by Harry Mazer
It was true. Adam knew it. He had seen the bodies floating in the water. He knew it, but now the president had said it and everyone knew it.
His mother was silent. She sat listening, her head bowed. He felt so sorry for her, so sorry for himself, for them all. They stayed that way, not moving, listening to President Roosevelt to the very end.
“I ask that the Congress declare that since the unprovoked and dastardly attack by Japan on Sunday, December 7, a state of war has existed between the United States and the Japanese empire.”
Those next days were strange and agonizingly long, not because so much happened, but because almost nothing happened. They were waiting. The radio was on all day, and his mother was on the phone constantly, talking to the other navy wives. “Rumors,” she told Adam. “That’s all I’m hearing.”
“Scuttlebutt,” he said.
She nodded. “Not a single fact.”
What was fact was that they were at war, and the army had taken control, and martial law was in effect throughout the islands. Everything was closed—banks, schools, government offices. There was a call for blood donors and his mother had gone. All true facts. And it was true that workmen were cutting holes in the bottom of the Oklahoma, searching for men trapped inside. Every story he and his mother heard about a rescue lifted their spirits.
But the other stuff—the stories about the Japanese civilians in Hawaii, that they were using their cars to block traffic on the Kamehameha Highway, and that fishermen were signaling to a Japanese fleet off the coast, and that Japanese paratroopers had already landed—all rumors.
The one that got his mother laughing was the barking dog story—dogs trained to bark in Morse code, sending messages to offshore Japanese submarines.
“Do you believe anyone could take that seriously? We’re like a bunch of headless chickens,” his mother said. “Of course, they could land, but how are they going to support a landing force? How are they going to keep ammunition and supplies coming? It’s too far. Too far fetched. An air strike is one thing, but this . . .”
She sounded like his father giving one of his lectures on military strategy and the iron rules of war. She had that look now. If you wanted to convince her, you better make sense.
That first morning, Mrs. Parker had come flying through the hedge separating their houses to tell them that she’d heard from her husband. “I spoke to him, Marilyn. He’s okay. He wasn’t on his ship.” She was so excited she could hardly breathe. “He was at headquarters when it started. Didn’t get a scratch. He watched the whole thing from a window.”
“Wonderful,” Adam’s mother said.
Mrs. Parker’s expression changed. “Marilyn, maybe it’s a sign. I told him to find out about Emory. You’ll have good news too, very soon, I know you will.”
“Wonderful,” his mother said again.
If there was ever a tear, if his mother had cried, she wiped it before he could see. “We don’t know,” she kept saying to Adam. “We won’t know anything for sure till the navy tells us. And not a word to Bea.”
But not once did Bea ask about their father; she was used to his being away. Who she missed was Koniko, who had disappeared after the attack. “When is she coming?” Bea asked. “Who’s going to play with me? Adam, will you play with me?” She handed him a ballerina costume to put on one of her paper dolls. “You didn’t do it right,” she said. “Not like Koniko. Where’s Koniko, Mama?”
“The buses aren’t running this week,” his mother said, giving Adam a warning look. “Koniko will come soon.”
An airplane went over, and they stopped and listened. “Not Japanese,” Bea said, looking at Adam.
“Smart kid,” he said. “Sticky brain.” And he thought about Davi—and Martin, too. Were they okay? He wanted to see them, but he didn’t want to leave his mother. She might hear something about his father. Adam would see Davi when he went back to school, but school stayed closed. Everything had changed.
He was sleeping in his mother’s room now, on the folding cot by the door. He kept the rifle underneath the cot.
“Why are you sleeping here?” Bea asked the first night.
“I’m guarding you.”
“You’re the guard dog?”
“Mr. Guard Dog to you.”
Bea giggled. She had the best giggle. She could always make him laugh. That hadn’t changed.
A week after the attack Adam went looking for Hideko’s shovel in the garden shed. He was rested—and restless—and needed to do something. In the garden he began digging an air-raid shelter, one of the things they’d been encouraged to do. The digging was harder than he expected and he stopped a lot. Leaning on the shovel, he lost himself watching the shadows of the palm leaves darting back and forth on the roof.
Davi was the first person he’d ever met who talked about light. Adam had never thought about it before Davi. He had never thought about air, either, and being able to breathe. But was there anything better than breath? He remembered Martin and the stick in his chest and the way it had moved with every breath.
And then he thought about his father trapped inside the Arizona, him and all those men in that suffocating darkness. He filled his lungs. He breathed. He breathed again. He couldn’t get enough air.
“I thought you were dead,” Davi said. He was in the work yard, where his father had fixed Adam’s bike.
Some greeting, after Adam had come to see him.
“I thought you were dead.” He said it again.
“No such luck.” Adam turned the navy cap around on his head. He thought Davi might say something about it. He thought Davi would ask him what had happened to him. But Davi didn’t say anything about anything.
“I thought you were dead,” he said a third time. It wasn’t funny the first time, and it didn’t get any funnier. But Davi was smiling, and the smile kept growing.
“So, what happened?” Adam asked. “Is Martin okay?”
“What do you mean, ‘okay’? He almost died! He’s still in the hospital.”
“Well, I didn’t know. Did they get that stick out okay?”
“Stick? Stick! It was right in his heart, but what do you care. He’s nothing, right? He’s just a gook, yeah? We’re all gooks, right?”
Adam slapped the navy cap against his leg. “What’s going on with you?”
Davi shrugged and stood there, snapping off twigs and dropping them on the ground.
Adam tried again. “How about you? You look like you came through okay.”
Davi snorted. “Oh, yeah, I’m great.” He spun around, then made a couple of fancy jujitsu moves, finishing up with a kick that ended right under Adam’s chin.
“Hell!” Adam jumped back. “What’s with you, Davi?”
Davi kicked over the pile of twigs he’d made, then he kicked the wheel of a wagon.
“Is it something I did?” But he knew. “If it’s about when we were in the boat—I’m sorry about that. I wasn’t thinking straight.”
“Sure you’re sorry. Like my father says, ‘Unfortunate situation.’ Forget it.”
Adam threw his cap down. “You want to hit me? Go on, slug me! Give it your best shot. Get it out!”
Davi looked at him. “The easy way.”
“Listen, Davi”—Adam picked up his cap—“anybody can make a mistake. Unless they’re perfect, like you,” he added.
No laugh. No nothing. Davi just gave him that gimlet-eye look. “Yeah,” he said, “my mistake is being Japanese.”
“Aw, come on,” Adam said. “It’s not that way—”
“Not for you, it isn’t. What do you know?” Davi pushed into Adam’s face. “Do people say things when you walk down the street? Do they spit at you? Do they call you a filthy yellow Jap?”
“That stinks,” Adam said.
“No kidding.” Davi grabbed Adam’s arm and held it next to his. “Look at you and look at me. Am I yellow? Are you white?
Clouds are white. Lemons are yellow. Why are all you haoles so stupid? I di
dn’t attack Pearl Harbor.”
“I never said you did.”
Davi gave him a sarcastic smile. “Yeah, that wasn’t you trying to throw me out of the boat.”
“I told you I was sorry. You want me to say it again? I’m sorry. I’m sorry—”
“Shut up,” Davi said abruptly, and walked away. Then he came back. “They took my father away.”
“Your father—” Adam thought of that mild man who had fixed his bike and wouldn’t take money from him. “Who took him away? Why?”
“Government men. Early in the morning. A bunch of big FBI haoles.” Davi’s face suddenly filled. “Told my father he had five minutes, and then he was gone. They didn’t even give him time to get his toothbrush.”
“It must be a mistake,” Adam said. “Your father never did anything. Why would they do that?”
“He’s Japanese, that’s why. He lived in this country twenty years, and they wouldn’t let him be a citizen. So he’s Japanese. And because he went back to Japan a couple of times to see my uncles, they say he’s a spy. Or he might be. They have him behind barbed wire on Sand Island.”
“Davi, that’s wrong. I don’t believe in that stuff.”
“I’m not mad at you,” Davi said at last. “Not really. Not anymore. You know who I’m mad at? Japan, for starting this war. The empire of Japan! I hate them for that.”
Adam nodded. “I’m sorry about your father.” Now was the time to tell Davi about his own father, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. He was suddenly feeling too sorry for himself even to talk about it. Because even though Davi’s father wasn’t home yet, at least they knew he was alive, and they knew where he was.
On the way to the hospital to see Martin they went through Davi’s neighborhood. It took Adam a while to figure out why the narrow, crowded streets seemed different from the last time he’d been here. The streets were just as crowded with the same Japanese faces, but it was quieter now. There had been so much noise and color before. Now the banners and signs and Japanese things were all gone. No portraits of the emperor, no ceremonial samurai swords in the store windows. Even the women were different. They all wore dresses, Western style. No more kimonos and sandals. It was as if no one wanted to look Japanese anymore.
In his room Martin was sitting up in bed, the prince on his throne. His mother was there, serving him, and his father sat in the window, eating sunflower seeds and spitting the shells into his hands.
Martin didn’t look sick. He looked happy. “Davi! Adam! Ma, you know Davi. This other guy is my haole friend, Adam. Never saw anyone row like him. Hug him, Ma. Davi, too, Ma.”
His mother gave each of them a big squeeze and a kiss on the cheek. “My boy’s friends. Good boys!”
Martin pulled the hospital gown open to show where they’d stitched him up. “This close to my heart.” He held two fingers together. “That close.”
His mother put her hands over her ears. “I don’t want to hear.”
Martin wanted to compare wounds with Adam. “Show my parents where you got shot.”
“I wasn’t really shot,” Adam said. “It only grazed me.”
“What do you mean? You got it the same as me. A bullet hit you,” Martin insisted. “Right, Davi?” He wouldn’t stop until Adam had pulled up his shirt and everyone looked at his back. “See that, Ma? Bullets can’t hurt this haole. Just bounced off. Pig god watching over him. Adam and Martin get the Purple Heart,” Martin went on. “Davi? Nothing. You know why he wasn’t shot. They looked down”—Martin craned his neck, as if he were a pilot, then made an airplane sound—“‘Oooh, Davi Mori! Can’t shoot my cousin.’”
“Shut up, Martin,” Davi said. “Don’t even joke about it.”
But the next minute he was sitting next to Martin on the bed. Martin’s father wanted to take their picture. “You sit on the other side, Adam,” Martin said. “Okay, Pa!”
“Pretty face,” his mother said. “Smile, boys.”
Adam and his mother waited. That’s all they were doing—waiting. Waiting to hear something. Waiting to hear from his father.
He woke up waiting and he went to sleep waiting.
Waiting. The clock ticking. Tick, tick, tick, tick . . . He couldn’t get the sound out of his head. He hated it. But sometimes it seemed to stop, and then he couldn’t breathe.
Every day now there was news, and it was never good. Every day they heard about ships destroyed, the number of wounded, the number of dead. The Nevada had run aground. The Utah had been sunk. The Arizona had gone down so fast the eight or nine hundred men belowdecks were lost in an instant.
The clock ticked. Every moment without word from his father was like a door closing.
Adam woke up one morning knowing he was going back to the base. He had heard his mother pacing the night before. He had to go back. He had to find out something. Anything. Anything would be better than this waiting and uncertainty.
He left his mother a note: GONE TO FIND OUT ABOUT DAD. DON’T WORRY. I WON’T DO ANYTHING STUPID.
He dressed in his blue navy work shirt and dungarees, and even put on the black navy dress shoes. The cap went on his head. His lucky cap. It worked for him right away—he caught a ride downtown with a newspaper truck.
At the main gate Adam had an idea he would just walk through, that his cap and shirt would identify him, but the marine guards were stopping everyone. “ID,” the guard said, holding out his hand.
“My father’s in there.” Adam said.
“I don’t care who’s in there. ID.”
“My father’s in there,” Adam repeated. “Please. Can I go in?”
“You got a valid ID or not?”
“He was on the Arizona.”
“Ah.” The guard raised his hands. “Listen, kid, I can’t do anything for you.”
“Lieutenant Pelko,” Adam said, still hoping.
“Sorry, sailor,” the guard said.
Adam waited. The guards changed and he tried again. He hung around the gate all day, hoping he’d see someone he knew—maybe Rinaldi or the sergeant or even the officer from the West Virginia.
A Chinese man with cameras around his neck went in and out a few times. Everyone seemed to know him. Nobody asked him for his ID. Once, he stopped and took pictures of the gate and the guards. He was on a three-wheeled motor bike and wore a pith helmet. Around noon he brought sandwiches to the guards, and he brought one over to Adam, too.
“Thanks,” Adam said. He hadn’t even known he was hungry.
“You’re waiting for someone?” the man asked.
“I’m trying to find out about my father. He was on the Arizona. Can you get me in?”
The man was peering through his camera, and he looked up. “I’ll ask,” he said. He went to the gate and talked to the guard. The guard looked over at Adam and shook his head.
A couple of times Adam thought of just making a dash for it. Maybe the rowboat was on the shore somewhere, waiting for him. He saw himself finding it, rowing out to the Arizona. . . . Crazy thoughts.
He tried the guard once more. “Do you know the marine sergeant who was here that Sunday? I was with him.” He pointed to the sandbags and the guns near the entrance. “We did that. I’m looking for that sergeant. He’ll tell you I’m okay. He’ll remember me.”
“What’s his name?”
“I don’t know. He had a big voice, though, shouted a lot.”
The guard snorted. “That describes every sergeant in the marines. You better just stand back.”
It was getting dark when Adam gave up and went home.
After two weeks Koniko returned to work. She wore a white dress, not her kimono, but she brought flowers the way she always did. “Mrs. Pelko, I feel shame to come.”
“Oh, Koniko, no. Why do you say that?”
“Because of the Japanese attack,” she said.
“Koniko,” his mother said. “We missed you. We’re glad you’re back.”
“Which is your father’s ship?” Davi said. They were on the
heights, looking down at Pearl Harbor. They had come back to get their bikes.
Adam pointed. There was almost nothing left to see of the Arizona, just a little of the superstructure sticking out of the water.
This was the first time Adam had seen the harbor since the day of the attack. Smoke still rose from the bay, but it was like the smoke you might see coming from a chimney. The harbor was cold and distant, and eerily quiet.
“We haven’t heard anything from my father,” Adam said.
Davi looked at him. “Nothing? You don’t know anything?”
Adam shook his head.
“Maybe you’ll hear something soon.”
“Maybe,” Adam said, and then anger gripped him.
He was angry that he’d said it. He was angry because he knew it wasn’t true. He’d been kidding himself. He’d been praying, hoping, believing, agreeing with his mother, that they would still hear from his father. But he knew better. It had been too long. He’d been there. He’d seen the bodies floating in the bay. He’d seen the Arizona. He knew. Half the crew was still down there, buried, entombed. Dead.
He said it to himself again. Dead. His father had been taken from him. He was at the bottom of the harbor, in the Arizona. And it didn’t make any sense. It would never make any sense.
A Western Union boy rode up on his bike and handed Adam’s mother a telegram. She sat down and started to open the yellow envelope. Then she said, “You open it, Adam.”
He took the envelope. He’d seen these yellow envelopes before: birthday greetings to his mother from her sister in Wisconsin came every year, and on his parents’ anniversary there were always telegrams from their friends. There was something special about a telegram, something important and urgent, something that couldn’t be denied.
He opened the envelope and took out the folded yellow sheet. The blue letters were pasted down on the paper in long strips.
THE SECRETARY OF WAR DESIRES ME TO EXPRESS HIS DEEP REGRET THAT YOUR HUSBAND LT EMORY J PELKO HAS BEEN MISSING IN ACTION AT PEARL HARBOR SINCE 7 DECEMBER 41 CONFIRMING LETTER FOLLOWS J A ULIO THE ADJUTANT GENERAL
