Perhaps to those involved at the time, the various interests of the strike were able to be kept straight. In retrospect, it’s much less easy. Historian Robert W. King ventured to clarify matters:
The strike is hard to explain but let me try. Part of it, I believe, was due to local residents trying to flex their muscle and break away from the Seattle-dominated Alaska Fishermen’s Union (AFU). It also got caught up in the red scare of the time. Prior to World War II there was very little Native employment in Bristol Bay, but wartime manpower demands changed all that. A resident cannery workers union was formed and was affiliated with the International Fishermen and Allied Workers of America (IFAWA).
After the war, as the iron curtain descended over Europe, the Berlin Airlift began and the Cold War got hot in Korea, IFAWA was linked to communist-leaning elements and was purged from the CIO. The resident union and non-resident AFU aligned with Harry Bridges’s ILWU, a CIO affiliate which controlled much of the Pacific Coast ports but was also linked to the communists.
In 1950, Jim Downey of Dillingham organized the independent Bering Sea Fishermen’s Union on an anti-Bridges platform and aligned himself with Harry Lundeberg of the Seaman’s International Union, an AFL affiliate. A separate resident cannery worker’s union was formed, also affiliated with AFL. In 1951, the packers were forced to cut deals with Bridges and the ILWU to load their ships in Seattle, but when they arrived in Bristol Bay the resident AFL workers picketed the canneries.
The AFU and ILWU workers, part of the CIO, did not honor the AFL strike and went to work. Downey held out as long as he could, finally agreeing on July 3 to terms offered a month earlier, including forty cents each for red salmon, less than eight cents a pound. By that time, many of the Native cannery workers had been sent home and missed the entire season. The canners blamed the strike on jurisdictional issues. Downey said it was all about fish prices and the cannery workers were being used as pawns.
The labor issue was not directly linked to the powerboat issue but I think the powerboat success emboldened them.
13
PROMISED LAND
NAKNEK, BRISTOL BAY, JUNE 1951
Kiyoshi Tsurifune pressed his forehead against the airplane window. The aircraft’s wide silver wing obstructed half the view. Ahead and behind it, seen through streaks of cloud, he saw for the first time the soil of America. Streaks of earth colored brown and green. Mountains in late June with fingers of snow. Water with boats. If only, by some miscalculation, the plane would be forced to continue to New York City! Or at least to Chicago.
They circled a nest of squared buildings whose panes, one by one, reflected rays from an early sun, while a voice over the loudspeaker repeated that they must fasten their seat belts for the landing in Anchorage. The city below lay intact. Nothing was scorched nor blown apart nor in the process of being rebuilt—all of it clean and whole. Bombed us to pieces but stayed clean and whole yourselves. How would you have managed had we prevailed? Would you have rebuilt quickly and with such energy as have the Japanese—have ever recovered—had we destroyed you?
His anger ebbed as quickly as it had flashed. Good fortune that America was clever enough to invent the atomic bomb and end the war. Otherwise he, Kiyoshi Tsurifune—now no longer starving in a foul cave but the young director of a company with two fishing vessels (and more to come if America opened its waters again!)—might be dead like his honored brother and unable to care for his parents. Worse, might now be one-legged, or eyeless, or broken in some other way.
Beside him, Mr. Itaru Sasaki leaned over with a smile that reflected the gold fillings on his uneven teeth. “These people have everything, you see. So they consider themselves clever. But as we have seen to be obvious, they can be twisted like children. Generous children, but foolish like children.”
Kiyoshi pointed to his ears and shook his head while saying in Japanese, “Too noisy.” He busied himself with the seatbelt to avoid having Sasaki-san repeat what he had indeed heard.
Despite everything they said at home, Kiyoshi did like Americans. He did not merely tolerate them in order to do business. And now, arrived in at least Alaska, he was closer than ever before to the main thing. On the planes from Tokyo to Seattle, then to Anchorage, he’d kept focus most of the time on the mission he’d been assigned: to report facts on the runs of salmon in Bristol Bay and the Americans’ ability to catch and process them. Further, he repeated and repeated polite American phrases learned from language records, to be sure he’d got them right, until Sasaki became impatient.
“Don’t forget,” Sasaki had said more than once, “we now have leverage that we did not have just two years ago. Where else can they put military bases to fight their war in Korea? It’s no longer as it was just after the defeat, when we first requested permission to fish again in the Aleutians, where we have historically fished and thus have great rights. Now we can demand—although diplomatically, of course—to make them feel better. So therefore, you don’t have to speak like an American so long as you say enough of their words to convey your meaning. Make them work a little to understand you. This makes what you say more important, you see. Don’t forget your proud Japanese heritage that goes back thousands of years before the name ‘America’ was even invented.”
“Yes. Yes.” Kiyoshi needed to be polite to Sasaki, who was from the government agency that dealt with fisheries. The man was his senior on this mission. Kiyoshi had been chosen to come at government expense because he’d taught himself English and had become articulate in representing vessel owners and even the processors who needed the fisheries of Alaska. But Sasaki couldn’t object to Kiyoshi studying the map of United States laid out on his lap, even if, in the cramped space of the airline seat, the end part spilled over. What a heart-stopping distance between Anchorage and New York, even when compared to the longer distance from Japan across the Pacific. Sasaki would be traveling on to Washington, DC, while no provision had been made to send Kiyoshi himself any further than Alaska. Not even to stop over in Seattle where important fish merchants lived. He must, at least, find some way to continue on to San Francisco to see the famous hippies. Perhaps a little bit further? Chicago to see gangsters. New Orleans to hear the strangely exhilarating jazz. But mostly their greatest city: New York. New York! Where the luckiest people of all lived, including the most important artists. Where it was said on authority that artists’ thrilling work could be casually viewed just by entering a gallery.
How foolish his people had been, just months after defeat, to demand access back into American waters as if nothing had transpired between the two nations! No wonder the victors refused. Now, though, after the passage of half a dozen years and many changes in the world, things might be different.
“Don’t forget how hard we had it,” Father had groused just before Kiyoshi had left for Alaska. They were sitting on the tatami while the servant they could now afford laid out tea.
“Sure, we had it hard,” Kiyoshi had said, more boldly than he would have dared a few years earlier, and without even the semblance of a bow to soften it. “We were defeated. Remember?”
“And the Americans sucked away everything.”
“No, Father. It was the greedy Japanese black marketeers that did that. Charged us four to five times—ten times—the value of even rice. Until the Americans put a stop to it.”
“You forget that the Americans exploded two terrible bombs on helpless Japanese. That’s what happened. What could we do?” Father was growing old and his opinions had hardened with the past. Yet of course he still needed to be given all respect.
“Two bombs that killed only a few thousand,” Kiyoshi had tried to clarify. “They saved a million Japanese told to defend the homeland. Including me! And they saved us from the rubble of the cities that we’d still be clearing. Bombs or no, our defeat would have been the same.” Father shook his head, annoyed, but Kiyoshi could not stop now. “And before those two powerful bombs, terrible, yes? Years before? Who was it who prepared for war,
then started it?”
“Our nation had a sacred mission to save all Asia from colonial aggressors. But our soldiers failed us,” Father cried. “Not those who, like your brother, died gloriously, thereby inspiring his companions. Others. Those who surrendered rather than carrying us to victory and honor.”
“Enough,” murmured his mother.
“Then I’ll say no more. I’m grateful that I still have one son alive. Yes. Naturally. But just the same. Since in disgraceful surrender we have lost—”
“Enough.”
“—we have lost honor.”
Rather than argue further, Kiyoshi had begged an appointment and had bowed to excuse himself.
An increasing burden, this. He ran the family company in all but name. Yet it was dutiful courtesy to appear at Father’s home every morning, as if to receive instructions. And it comforted Mother. As did the presence of his precious five-year-old son Shoji, whom he brought to Mother daily while his young, beloved wife Miki worked—in true Western fashion—in the fishing company office. Despite Mother’s frequently murmured questions of when she’d have more bubbling children to look after on the workdays, Miki and Kiyoshi had decided to wait for greater prosperity before having any further family.
As always after the morning call on Father, Kiyoshi left his parents’ house, which was wooden and utilitarian like all others in the neighborhood. With the return of prosperity, its sliding panels and screens were all in good repair. His own home, in a nearby neighborhood once leveled by war and now built fresh, would be empty until mid-day, except for their servant. He turned toward his office by the waterfront. There, moored and being unloaded from the night’s fishing, rode one of the two fishing vessels their company owned. At sight of him the captain, Oono and the two fishermen on deck stopped to bow. He reciprocated in full gravity with a shallower bow, as befitting his position, and strode over to see the harvest. It was a catch of assorted fish—none large—already separated by species into tubs, along with a few crayfish with sluggish, snapping claws.
What a difference from the catch of a deep sea trawler if the Americans were to permit access to their waters again! In that event, credit enough would appear in order to refurbish the company’s larger vessel that still rusted at moorage. And yet, with all that was at stake in his mission to Alaska, Kiyoshi Tsurifune sat in the plane from Tokyo dreaming over the distance on the map between Anchorage and that golden city of New York.
A man dressed in suit and tie met them at the Anchorage airport. He introduced himself as John Goss of the US State Department representing overseas trade. The three men exchanged cards. Sasaki, who on the flight had said that he had studied English, merely smiled and bowed, appearing somewhat ill at ease. Kiyoshi stepped in at once to use the English he had studied and practiced over and over. Kiyoshi sized Mr. Goss with disappointment. From his bulging waist and unweathered face, he was clearly a bureaucrat rather than a man of seafaring background. Nevertheless, the man was in charge. He decided to try him. With sentences rehearsed during the flight over, “Sir! What is your opinion? Yankee baseball team from the great city of New York. Again this year, shall they play the famous American World Series?”
“My. You people learn fast.” Goss ignored the question. “Now, let’s get your names straight.”
As soon as Mr. Goss had established their names, he turned his attention to Sasaki and handed him a folder of documents. “Read these over during your next flight. They’re in both languages. Somebody who speaks Japanese is waiting to meet you in Chicago and see that you get on the plane to Washington, DC.”
Sasaki bowed and accepted the folder with a thanks murmured in Japanese. Did the man even understand, Kiyoshi wondered? So much for Sasaki-san’s English, and for his boldness on the plane. To show off his own skill Kiyoshi declared: “Weather in Alaska, now I think, is summertime. Yet, however, very winter-seeming. Thus cold snow—I see this through the window, on . . . the high of mountains.”
Mr. Goss laughed. “High of mountains, eh? You’ve said it. Still a piece of snow up there all right. Now, let’s make sure Mr. Sakisaki gets on his plane to Chicago. Then we catch a plane later in the day to King Salmon where they’re waiting for you. Okay? Frankly, I’m just finding my way around here myself. Place not exactly what I’d call . . .”
At the entrance ramp to the Chicago plane, Sasaki looked back at Kiyoshi with what seemed like agitation. What kind of representative would Sasaki make to the high officials in Washington, DC? Better they had sent himself, director of only a small fishing company perhaps, but ready and eager with talk that might gain their attention.
A small plane flew Mr. Goss and Kiyoshi from Anchorage to a place auspiciously named King Salmon. The other passengers were roughly dressed, tall, sturdy Americans. His own suit and tie, echoing those worn by Mr. Goss, set them both apart. It was a fashion he might have wanted in Japan, but suddenly not in America. Confident people slumped comfortably in the single seats along each side of the plane. Just like their bold new expressionist paintings.
The plane landed at an airport so small that the waiting room was only a shelter a few feet wide. Baggage stowed in a side door of the plane was unloaded into the open and carted directly to a high pile outside the airport door. In contrast to his two neat leather suitcases, which eventually landed on the pile, these men traveled with knapsacks of rough cloth. Some of their luggage was scuffed from wear, some had high rubber boots strapped around the outside. Yes. Only workers, perhaps. But free and bold in their nature. Indeed, he liked Americans.
Several old-looking vehicles were parked to the side, including trucks and a yellow bus. “Where’s the car that’s supposed to meet us?” muttered Mr. Goss. “This is a hell kind of . . .” A man in work clothes approached them and declared that from the way they were dressed he guessed they were the ones to pick up for Swede Scorden. He led them to a proper automobile parked further away. “Getting worried there for a minute.”
Several of the roughly dressed passengers from the plane headed to the bus. It was foolish even to think of it in his position, thought Kiyoshi, but he wished to be with these Americans. They shouldered their assorted baggage and climbed aboard the bus with bold confidence, joking amongst themselves and even two bold women. It would have been informative to watch further. Indeed, admit it: agreeable.
Mr. Goss settled back in to the automobile, offered a cigarette which Kiyoshi accepted, and lit both with a pocket flame machine smaller than a box of matches. “So, Mr. Sura . . . furie is it? You represent—”
Kiyoshi chanced a correction that would have been unheard of to a high Japanese official. “Forgive me. Name ‘Tsurifune,’ sir. In Japanese these words represent meaning thusly: fishing equipment is Tsuri and Fune is vessel.” The official did not appear to be insulted. “Fishboat nets, that’s a good one. And so, Mr. Surafurie, you’re here for fish buyers from the companies of your city, right? Frankly, I’m not in the fish business, more in canned beef from South America, but here I am. So, what’s the total volume of our uh, salmon, that you want to buy each year?”
Kiyoshi did not trust his English for a matter of such importance. Following instructions from the Tokyo manager who had briefed him, he opened his briefcase and pulled out several pages clipped together. In words that he had practiced for days, he stated: “Here I have official documents which you shall please receive. However, product sales must depend on product quality. Therefore, thus, I must inspect product.”
Mr. Goss chuckled. “Well I guess you do. Nothing but the best for you folks now, eh? Okay then, that’s just what we’re headed to see about right now.”
They drove through a swamp-like countryside of stunted brown vegetation. Kiyoshi watched every detail of his first experience on American soil. Not beautiful. But raw, perhaps with wild beasts lurking. Most energetic. They turned onto a primitive road that led eventually to a compound of buildings huddled together in the seeming wilderness. During the drive that lasted at least a half hour, th
ere had been no other sign of habitation. Yes. America. The place of famous wide open spaces he’d read so much about. Desolate perhaps. But indeed wide and open, not crowded with people.
14
BOSS SWEDE
The first thing Swede did at 5:00 a.m. one morning halfway into June, was to tear May 1951 from the calendar over his desk. Not like him to forget even such small details. Certainly he’d organized the rest of his office in better fashion since coming to Naknek a month ago. He raised the blind to admit the rays of a sun already risen a couple of hours. He enjoyed it whenever such sun appeared through gray clouds. The rays, separated by their passage through the tops of fir trees, glanced off the bills of lading he’d piled on the desk by category before locking up last night sometime past midnight. By the 7:00 a.m. opening of the office he’d strode through each building of the plant, from loading dock and canning floor, to blacksmith and carpenter shops, to net loft and boat storage, to bunkhouse and cafeteria. When the red salmon arrived at last, all would function correctly. All of it, this season finally in his care! Those watching his performance from Ketchikan and Seattle would see that their trust had not been misplaced. And that he wouldn’t allow any of the infiltration they seemed to fear. The picketing yesterday was a little disturbing, of course—a nuisance perhaps, but nothing in the long run. A few, always and anywhere, needed to make a show. His own workers unloaded around the pickets, who soon realized they were making noise to no purpose. At opening hour, right down to the minute, his main foremen appeared at the door for briefing.
“Those twenty hundred flats we couldn’t find, were they in the unmarked boxes, then?” Swede asked Thompson from the dock.
WARRIORS Page 17
