by Rishi Reddi
The Fredonia Band was playing at the steps of the courthouse. Offices and schools and businesses remained closed. From the homes in the surrounding farmland, people streamed into town despite the Spanish flu that had laid so many low. Every day there had been another death in the Valley. The streets were overrun with farmers and cowboys and housewives and yelling children, dogs, horses, wagons, chickens, a few goats, almost all of the town’s one thousand automobiles. Even those who lived on the east side—in the barrio and Japantown and the Negro neighborhood—crossed the railroad tracks to hear what the mayor would say. A parade had lined up, but the fire department could not squeeze its trucks and horses past the crowd on Third Street. On the hour, every hour, the band played “The Star-Spangled Banner” and the unruly crowd grew calm, some whispering the lyrics, some belting them out, others standing silently. Even young children stopped to listen. Fathers removed their hats. Several mothers were crying.
Cars cruised up and down Main Street, horns blaring, contraptions and noisemakers tied to rear bumpers: iron tubs containing metal scraps that rattled, exploded in the ears. Passengers leaned out of the car windows, whistling and chanting and singing.
Karak stepped into the crowd, clasping the hands of the banker Jasper Davis and Terrence Mark, who managed the farm implement store, but Jivan and Ram hung back, feeling joyful but not connected to that wider joy. Perhaps it was Jivan’s dastar, perhaps it was their mood, but they stood separated from the crowd. A car drove past, dragging a shattered wooden box labeled KAISER. They thought this was silly.
Karak rejoined them, bringing Clive Edgar with him. The land agent shook Jivan’s hand. “Your son will be home soon, John,” he said warmly.
“Very soon, I hope, very soon,” Jivan said, and no one bothered to correct him; they had known each other too long. Clive left them, and they ran into Malik Khan and Gugar Singh, then other Hindus who gathered weekly in Fredonia Park. Their mood was light, happy. Everyone knew a village-mate back home who had died serving in the British army in France or Mesopotamia, and most had a brother or cousin or uncle who had left home to fight. They stood clustered far from the tent that sheltered the band and the mayor. As the group expanded, they grew more and more conspicuous.
A car passed them and the driver leaned out to shout, “See what has happened to your damned German alliance now!” His words fell on them like shrapnel, meant to wound. The men blinked and looked at each other.
“Who is that?” someone asked.
“Silas Treet,” Jivan answered. “Proprietor of the Fredonia News. He doesn’t know we fought on the side of the British and Americans.”
THEY RECEIVED LETTERS from Amarjeet telling of being billeted in a French home and marching and drilling with his platoon. The army bought them tickets to shows, organized ball games, taught them auto repair and accounting. Grateful French drank with them in the taverns and cafés and brothels and introduced them to daughters of marriageable age. They think, Amarjeet wrote, we have saved the world for democracy. At home, the families waited for their return.
Finally, in February, the Singhs and Moriyamas received letters from Washington officials, stating that their young men would soon return. They would board a ship in Le Havre. They would disembark in New Jersey thirteen days later.
The afternoon the letter arrived, the Moriyamas had just finished hauling the last of the strawberry harvest to the shippers. When Tomoya read the letter to his wife, their exhaustion disappeared. Hatsu sat on her bed and wept, her hands covering her face, her body convulsing. Her husband sat by her, his own eyes brimming with tears. Their older daughter had married and moved away years ago. The younger had done the same after Harry left; it had been only the two of them for years.
After they recovered, they telephoned several other Japanese families in the Valley to tell of the good news. The Singhs had just purchased a telephone, and Tomoya called Jivan too. Had they received the same letter regarding Amarjeet? Was he coming home on the same ship as their son? Yes, Jivan replied to both questions. The men laughed, euphoric, relieved. The feeling carried like static over the phone line. Harry had mentioned Amarjeet in every letter. The boys had been true companions throughout. While the boys served together, the friendship between families had grown stronger too.
By late afternoon, Tomoya and Hatsu arrived at Jivan Singh’s home. Hatsu stumbled as she stepped up to the porch, and Kishen laughed with her, and although they had never done it before, the women embraced, as if they had always lived in the west. They entered the house and Tomoya stayed on the back porch with the men.
Karak poured Tomoya a whiskey. The men talked of what the military had done since the fighting had ended, how the American Expeditionary Forces had been flung all over the world. How Harry was being awarded a medal for his courage in battle.
Tomoya was flush with excitement, with a sense of vindication. Harry had been required to register for the draft—he had been born in the U.S., so there was no getting around that—but he had not been required to save people, he had not been required to risk his own life doing so. Despite his good manners, Tomoya could not hold back, his pride in his son was evident. A Japanese boy had done what so many Americans did not do. Why should the Moriyama family not be considered as “good” as any local one, he thought with anger. With his son’s actions, Tomoya achieved victory in a battle few knew that he fought.
He could not help himself; he told the story again even though the Singhs knew it. Perhaps he would not have boasted this way in the company of other Japanese. But the Singhs listened to him patiently, sincerely.
Amarjeet had written the Singhs a letter telling of what Harry had done: During the Argonne Forest advance, the regiment had almost finished digging in for the night when the Boche began to “let the Doughboys have a few shells.” One exploded close to their artillery unit. A piece of shrapnel lodged itself in Amarjeet’s leg. He did not feel it at first, but then the pain became a red-hot thing that burst inside him. He could not think. He could not move. He knew only that he was safe inside the trench.
But other men were hurt too. Harry went over the top of the trench and pulled a man to safety, dragging him to the rim. Amarjeet collected himself, hobbled forward, helped pull the man inside. Another shell fell, lighting up the night. Harry left again to find another man farther out—Sergeant Sam Pinkerton, from Fredonia—and together they pulled him in the same way.
Amarjeet and Sam and the first man were taken to the field hospital in the rear. The shrapnel was removed from Amarjeet’s leg and the wound was stitched up. Later, an officer visited and Amarjeet vouched for Harry’s bravery.
Now Tomoya was filled with pride; his son was safe, the peace had been signed. Men and women wore poppies in memory of their dead, but his son was coming home a hero, having saved those he did not need to save.
They sat on the back porch until after the sun set and the stars appeared and a whisper of dust rose with the breeze. The air caressed them. From the front of the house they heard hoofbeats and a horse’s snort. Later, Tomoya would wonder: Why a horse and not a motorcar? Didn’t Western Union have money for machines? Which of his hired men had told the boy to look for him at Jivan’s farm? Later he would wonder: Why did an officer wait so many days before paying a visit?
By the time Ram rose to greet the visitor, the Western Union boy had already made his way to the back and inquired, mangling the name, “Is a Mr. Moriy— Moriyami— Morayama here?”
“I am,” Tomoya said, standing.
The lad handed him the telegram, jumped back on his horse, and cantered off. Later Tomoya would wonder: Why wasn’t that boy in uniform, overseas?
He tore open the envelope and read. He grabbed the back of a chair for strength. Then his legs crumpled beneath him and he fell to the ground as Jivan lunged forward, trying to catch him.
25
June 1919
HARRY HAD DIED OF SPANISH INFLUENZA IN THE FIELD HOSPITAL, ONLY A week before he would have boarded the sh
ip to come home. This was the fact that Amarjeet had been trying to understand for three months, as he journeyed back from war. Now, as the train approached the depot, he looked up to see the crooked sign proclaiming FREDONIA: AMERICA’S DREAM. The full impact of Harry’s absence hit him. How would he face Mr. and Mrs. Moriyama on the platform?
But, of course, the Moriyamas were not there. Why would they be? Through the window of the rail car, Amarjeet spotted his own family in the midst of others, milling around the depot. He gasped the moment he saw them. In their faces was an eager expectation, a worry, expressions of relief and disbelief mixed together.
As he stepped off the train, the sixteen boys he had traveled with said goodbye. He had not known any of them before the war, except by sight. Sam Pinkerton had been one of them—the sergeant whom Harry had hated, but pulled into the trench and saved. Now Sam clapped Amarjeet on the back. “Feels good to be home, don’t it, Jeet?” he asked. “Feels real good,” another soldier responded for him, and Amarjeet’s gaze took in all of them, every one, including the three Negroes who had emerged from the rear car into the bright sun; he had joked with them on the platforms during the stops in San Francisco and Los Angeles.
“Take good care of yourself now,” said Sam quietly. Already the Anglo boys were standing together, eyeing their waiting families. If Amarjeet had wanted their recognition before the war, he had it now. All the soldiers were grinning, every one wearing the uniform of the American Expeditionary Forces for this last brief moment before joining society again: African faces and European, Hindustani and Chinese and Mexican.
Amarjeet approached Jivan, managing to smile. Karak slapped him on the back, Jivan and Ram and Kishen embraced him. His uncle did not comment on his lack of a dastar, his clean-shaven face. Amarjeet grinned at the gleaming motorcar. Rosa was holding Federico and he touched the toddler’s cheek. She announced that she was pregnant again, speaking with so much enthusiasm that they all laughed. He gave Leela the French doll he had brought for her. But he could not keep up the display of happiness. When he was eating Kishen’s food on the back porch, the tears came, the first he had cried since Harry’s death. The conversation fell quiet. He rose from the table and went to the olla, splashed water on his face. When he returned they were still silent. He expected the sympathy in his aunt’s face, perhaps in Ram’s. But he had not expected the kindness he saw in his uncle’s eyes, the deference in Karak’s manner. Then he was reminded: they had been soldiers too.
AMARJEET HAD RETURNED FROM FRANCE, but he could not leave it behind. On the train to the French coast, journeying through a blood-soaked, pockmarked, desolate land, shredded churches, schools, courthouses speeding past the window, he thought only of the gloom in the church hospital, of the way that Harry had looked at the end. The nurse had allowed him to see the body. Harry seemed asleep, a burden lifted. Distant. They would never again be together. Death is the boundary that cannot be crossed, even by love or adoration.
When Amarjeet boarded the ship for the two-week journey home, it was Harry’s voice that he kept hearing: how the fella in the neighboring bunk was crackers, how the ship had shuddered during the storm, how he loved the desert much more than the stomach-lurching rhythm of the sea. There were other Imperial Valley boys on that boat and Amarjeet ate with them and talked with them while they smoked on deck. One had been a high school classmate and had known Harry too. The morning they sailed past the Statue of Liberty, the entire ship surrendered to a sacred stillness.
They entrained in Hoboken and sped west across the continent, seeing their own country transformed but unravaged by war: billboards proclaiming MAKE THE WORLD SAFE FOR DEMOCRACY. FREE DOUGHNUTS FOR DOUGHBOYS IN UNIFORM. Everywhere appeared murals of French orphans, widows in rags, arms raised in defiance. He did not immediately understand that the billboards and posters were of a place that he had just been. He had come home to an unfamiliar land, one he had once known, an immigrant now from army lines. But he had a job to do for Harry. And he knew now what he had not known when Harry was alive, that the emotion he had felt was love. His heartbeat had quickened whenever Harry was near. He could not deny that now.
The morning after his return, Karak gave him a ride to the Moriyamas’ house in the Model T, arranging to pick him up in an hour. After he drove off, Amarjeet stood quietly in the front yard. His courage seemed to have deserted him. Nothing had changed since he had left. This was the same dirt road. Along the path to the barn were the same sakura trees that Harry’s sisters had planted years ago. In the corner stood the bamboo garden, taller and more regal. But a heavy silence hung about the home.
At the door, he felt the heaviness of his guilt. How could the Moriyamas forgive him for coming home without their son? Mr. Moriyama appeared at the screen door and peered at him. His face was a stone.
Mr. Moriyama called out a commanding stream of Japanese and Harry’s sisters came rushing to the front step. Amarjeet was surprised to see them. He bowed and greeted them by name—Masa, Yuki. As girls they had been shy, though they were older than Harry. Both of them had been born in Japan, years before the family had arrived in California. Their father had not wanted them to mix too much with the non-Japanese boys, and as a show of respect, Amarjeet had kept his distance. Years ago they had both married truck farmers and moved away, one to Bakersfield, another to Texas.
Masa stepped forward, returning his bow. “Welcome, Amarjeet-san.”
“Okay,” her father said, after a moment, backing away from the door and allowing him room to pass.
Amarjeet entered and took off his shoes. He was startled to find Mrs. Moriyama standing just inside, wearing a gray housecoat over her petite frame, as ephemeral as a shadow.
She was broken now. Fragile. Grief changes the body, he thought; bones shrink, muscles are rearranged.
“I have come to give you something,” Amarjeet said. The older sister interpreted for him, even though Mrs. Moriyama had understood, was already nodding. He hesitated. “Something from Haruo.”
Mr. Moriyama’s eyes darted from Amarjeet’s face to the ground and back again. “Come.” He nodded. “Sit down.”
The room was swept and neat, immaculate as it always was. Books on shelves guarded by glass panes. Porcelain teacups on a decorative tray. Harry and he had done homework together in this room. He felt that he had misspoken, that he was ill-mannered. He should not have come only to give them something. He should have come to share their grief, to offer condolences, to do something. To do whatever is done.
The younger sister brought lemonade, strawberries. Mr. Moriyama sat across from him and Mrs. Moriyama placed herself in a wooden chair in the corner, the most uncomfortable chair in the room. She was staring at Amarjeet, as if he could change what had happened, as if he owed her something. Her stare was unwavering, her eyes deep and beyond despair. Amarjeet’s heartbeat quickened. Had he been wrong to come? But how could he have stayed away? He had promised Harry, and he knew he would have come even if he had promised him nothing at all, if he did not even have the letters.
“How you are, son?” Mr. Moriyama asked. Amarjeet’s eyes welled up. The question was asked so gently. It was asked with true concern, as if he were the one who had lost Harry. He had never before heard Mr. Moriyama call anyone “son,” not even Harry. It was too American.
Amarjeet took a deep breath to control himself, aware of Mrs. Moriyama in the dark corner. He stared at the hands on his lap. His hands.
“You come home quickly,” Mr. Moriyama said. “That is good. Some boys still there. And you are safe. That is very good too.” He nodded, a small trace of a bow, for emphasis.
“The trip was long,” Amarjeet said. “The ship was not comfortable. The food was terrible, but they tried to treat us well.” He was starting to blather. “The French loved us.” He gave a little laugh. Harry’s parents were staring at the ground. Yuki sat at her mother’s feet. Masa stood at the edge of the room.
“That boy Haruo save. He come back?” Mr. Moriyama asked
.
Amarjeet grew quiet. Mrs. Moriyama locked her gaze on him again. He felt more composed now. “Sam Pinkerton, from the Valley. Our sergeant. That’s who Haruo saved. I was on the train with him,” he said. “Also Jedediah Smith from Bakersfield,” Amarjeet volunteered.
Mr. Moriyama gave a curt nod, then his face was stone again. “He die alone?”
The direct question startled him. Amarjeet pursed his lips to keep the tears at bay. He thought of the field hospital set up in the village church. Cots were lined up in a section of the sanctuary that had not been shelled. Military doctors and nurses and volunteers from the countryside treated the fallen soldiers. Harry was surrounded by stricken boys; some lay silent, some moaned deliriously. Some had lost a leg or an arm or their genitals or the ability to breathe freely. Whenever Amarjeet visited, it stank of blood, vomit, and urine; he could smell that smell even now.
“I sat with him as often as I could. Whenever I did not have to drill or care for the horses.” Was that guilt he heard in his voice? The other boys visited the taverns or played basketball in the warming spring air. Other boys fraternized with the daughters of the families with whom they were billeted.
Amarjeet reached inside his pocket. “I brought you these letters. Harry was writing them to you. So many of them, every day in the hospital. He didn’t want you to get them with the other things.” They had argued when Harry said he thought he wouldn’t make it back. Amarjeet’s voice cracked. “He wanted me to carry them to you myself.”
He held the letters out like an offering. His hands were shaking. When Mr. Moriyama took them, Amarjeet felt hollow, devoid of substance. “And there is this. He wanted me to give you this too.” Mr. Moriyama took the small box and opened it slowly. Inside was Harry’s gold chain. His face flushed pink. Mrs. Moriyama made a small noise, like a chirping bird, a squeaking mouse. She rose quickly and left the room. Amarjeet saw Karak’s motorcar turn from the roadway and he groped for his handkerchief and suddenly he could not contain his tears. “I am sorry Mr. Moriyama I could not bring him back with me I am sorry I am sorry I am—”
