This Light Between Us

by Andrew Fukuda

  “Of course I’m not! I’m an American, full-blooded, not like one of those Kibeis.”

  Then act like one! Alex wants to scream. He turns to leave.

  “Start looking, Alex,” shouts Frank after him. “Stuff’s got to be hidden somewhere.”

  But Alex, his hand already swelling from the delivered punch, has already made his mind up. He won’t snoop. He won’t do anything that’s got even a hint of Black Dragon in it. He strides away without speaking another word, the distance between the two brothers stretching.

  27

  LATE NOVEMBER 1942

  Over the next few days at work Alex keeps his head down, completes his tasks, waits the tables with his usual decorum. The Campbell family, despite living in one of only two barracks with its own kitchen, eats at the staff mess hall at exactly eight, noon, and six every weekday. They dine at a white-tableclothed table by the windows, reserved just for them.

  Alex studies them from the corners of his eyes. They are solicitous. They seem happy. The children are mostly well behaved. Sometimes they laugh, loudly. Mr. Campbell is brusque and high-handed when dealing with the Nisei waiters but he does not seem like a baby killer.

  Alex is careful not to be caught staring. He doesn’t want to do anything that might get him fired. He’s grateful for the job. Not only because it pays relatively well but also for the distraction it affords. When he isn’t working, his mind inevitably drifts to Father in Crystal City. He recently submitted another release petition on Father’s behalf. Alex doesn’t feel good about his chances, though.

  But most of the time, his mind drifts to Charlie … wherever she might be. He hasn’t heard from her since the letter that ended so ominously. We must not allow ourselves to be exterminated. That was more than two months ago. Two months of worry and uncertainty and fear. There are days when he cannot eat, nights when he does not sleep.

  But here in the staff mess hall, he is busy at least, he is preoccupied. He works hard, often doing double shifts when someone calls in sick. So he does not sneak around now for stolen sugar or meat. He does not do anything at all that might be perceived as snooping, that might get him fired, that might blacklist the Maki name and hurt his father’s chances of being released.

  One morning Mr. Campbell stops Alex with two raised fingers. “More coffee,” he murmurs, never looking up from his newspaper. Alex pours. His hands tremble only a little.

  “Sugar with that, Mr. Campbell?”

  He dismisses Alex with a wave of his hand.

  28

  * * *

  2 October, 1942

  My dear, dear, dearest Alex,

  I do not know where to begin. So much has happened. When I tell you there were times I think you will never hear from me again, I do not exaggerate. Terrible things have happened.

  On the night of July 16, I waited at Papa’s factory for my parents to get me. All night I stared outside to the dark streets, wanting them to come and grab my hand and say urgently “Il est temps de partir, Charlie! Nous devons nous dépêcher!”

  But they never came. When morning arrived, I did not know what to do. I was so afraid. I walked back to my neighborhood. The apartment was empty. Two suitcases were half-packed, still lying open on the bed. That’s when I knew my parents were taken. Right in the middle of packing, in the middle of the night.

  I went out to the streets. They were empty. But once in a while I see a small Jewish child walking the streets alone. In tears. One boy was wearing a thick jacket even in the summer, and I soon realized why: he pulled out money that had been sewn into it. The child offered me money to find his parents.

  Then some scouts, members of the Éclaireurs Israélites de France, came along. The group I’ve been wanting to join. I watched as they comforted the small child, asked for his name. Then led him away, holding his hand. I stopped one of the scouts. She was young and Jewish, like the other scouts. A teenager. Just like me.

  “Where are you taking the boy?” I asked.

  “To a safe house,” she replied. “Then away from Paris.” She looked at me carefully, glanced at my yellow star. “You should join us. Help our cause. Be useful.”

  I wanted to. But I needed to find out about my parents. And just then, a group of gendarmes, French police, came.

  The girl told me to run.

  I didn’t understand. I went to the gendarmes for help.

  They arrested me. It was French police who rounded us up. French police leading away French citizens, can you believe that? (Maybe you can.)

  They put me on a bus. That took me to a place called Vélodrome d’Hiver. It is an indoor bicycle stadium next to the river Seine. It is famous and maybe you’ve heard of it? A beautiful place. But no longer. Now and forever it will be Hell to me.

  Thousands of us were taken to the Vél d’Hiv. Whole families, women and children. I eventually found Maman and Papa, but oh, Alex, I think I will spend the rest of my life trying to forget inside the Vél d’Hiv. It was awful. The glass ceiling was painted a dark blue so English bombers cannot see it at night. But that made the inside of the Vél d’Hiv like an oven in the daytime. All the windows were locked. All the bathrooms were locked. Can you imagine, over 10,000 people and no bathrooms? No food. No water. Only one water tap. I smelled and saw urine and diarrhea everywhere. Even now I think I can smell the stink on me.

  Seven days, Alex. We were there for seven days.

  Some people tried to escape. The police—French police—shot them. Some people killed themselves.

  Then a week later we were taken away. From Vél d’Hiv to a camp in Beaune-la-Rolande. Just the women and children; Papa was taken from us. We do not know where. The conditions at Beaune-la-Rolande were not much better. The staircase became a bathroom—you had to be careful not to slip on all the urine and diarrhea. They took away all our jewelry. Some of the women decided to throw their wedding rings and necklaces and bracelets into the toilet rather than give them up. When we looked down through the toilet seat and at the sewage below, we could see their jewelry glimmering in all that muck. “Like stars,” a little girl said, and I don’t know why but I just started to cry. I hadn’t cried even in the Vél d’Hiv, but those two words got tears falling down my cheeks.

  Some days later, they took our mothers away. The guards—French—just ripped the children out of their mothers’ arms. The mothers fought back, of course, but it was useless, the guards were too many and too strong. Maman tried to hold my hand but the guards smashed our hands, forcing us to let go. Oh, the screaming from all the mothers—Alex, you have never heard such horror and anguish. It is a sound that even now chills my soul. I heard that some women were so overcome they killed themselves the next day.

  The French authorities did this. The French government, the French people. My country, my people. I don’t know how or if I will ever forgive France for doing this.

  Over the next few days I tried to be strong, Alex. There were many younger children who needed help. Many tears to wipe. I thought of the scouts, those teenagers of the Éclaireurs Israélites de France on the night of the roundup. They were younger than me, yet they were so brave, leading to safety Jewish toddlers. “You should join us … Be useful,” that teenage girl had said to me.

  And for the next few days, I tried to be just that: useful. I helped the little children as best I could. Those children who cried were fine. It was the silent ones, in a daze, their eyes empty—they were the ones I worried over.

  Five days later, something strange happened. A guard called out my name, told me to follow him. I was put on a truck, then taken to another camp that had less security. And the next day, Monsieur S (who arranged the transfer and paid off the right people) pulled me out.

  He brought me to this secret place. And here I live, in this small room. There is nothing to do but write to you. And try to forget the past. And worry about my parents.

  Monsieur S is gone most of the time. He still travels to Vichy and back every few weeks, trying to keep his n
ormal schedule and avoid suspicion. He will leave for Vichy tomorrow for this very reason, with this letter. But without me. It is simply not safe for me to travel without proper travel permits. Monsieur S says authorities are everywhere now, and they check everyone more strictly than ever. The opportunity to flee south is over.

  So I must stay here. At least I am not completely alone. There is also a Sinti family of three hiding in this room. The boy is too noisy, we are constantly hushing him. The father never speaks, and his face is swollen with worry. But the mother is very kind. She sees the sadness on my face and whispers stories to cheer me up. I don’t understand most of what she says because her French is very bad. Yesterday, she showed me these small slips of paper. I think she said they are magic pieces of paper: if I write a person’s name on the slip, I will appear to that person. Like a ghost (!), she said.

  Maybe I will try this someday and write your name down. If I appear to you—like a ghost—don’t scream, okay? Maybe you can try, too, no?

  I am sleepy now. I will try to fall asleep on this hard floor, but how I miss my bed, my room, my desk where I wrote all my letters to you! Promise me that you will one day come and visit my room. I have much to show you there. You will see how beautiful the Eiffel Tower is right outside my window, how it shimmers with dusk light. And you will see what you mean to me. Promise me, okay, Alex?

  Your friend,

  C

  * * *

  3 October, 1942

  Dearest Alex,

  Last night, after writing the letter, I could not sleep. I was so filled with worry. For Maman, for Papa. I wonder where they are. How they are doing. I lie awake in bed all night, every night. I worry about all the children at Beaune-la-Rolande.

  A little after midnight I went outside. It was dangerous, foolish. But I could not stand the walls. I needed air, I needed the stars above me.

  I walked for a long time. The moon was bright, the temperature perfect, it was a beautiful Paris night. But my heart was torn to shreds. I walked carefully, always on the lookout for German soldiers. The streets were dead. They were once alive, full of laughter. I walked past Les Deux Magots where the outdoor tables were always filled with people drinking Pernod or Rhum Saint James, their cigarette smoke curling over plates of oysters and escargots. But it was empty, it was closed and lifeless.

  Like all of Paris.

  My feet took me to Sorbonne. The one place that has always lifted my moods. Whenever I am there, I always imagine myself as a student walking across its beautiful campus with arms full of English literature books. I can see this in my mind so clearly, I can feel it in my heart. I want it so bad it hurts.

  Last night in the moonlit courtyard of the Sorbonne, I sat on a cold stone bench. There was a stack of papers left forgotten under it. I picked them up. Handwritten poems. Some candles were left on the ground—a puddle of wax pooled around each. I imagine the group of students gathered here earlier, perhaps a campus poetry club meeting for a nighttime reading.

  I stared at the candles, the discarded poems. I stared at the empty campus. Life was passing me by, had moved on without me. And I felt suddenly stripped of substance. Like I no longer mattered. Like I was invisible, a ghost.

  I picked up the candles, the sheets of poems, slid them in my bag. I walked. For hours. I did not come upon a single soul. Eventually I found myself on the banks of the Seine. The silhouette of Notre Dame cathedral stood across the river.

  Do you remember you once sent me instructions on how to build a Japanese floating lantern? I took a discarded piece of wood from a closed bookstall, and removed from my bag the papers and candles. Ten minutes later, I finished making a crude floating lantern. I walked down a small staircase to the river. I lighted the candle and set the boat down on the Seine. Amazingly, it floated; I half expected it to sink quickly. It was a single lonely flickering light that became smaller and smaller as it drifted down the Seine. When it blinked out and disappeared, I imagined that it hadn’t sunk but instead was floating around the bend, that it was passing the Notre Dame cathedral, the Musée de Sèvres, past, I imagined, the Palais Bourbon, the Mantes-la-Jolie, and all the way through the graceful loops to the Manche, through the Celtic Sea.

  And even now, as I close my eyes, I think of it floating across the Atlantic Ocean, on the big black seas, a tiny dot of light. Defying wind and sea, defying the world. And somehow finding its way to the shores of America, to, dear Alex, you.

  Charlie

  29

  DECEMBER 2, 1942

  Alex finishes reading both letters. Holds them to his side, the pages shaking. It’s only then that he realizes he’s kneeling on the floor, bent over his cot like a penitent in a pew. He’d somehow fallen while reading the letters. He tries to stand but lacks the strength. His legs gutted, his heart gutted.

  He touches the paper. He imagines he can feel against his fingertips the dips of her handwriting, and in the most tenuous of ways, it feels like he is reaching out and touching her.

  Then the Maeda family start to bicker. Their voices float over the bedsheet that is hung up as a divider for privacy, and they shatter the illusion.

  There is one thing Alex must do, and do immediately. He must let Charlie know he has heard her, and that he hurts for her. Never mind it’ll be weeks before she reads it; he still feels the urgency. He glances at the clock: 3:45 P.M. If he hurries, he can dash off a quick letter, and run to the post office before it closes. He will write again tomorrow, and the day after; he will send her a letter every day even if the postage bleeds him dry.

  He arrives at the post office panting hard with only two minutes to spare. There’s only one other patron inside, a well-groomed, well-coiffed man going through some packages. The head clerk at the counter, Miss Geraldine Wool, sees Alex approach the counter with his letter. Her face instantly falls.

  “What is it?” Alex asks.

  She puckers her lips. “You’re not going to like this, Alex.” She reaches below the counter and brings up a stack of envelopes.

  At first Alex’s heart leaps. The top envelope is postmarked and covered in stamps. An international letter! But then he sees. It is his handwriting, not Charlie’s.

  “I’m sorry,” the clerk says. “But your letters got returned.”

  “No way.” He’s already counting the stamps on the envelope. There’s more than enough to cover the postage. “Did they raise the rate again? You should’ve told me—”

  “No—”

  “What then?”

  “I don’t really know. It just says ‘return to sender.’” She looks impatiently at the wall clock. “I’m sorry. But we’re closing…”

  He slides his just-sealed letter over the counter.

  “It’s just going to get returned, Alex.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “You really want to waste your stamps—”

  “Just do your job and take it!”

  “Fine.” Her lips pinched as she tosses it into a basket.

  He’s surprised by his sudden hatred for her. Her chubby cheeks. Her sweaty fingers, how they always stain his mail. Her lilted hellos and good mornings and sorry, nothing for you again, Alex. Her niceness that’s as fake as her painted eyebrows. Her white skin that burns so easily in the summer months, making her look like she’s always blushing.

  He walks out. He’s halfway down the block when he feels a tap on his shoulder. A man’s voice. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”

  It’s the well-dressed man who was in the post office. Closer up, he appears younger. Behind his wiry spectacles, intelligent eyes peer at Alex. He’s wearing a plaid wool jacket, and this alone sets him apart from everyone else’s generic redistributed army peacoats.

  “I don’t mean to meddle,” the man says in well-articulated English, “but I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation back there in the postal office.”

  “Yeah?” Alex says, still angry.

  “You’re expecting a letter from France?”

/>   Alex nods.

  “Well, look, this is none of my business, but there’s been a recent development in France.”

  Alex tilts his head toward the man. “What kind of development?”

  The man’s face softens with sympathy. “Earlier this month, German forces invaded the unoccupied Vichy zone.” He pauses, seems to consider his words. “And unfortunately, all mail to France, including the Vichy zone now, has ceased. So that probably explains why your letter was returned. I’m sorry.”

  “But I just received a letter from there. Today.”

  The man touches the rim of his glasses. “It was probably already in transit.”

  Alex’s heart sinks. “How do you know all this?”

  “The Manzanar Free Press,” the man says with pride.

  Alex knows it. The newspaper circulated around Manzanar internment camp, four pages of mimeographed reporting on mostly camp affairs: sports results, weddings, births, deaths, important events, a reminder of rules.

  “My name’s Ray Takeda. I’m the editor in chief. We’re not allowed to report on international news. But we hear stuff on the radio. Sometimes the staff hands us newspapers and magazines.” He glances at his watch. “Well, look, I need to run.”

  “Hold on,” Alex says. “When can I … you must know of some way I can send my letters to France.”

  He pulls his hat lower. “I’m sorry. Not until the war’s over. And that won’t be for a few years yet.” And with that he doffs his cap and walks away, head tucked against the wind.

  Standing alone, Alex feels a sharp twinge inside. His lungs collapsing into tight knots, his supply line of oxygen suddenly cut off.

  30

  DECEMBER 4, 1942

  On Friday when the lunch shift ends and most of the staff have already left, Alex is finishing up in the kitchen. The only other people in the kitchen—two senior staffers—are shooting the breeze at the prep table. This is the one-hour dead time before the dinner crew arrives.