“And just let the engine break down for five minutes, wind blows us onto Deadman Sands. You thinking?”
“Pah!” Yet there was Gus Rosvic, finished with his meal and rising from the table. Gus with new friends and Jones Henry left behind with the sailboats. Gus and the two others walked their trays to the collection niche by the kitchen, talking all the time while they bumped their trays clean against the garbage can. Out they walked, laughing together now at some shared joke. As Gus passed, he paused by Jones and tilted his head in the direction of the door. “Like I said, the vet’s hall is up the road about a mile. Got a truck taking us up in fifteen minutes. By the bunkhouse. Coming?”
Jones glanced at his dad, who looked away. “Don’t know, Gus. Mebbe, mebbe not.” Had any of them seen that Jap sitting at the managers’ table? Any of them care? Jap sitting at the table like he belonged! But the one who didn’t belong, he realized, might be Jones Henry himself. The one who didn’t want things to change. But still, no harm in going.
A hand patted his shoulder. “Uh, yes, Jones? And your father Buck, is it?” It was Swede, passing by behind them. “Time for a visit, eh? Please, you’ll come to the office now for a little drink.” The tone was less an invitation than a command.
“We’ll be there,” declared Buck. Jones shrugged. A union wasn’t going to change things anyhow. Time for a visit with management and then some! Time to find out if the Japs were jerking around this new cannery manager, or just jerking the fishermen. Let the unions talk on without him.
Jones might have expected something fancier for a cannery boss. The office had plenty of radios and microphones surrounding the desk, but it was crowded into a niche of the warehouse behind the company store. Swede stood waiting, his necktie knotted tight. At dinner it had been hanging loose around his neck, Jones remembered wryly. Swede gestured toward a set of chairs in front of his desk. Without bothering to ask, he produced a bottle from his desk drawer and poured out three small glassfuls of a clear liquid.
“Come. Aquavit, after a long day of fishing and of the delivering of fish. Let us drink to the good quality of the salmon. Skoal”
Both Jones and his dad were glad enough for the drink. A good way to start off a night that would likely continue back in the bunkhouse with a bottle of lesser stuff. It burned smooth, the way a shot of high-class alcohol should.
Swede returned the bottle to its drawer. “I see you not so often in Ketchikan anymore, Jones. I hope that you and your wife Adele have good health?”
“Just fine. Hope the same with you and Mary?”
“Yes. Yes. All good. Starting our family. Kids, kids. Oh! Ah . . .” Swede caught himself. Jones wondered grimly if Swede just remembered that the Henrys’ only child had died of meningitis. Jones, too, wanted to change the subject. After their respective weddings, there had been little socializing. Then, when Swede had advanced into management, he’d turned dignified and became so damn full of himself. A kick at him wouldn’t hurt, Jones decided. He turned to his dad.
“Took this man here to his first piece of ass on Creek Street.” The statement had the effect he’d anticipated. Instantly, the cannery manager frowned uneasily.
Buck Henry laughed and joined in the game. “Don’t say? Not Miss Eva I hope?”
“Better ask Miss Eva that one.”
“This was long time ago, Jones. Not to speak of any more, I think. The whorehouses are not good for Ketchikan. My wife Mary says this strongly and I must agree. Surely, Jones, you do not go to such a street anymore!”
Jones winked at Buck, who shrugged. Swede opened the drawer and produced his bottle again.
“So, yes?”
Jones was enjoying himself, and he held out his glass for a refill. “‘Night’s young’ as they say.”
“Now, Jones and Buck, please, I must make a thing clear. Drink first. Drink. Skoal, ja?” Swede raised his own glass and held it until they too raised theirs and drank. “So, Buck and Jones . . . good fishing? Not such heavy runs of salmon this year in Bristol Bay. Or last year. Like the biologists predicted. So. Every fish delivered must have good quality, eh? For example, no hole in the side.”
Jones laughed harshly. “Thought you’d get to that. The little Jap complained, didn’t he? Tells me how to run my boat like I’m back taking orders from some officer!”
“In Norway and Sweden, Jones, the condition of fish is of great importance. The presentation. So also for other markets.”
Jones made a show of looking to his left and right. “We still part of the United States here in this building? Since when is it a big deal to toss a dead fish any way but what’s convenient? Going to be stuffed into a can however you do it! You ever tossed a few hundred big fish one after another?”
“Yes, Jones. A little.” Swede lightened it with a trace of smile. “However, sometimes only. Not so much as you.”
“I’d say so!”
“Go easy there, boy,” Buck muttered. Swede rocked back in his swivel chair and steepled his fingers together.
“Other markets, Jones. You must understand this.”
Like a damn banker, Jones thought. Like any puffed-up fellow who thinks he’s in charge. That union in Naknek organizing against the canneries had it right after all. Without men to catch the fish, what were the canneries going to do? “Mebbe you fellows want to go put a moose in the can for them other markets.”
“Yes. Ha. Good joke. But you see, Jones. Freezing the fish whole will soon be a product. We have a freezer boat already at sea to experiment with such technology. Modern times.” Swede considered, then proffered his bottle again.
Jones started to hold out his glass, then shoved it aside on the table. “That Jap who’s nosing around here. You kissing his ass? He telling you what to say?”
Buck Henry touched his son’s sleeve. “Easy there. I don’t mind pitching some fish. We’ll take turns.”
“That ain’t the problem here, Dad. Problem here’s who calls the shots.” Swede shook his head. “It’s business we’re talking here, Jones. You must understand.”
“Guess you never crawled into a foxhole to save this country from people what wanted to tear us apart. Never seen what Japs do to you when they get the chance!” In the silence that followed, Swede’s face reddened and Jones decided that he had made his point. “Mebbe I’ll do what I can to keep holes outta your damn fish. But not to make some Jap happy.”
Swede rose. His face was still flushed and his expression had lost its look of comfort. The tightening around his mouth increased the outline of a scar on his cheek. “Your father sits here beside you. Do you understand such good fortune? My father is dead from whips wielded by the hands of the German bastards. I also have hatred that will not forgive. So, when I speak to you of reality in the market, understand that I am not . . . fooling around. Eh?” After a silence, Buck Henry spoke up. “That’s a bad thing to hear now, Swede,” he said. “Tell you what. We’ll see your fish come through right. Come on, boy, let’s go back to the boat.”
Jones lowered his eyes so as not to meet Swede’s. Shook his head. “Sorry,” he muttered. Then, crossing his arms over his chest, he looked up with a glare of determination. “But it ain’t the Krauts coming over here now to say how you run your business. It’s the other ones, from my side of the war.” The door connecting the office to the store opened, and in walked the Jap in the suit. When Jones scowled at him, the man started to make his way back out.
“No. Come,” snapped Swede. “Maybe settle something. We’re all here together talking fish.”
“Yeah, come in,” growled Jones. “Let’s look at you up close.”
The Jap put his hand on the door knob. “Forgive me. I will come to talk later, Mr. Swede.”
Instead, Jones advanced on him. “Man here says you don’t like it, to see a little hole in your fish. Think that makes air space in your can? They stuff them cans full by weight.”
Kiyoshi continued to shift away. “I will come later.”
Jones walked
over to face him. “Last time I heard, we beat your ass. Did it with blood from my buddies. My blood! And now what’s this they say? You people want to push us to let you come fish right here in Alaska? Some shit about doing it before the war?” The Jap looked down. He seemed to grow smaller. To Jones, it confirmed that he was right. “Try to push boats like mine right off the water! That ain’t going to happen, you hear?”
Jones’s energy had pushed the man up against the door so that he couldn’t get it open. At first he tried to look away, then looked Jones square in the face.
“Sir. Japanese people . . . live on fish from the sea,” he said mildly. “Then catch your own fuckin’ fish, not ours.”
“Japanese are good friends now. Are hungry and need fish. Not enough off Japan because of the war. The great General Douglas MacArthur has said this himself. We have many vessels. And many men who must work at being in peace, not war. The seas have many fish for all.”
“Many, many! You’ve sure learned our language fast. Well, get this. These are our fish in Alaska. And we’ll catch ’em the way that’s best for us. Go catch yours in your own water and do with them what you want. Got it? Our government ain’t going to sell us down the river to you people what attacked us and started a war. Understand?”
“Hai, hai.”
Jones thrust his face, eyes narrowed and chin blackened with a few days’ growth of beard, into the Jap’s face. “Say. I have seen you before. Long time ago. In Japan. Am I right?”
The Japanese fumbled with the door and managed to open it wide enough to allow for escape. “Forgive me, I must—” And he was gone.
“Now Jones,” said Swede. “You don’t notice some things, I think. These people do not like confrontation.”
“Nice way of saying they won’t look you in the eye!”
Buck Henry laughed uneasily. “If he’s the one buying, don’t think it means he won’t have his say when the time comes, boy. I remember once before the war, some Oriental—I guess Jap—came to Ketchikan to buy fish for his company. Made for the nearest exit if anybody raised his voice to argue. But it made no difference when it came to paying money. They got their way.”
“Then they’d better learn to change. Because I ain’t changing, and we won the war.”
“Please be calm, Jones,” said Swede. “Here’s the truth. The one with the money to pay is the winner. I pay you, so therefore I’m right when I say there must be no holes cut in the side of the fish I buy from you. And the Japanese is right if he pays me only for the fish that have not been cut. A famous rule. The customer is right. Always.”
“Yeah? Well, without me you haven’t got any fish to sell. The workers you’ve shipped up wouldn’t have much to do, but you’d still be stuck feeding ’em. Then I’d have you by the balls.”
“Please count the boats out there, Jones. If you don’t bring me fish, fifty other vessels will. And they must follow company rules or they go home without money.”
“He’s right, boy,” said Buck. “We came up here to fish because that’s how we earn our living.”
Jones considered, chewing his lip while he cleared his head. He leapt up so suddenly that the chair clattered behind him. “Got a truck or something to catch. Good night.”
Outside, he turned toward the bunkhouse and began to run. Rain slicked the walkways and blackening sky reflected a pool of lights. The truck had already left. He continued at a sprint through heavy bush to the main road, then on toward the village and the Vet’s hall—wherever it was. Didn’t like the way his own dad had spoken. Everything was screwed. The old ways. Everything!
20
STRIKERS
How good it felt to run! All that arm and shoulder exercise on the boat left nothing for the legs to do except brace against the motion and bend to carry weight. Even at his pace, hungry mosquitoes were attracted by his sweat and locked onto his skin. He smeared them from his forehead without slackening speed. It was easy to spot the hall—it was surrounded by parked pickup trucks. A few men were straggling on the steps, but amplified voices told of the action inside. A man stood at the entrance, taking notes. “You boat or cannery, buddy?” he asked with half a glance.
“What the fuck do I look like?” growled Jones as he pushed past. The idea of being mistaken for some cannery monkey outraged him. Another man demanded, “You AFL or CIO?”
Jones stopped to consider. “Fisherman’s Union, what do you think? What else you got?” He pressed on to avoid further conversation. The man called after, “Seattle CIO or local AFL. Don’t you know the difference by now?” Inside, the air was white with cigarette smoke, despite a hand-lettered sign that read no smoking. Fishermen filled rows of folding chairs and those left standing were filled in so deep that they shouldered each other against the walls.
“I’m trying to get it straight,” said a voice from the audience. A graying man in a checked wool shirt addressed the lectern. The man standing behind it was in his twenties, set-faced, with black hair strung to sideburns. He exuded energy from his keen gaze and squared chin, to the width of his shoulders beneath a faded army jacket.
“Okay, buddy. What don’t you understand, then?”
“You say you’re from around here but used to belong to our Alaska Fishermen’s Union? Which I’ve belonged to since maybe before you were born. So who the hell are you? Telling us now we should break away from our old union because they’ve gone commie. That’s what you’re telling us?”
“My name’s Ed Torgersen. Father came from Norway long time ago, married local. Fished all his life right here.”
“Means he’s part Native,” muttered somebody close to Jones.
Ed Torgersen gripped the sides of the lectern and leaned forward. “I’m American! Fought all through Germany, buddy, so I saw plenty of Russians, and what I’m saying is: Red infiltration! You’ve watched it happen yourself. Just look at Berlin if you don’t believe me. And Korea on the other side! Russia’s almost as close to us here in Bristol Bay as Seattle.”
“And the Japs moving in from the other side,” growled someone. “Saw it today right down the road here!”
“Now you got it!” Jones nodded vigorously as he craned to see who had spoken.
“Okay. Okay!” The man named Ed cleared his throat to regain their attention. “Let’s get it straight.” He glanced down at a paper. “That AFU you think’s looking out for you is part of the ILWU, which is part of the CIO. Don’t matter that IFAWA linked up there and then got thrown out of CIO for red infiltration—CIO’s still gone commie right up at the top!” He looked again at the paper. “IFAWA. That’s International Fishermen and Allied Workers of America, like everybody here knows. And CIO . . . everybody knows that big overall union so I don’t need to—. The big point is, the old union’s gone commie and don’t represent us anyhow. So we’ve started our own local union. The National . . .” Finally, he held the paper up and read from it directly. “Listen. The American Federation of Labor—that’s the AFL—through its branch the Seaman’s International Union—which is the SIU—has recognized us. I’m here to get you to join us. Join us in brotherhood. Against the capitalists.”
Several in the audience muttered. One man pushed back his chair with a clatter. “All we ever had going for us is sticking together. We split into two unions, just watch the canneries eat us for breakfast.” He stormed out of the vet’s hall.
“Listen!” Ed persisted, gripping at the lectern with his free hand. “Ever hear of reunited? Our new Bering Sea Fishermen’s Union ain’t going along with that CIO shit. Everybody’s gotta make the switch together! We’re new, but SIU—which is part of AFL!—is taking us in. Taking us in right up here, not down in Seattle where other people run it!”
A hand slapped Jones on the shoulder. He turned to face Gus Rosvic. For once, Jones’s fishing rival and old wartime buddy wasn’t grinning. “Anybody follow you here?”
“Didn’t think to notice. You afraid of something?”
“Shit no! But some things you c
an’t tell, you know?” Gus gestured toward the lectern. “That guy up there talks sense. I ran into him a few nights ago up here in that bar Pioneer’s. Had a drink together. Ed-something. Norwegian from his dad but his mother’s Native. Lives in Dillingham, but used his GI Bill for a couple years of college in Seattle before he said fuck it. Asked me to come tonight. Talks a good line up there, don’t you think?”
“Quiet!” somebody called. “We’re trying to get answers from this guy.”
“Yeah, yeah, sorry,” said Gus. He took Jones by the elbow and steered him toward a corner. Gus put his mouth close to Jones’s ear so that he could speak quietly. “Been going on like this since it started a couple hours ago. But I dunno. Makes sense. Times change. Got to stand up and stop taking shit. Get paid more. For our new boats if nothing else.”
“Nobody made you buy that new boat,” Jones muttered.
“What say? Noisy in here.”
“I think you heard me.”
“Okay, listen,” Ed pressed on. “Some of us veterans from around here have set up in Dillingham for good. Getting organized. We’ve finally got ourselves a fire department. Started a newspaper to go with it. Guys back from the war who expect more than just bartering and to catch only the fish they eat. Just as I speak, we’re starting our own store so as not to be beholden to any cannery store. No more of that PAF—those cheatin’ ‘Pay After Fishing’ stores that the canneries run. That’s why we picketed here when the supply ship from Seattle that was allied with commie CIO came up here to unload. Even though goons crossed our picket line and unloaded anyhow. You follow?”
“Follow?” called a voice. “That did a lot of good. They just walked around us!”
WARRIORS Page 24
