Matthew then saw Ido come forward, his hands out, feeling for something. Matthew took a step forward to meet his grandfather’s searching hands. “Hello, Ojichan.”
Ido felt Matthew’s face, and Matthew remained perfectly still as his grandfather gently examined his face with his fingers. The entire mess hall was silent. Watching. Satisfied that the man standing in front of him was indeed his grandson, he hugged him. “I’m sorry for everything, Ojichan,” Matthew whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry? Sorry you are Navy?” Ido scolded him in a hushed voice. “Never be sorry. You honor us. You honor the Kobata name.”
“Mrs. Kobata,” a loud voice said.
Kumiko took her eyes off her son and saw that the police detective had come in. She had not even noticed. He stood next to the Navy commander.
“Mrs. Kobata, I would like to apologize to your family over the confusion of Matthew’s absence the last few weeks.”
“It is inexcusable,” Commander Merrick said, also speaking with a loud voice. When he and Johnstone had first met Matthew at the Los Angeles area jail, Matthew made them promise to a deal – for his cooperation with them, Matthew would get to see his family one last time. That time was now. However, what Matthew did not know was that Merrick and Johnstone had secretly agreed that they needed to set the record straight in as large a public setting as possible. The filled mess hall fit the bill perfectly. And of course, it was also only fitting that everyone see Matthew wearing the Navy uniform he so richly deserved to wear. “Your son had been asked by the U.S. Navy to take his fishing boat down the coast, assisting them in a top-secret operation. The operation was a success, but we still can’t reveal the details, nor can Matthew speak of it, so please don’t ask.
“Because of the top-secret nature of his assistance, the Army, Navy, and the detective here, presumed your son was missing, and perhaps working against this country.” He saw Matthew’s mother start to cry again and continued, “But as I said, he was serving his country. You can be proud of your son’s service, and I assure you your country is proud to have him in the Navy, ma’am.” He then turned to Matthew. “You have 24 hours, Seaman. Then we have to go.”
“Yes, sir,” Matthew replied. “Thank you, sir.”
With that, Commander Merrick and Johnstone exited the mess hall.
***
“Oh, no, not again.”
Johnstone laughed as Betty tried to strike another match. But the gusts of wind that had picked up after sunset, did not make it easy. He stood and leaned across the picnic table, cupping his hands around her hands. Betty struck the match and together, his hands protecting hers, they got the candle re-lit. Fortunately, the wide candle was encased in a thick glass jar, so there was little concern that it could fall over in the wind and start a fire.
She looked at him in the candlelight and laughed. “Kind of a silly idea I had.”
“No, I love it,” Johnstone immediately told her. The candle provided the only light by which to see, since the majority of the lights from the nearby administration office were no longer on at this hour. While they could have eaten their supper in the mess hall, this was far better since they were completely alone at the picnic table reserved for Army personnel. In an odd way, it was romantic. Or as romantic as possible, considering where they were.
“It’s not the way I pictured it,” Betty admitted, a bit chagrined.
“It’s great.”
After he found her in the hospital that afternoon, she had promised they would have dinner together and she’d have a surprise. Well, the food was still camp food. But the ambience was wonderful.
Another gust of wind and she put both hands over the glass case. “Stop, wind. Stop.”
Johnstone couldn’t help but smile. “Does that work?”
“What?”
“Telling Mother Nature what to do?” She smiled and gave a shrug. “Because when you come back, I’ll have you stop the rain when we’ve had enough.” He saw her smile, her auburn hair caught in the flickering firelight. Suddenly serious, he asked, “How long, do you think?”
“Until what?” she asked, puzzled.
“Until you’re done here.” He was amazed at how forward he was, but he couldn’t help it.
Another smile. “Ten months, two days.”
Johnstone grinned. “Too bad you’re so unsure.”
“Well, don’t get me wrong. I’m happy for the opportunity here, and I’m learning a lot.” She turned her attention to the candle, but there was no wind at the moment.
“But?” he prompted her.
She looked at him. “I miss things. City things. Simple things. Like going to the grocery store.” She shrugged. “Sometimes I feel like we’re imprisoned too.” Just then another blast of wind. She quickly covered the candle. “Stop! I’m tired of this. Just stop.” With that, the tempest was over.
Johnstone laughed. “Impressive.”
She smiled, but then a serious look crossed her face. “Well, I’ll tell you something right now.”
“What’s that?”
“You said when you’ve had enough, you’ll ask me to stop the rain. But I’m not going to do that.” She gestured with a hand. “This is dust, dust, and more dust. I’d love some rain. And I’ll never, ever complain about the rain again. So even if I could stop the rain, I wouldn’t do it.”
Johnstone frowned. “What if I forgot my umbrella? And I asked you to take the clouds away, and not let it rain?”
She studied him for a moment, squinting in the candlelight. “Well, then I would bet that the next day, you would remember to have your umbrella with you.”
He tilted his head back and laughed heartily.
“When you get home, do me a favor,” Betty said.
“What?” he asked, still smiling, loving every moment with her.
“If it rains and you don’t have your umbrella, just stand there.”
“Stand there?”
She nodded. “Stand there…” She put her head back, looking up to the night sky. “And tilt your head back and let it rain.” She looked at him again. “Okay? And think of me.”
Suddenly serious, he nodded. “I’ll do that…I’ll do that.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Bainbridge Island, Washington. April 26, 1942
April 8, 1942
Dear Mr. Porter,
As you must know, I never got on the ferry with my family on March 30th. On that day, I was also unable to return your truck to you, and I can only hope that it has been returned by now. I write the following with a heavy heart and the hope that you will forgive me for not returning your truck as promised, and that you will help right a most terrible wrong.
It all started last January. As you may recall, I had been using your truck to transport my catch from the island to various markets in Seattle since the previous November. Although, truthfully, I never enjoyed my occupation, it provided a fair income, and I attempted to undertake my duties with due diligence. However, last November my life greatly changed when I met a fellow Japanese-American named Sean Kanagawa. He and his family own a wonderful restaurant called Ueno’s. I stopped there one afternoon for a meal, and that’s when I met Sean. When he learned what my business entailed and that I had use of your truck several times a week, he begged me to help him. I will never regret giving him my assistance. However, all our plans did not work as we’d hoped.
Sean took me into his confidence, telling me that there was a group of Japanese, and even Japanese-Americans, living in the Seattle area that planned to assist Japan in the event that country was able to strike out against the United States. As I’m sure you know, the United States had long been Japan’s primary supplier of natural resources, which President Roosevelt cut off in order to force Japan to cease hostilities toward China. When the President did this, it angered not only the people of Japan, but many Japanese-Americans in the United States as well.
Sean and his younger brother George were blackmailed into helping Japanese
Imperialists in this country. It started because they had a substantial loan with a large Japanese-American bank in Seattle. They made some poor business decisions, and soon they owed more than they could repay. The bank then explained that they would be debt free if they simply agreed to launder funds from a gambling house called Bog Adams, as well as funds sent directly from the Japanese government. They didn’t like it, but felt they had no choice. Sean told me they went along, acting as if they agreed with the politics of the bank, and even joined in secret meetings and such, in the hope that they could then tell authorities about any plan formulated against the United States before that plan could be implemented.
Some time later, Sean and George were told that to prove their allegiance to the group, they would have to have a tattoo engraved on their left ankle. This tattoo was some sort of mixture of old Samurai symbols, and when I later joined the group, I too had the tattoo engraved on my left ankle.
I was brought into the group simply because I had access to your cargo truck. Sean and George had learned that the group was planning on smuggling anti-aircraft gun parts to some remote area where they could be refitted and used to take down U.S. aircraft during a Japanese invasion. When the group leaders learned that I lived on the island, they decided this would be the best place to set up the anti-aircraft weapons. By the way, while I met with these leaders, I never actually saw their faces because I was always put in a dark hood. I wish I could tell you their names, but I cannot. I imagine they are in some internment camp, perhaps among my own family, but I do not know.
Once these leaders met me, it soon became my job to unload my catch in Seattle, then meet up with a U.S. Navy petty officer named Cody Carsteen. He would help me load heavy material into your truck. I tried to keep track of the parts I transported, so later at home, I would draw an exact likeness to what I had seen. Most of these drawings I have since burned, but that notebook is in my bedroom desk, the bottom drawer.
As for Carsteen, yes, he was a white man and pro-Imperialist Japan because he had lived there for many years as a young boy with his parents, who were Christian missionaries. He became very sympathetic to the resource needs of his adopted homeland. The U.S. Navy knew he was fluent in Japanese, and they employed him to spy on the Japanese-Americans, looking for militant Imperialist Japanese. He thought this duplicity was great fun, because not only would he never turn in anyone who was pro-Japan, this assignment afforded him freedom of movement and independence not available to other Navy personnel.
Once I had the material from Carsteen loaded in your truck, I was then to take it to Cannery Cove Park where men were always waiting. They would unload the material.
It was when I went to Seattle for one of my regular runs for gun parts that I learned that Sean had had part of his left pinky finger cut off with one of his own kitchen knives. He told me that before our impending internment in a camp somewhere, he wanted in writing from the bank that their debt was paid in full and the Kanagawa family owned the restaurant free and clear. He actually went to the bank to talk to the bank’s president, but he never got an audience with the man. Soon after, some men came to the restaurant one morning to ‘teach him a lesson.’ These two men were white, which surprised Sean, and me too.
Sean later explained to me that Carsteen had met a worse fate – all four fingertips on his left hand had been cut off. Sean said Carsteen had tried to pull a fast one on the people at Bog Adams. They let him know that he had made a mistake.
Several weeks ago, I tried to extricate myself from this treasonous scheme by saying that you needed your truck back. But Petty Officer Carsteen threatened my family, should I stop making the deliveries. And so I felt I had to tell someone what was going on. I chose to confide in my best friend, Tom Bollgen. I will always regret, to my dying day, involving Tom. No doubt, he would be alive today had I not asked for his assistance
Our plan, as agreed to with Sean and George, was to wait until we knew when the Japanese planned to strike. Then we would tell the authorities who could then bring it to a halt. We knew that the large truck chassis, upon which the guns would be mounted, was already in place, so we suspected the time was approaching.
On the night of March 29th, the night before our evacuation, I tried to learn where the anti-aircraft parts were being assembled. I guess because Carsteen knew I would soon be put in a camp, he admitted that a farmer on the island had been purposely baited into gambling at an establishment called Bog Adams. It turns out the farmer was Old Man Pete. Since this gambling house was owned by the Japanese bank, when Old Man Pete got into deep debt, the men who run Bog Adams simply took over his farm as payment.
However, they knew that it might look suspicious if they took over the property, so they let him stay on and work his land as usual. But when the time was right, they planned to set up the anti-aircraft guns on his property and assist the Japanese during the air raid on Seattle. That air raid, I later learned, would take out not only the Navy ships along the seaboard, but crush the Boeing aircraft manufacturing plant where we are building our B-17 aircraft for the war.
On my last run, it was my plan to find out the planned date of the attack on Seattle. But, to put it quite mildly, nothing went as planned that night. First, Carsteen mentioned to me that only one Japanese-American had ever learned the truth about the bank, and that the man was killed several years ago when he threatened to tell the Washington State authorities the truth. Carsteen did not know the name of that Japanese-American, but he said that the bank’s enforcement team, the same white men who maimed poor Sean, had knocked the man unconscious, then cut his femoral artery, placed him behind the wheel of his own car, and pushed it down a hill, where it crashed into a tree. The man bled to death.
Yes, Mr. Porter, that man was my father. Carsteen could see my horrified reaction and suddenly put two and two together. He knew right then that I was not pro-Imperialist Japan. We were in an alley near Ueno’s, and he grabbed a large stick, but I had my knife and struck him fatally in the neck. I then panicked. I decided I could use my boat to dump his body at sea. But seeing him lying there, in his uniform, I suddenly became very angry. He was not worthy of that fine uniform, so I stripped him to his underclothes. Inside his clothes I found his wallet and a small notebook. The notebook was all in Japanese, and I kept it. I tossed the bloody uniform and Carsteen’s dog tags in a nearby trash dumpster and put his body and the wallet in the back of the truck.
I then returned to the island, and, with Tom’s help deciphering what was in the notebook, we learned that the Japanese planned to attack the island on April 17 th . You will find that notebook on the fifth stair of my family’s home. Just lift one of the slats of wood. It is underneath, wrapped in a cloth. Please give this notebook to the authorities.
As for the parts in your truck, I had been told that I was to meet someone at the north end of the island at one in the morning, and that person, or people, would take all the gun parts. After figuring out the time of the impending attack, Tom and I left separately for that meeting, and Tom planned to get to the meeting place a few minutes ahead of me – sort of my guardian angel looking over me.
But what I didn’t know was that Carsteen was to call his contacts once I had left Seattle. When he failed to call, they smelled a rat. And because that was the last delivery, I was expendable. Two men jumped me that night and knocked me unconscious. They also found Tom and beat him quite badly.
We woke up and found ourselves in Old Man Pete’s small barn. We were both badly bruised and beaten, and we’d been tied up, but we were able to escape. My head hurt terribly, and I couldn’t run as fast as Tom, which is the only reason I am still alive. When Tom made it to the road, he told me a Chevy sedan was approaching. We were hoping to go to the police, and after that, I would make it to the ferry and join my family. When the car stopped, whoever was driving asked Tom where I was. Clearly recognizing them, Tom lied – he told them I had died, that they had killed me. Then they shot him. They never saw me, and just d
rove off.
It was then that I knew I was in very deep trouble. I had killed one man, leaving my knife still stuck in his neck. It was only a question of time before the body was found by you or someone else, and someone recognized my knife. So I ran. I made it back to my home, then I left on my boat.
I implore you to find Carsteen’s notebook and share this letter with the police and the Navy in the hopes that this terrible wrong can be stopped.
Please tell my family that I love them and I’m sorry for any shame I may have brought them.
Sincerely yours,
Matthew Kobata
Johnstone read the letter once again, then folded it carefully and put it in his jacket pocket. While he agreed with Matthew that Mr. Porter was owed an explanation concerning his truck, it had been decided that national security took precedence. If people were told how close Seattle had come to a major attack, there would be mayhem. Not to mention, further bias against Japanese-Americans.
“Resume delivery?” the postal clerk asked.
Johnstone looked up. “Yes, fine.”
With that, the postal clerk took the large basket holding Mr. Porter’s mail to the back of the branch office.
Johnstone placed his fedora on his head and walked out. He was glad to see the sun was shining.
Epilogue
Bainbridge Island, Washington. May 30, 1947. Memorial Day.
He found the headstone rather easily. Considering it was Memorial Day, he was not surprised to find fresh cut roses in front of it. He didn’t recognize the first name on the headstone, but he knew it was Matthew’s father. At least his murderers had been caught and were now in prison. Then he noticed a dark cross next to the headstone. Engraved into the fine piece of cedar wood was the name Matthew Kobata and the dates of his birth and death, January 12, 1921 – December 7, 1944. More roses were placed here.
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