This Light Between Us

by Andrew Fukuda

  Alex wanders aimlessly through bands of heat that shimmer off the baked earth. Already, he is regretting his decision to wear sandals. Heat from the ground has worked its way through the thin material, singeing his calloused soles.

  He stops in the shade of a barrack. His eyes lazily browse the bulletin board there. There are posted warnings (to boys) to stop peeking into the women’s shower, sports schedules for the baseball league, the girls’ basketball league. A help-wanted listing for the new school being set up, for volunteer teachers. No experience necessary. A writer-wanted posting from the Manzanar Free Press, the official camp newspaper, an unpaid position.

  His curiosity piqued, he scans the bulletin for a job. International mail to France is costly, and he’ll soon run out of money. Although he hasn’t heard from Charlie since receiving her letter weeks ago, he’s been writing her at a fierce clip.

  There are many posted jobs—a city of ten thousand doesn’t run itself, after all. Listings for construction crews, farming hands, latrine cleaners. None pay well, barely a pittance for the hard, unglamorous labor. Alex is about to leave when his eye catches: WAITER WANTED. GOOD WAGES.

  His first thought: There’s a restaurant here? With good pay?

  He reads the rest of the announcement. Ahhhh, he thinks.

  * * *

  “Tell me why you want this job.” The flabby white man, whose name Alex has already forgotten, leans toward him from across the table, his weight supported by his meaty, hairy forearms. The staff mess hall is mostly empty this time of day.

  Alex considers his options: Because I love to wait tables. Because the staff mess hall is one of only two buildings with air-conditioning. Because nothing excites me more than the thought of serving the very white people who lord it over my people.

  Instead he simply tells the truth. “You pay well.”

  The man leans back. He rubs his plump jowls. “All right. You start tomorrow. Mary-Ann in the office will get the paperwork started and issue you a card for security clearance.”

  Fifteen minutes later Alex exits the staff cafeteria building, clutching his security card. The buildings in the staff housing zone, painted white and spread out, lend the area an airy, relaxed atmosphere. Beautifully manicured lawns sit before single-detached homes. The lush green of grass contrasts with the rock-wall patios where stand trellises interwoven by sweet peas and other climbing plants. It feels like a whole other world. Alex hurries along clean walkways lined with white-painted stones, feeling like a trespasser.

  At the security gate, he shows his newly issued card to the officer. The on-duty guard barely glances up at him, waves him out. As he reenters the main camp with its crowded tar-paper barracks and dusty roads, it feels like entering a ghetto. He tucks his head down, hopes no one notices him.

  Back at his barrack, he pauses on the front steps to pat off the dust. He checks the letter box—mail is delivered now—out of habit. It’s empty.

  Mother is inside, lying on her cot. He takes in her crinkled, white lips, the radial lines now etched permanently into the corners of her eyes. He knows she hasn’t been sleeping well. In less than a year, she’s aged more than a decade and now seems less like a mother and more a grandmother.

  “Mother? Are you all right?”

  She sits up, her bones creaking, the cot coils squeaking wheezily. “I’m fine.”

  “You should quit your job before it kills you,” he says. Her shift at the camouflage-net factory begins at the crack of dawn, and often doesn’t end until the dinner gong.

  “We need the money. And besides, it might help Father.”

  “Father? How?”

  “We’re showing our patriotism. Helping America’s war cause. It’ll help Father get released.” She clears her throat clogged with phlegm. “We should buy war bonds, too. Maybe that’ll help.”

  He ladles water into a cup, brings it over to her. “Drink, Mother.”

  She takes it with a shaking hand. “Have you heard anything back about the release petition?”

  “No,” he lies.

  She looks up at Alex with hopeful eyes. “Soon, though. Right?”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I’ll keep working at the camouflage-net factory. At least I’m doing something. Which is more than either of my sons are doing. My young, healthy, tall sons.”

  Alex feels a rush of shame. “If there were something I could do to help Father,” he says defensively, “I would. But there isn’t.”

  She pinches her lips in disagreement but says nothing more. With a sigh, she leans her head against the wall, takes a sip as she stares out the window. She’s looking for Frank. Always looking for Frank.

  “Oh,” she says, remembering something. “You got a letter. From your French friend.”

  His head whips up. “What? Where?”

  She points to his cot. “I left it there.”

  In two strides he’s got the envelope in his hand.

  She laughs softly, a rare sound from her these days. “I think it’s good you have a friend outside.” She peers out the window. “We all need something outside these fences.”

  He’s already tearing open the envelope.

  25

  * * *

  15 July 1942

  Dear Alex,

  I am at Papa’s factory. Afraid. Hiding in the back rooms. I do not know what to do, I keep pacing. So I am writing to you, maybe this will help calm me.

  Just two hours ago, Monsieur S came running into the factory. He was in panic. He showed us a tract that appeared today in Jewish neighborhoods. I will translate it:

  “Do not wait in your home. Take all necessary steps to hide, and hide first your children with the help of sympathetic Parisians … If bad people come for you, resist in any way possible. Lock the doors, cry out for help, fight the police. You have nothing to lose. You can only save your life. Be ready to flee at any moment. We must not allow ourselves to be exterminated.”

  Papa read the tract with a deep frown. Because there have been rumors recently. About roundups. About trains to awful camps. And I think Papa finally came to his senses. He told us we are to leave for Nice. Tomorrow.

  And then Papa left for the apartment to pack suitcases with Maman. They will return to fetch me in the morning. Papa instructed me to stay here and wait for them.

  Oh, Alex, I am afraid. For the first time I am truly afraid. I sensed something these past few days. A tension around the city that is thick with danger. Like the moment before lightning strikes. Something awful is about to happen.

  Oh! Monsieur S is leaving now to catch the last train to Nice. He will go ahead of us to make arrangements. I will end here and give him this letter so he can send it out once he’s in Nice.

  Alex reads the letter a dozen times, each time willing its content to change. Or at least to lengthen another paragraph or page. A different ending, one more hopeful. But nothing changes.

  We must not allow ourselves to be exterminated.

  He rubs his thumb over that sentence. Wanting to erase it, unable to.

  26

  NOVEMBER 19, 1942

  Alex ends his shift later than usual, and it’s almost dark by the time he leaves the administration compound. A block away, he hears someone approaching from behind. It’s Frank. Quickly, Alex zips up his jacket to hide the security pass hanging around his neck.

  “Frank? Did something happen to Mother?”

  “She’s fine. Relax.”

  “What is it then?”

  Frank flicks the cigarette to the ground. “Can’t believe you work there, Alex. Waiting on them, serving them.” He shakes his head. “Thought you were better than that, kid.”

  Alex keeps his eyes to the ground. “You came all this way to tell me that?”

  Frank snorts. He’s lost weight, his jawline more angular, his cheekbones sharper. “Come on. Let’s walk home together.” He turns and strides away.

  Alex stares suspiciously at his brother. Somethin
g’s up. But he follows anyway. A week of heavy rain has turned the ground slushy, and their pants become speckled with fresh spots of mud. They walk past the orchards, Blocks 28, 27, then 26. They reach the Catholic church, then turn left.

  “Wait,” Alex says. “Where are we going?”

  Frank doesn’t stop. “This way. Want to show you something.” When they reach Block 35 in the corner of the camp, Frank stops outside a barrack. “In here.”

  “What’s inside?”

  “Just come in.”

  There are five men inside. Sitting around a table, coats on, hats pushed low.

  “This your brother?” one of them says to Frank. “Don’t see the resemblance at all.”

  “You sure you have the same father?”

  Before Frank can snap back, a man—the oldest of the group, in his midthirties—speaks.

  “Apologies,” the man says. “We’re cold and irritable. There’s no oil in that stove.”

  Alex recognizes the man. Harry Ueno. An outspoken and very popular figure in the camp. When his Block 22 was short on cooks, he signed up to be a cook’s assistant even though he had zero culinary experience. He became renowned for his snacks: oil-fried and oven-dried rice snacks that became a hit, especially with the kids. And in the hottest month of the year, July, with temperatures soaring over a hundred, he built a rock pond right outside the mess hall. It gave people something to look at during the long waits outside, restored some of their dignity.

  “Alex Maki,” he says. “My name is Harry Ueno.”

  “I know who you are.”

  Ueno gives a small smile. “Good. We can dispense with the formalities then. Allow me to cut to the chase. We need to ask you a favor.”

  Curious and cautious at the same time, Alex says, “Yeah?”

  “You’ve heard the stories? About all them babies dying these last few months.”

  He has. Speculation’s been all over the place: germs in the hospital delivery room, or the water’s gone bad. “I’ve heard a few things.”

  Harry Ueno takes out a cigarette, lights it up. “Yeah? What kind of things?”

  Alex looks at Frank then back at Ueno. “Just that babies are dying for no good reason.”

  “Alex,” Ueno says patronizingly. “Babies don’t die for no good reason. There’s always a reason.” He lowers his voice. “Somebody’s been mixing something into the milk formula.”

  Alex shakes his head. That didn’t make any sense at all. “What kind of stuff?”

  “Saccharin.”

  “Why would anyone do that?”

  “The milk formula’s supposed to have sugar in it. Except, with the price of sugar skyrocketing, somebody’s been stealing our sugar to sell on the black market and replacing it with saccharin.” He snorts with disgust. “And our babies are dying because of that.”

  Alex shakes his head in disbelief. “Who would do such a thing?”

  Frank turns to Alex. “That’s why we brought you here.”

  “Me? What can I do?”

  “We have a couple of suspects. Joseph Winchester, the guy in charge of all the kitchens and warehouses. But we think it goes even higher up than him. We think the real kingpin is Ned Campbell.”

  Alex’s head spins to Frank. “The number-two guy in command? No way. I mean, he’s the Assistant Project Director.”

  “And it’s not just sugar he’s stealing. He’s filching meat as well. And milk. And kitchen knives. Then selling it on the black market outside the camp. Making a pretty dime while our babies die.”

  Alex is stunned. “That’s … that’s a pretty big accusation. You have evidence to back it up?”

  Ueno’s eyes cut to Alex. “That’s where you come in.”

  “Me?”

  “You work at the WRA mess hall. Serving all them staffers.”

  Alex swings his eyes to Frank. Then back to Ueno. “So?”

  “We need you to find out stuff.”

  Alex stares at Ueno incredulously. “You want me to ask around? They’ll never give up their own boss—”

  Frank steps in. “No, knucklehead. We want you to look around. They’ve got to be hiding the stolen goods somewhere. So peek into the commercial refrigerators. Check under the mess hall for any secret cellars.”

  “Frank, you can’t expect me to snoop around—”

  Frank’s face hardens. “This is how you redeem yourself, Alex. This is how you show where your loyalties lie: with them, or with us.”

  “Redeem myself? What the hell, Frank?”

  Frank sighs with hot anger. “There are things happening in this camp that you have no idea about, Alex. You’ve got blinders on. You think everything’s just fine, that we’re all singing around a campfire holding hands.” He jabs a finger at Alex. “You have no idea how angry most of us are. How upset we are at being taken from our homes and unceremoniously dumped out here.”

  “I’m upset, too, Frank. You’re not the only one who’s pissed off. But some of us think it’s pointless to just go around sulking and making a nuisance of ourselves. Because we’re better than that. And we need to show America that we’re good Americans—”

  “That’s bull, Alex! We need to hold America accountable for what it’s done to us. And simply playing nice isn’t the way to do that.” Spit flies out of his mouth in disgust. “It’s time to pull your head out of the ground and open your eyes. It ain’t all peaches and rainbows around here.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe you’re the one who needs to open your eyes! You see what you’re doing to Mother? How she’s so sick with worry over you?” His voice reaches a fevered pitch. “Have you even looked at her? She’s got a limp now. She’s wheezing all the time. She’s not sleeping. Have you seen what you’re doing to her?”

  “What I’m doing to Mother? How about what America’s doing to her!”

  “I’ll take it from here, Frank,” Ueno says, stepping between the two brothers. He gives Frank a squeeze on the shoulder and turns to Alex.

  “We’re asking, Alex. We’re not making you do this. But we hope you can come around and see our point of view. This has nothing to do with patriotism. And everything to do with infants getting sick. At some point we have to speak up against corruption, don’t we?” He puts a hand on Alex’s shoulder. “Just think about it, okay, Alex?”

  His hand is warm and affirming, his eyes sincere.

  Alex turns around, walks out.

  Frank catches up with him three blocks away. “Alex!”

  Alex keeps walking. A moment later, he feels Frank’s firm hand on his shoulder, turning him around. “Alex, hear me out.”

  “I’m not doing it, Frank!” He squirms his shoulder away from Frank’s hand. “I’m not snooping around for you.”

  “Come on, Alex!”

  “If I get caught, and then branded an agitator and Jap sympathizer, you ever think what that’ll do to Father?” He stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Whatever slim chance he might have of being released, poof, it’ll be gone just like that.” Alex takes a breath, tries to steady his breathing. “So we both need to stay out of trouble.”

  Frank shakes his head angrily. “You’re an idiot if you think staying quiet and a model citizen will achieve anything.”

  Alex looks away. Leave. Just go. But he can’t. “You ever consider something, Frank? You ever think that maybe Winchester and Campbell aren’t the ones stealing the sugar? That maybe someone else is?”

  Frank’s eyes narrow. “Like who?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe any one of ten thousand people who wouldn’t mind a little more meat and milk for their kids, or maybe sugar for their coffee? Or heck, maybe sugar for the bootleg sake they’re distilling?”

  “Who’ve you been talking to?” Frank’s voice, harsh and accusatory.

  “It’s common knowledge, Frank. Everyone’s cooking up some of their own sake. In hidden cellars beneath the barracks—”

  “Why are you so quick to side with them?”

  “And why are you so q
uick to accuse them?”

  Frank suddenly reaches for Alex, unzipping Alex’s jacket and flinging out his security badge. “They got to you, didn’t they? Made you all sympathetic so you can’t see past their blue eyes and white skin and shiny white teeth. Serving them, kowtowing to them all day and night, it’s gotten to you.”

  “Frank, you just—”

  “They took Father away, they took us from our home, they threw us into this hellhole, and you’re still kissing their white ass—”

  “Shut the hell up.”

  Frank laughs mockingly. “Oh, I like your tough-guy act. Your imaginary French girlfriend would be so impressed.”

  Alex’s punch more grazes than catches Frank on the nose. But it’s still enough to draw blood. A small drop that trickles out of his nostril.

  “Wow,” Frank says, in mock praise, wiping his nose with the back of his hand and examining the faint smear of crimson. “What do you know? Little brother’s finally grown a pair.”

  Alex turns and walks away.

  “Remember, Alex,” Frank says, serious again. “We need you to look around. We need you to find crates of milk, boxes of meat, anything hidden away.”

  Alex stops. Turns around. “Who’s we, Frank?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “Are you a Black Dragon? Frank? Did you become one of those ultranationalist, pro-Japan fanatics?”

  Frank blinks as if those words have struck him harder than the earlier punch. “What the hell you talking about, Alex? I ain’t no America-hater, you got it all wrong.”

  “You should know something. The Dragons threw rocks at Mother when she left work the other day. Right outside the camouflage-net factory. They said no one should be working for the U.S. army. You’re part of that group—?”