by Brian Payton
“I’m trying to find out about the Aleutian Islands . . . What’s happened since the war began.”
“Well”—he slowly nods—“you’d be the first.”
The man turns to the boy and speaks in his native tongue. He clears away the game. After a coughing spell, he introduces himself as Ilya Hopikoff and his boy as Jesse, after Jesse James.
“I imagine it’s been tough up there.” It’s all she can think to say.
Ilya looks up with an empty gaze. She has not been offered a seat and would feel presumptuous taking one.
“The Japs took Attu and Kiska,” the man says. “That was in June. By the end of July, Uncle Sam took the rest.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“The Army rounded us up!” the boy interjects. His English is more confident, clearer than his father’s. “They made us get on a big ship. They wouldn’t let us take our stuff.”
“One bag each,” Ilya corrects. He nods for his son to continue.
“They put everybody on the ship and wouldn’t say where we were going. Then they set the village on fire. Burned it right in front of us so we could see. Said they didn’t want no Japs moving in and using our places, so they just burned ’em instead. Said we could bring our fishing boats, so we tied ’em all together. Once we got out of the bay, they said, ‘Hit the deck!’ Then they shot up our boats with a machine gun. Shot ’em to bits. They laughed like it was some kinda joke.”
Jesse sets about building a house of cards in the space where the game had been. Ilya speaks his language for a good long while, then leaves it to Jesse to translate the story.
The people from Attu, he guesses forty-two in all, are either dead or prisoners of the Japanese. Aleuts from the other islands have been sent to government-run “Duration Camps” in southeast Alaska, a place aswarm with biting insects, cougars, and bears—animals they’ve read about but had never seen. There, the trees crowd out the sky, hem you in, keep you from seeing what’s coming or reading the direction of the wind. Jesse declares his fear of forests, having had no previous experience with trees. His people are made to live in an old salmon cannery near Sitka, in broken-down buildings that still reek of fish guts. The government provides store-bought food. Those who are able find work canning salmon, or sweeping up at the mill. A few found work slicing those big trees into boards. But they’re not allowed to fish or hunt for themselves. Decisions are made for them without their consent. People are becoming sick in the crowded conditions.
“We know they rounded us up to save us from the Japanese,” Ilya says by way of summation. “But they took our rifles. Treat us like traitors. Took us to a place we don’t know and left us in the rain.”
Jesse explains that they lost his mother to consumption in the camp last winter. When both he and his father took ill, the doctor feared the disease was spreading. They were sent south to Seattle, but it turns out that they only had pneumonia. Things have been much better down here and they are both feeling good again. There are still too many trees, but at least there is some open space in which to walk around and breathe.
The house of cards is now three stories high. Jesse’s hand is poised to start the next level, when a coughing fit overtakes him. He steps back and covers his mouth, averting disaster.
Helen is silenced, unsure of how to respond to a story most Americans would find hard to believe. But she is convinced she understands something elemental about the bond between these two. What it means to have lost a mother. What it takes to father a motherless child.
“You heard of the camps?” Ilya asks.
Helen shakes her head. She has read every scrap of information she could find about the war in Alaska. The Japanese invasion was only briefly mentioned, information about the buildup of U.S. forces has been scant. She has come across no mention of the fate of the Aleut people. As far as the newspapers are concerned, it is as if the islands were uninhabited.
“People down here never heard of us,” Ilya says. “I gave up trying to explain. You from the church?”
Helen shakes her head.
The nurse opens the door, scans the room, then smiles down at Jesse. “Need anything?”
Ilya shakes his head.
“How about some cookies?” She gives Helen the complete once-over, clearly pondering her relation to the Aleuts. “I’ll go get you some. If you ever have a visitor, and you want cookies or milk, you just let me know. I’ll be right back.” She smiles at Jesse, then pulls the door closed behind her.
“So, what else you want to know?” Ilya asks.
“It’s my husband,” Helen says at last. “He’s gone missing. I believe he’s back in the Aleutians and I’m hoping you might have seen him.”
As the words leave her lips, she is shamed by the realization of just what a long shot she’s taking. She tries to summon that optimism she felt before walking into this room.
“Tall white guy. Skinny . . .” Her pulse trips over itself. “Which island are you from?”
“Atka. Couple of guys came out last summer and poked around,” Jesse explains, “talked to some of the elders.”
Ilya interjects in his language, then his son continues.
“That tall guy tried to tell the elders they weren’t Christians. Said we were worshipping pictures. He didn’t know nothing. They told him to never come back.”
“Holy Roller,” Ilya declares, delighting in the term. “That your man?”
Helen shakes her head. This is what she’s been reduced to, wandering hospital corridors, sifting for clues among sick people with troubles all their own. It is now clear that her search hasn’t even begun. If she is ever to succeed, she must learn to rein in her expectations, keep her emotions on an even tighter leash.
“John Easley. He’s a writer. He was working on an article about the Aleutians. He was spending time out on the land, interviewing anyone who would give him the time of day. Now, he’s trying to write about the war.”
Ilya shakes his head. None of this rings a bell. Although he admits to having been away fishing with his son and brothers for much of the spring.
“If it’s the war he’s after, he’ll be on Adak,” Ilya explains. “The Navy whipped up an airbase out there in no time. Never seen it myself, but they say it’s something.”
The door swings wide open and the nurse appears with a box of store-bought cookies and a smile. The resulting draft levels the house of cards, and Jesse slaps his knee. “Shit!”
“Pardon me?” Her smile is gone. “Is that any way for a little boy to talk? I’ll get some soap so we can wash out that mouth.” She drops the box of cookies on the table, one of which escapes the package.
Ilya ignores both the scowling nurse and his son. He reaches out and retrieves the lone ginger snap. Unheeded, the nurse sharply turns and takes her leave.
Ilya offers the box to Helen, then reaches for a pen. He flips over their cribbage score and writes carefully, precisely, then pushes it across the table.
ILYA HOPIKOFF
ATKA ISLAND
TERRITORY OF ALASKA, U.S.A.
“That’ll be true again when we whip the Japanese,” Ilya says. He speaks to his son in their language, then Jesse translates for Helen. “When you find your man, tell him to send along that article.”
She offers her card in return.
Jesse sidles up to Helen and reviews his father’s shaky script. He leans into her, puts his arm around her shoulder, as if he’s known her all his life. Then he takes up the pen and writes “and Jesse” beside his father’s name, admiring the amendment.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Helen meets Margaret for breakfast at her hotel downtown. They have just over an hour before her bus home to Vancouver. Once they settle in and order toast, Margaret has an announcement to make. She has been fighting the urge for the past few days, but now feels compelled to say what’s on her mind.
She is truly moved by Helen’s conviction to find John. She too is convinced he is alive. But if she knows anything about her
son, there is nothing Helen can do for him up there that he isn’t capable of doing for himself. She will only put herself in jeopardy. John will need her when he returns. And, as a mother, Margaret cannot leave without reminding Helen of a fact with which Helen must be well acquainted, a fact that is now beyond doubt: come what may, Joe will never ask for help.
Helen thanks Margaret for making the long trip down, for sharing her troubles and fears, the arrangements with the doctor, the risk she’s taken in speaking her mind. Helen feels unmoved to offer a challenge or a spirited defense of her plans. She cannot make Margaret understand. She feels instead respect and affection for her husband’s mother. Along with a kind of pity.
SEVEN
THE UNMISTAKABLE DRONE OF A PBY CATALINA pulls them from the cave. The American flying boat is alone, high overhead, its pilot taking good long looks down through the breach in the clouds. Easley and the boy stumble into the ravine, cupping hands round their eye sockets, making binoculars with their fists. Hair pasted to scalps, an oily sheen covers their faces and necks. Their flight suits dark with sweat, coal, blood. The rest of their clothing, once a representational color of the land, now a part of it. Had anyone been able to see them, Easley thinks, they would surely appear as madmen banished to the ends of the earth.
The plane is gone almost as soon as they spot it. Only the echo remains. It isn’t long until they lose it altogether in the sound of wind and waves.
It has not rained in two days. The cloud ceiling is high, the wind manageable after roaring so hard across the land that it was all but impossible to withstand. Easley realizes that this is the driest he has been since landing on Attu.
He tongues the gap in his teeth. It has been four days since the extraction. The hole, clotted up nicely, no longer aches but remains tender and difficult to keep clean. After eating, he sweeps the space with the tip of his tongue, then goes up to the stream to flush his mouth with water. The boy takes a look at it each day. It doesn’t appear infected.
“I’m going for a walk,” Easley announces.
“You take the high road, I’ll take the low road—and I’ll be in Galveston before you.”
Easley turns and walks south along the beach, away from the cave. The boy marches north on his own.
Their rule about not being out on days of good visibility is observed more in breach than practice. They take chances they would not have dreamt of three weeks ago. Back then, Easley used to feel his stomach sink each time a choice had to be made. Now, such life-and-death decisions are routine. Death itself is no longer an abstract concept, it is an unwelcomed and patient companion.
Now and then, they split up to walk in opposite directions. Although this serves practical purposes—like looking for nonexistent driftwood, hunting for birds and mussels—it also affords time alone. Even if they are viewing the same barren land and sea, it allows space for personal reflection without the intrusion or collusion of the other. This is where Easley frees his longing for Helen, his grief at the loss of his brother. Regrets he otherwise keeps close. Last time, Easley and the boy managed to return with at least an hour’s worth of conversation between them. But now he has mixed feelings about the wisdom of solo expeditions. Suddenly he seems unable to face himself alone. He picks up a rock, turns around, and throws it toward the boy. Attention gained, he motions for Karl to join him.
They have made two additional forays to the occupied village since the night of the tooth extraction. The soldiers guarding the antiaircraft guns spend endless hours staring up into the clouds and scanning out across the harbor and sea. They expect the trouble to come from far away—in the form of the next bombing run, or a shell fired from the deck of a warship. The last foot patrol Easley saw passed by three days ago. The way they sang and shoved one another around, these soldiers seemed more intent on getting exercise than ferreting out prisoners of war. Still, Easley was amazed at the boy’s bravado, walking up to a building under no more than the cover of fog or night and simply peering through the windows. That’s how Karl found the pliers, the book, and—most critically—the coal. They talk themselves into returning to the village tonight.
The coal dump is located in an old boat shed near the dock. From here, the coal is moved by wheelbarrow over narrow wooden planks to the buildings and tents. The Japanese are so convinced that the island is theirs alone, they do not think to lock up their belongings. Two shovels, a hammer, and empty tin cans can be seen inside. This time, they discover a single boot sitting alone on a shelf above the coal. So small, it seems made for a woman or child. Once standing inside the dark little shed, Easley realizes that this is the first time he’s been inside a building since stepping out of the hangar on Adak. The boy takes up his position outside, keeping watch, crouching near the door behind a wheelbarrow.
Easley fills his pack with chunks of coal. They make hollow, ceramic sounds as they disappear into the canvas. He fills the pack until it is solid, then passes it out to the boy—who grabs Easley by the wrist.
Someone is walking quickly over the planks outside. Is the man on his way to alert the others? Easley’s heart pounds so hard he begins to wonder if it can be heard beyond the shed. Then, as the footfalls diminish, the man starts singing—some Japanese ditty, which rapidly fades in the wind.
The boy loosens his grip and whispers, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Easley shakes his head. He reaches for the empty pack, then fills that one too.
Back in their cave, they warm up with a fire and celebrate their astounding success. They marvel at their proximity to the Japanese soldier, who had no inkling of their presence. Karl mimics the soldier’s song. He is convinced that the enemy’s arrogance will eventually be their undoing—not to mention the well-known fact that they can scarcely see through those slanty eyes.
* * *
THE COAL HAS LASTED three nights. There is fuel enough for perhaps a fourth night, no more. They will wait for fog before they risk returning to the village. Once near their goal, they will wait for darkness. Easley wonders: What if the Japanese have noticed their thieving and posted guards at the shed? Or what if this cache by the dock has been used up, never to be replenished? Their beach has been long picked clean of driftwood, twigs, and sticks.
Easley hops out of the way of the incoming waves, scanning the foam for anything resembling food. After an hour and a half with no reward, he finally spies something rolling in the tide farther up the beach. It is corralled on all sides by seaweed and complains with an insistent clink, clink as the waves shove and retreat. He picks up the pace.
A bottle rolls to and fro in a seaweed nest. Clear glass, with a cork and metal cap, about a third full of cloudy liquid. Easley wipes the sand away and holds it up to the sky. As he grips the cap, he finds his fingers shaking. The act of doing something so ordinary—uncorking a bottle—sparks an unexpected tremor of relief. He holds the bottle up to his nose and inhales. Unsure of the subtle scent, he brings it to his lips for a taste. Sharp, not the least bit rancid. A shocking taste of mint. Then he feels the kick. He lets out a satisfied “Ha!” The cap has tiny Cyrillic letters around the rim. There are no other identifying marks. Vodka. Russian vodka.
On his walk back to the cave, Easley thinks of the Siberian fisherman having lunch on deck, eyeing the reward he’s been saving since before he cast off that morning. He imagines the fisherman reaching for the bottle, sitting there on the gunwale, his fingers slick with cheese and oil from smoked fish. He might have cursed as it went over and into the drink, slowly bobbing back to the surface under circling gulls. Perhaps he even watched it float away in the foamy wake of his boat.
The reward will be theirs tonight. Easley will share it with the boy along with the warmth of the fire. After the vodka is gone, the bottle will be used to keep water so they won’t have to go out to the stream each time they want a drink. It will make their lives a little easier. With the cave, and the coal, they’ve bought themselves some time. The wind has died down, and it doesn’t seem quite s
o cold. For a moment, it is possible to count blessings, to realize that they have eluded capture for the better part of a month, to believe in the possibility of survival. Easley considers all these things as he rounds the point and bounds down the ravine toward the cave.
THIS IS NO MINOR FRACTURE, the break appears complete. If even gentle pressure is applied to the top of the foot, a lump appears on what should be the smooth front of the shin. A point of bone edges up, turning the skin pink, then white with the force. The boy moans when Easley touches it, covers his eyes to hide the tears. The boy’s hands and knee are also cut and bleeding. He explains that he crawled and crab-walked back to the cave through a buzzing haze of pain. Easley removes his jacket and places it behind the boy’s head, stretches him out, ensures the broken leg is higher than his heart, tries to make him as comfortable as possible. Time and again, the boy says he’s sorry.
Puffins had been arriving in squadrons. Some had even begun building nests in crevices on a nearby cliff. Although it is probably too soon—and impossible to tell from the ground—the boy had wondered if a few might have already laid eggs.
He approached a growing colony on the cliffs at the far edge of the beach. Most were too high up, impossible to reach, except one nest on a tiny ledge about thirty feet off the ground. The boy climbed up to have a look. As he approached, the birds made a god-awful racket. This told him he was on to something. When at last he reached the nest, he found it empty. But the signs of a second nest, still farther up, came into view. He considered attempting this further ascent, thought better of it, and decided to climb down. But an early slip had robbed his confidence, left him shaking. He stopped and tried to gather his courage. He tried feeling his way down—fingers in cracks, hugging the wall—but his boot could find no purchase. He hung there, suspended for what seemed like an age, contemplating where he was, what had brought him to this place, this predicament. And still the birds complained and harassed. He came to the conclusion that his odds were better if he chose his moment and landing site. Finally, he let go. The bone snapped on impact, sending light bursts through his brain.
