government determined the notion of spies was far-fetched, ridiculous. For a few months, this hope kept Japanese Americans working and living as they normally would. But it was not to last.

  * * *

  Ava was the first to glimpse one of the signs, coming upon it while she was running errands in town.

  INSTRUCTIONS TO ALL PERSONS OF JAPANESE ANCESTRY, the signs read. All Japanese persons, both alien and non-alien, will be evacuated from the above designated area by 12:00 o’clock noon Wednesday, May 6, 1942.

  Ava was carrying two bottles of sarsaparilla in a brown paper grocery bag. Sarsaparilla was Harry’s favorite—she’d teased him several times over about his corny taste—and when she caught sight of the first sign, she dropped the bag, breaking both bottles. She didn’t move, seemingly frozen as a moment passed. In a daze, she looked down at her wet shoes, covered now in irregular shards of glass and brown-tinged liquid, watching the sarsaparilla drain away into the cracks in the wooden boardwalk outside the general store.

  The date named on the handbill—that was only a week from the current date. They were giving Japanese families one week.

  Without knowing quite what she was doing, Ava found herself suddenly running. She clambered back into Earl’s old Model A, shifting it into gear and wrangling the steering wheel, gunning the motor and flying over potholes as she headed out of town. The truck raced up the Yamadas’ drive, all the way to just below the house, at which point the sound of screaming brakes rang out, echoing throughout the
surrounding orchards.

  “Harry!” she yelled, seeing him atop a ladder that leaned against the Yamada farmhouse. Spring had sprung, and there was no better time to do the chores that had been put off all winter. Harry was cleaning the gutters, a good son doing the jobs he didn’t want his parents attempting.

  “Ava?” he called back, somewhat puzzled and alarmed. He climbed down from the ladder. “What is it?”

  She charged up the wooden stairs to the porch and rushed toward him, out of breath. He opened his arms as though to catch her, wondering if she was sick or injured. She was in some kind of frenzied state, pale and sweating. But before she made it to his embrace, Ava abruptly drew up short. They had never touched each other—not like that. The one time they’d danced together was the closest they’d ever come, and it had been polite, procedural. She stood and stared at him instead; she had no idea what she wanted to say.

  “What?” he repeated. “What’s the matter?”

  “We could leave,” she blurted out.

  He looked at her, wordless, baffled.

  “I would go with you,” she impulsively added. She heard it aloud at the same time he did, heard how it sounded. She drew a breath and suddenly looked shy. “If you wanted.”

  Harry gave her one of his lopsided smiles. “Oh, yeah? You would go with me?” His tone was friendly, joking. “Where are we goin’?”

  She realized that he didn’t understand.

  “We could go east, away from all this,” she said, trying to be clearer. “I heard it’s better back East for . . . for . . .”

  All at once, Harry realized the word Ava wasn’t saying was “Japanese.” His grin vanished and he swallowed as though he had just been given a sip of something bitter. He gave a slight shake of his head and clenched his jaw.

  “What’s happened?” he asked in a low, flat voice.

  He knew from the look on her face that things had just gotten worse. His father had warned that they might. They’d heard rumors that evacuation orders had already been given to people in San Francisco and Los Angeles. Harry was suddenly very tired. The fact that he didn’t know how to feel wasn’t relevant, because he remembered his interrogation with the F.B.I. all too well, and in remembering it his heart went cold. He couldn’t feel anything.

  * * *

  “We knew in February this might happen,” Kenichi said.

  Once his son had passed along the news, Kenichi knew what must be done. He had called everyone together—his wife, son, and daughter . . . Cleo and Ava . . . and Louis Thorn, from the neighboring property. It was Louis in particular who Kenichi wished to speak to now.

  “We knew this might happen,” Kenichi repeated, “when they issued the order.”

  Executive Order 9066. It was the official United States executive order signed by President Roosevelt on February 19, 1942, authorizing the relocation of Japanese Americans to internment camps.

  “Perhaps it would have been wise to leave California, to leave the—what do they call it?—the Western Military Zone,” Kenichi continued, “but the truth is . . .” He paused, looked around at the faces of his family and at the faces of the people he hoped were their true friends. “The truth is, this is our home, our only home. How could we leave?”

  Harry suddenly felt very angry. He clenched his teeth and nodded.

  “But now the choice has been taken away from us; we must leave. Which is why we need to appeal again to you, Louis,” Kenichi said, turning to gaze at the young man. “Just as we did with the Stearman.”

  Louis blinked, staggered by the news.

  “You signed the Stearman over to my name to protect it,” he said, slowly comprehending.

  “Yes,” said Kenichi, “and now I would like to ask to do the same as concerns our house and our land.”

  “You . . . you want to sign them over to me?” Louis stammered. Louis appeared rattled by this request, and Kenichi knew why.

  “The land is technically in Haruto’s name,” Kenichi continued, “as I am issei and he is nisei—born here, a citizen. We were obliged to transfer the deed into his name shortly after he was born.”

  This was news to his son. Harry looked at his father in surprise.

  “If you agree to help us, Louis,” Kenichi said, “you will have to sign, and Haruto will have to sign—all in the presence of a notary. I have already had the paperwork drawn up. I’m sorry for the rush, but we will have to be swift about this to make certain it is legal. Once we enter those camps . . . we will lose many of our legal rights, and a belated transaction could be invalidated.”

  Kenichi was done speaking. Silence invaded the room as everybody pondered the gravity of the situation. No one discussed what was expected of Louis—that, quite naturally, he was expected to hold the land and the house, but return both to the Yamadas if and when they were allowed to resume their old lives. Kenichi felt that to state this directly—to remind him they wanted it all returned—would be to insult Louis Thorn’s honor. You did not ask a man for a favor so large as this and insinuate that you did not trust him.

  “I . . .” Louis said, trying to muster an answer. “This is a lot to chew on.”

  “I understand,” Kenichi said.

  “I oughta at least sleep on it . . .” Louis peered into Kenichi’s face in earnest. “Is it all right if I sleep on it and tell you my answer tomorrow?”

  The tension in Kenichi’s face tightened slightly, but only Harry noticed as Kenichi’s right temple twitched. He saw the look on his father’s face as the reality of the situation sunk in: Louis was their only hope.

  “Of course,” Kenichi said. “Of course. We thank you for considering doing our family this service. It is a lot to ask, and I am humbled by your listening to my request.”

  51

  Do you trust him?”

  Harry and Ava were alone. After Louis had gone home, Kenichi, Shizue, and Mae had gone to bed, while Cleo retired to the caravan. Harry and Ava were taking a walk together. It was a chilly, damp night, and they trudged through the woods until they were standing beside a little streambed. The water glittered eerily silver in the moonlight, while everything else around them was reduced to flat black shadows. They were sitting on an old tree stump together when Ava broke the silence.

  “Even if he signs . . . do you trust him?” she repeated.

  “Louis?” Harry asked, needlessly. “Absolutely,” he answered in a knee-jerk reaction. Then, after a brief pause, “I don’t know,” he said, relenting. “I think I do.”

  “He needed the money he didn’t get from that Hollywood business. He . . . might blame you for that.”

  “He does,” Harry confirmed. “But he’s been working hard to be the bigger man.”

  “His family has poisoned him against you,” Ava continued quietly. She shook her head. “Over a lot of years.”

  Harry didn’t say anything.

  Sitting side by side, they both peered into the dark woods that lay before them, the scent of wet oak leaves thick on the night air. The scene was peaceful, but somehow the stillness was only adding to Ava’s feelings of panic. She couldn’t lose Harry; she’d only just discovered how she felt about him. Meeting both of them at the same time—Louis and Harry—had confused things. Ava genuinely liked Louis—she felt at ease around him—and it was clear from the start how much he admired her. Ava felt grateful, and perhaps even somewhat protective of Louis’s sensitive heart. Harry, on the other hand, had done nothing but tease her, contradict her, and challenge her at first. He could make her angry like no one else could. She thought she could barely tolerate him.

  But then . . . they’d gone up for a flight, and several more after that, until Ava found herself counting the days in between. Harry had a funny way about him; in private, he never showed off. He also never belittled Ava in any way, treating her like a shrinking violet or a girl to be courted. Instead, he insisted she h
andle the stick herself, then slowly but surely taught her how to take off and land the Stearman. When Earl abandoned them, Harry drove the Model A and caravan straight to his family’s property, reassuring Ava they would be welcome and safe there.

  Ava found herself thinking about those flights—and about Harry—when they were not together. And yet, despite all the time they’d secretly spent together, Harry had never indicated that his newfound friendliness went any further—not since the day Ava had agreed to go on Louis’s arm to the town dance in Sonoma. If tension cropped up between Ava and Harry, Harry changed the subject to Louis, a habit that left Ava confused and half-convinced she did love Louis after all.

  But the confusion she’d felt had evaporated the second she glimpsed the evacuation notice pasted up on the general store in town. In that moment, as the sarsaparilla bottles clattered to the ground and smashed to pieces, Ava suddenly knew: It was Harry she couldn’t live without. She cared for Louis—she cared for Louis deeply—but as a friend.

  Now she wanted to set the record straight, to get it all out in the open. Harry might tell her he didn’t want her—he probably would, Ava thought—but it didn’t matter, so long as he stopped trying to fob her off on Louis. If he tried to do that one more time, Ava was sure she would scream.