by Kirby Larson
Sure, I’ll have pruney hands from doing my chores as well as Margie’s, but it will be worth it. This was the best day ever.
Sunday, November 30, 1941
DeeDee —
I helped Mrs. Tokita with her Sunday school class again today. As near as I can tell, with four-year-olds that mostly means washing finger paint out of their hair, keeping crayons out of their mouths, and taking them to the bathroom. We were going to make cinnamon-scented dough ornaments for the church Christmas tree, but one of the boys ate all the dough while we were reading them a Bible story. We did handprint angels, instead.
I wrote Hank about it during the service, signing off, “hisw uoy eerw eerh.”
Monday, December 1, 1941
DeeDee —
Bud is so handsome. And so polite. He carried my books and made sure he walked on the street side of the sidewalk. I took Trixie’s magazine advice this time and asked about his hobbies and interests. He wants to be a fireman like his dad. But if the war doesn’t end before he turns eighteen, he’ll enlist. In the Marines. I was so busy admiring his dimples that he had to ask me twice what I wanted to do when I was out of high school. I said I didn’t really know what I wanted to do but that I liked taking pictures. Do you know what he said? He said, “I can see you as a famous photographer. Maybe working for Life magazine.” See what I mean?
After supper, I practiced writing “Mrs. Bud Greene” all over my Math homework. I had to start over on a new sheet.
ym tearh selongb ot dub!
Tuesday, December 2, 1941
DeeDee —
In homeroom, I overheard Debbie Sue Wilkins invite Bud to her birthday party. She batted those eyelashes of hers at him and said, “It won’t be the same if you don’t come.” I could tell what his answer was by the big smile he gave her. That’s all I needed to see. I dodged him after school and walked home by myself, in the pouring rain, chewing my fingernails back down to nubbins.
Wednesday, December 3, 1941
DeeDee —
Bud was waiting for me at my locker this morning. He said he does not like Debbie Sue Wilkins, no matter what she tells people.
He walked me home. We held hands for two whole blocks. Well, he walked. I floated. He didn’t seem bothered one bit by my bitten-off nails.
erut eovl!
Thursday, December 4, 1941
DeeDee —
Miss Wyatt gave me a few comments on my interview with Al but said I’d done a great job. I’ve picked Sally West to interview next because her brother’s a volunteer with the Flying Tigers, helping to protect the Chinese from Japan.
Later
I wish our neighbor, Mr. Lindstrom, would mind his own beeswax! He saw me holding hands with Bud and told Pop. I got a major lecture about “behavior becoming a young woman.” Then he sent me to my room to “think about things.”
So here’s what I think:
I didn’t do anything wrong, but Pop made me feel so guilty. I’ll never hold hands with Bud in public again.
I hate nosy neighbors.
I double-hate being a PK.
Saturday, December 6, 1941
DeeDee —
Hank said it’s pretty funny to see palm trees strung with Christmas tree lights. But even though there’s no chance of a white Christmas in Honolulu, everyone’s in the holiday spirit anyway. The Three Musketeers “tinseled” another guy’s bunk. He promised to send a photo of it next time.
Reading his letter, it really hit home: He’s not going to be here for Christmas. Who will be Santa on Christmas morning? That’s always been Hank’s job. Who will make the French toast? Who will put the star on the top of the tree?
Pop says it’s good to make new traditions.
But I like our old ones just fine.
Sunday, December 7, 1942
While we were at church this morning, Japan attacked Pearl Harbor. It’s horrible. Please, God, let Hank be okay.
I’ve never been so scared in my life. I can’t write any more.
Later
I know it’s real but it doesn’t seem like it can be. How could Japan attack us? Why?
Here’s what the newsman on the radio just said, “From the NBC newsroom in New York. President Roosevelt said in a statement today that the Japanese have attacked Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, from the air. I’ll repeat that…. The Japanese have attacked Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, from the air.” That’s all we know so far. And it’s not enough.
Margie made tomato soup and toasted cheese sandwiches for lunch. Pop ate two bites and Margie kept stirring her spoon around and around in her bowl. It’s hard to care about food when your stomach is on a pogo stick.
Hank was one of the fastest runners on the baseball team. I couldn’t count all the times he’d beat out a throw to first base. But was he fast enough to outrun a Japanese bomber? And where would he run to, there on the ship? I’m curled up on the couch, wrapped tight in the quilt Mrs. Harada made me, shivering as if I were out in the cold.
Margie was at the kitchen table, her Chem book open in front of her, and Pop was in his den, both pretending to work, when we heard those words again: “We interrupt this broadcast to bring you an important bulletin.” I ran to the radio and turned up the volume. The report was coming straight from KGU, the Honolulu radio station: “About eight o’clock this morning, Hawaiian time, the first group of Japanese airplanes attacked Ford Island at Pearl Harbor, the Navy’s mighty fortress in the islands…. Three ships were attacked. The Oklahoma was set afire…. There has been no statement made by the Navy.”
Even though I was under the quilt, my teeth started to chatter. Why weren’t they talking about the Arizona?
Margie came to sit on the sofa with me. I opened up the quilt so she could crawl under, too. “I want Hank,” I said.
She nodded and said, “Me, too.”
“Is there room for one more?” Pop asked. We moved over and he wedged between us, his arms around each of our shoulders, holding us tight. We sat that way for a long time.
I leaned my head on his shoulder, his starched shirt scratching my cheek. “You’re still in your Sunday clothes,” I said.
He looked down at his shirt. “I guess I am.” But he didn’t move to go change. The radio sucked me in, like a powerful magnet. I couldn’t pull myself away. I was terrified of what I might hear but even more terrified not to listen. It was as if my being parked in front of the speaker could somehow make a difference in what happened to Hank.
Margie stood up. “I’ll make us some tea.”
“Shh.” I put my fingers to my lips. “What did they just say?”
Pop reached over and turned up the volume knob. The announcer said, “There will be a complete blackout tonight at eleven o’clock. That blackout is not only for the city of Seattle; it includes every light between the Mexican border and the Canadian border. Every light must be out by eleven o’clock.”
“A blackout?” My voice was a little squeak. “Does that mean they think the Japanese might bomb here?” I thought back to Al James’s comment. We didn’t even have air raid shelters to go to.
“It’s a precaution, Piper.” Pop slid off the couch and tucked me into the quilt. “You keep listening. Margie and I will get what we need.”
But the phone rang right then. It was Mrs. Harada. When Pop hung up, he grabbed his hat and keys. “Piper, you’ll have to help Margie. I’ve got to go.” He ran out the door.
I ran after him like some kind of little kid. “Pop! What’s wrong?”
“Help Margie,” he said, swinging open the driver’s door to the Blue Box. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Margie rummaged around in the basement for something to put on the windows. I got some old blankets from the attic. We didn’t talk much while we worked. I wondered if she was straining to listen for enemy planes flying overhead, like I was.
I went right back to my post in front of the radio when we were done. The announcer said that all of the Seattle radio stations were going of
f the air at 7 P.M., as a precaution. “A precaution for what?” I asked.
“They need to keep the airwaves clear for really important stuff,” Margie said in her matter-of-fact scientist voice.
“But telling us what’s happening is really important,” I said. What other surprise attacks had Japan planned? What if they came while Pop was gone? I didn’t say any of these things out loud, but swallowed them down with a sip of the chamomile tea Margie made us.
The tea grew cold in our cups as we sat in the quiet, listening to the cuckoo clock tick, listening for enemy planes, while we waited for Pop, waited for morning.
Monday, December 8, 1941
DeeDee —
Pop was at the kitchen table, reading the paper, when I got up. WAR DECLARED! blared the headline. From the living room, I could hear the low mumble of the radio. Pop didn’t answer when I asked if there was any news about the Arizona that morning. His face was about the same color as the oatmeal he wasn’t eating.
I read the paper over his shoulder. The Oklahoma had been sunk. That was definite. I read the whole front page. Twice. There was not one lick of news about any of the other ships. Not about the Arizona.
Margie was already dressed for classes. She made some toast and set it in front of me. A blob of unmelted butter slid around the toast, like a sinking ship, then slowly melted into the bread. I pushed the plate away from me.
“You need to eat something.” Margie stood over me while I took a bite. It was harder to chew than a piece of beef gristle but I finally got it swallowed. The minute it hit my stomach, it began pushing its way back up.
“I’ve got to get back over to the church this morning,” Pop said. “Shall I drive you to school?”
“School?” My brother was missing in a horrible sneak attack and Pop was expecting me to go to school?
“It won’t do any good to sit around, Piper.” Pop finished his coffee. “Not for you nor for Hank.”
A tear dribbled down my cheek when I heard him say Hank’s name. All night long, even after Pop got home, tight-lipped about why he’d left, I’d lain awake, worrying. There were lots of ships docked in Pearl Harbor, weren’t there? Lots of other targets besides the Arizona. I had refused to let myself think any bad thoughts. I had prayed harder than I’d prayed in a long time. When I asked Pop if he thought we’d hear anything today, he shook his head. “I don’t know, Piper. I just don’t know.”
That’s when I heard a funny noise. It was Margie. At first I thought she had the hiccups. But one look at her scrunched-up face told me she was trying to hold back a sob. Pop and I stared at the table, each of us pretending we hadn’t heard.
After a few seconds, she was okay again, buttoning up her coat like nothing had happened, like this was any ordinary day and not a day when we’d just gotten into a war and our brother was bombed.
Seeing Margie all broken up made me ice-cold scared — for Hank and for us, too. That fear sent me crawling onto Pop’s lap like I was a little kid. I bawled all over his freshly ironed shirt. One thing about Pop — when you really, really need him, he’s there for you. He patted my back until I was cried out. Sniffling, I started to wipe my nose with my bathrobe sleeve. Pop handed me his clean handkerchief and said I might want to go wash my face.
When I slid off his lap, I noticed how tired he looked. I’d heard him come in close to three; we’d just said “good night” to each other. “I didn’t hear last night. What’s wrong at the Haradas’? Is Grandmother Harada sick?”
“No one’s sick there.” He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “We’ll talk about it later. It’s time to get ready for school or you’ll be late.”
I washed my face in cold water until the red blotches around my eyes and mouth were gone. I grabbed a skirt and sweater from my closet without looking to see if they matched. Pop’s handkerchief went in my pocketbook, in case more tears tried to escape later in the day. I didn’t care if I was late. I needed to walk today. Needed the fresh air. Pop said he understood.
The streets were silent and somber. It seemed as if our whole neighborhood were holding its breath, wondering what might happen next. After a few blocks, my ears ached with the cold. I realized I’d forgotten my muffler and hat. It was good to feel something somewhere; I’d been numb since first hearing the news of the attack.
Ahead of me, about a block from school, I saw Betty Sato. Her head was tucked down like she was pushing herself forward against a heavy wind. As she started up the front steps to the school, some eighth-grade boys — I don’t know who they were — stepped into a circle around her. I kept walking, my knees wobbling, right past their huddle on the stairs.
“Dirty Jap!” one boy said.
“We don’t want you here,” said another.
Then I heard the unmistakable sound of someone spitting. I turned and saw Betty’s hand go to her face.
I couldn’t say anything. Couldn’t do anything. I didn’t even give her the hanky in my pocketbook so she could wipe that gob of spit off her face. If I had stopped to help — well, what would those boys have thought? From the outside, it probably looked like I was walking to homeroom as I always did, as if it were a normal, ordinary school day. But inside, I was shaky and sick and mixed-up.
Our principal, Miss Mahon, called an assembly this morning. I always thought she was a tough old battle-ax but her voice quivered as she talked. She said that though we may not all look the same, we are all American citizens and citizens treat one another with respect. Sitting there, listening to her, my stomach hurt even worse as I thought about Hank and Pearl Harbor. I barely made it to the girls’ room before I lost my breakfast. I rinsed out my mouth and washed my face again, but didn’t feel any better.
I remembered one time when I was in first or second grade. The only time in my life I’ve ever gotten mad at Hank. I’d had this book report due and I’d spent about a week making a diorama of Millions of Cats, complete with a papier-mâché kitty. I’d left it on the stairway and when Hank came downstairs in the morning, he bumped it and it went crashing to the floor. The kitty broke into bits and the box caved in on one side.
I knew it was an accident. And probably even my fault. Not probably. It was my fault. I should never have left it on the stairs. But I screamed and screamed at Hank, blaming him for everything.
I looked at myself in the wavy mirror of the girls’ bathroom. I knew what those boys this morning had been feeling. Sometimes, you just have to have someone to blame. Even if it’s the wrong person.
But I’d grown up in Japantown. I knew better. Mrs. Harada was like an auntie to me. Betty and her family were church friends. They weren’t responsible for Pearl Harbor.
Were they?
Bud walked me home but I hardly knew he was there. I was opening the front door when I heard him say, “Piper?” He stood at the bottom of the steps, holding my books out to me. I took them and started inside. He said my name again and then he said, “Hank’s a tough guy. It would take more than a bunch of Jap planes to stop him.” When he said Jap, it felt like a punch in the stomach.
“Don’t say that word!” I snapped at him.
“I didn’t mean anything by it.” He looked so confused. “Everybody says it.”
I was pretty sure I was going to start crying again and that was the last thing I wanted to do in front of Bud. “I’m just upset. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
The phone was ringing when I stepped inside the house. It was Pop saying he’d be home late. Really late. A bunch of men from the Japanese community had been arrested, mostly Issei, who were born in Japan, but even some Nisei, who were born here in America. Who were American. I asked if any were from our church. Pop sighed heavily into the phone.
“About half of them. Including Mr. Harada.”
Mr. Harada? He was a regular Santa Claus. And about as suspicious as a Bible salesman.
Pop said the FBI came to their house last night and took him away. They didn’t even let him get his razor or toothbrush. P
op had spent all day trying to figure out where the men had been taken. He told me if any other parishioners called, I was to have them contact the church.
Margie had a late lab so I was all by myself. I couldn’t stop listening to the radio. I had this feeling that if I keep it on long enough, I’d hear that Hank was okay. Maybe one of those announcers would come on and say, “We interrupt this program with an important message,” and tell us that this Pearl Harbor stuff was all a hoax, like that War of the Worlds broadcast a few years ago.
When Margie got home, she came in and listened with me. We sat in front of the radio until the stations went off the air again but I never heard what I was listening for.
Tuesday, December 9, 1941
DeeDee —
Trixie called a little while ago and said she was sure I’d soon be wearing something new on my sweater set. She meant Bud’s DeMolay pin, of course. She didn’t even ask if we’d heard anything about Hank!
“My brother’s at Pearl Harbor, Trixie,” I told her. “We haven’t heard from him. That’s what I’m thinking about now, not going steady.”
She said she was sorry and that of course she cared about Hank and I was to call her the minute we learned anything. We talked for a while longer. Or rather, she talked. About Debbie Sue’s brand-new genuine pearl necklace and how the boy next to her in Civics has halitosis and that she and Eddy had argued at lunchtime over whether Humphrey Bogart or James Cagney was the better tough-guy movie star. As if any of that mattered.
