by Graham Rawle
Queenie went to the closet. Kay took off her suit and stood in her slip, re-evaluating her look in the mirror.
“Are you sure these sunglasses don’t just make me look like a spy?”
“Well, maybe. But at least you look like an American spy.”
Queenie turned, holding a dress aloft on a hanger. It was a three-quarter sleeve summer dress with a gaudy red, white and pink flower motif on a swirling leaf-green background. She tucked the hanger under Kay’s chin, draping the dress down her front to check the effect.
“This’ll take his mind off your great-grandparents.”
“Thanks, Queenie, but it’s not really my style.”
“Phoo. Your style? You haven’t got a style. That’s your problem. You’ll look a million dollars, trust me. When he sees you in this, he won’t care whether you’re Chinese, Japanese, Hercules or antifreeze.”
Kay looked doubtful.
“Anyway,” Queenie went on, “once they see an American name on your Social Security card, you’ll be home free. What is your surname?”
“Nashimura.”
“Oh, Jesus.”
Queenie was huddled over Kay’s Social Security card. Holding a razor blade at right angles she scraped lightly back and forth over Kay’s surname. Little by little the letters faded from dark to pale gray and eventually began to vanish completely as the surface of the card was scraped away. Queenie lifted the card to her lips and blew hard at the fine dust on the surface. She held it up for Kay to inspect.
MEANWHILE George was on a ladder trying to hang an old checker racing flag over the library entrance. The pole was in place, protruding diagonally from the facade, but the flag itself was not yet unfurled. In storage, the fabric had been wrapped around the pole and tied with string. George fiddled with the knot, but couldn’t undo it. He reached into one of his pants pockets and then the other to locate his pocketknife. It wasn’t there. He checked both back pockets, his shirt pocket. Damn. He must have lost it. He’d had that knife for years.
Mr Westermann set Kay’s card down on the desk next to him, adjusting his glasses on his nose as he typed the details from it onto an employee registration card. In the space next to Surname, he typed N-A-S-H, stabbing at the keys with one forefinger while holding down the shift key with the other. Kay’s date of birth was entered next. He looked up at her for further information.
Kay stood formally across from his desk looking as obligingly deferential as her sunglasses would allow. She looked like a film star traveling incognito: the disguise made her doubly conspicuous. The wide-brimmed hat and the vivid colors of Queenie’s flowery dress seemed jarringly out of place amidst the factory’s dreary grayness. Queenie, for once more appropriately dressed in the muted hues of her workwear, perched on the edge of Mr Westermann’s desk, from which vantage point she hoped to provide the necessary diversions. Mr Westermann seemed resolutely unimpeachable.
“Birthplace?”
Kay answered. “San Bernardino.”
He typed it into the appropriate space.
Queenie added helpful clarification. “San Bernardino, California.”
In the box marked State or Country Mr Westermann typed “CA.” He hit the keys a little sharply, suggesting that this was not the first “helpful” comment from the applicant’s chaperone.
“Light bothering your eyes, Miss Nash?” He delivered the question without looking up.
“No, I …” She nervously removed the sunglasses and folded them in her hand. Queenie winced.
Mr Westermann finally glanced up at her, and then looked down again at the card. There was a tense moment before he spoke again.
“Height?”
Kay was surprised by the question. “Height? Oh. Five three.”
Mr Westermann cleared his throat. “Any Japanese ancestry?”
Queenie jumped in. “Good Lord, no. She’s as American as apple strudel—aren’t you, Kay?”
Mr Westermann glanced at Queenie dismissively, addressing Kay.
“Well, you’ve obviously got some kind of oriental blood in you.”
Queenie overplayed her surprise. “Have you, Kay?”
“A little. My great-grandfather was Chinese.”
“Chinese? Oh, well that’s OK, isn’t it, Mr Westermann? China’s on the same side as us—against the Japs.”
“I’ll need some proof. A birth certificate—with the nationality of your parents. Bring it with you tomorrow.”
While Mr Westermann looked down at the typewriter keys the two women exchanged glances. Kay’s perturbed expression signaled her distress. Queenie closed her eyes and jiggled her head, shrugging off the problem.
“You know, Mr Westermann, you have nice eyes. Do you really need to wear those glasses?”
Mr Westermann was wise to Queenie’s ploy. “Only when I want to see things clearly.” He looked down at his form, then back at Queenie. “You don’t really need to be here, Miss Meyer. I’m sure Miss Nash can provide all the information I need.”
“Oh, sure. I was just here to give the kid a little moral support. Well, I’ll see you later, Kay. Good day, Mr Westermann.”
Later, when Kay descended the iron staircase from the offices, Queenie was waiting for her.
“Everything go OK?”
“No thanks to you. He didn’t suspect a thing until you started chipping in with your apple strudel and all that hooey about his glasses.” She did a silly cooing imitation. “Oh, Mr Westermann, you have such beautiful eyes! I thought you were supposed to be a great actress.”
“Well thank you. I stuck my neck out for you.”
“Yeah, well. I just hope you know how to forge a Chinese birth certificate,” said Kay.
“What does a Chinese birth certificate look like?”
“How should I know?”
“Well, if you don’t know, chances are he won’t either.”
TEN
KAY’S INSTRUCTOR WAS a short guy wearing a cap whose peak pointed straight up in the air. Instead of the full arc welder’s helmet mask that she and the other trainees had been given, he made do with a visor with a handle attached to the chin, which he waved casually in front of his face like a nonchalant guest at a masquerade ball. On the first day, he picked her out of the group to take part in his demonstration, clamping an electrode into a grip holder and pressing it into her clumsily gloved hand. Flipping a switch on a piece of apparatus behind him, he guided her hand into position. She hunched over, peering closely through the small window of dark glass in her mask, to strike the electrode along the join as she had been taught. After a few attempts, the arc was established and the electrode tip burst into a fizzing, sparking crackle of dazzling blue light.
Once her weld was completed, the arc was broken and the light flash died away, leaving the area in darkness. She couldn’t see a thing. The instructor switched off the current and tilted back the heavy mask on top of Kay’s head so that she could review her handiwork. The other apprentices were gazing blindly at the now dark spot, their faces still encased in protective facemasks; they looked like curious visitors from another planet. The instructor leaned in to inspect Kay’s weld and nodded his approval. She beamed with pride.
Queenie was assigned as her mentor and helped teach her what she needed to do. Once she got the hang of it, the work was pretty repetitive; she gradually gathered confidence and began to speed up her production output. She was a welder now. Who’d have thought she could ever do that?
At the 8 p.m. shift changeover, Queenie and Kay headed out from the locker room in their street clothes. Queenie playfully shoulder-barged Kay out of the way, skipping ahead.
“Come on, I’ll buy you a beer to celebrate your first day.”
Kay quickened her pace to catch up. “You sound like a man.”
“Why the hell shouldn’t I? I work like a man.”
“Where would we go?”
“Clancy’s.”
“Clancy’s is rough. It’s a man’s bar. They drink hard liquor and sp
it.”
“Well then, my dear, we shall drink hard liquor and spit.”
They linked arms and headed for the exit.
Several hours later, Kay and Queenie emerged from Clancy’s, arms still linked. The girls were in high spirits: a little raucous and unsteady on their feet.
Kay should not have risked disobeying the curfew. For several weeks now, persons of Japanese ancestry were forbidden from being out between 8 p.m. and 6 a.m. She had not dared to break the law. Public Proclamation No. 3 also stated that at all other times all such persons shall only be at their place of residence or employment or traveling between those places or within a distance of not more than five miles from their place of residence. But Queenie wasn’t having any of it. She insisted that those rules didn’t apply to Kay because her ancestors were Chinese, not Japanese. As far as Queenie was concerned, Kay’s nationality change was complete. Or, at least, nearly complete. They were still one birth certificate away. Kay had managed to stall Mr Westermann before starting work that morning with a solemn promise to bring the required document with her the next day.
They had already gone half a block past the Hong Fu Chinese restaurant when Queenie doubled back, leaving Kay on the sidewalk.
At a table near the door, an elderly Chinese gentleman with chopsticks teased wriggling noodles from a bowl into his mouth. Above him, framed on the wall, was some kind of official-looking document. It had a gold crested motif at the top, and a pale blue decorative border surrounding neat rows of Chinese characters in various weights and sizes. Amongst the calligraphy was a long number, and in the corner a red rubber-stamped emblem. It could have been anything: a menu, a school swimming diploma, a manufacturer’s warranty for a fridge-freezer, but it was unmistakeably Chinese.
Focused on his food, the diner remained oblivious as Queenie sidled over and gently removed the certificate from the wall above his head.
The next morning Queenie was standing in front of Mrs Ishi’s hall mirror teasing her hair, contemplating possible new styles. As she did this, she made shuffling jitterbug steps, singing her own accompaniment to a song playing on the radio.
Hold tight, hold tight, hold tight, hold tight
Fodo-de-yacka saki
Want some seafood Mama
Shrimps and rice they’re very nice
I like oysters, lobsters too
I like my tasty butterfish—foo
When I come home late at night
I get my favorite dish, fish!
Hold tight—
Mrs Ishi had appeared from the kitchen. “You like fish?”
Queenie contained her dance to a gentle sway. “Oh, morning, Mrs Ishi.”
“You like fish?”
“Huh?”
“You want some seafood, Mama?”
“Oh, it’s just a song, Mrs Ishi.”
“You like?”
“Fish? Sure. I like it well enough.”
“Eat plenty fish.”
Queenie nodded, unsure whether it was a question or a command. Mrs Ishi bowed, offering something in both hands. Queenie looked down and saw a small can with a key attached to its lid. It had a red label with Japanese writing, and an illustration of a leaping silver fish with a startled look in its eye.
“Oh, no. I couldn’t. Thanks, but …”
“Fish very good. Good for health.”
“But it’s yours. I can’t.”
“No problem. Look.”
She beckoned Queenie into the kitchen where Mrs Ishi’s pet bird, Mr Green, edged from side to side as it watched her guardedly through the bars of its cage. Queenie ignored it, turning her attention to Mrs Ishi as she opened the wall cupboard to reveal her stash.
“For you. One every day,” she said, squeezing Queenie’s hand.
“Gee, thanks, Mrs Ishi.” Queenie was somewhat taken aback by this gesture. Vaguely aware of some cultural protocol she had picked up in the movies, she accepted the can with both hands, mimicking Mrs Ishi’s bow. Mrs Ishi seemed pleased with the exchange.
“Every day. You eat fish. You live long.”
“You don’t say. OK … swell. Thanks.”
Mr Green let out a high, cackling laugh.
The factory bus edged forward with the steady flow of morning traffic on North Hollywood Way. Taking a right at a set of stop lights, it headed along a side street past some small stores and businesses until it made a hard left and, with a wide swinging turn, dipped down a concrete incline towards the entrance to an underground parking lot. A soldier at the checkpoint scrutinized the driver’s particulars before raising the barrier arm to let the bus through. Once below ground level, the bus advanced slowly along a dimly lit subterranean corridor.
Kay and Queenie sat together at the back of the bus, their bright spirits unaffected by the tunnel’s pervading gloom.
“What’s the story with Mrs Ishi-with-the-Fishy?” Queenie produced the sardine can from her purse and wiggled it teasingly in front of Kay’s nose.
Kay laughed. “Oh, she gives me one of those every day. Her brother-in-law is an importer. She’s building quite a stockpile.”
“I saw. Have you ever tried them?”
“Sure.”
Queenie squirmed. “And?”
“They’re good.”
Queenie shuddered. “Urgh. I couldn’t eat sardines. Slimy little things. You don’t know where they’ve been.”
Truth was, she couldn’t hold down much of anything in the mornings without feeling queasy. Just the thought of sardines made her nauseous.
MEANWHILE On Fairview Avenue a middle-aged woman in a cloche hat lay on her side, painting white lines along the center of the road. Fifty yards ahead, a driveway led down to the Rest Haven Motel, a simple L-shape structure created from two boxcars set at adjacent angles. Painted along their duck-egg blue walls was a row of dark square windows with white frames. The upper section of each window had a horizontal panel of green; these were of varying widths to suggest roller blinds pulled to different heights. Parked outside on the forecourt were five red fairground bumper cars. At the building’s rear, two men were rolling out a length of cobblestone footpath to the (not yet functioning) European-style three-tier fountain. Across the street, a billboard ad for Christie’s Premium Soda Crackers urged the Overland Residents to “Beware of imitation!”
The road eventually began to climb again and the bus resurfaced from the tunnel into Lockheed’s Parking Lot D where it swung into the curb to let the workers off. As she and Queenie stepped out into the diffused sunlight, Kay tilted back her head to gaze up at the huge expanse of netting that stretched between the hangar roofs high above them. Supported by a series of tensioned wires, it stretched over the entire parking lot like a giant safety net. Long strips of dyed hemp had been laboriously woven through it to create a lacy green and brown patchwork resembling some ancient threadbare quilt.
“Why do they go to all this trouble to hide the factory?” said Kay.
“Aerial attack, stupid.”
“Yes, I know that, but wouldn’t the enemy only have to look at a map of the area to find the Lockheed plant? I mean, you can buy one in any store and the factory must be clearly marked.”
“Not anymore. In wartime all the old maps are withdrawn and destroyed in case the enemy gets their mitts on them. They switch them with nice new ones with all the important military installations removed: army bases, shipyards, munitions factories—all made to disappear. Poof!”
“Wouldn’t that be just as obvious—a big gap where the factory used to be?”
“Well it’s not like they just leave a blank white space on the map, you dope. They draw it all again, but instead of showing the factory they add fields and houses so it blends right in with the surrounding area. No one would know it was ever there.”
“So, according to the new version, we don’t actually exist?”
Queenie nodded. “You and I, Lotus Blossom, are officially off the map.”
ELEVEN
AN ARMY COMMAND
car was parked on the edge of a wide area of green asphalt. Major Lund and First Lieutenant Franks were sitting in it, looking upwards to the sky. The lieutenant focused his binoculars on the plane passing overhead.
The major squinted, shielding his eyes from the sun. “Is that him?”
The lieutenant continued to track the plane through his binoculars. “Must be.”
“Well where the hell’s he going?”
A corporal emerged from a nearby building and trotted over to them. The officers returned his salute.
“Excuse me sir. Message from Colonel Wagner. He won’t be landing here sir.”
The major watched as the plane flew further into the distance. “Won’t be landing? We arranged a meeting here at—”
“The colonel sends his apologies sir. He regrets that he is unable to locate the runway.”
“Unable to locate the runway? You’re kidding me.”
“No, sir.”
“That’s priceless.” He began to laugh. “You hear that, Lieutenant? Colonel Wagner can’t find us.”
The lieutenant started to laugh too.
The corporal was awaiting further instructions. “Should I send a reply sir?”
“Yes, Corporal.”
The corporal dug a notebook and pencil from his breast pocket, ready to take down the message.
“Just say—We’re over here!”
“Do you know what’s funny, Mr Godfrey?” said Jimmy.
George was on his way to the lake when Jimmy caught up with him.
“Do I know what’s funny? No. Tell me. I like a good laugh.”
Jimmy continued as they walked. “Well, you know when I said I’d take care of the sheep, you gave me my new job title—shepherd?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well guess what my surname is?”
George shrugged.
“Shepherd!”
“No kidding? Did that connection only just occur to you?”
“No, I was going to say something at the time, I just—”
“So, you’re a Shepherd, huh? Well that’s how you would have gotten the name. Your great-grandfather or your great-great-great-grandfather must have been a shepherd, tending his flock, just like you. He’d be proud to see you carrying on the family tradition … though your technique might surprise him.”