by Kirby Larson
My mind drifted during our one-sided conversation until I heard her say Betty Sato’s name. Trixie was asking if I’d heard what happened to her at school.
I told her that I’d been there, seen it. I didn’t tell her that I didn’t say anything to those boys, or say anything to Betty. “It was awful,” I said.
“But she is Japanese. And they bombed our troops.”
I rubbed my tired eyes with my free hand. Trixie kept talking, saying that Debbie Sue’s father was going to call the school board, to tell them they should expel the Japanese kids. For their own safety.
I felt like I used to when I was little and I’d done too many twirlies on the swings at school.
“Piper? Are you still there?” Trixie asked.
“Do you think her dad’s right? Well, maybe we shouldn’t stop with them. Maybe we should kick out the German kids.” I was so angry, the words kept bubbling out. “The Italians, too.”
Trixie was quiet for a second but when she spoke again, I could hear the hurt in her voice. “I’m your friend, remember?”
“I’m sorry, Trix.” I took a deep breath. “It’s just confusing. That’s all.”
“I know. It’s okay.”
But was it?
Wednesday, December 10, 1941
DeeDee —
We had our normal classes. Kids still goofed around in the halls. The cafeteria ladies still made meat loaf for lunch — after all, it was Wednesday.
But underneath all the normal activity slithered a snake of mistrust. My classmates were looking at the Japanese kids in a different way. In homeroom, someone — I don’t know who — left a note on Anky Arai’s desk. Anky’s the class clown and is always good for at least one joke during the period. Not today. He crumpled up the note and sat in stony silence. When the bell rang, he slammed the ball of crumpled paper in the wastepaper basket on his way out of class.
By the time lunch rolled around, my stomach was clenched as tight as a fist. I was so glad to slide onto the bench next to Trixie at our gang’s table. It felt good to do something normal, something familiar. I picked at my meat loaf while Trixie told the table about the pop quiz her French teacher had sprung on them.
“Ooh, la, la,” she said in her best French accent. “Mademoiselle Burke, how can you not know ze difference between gauche and adroit by now?” Even though I knew Trix felt bad about the quiz, she had us all laughing. Maybe we all laughed harder than we needed to. It felt that good to laugh at something.
The laughter stopped when Debbie Sue Wilkins slapped yesterday’s Seattle Times on the table. “Did anyone see this interesting article?” she asked.
“Aw, save the current events for Civics,” Eddy complained. I hunched down in my seat, hoping it wasn’t the article I thought it was. No such luck.
Debbie Sue noisily flipped the paper open on the table and pointed to a headline: Church Men Ask Friendship for Japanese Here. “Listen to this,” she said, and began to read aloud. “‘These people are no more responsible for this war than we are,’ said Pastor Emery Davis.” Debbie Sue put down the paper and looked right at me. “That’s your pop, right?”
She knew that it was. I didn’t say anything. Neither did anyone else. Not even Bud.
Trixie slipped her hand through my arm. She tugged me away from the table. “Let’s go, Piper,” she said. “It smells funny here.”
Debbie Sue made a big show of folding up the paper as Trixie and I got up. Debbie Sue had to get in one last shot. “It looks like some people are pretty quick to forget who it was that bombed Pearl Harbor.”
Bud stood up, too. “Can it, Debbie Sue.” He and Eddy left with me and Trixie. Having them next to me was the only thing that kept me able to put one foot in front of the other.
“You okay?” Bud asked.
I said sure, but how could I be? As much as I hated Debbie Sue Wilkins, there was something in what she said. We had no idea where Hank was, if he was okay or not, and Pop was out there giving interviews, defending the Japanese. Could he really be absolutely, positively sure none of them in Seattle were spies? There could always be one bad apple in the bunch.
“Piper, did you hear me?”
Bud was talking to me. “Sorry. What?”
“I said I’ll see you later.” He patted my arm. “Forget about Debbie Sue.”
“It’s not Debbie Sue,” I said. Then my throat tightened up and I could feel tears at the backs of my eyes. I was not going to cry at school!
I went to get a drink of water. The drinking fountain was right next to a glass display case. I didn’t have to look in it to know it held about a dozen pictures of Hank—on the baseball team, the basketball team, the football team. And I didn’t have to look to know that in every single one of those pictures, he was standing next to someone like Tom Watanabe or Yosh Nakata or Ike Terada. Someone Japanese.
His friends. Our friends.
Bud walked me home but I wasn’t good company. It was a pretty quiet walk. When we got to my house, I turned to go in. Bud stopped me. “Hank’s tough, Piper. If anyone is going to make it, it’ll be him.”
I nodded and ran up the steps.
Later
I was in the kitchen, pouring some ginger ale to settle my stomach, and the phone rang again. Pop answered it.
He listened for a few minutes. Suddenly, he slapped his hand against the wall and swore. My father the minister swore! That made my stomach even queasier. He listened some more, hung up the receiver, and dialed Mrs. Harada. Whoever had been on the phone had found out where Mr. Harada was: in the Immigration Jail by the airport. Pop told her to put together a kit with a razor and toothbrush and other toiletries and he’d be by in half an hour to drive her there.
No amount of ginger ale can help my stomach now. How can Mr. Harada be in jail? What did he do? There are so many questions I wanted to ask, but Pop was out the door before I could ask them. Margie had the car keys jingling in her hand. She said, “You’re too upset. I’ll drive you.” Pop never lets anyone else drive the Blue Box, but now he didn’t say boo.
Sometimes I really don’t get Pop. Ministers are supposed to preach sermons and baptize babies and marry people. It’s one thing to help our friends, like Mr. and Mrs. Harada, but couldn’t he do it in a way so other people wouldn’t notice? The pastor at Trixie’s church is a nice guy, a good pastor, and he isn’t getting his name in the paper over all this fuss.
Pop had gotten phone calls and letters before, telling him to stick to his own kind. But that was before we were at war. What if the FBI didn’t stop with Japanese? What if they arrested Pop?
I didn’t know how to keep those bad thoughts out of my head so I wandered around, rearranging doilies on the backs of chairs, picking up magazines and putting them back down, straightening Pop’s papers piled up all over the house. Then I found myself in Hank’s room. When I was a pesky little kid, he never yelled at me to stay out of his room. And he never minded when I wandered in to borrow a Hardy Boys book from his collection.
You couldn’t tell by walking in that Hank was even gone. The quilt Mrs. Harada made him was folded on the foot of the bed. The photo of him swimming in Lake Washington with Yosh and his other buddies sat atop the dresser. His letterman’s jacket hung on a hook by his baseball trophies. I ran my hand down the sleeve, then put it on. The heavy wool still smelled like Hank, equal parts Aqua Velva and Black Jack gum. With that warm jacket wrapped around my shoulder, I felt like Hank was there, in the room, giving me a big-brother hug.
That must mean he’s okay. It must.
Thursday, December 11, 1941
DeeDee —
I still can’t believe what happened today. Mr. Tokita was walking home from his grocery store when these three guys came out of the alley and started calling him names. He kept walking but they chased after him and beat him up! Someone passing by found him on the sidewalk and drove him to the hospital. He’s going to be okay but they have to keep him there for a day or two. I babysat while Pop took Mrs. Toki
ta to visit him. Her eyes were all puffy and red when they got back. She was upset and not just from seeing her husband. She told me that when Pop was driving her home, a group of boys came out of nowhere and started throwing rocks at the car. They called Pop a “Jap lover.” One rock cracked the Blue Box’s windshield.
Mrs. Tokita is worried but Pop says they’re just kids and not to pay them any mind. Sometimes he makes me so mad. He thinks doing the Lord’s work protects him. Well, what about all the apostles? They did the Lord’s work and didn’t exactly stay safe and sound. But there is no arguing with Pop.
Between worrying about him and worrying about Hank, I’m not getting any sleep.
I’m sure we’ll hear something tomorrow.
Monday, December 15, 1941
DeeDee —
It was in the news this morning — everything they know about Pearl Harbor so far.
The attack took everyone by surprise. It’d been the last thing anyone expected on that quiet Sunday morning. There’d been some Christmas parties the night before and lots of the servicemen were sleeping late. One eyewitness — an Army guy who had a date to go roller-skating — looked up in the sky and saw a squadron moving in formation over the island. He thought it was some kind of drill, thought they were our planes. Until machine guns began blazing. He ran to his post, his pair of roller skates still around his neck.
Everyone seemed to be running somewhere — pilots ran to their parked planes at Hickam Air Force Base, sailors at Ford Island naval base ran to their battle stations, and civilians ran to get away from the bombs, dropping in deadly precision. One even landed right in front of the governor’s mansion.
For three long hours, the Japanese attacked. Then, it was over. So many people died; they think maybe two thousand servicemen. And regular people died, too. The announcer said one of them was a two-year-old girl named Shirley Hirasaki. And there were still many, many people unaccounted for. Like Hank.
The entire U.S. Pacific fleet, over 130 ships, had been docked at Pearl Harbor. At least four of those ships are now on the bottom of Pearl Harbor — the Utah, the Shaw, the Oklahoma, and … I can’t write the name of the other one.
There are survivors. Please, God, let Hank be one of them.
Tuesday, December 16, 1941
DeeDee —
I made a deal with God. If He keeps Hank safe, I will:
Never wear lipstick or dungarees
Give up Sky Bars for the rest of my life
Go to church cheerfully every Sunday
Never, ever again complain about being a
preacher’s kid
Wednesday, December 17, 1941
DeeDee —
Ten days since the attack. I feel like we are a shadow family. Our bodies are moving around to all the places we’re supposed to go—Margie to college, me to school, Pop to church—doing all the things we’re supposed to do, saying the usual things like, “Yes, school was good today,” “I got an A on that Chem lab,” or “Please pass the salt.” But our real family is in the shadows, frozen in time and hanging on to every scrap of hope, while we wait, wait, wait to hear about Hank.
Margie says be thankful that we haven’t received a telegram. The Wests got one a few days ago and today Sally and her mother changed the star on the service flag by their front door from blue to gold. Lots of families have these flags in their windows. A blue star on the red background means you have someone in the service. A gold star means that person was killed.
Danny West was only eighteen years old. Hank’s age.
Please, God—no gold stars for us.
Thursday, December 18, 1941
DeeDee —
Miss Mahon called some Chinese students down to her office today. They showed up at school wearing buttons that said CHINA. After what happened to Mr. Tokita, I can see why they did it. Some people really can’t tell the difference between Japanese, Chinese—even Filipino. Those kids wanted to make sure people knew they’re from China, not Japan. But I saw Betty Sato when one of the Chinese kids walked by her, wearing that pin. She flinched, like she’d been hit. I don’t think the Japanese kids need one more reminder of who dropped those bombs on Pearl Harbor.
I don’t know what Miss Mahon said, but I can imagine. I didn’t see anyone with those pins the rest of the day.
Friday, December 19, 1941
DeeDee —
Bud and I got an A on our project. Miss Wyatt said the interviews added a lot of “depth.” I’m glad we’re done. I didn’t want to do any more of those man-in-the-hall interviews. I don’t need to. I know how the war affects people. It makes you feel like you’re on the world’s tallest Ferris wheel ride and the safety bar is broken and you’re stuck at the top with some crazy person who’s swinging the car back and forth. It’s having a constant stomachache and bad dreams and bad thoughts that you might never see your brother again.
That’s how it feels.
Saturday, December 20, 1941
DeeDee —
Margie came home from her date with Stan, all red-eyed. Turns out she can cry, but only when she’s really, really happy. See, she’s happy about the new ring on her left hand! Stan’s enlisted in the Army and they’re going to get married before he leaves. I took pictures of them both, to put in a photo album I’m making to send to Hank when we hear from him. Because we are going to hear from him.
Stan’s a good guy so I’m happy for Margie. But I’d like to find my brother before I lose my sister.
Is that too much to ask?
Sunday, December 21, 1941
DeeDee —
A stomachache wasn’t a good enough excuse for Pop. He said I needed to go to church, to keep to our routines. And to be with our church family. I went because of my deal with God.
When I got there, Mrs. Harada came up and squeezed me in one of her Tabu-scented hugs. She said she was praying for Hank. I’d been so wrapped up in my worries about him, I’d hardly thought about poor Mr. Harada in jail, or even about Mrs. Harada. I was ashamed of myself. The Haradas have done so much for me. Mr. Harada taught me to ride a bike, and, when I was little, he always made sure he had butterscotch drops in his pocket for me. And Mrs. Harada, well, she’s the closest thing to a mother I’ve ever had. The next time Margie takes supper over there, I am going to go along.
Today, Miss McCullough, a missionary who’d spent a lot of time in Japan, was playing the organ. She asked me to turn pages for her. During “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God,” I looked out over the congregation. The newspapers talk about the “yellow menace,” but the faces I saw around me weren’t yellow. And they certainly weren’t menaces. I mean, Mrs. Harada? The only way she’d be a danger is if you tried to help her in her kitchen. Our neighbor’s yappy poodle is more dangerous.
I glanced to the far side of the church, to the pew where the Sato family usually sits. Mr. Sato sat at one end and Mrs. Sato at the other, with Betty and her big brother, Jim, and two little brothers, Mikey and Tommy, in between. Jim and Hank used to pal around a bit; he’s a nice guy, but quiet. I know Pop thinks Betty practically walks on water, with her good grades and playing the piano, but I shouldn’t hold that against her. We’re probably not all that different, really. She wears her hair the way all the other junior high girls do — I bet she even sets it on pin curls, like me. And she dresses like practically every girl in America, in wool skirts and matching sweaters with a string of drugstore pearls. And even from the front of the church, I could see she wasn’t wearing lipstick, either. Like me.
Pop says she’s kind of shy. Maybe that’s why we’ve never talked that much, gotten to know each other. I looked at her again and she caught me. She has a nice smile.
I made up my mind that I was going to go up to her after church. But Miss McCullough started talking to me about something and by the time I got away, the Satos were gone.
Next Sunday, for sure.
Monday, December 22, 1941
DeeDee —
Hank’s alive!!!!!! Hank is ok
ay! My heart’s pounding so hard, I might explode. Can’t write now.
Later
I bet this is what a prisoner feels like when he’s let out of the hoosegow. Except instead of being free from being locked-up, I’m free from being worried and afraid! I feel so light and happy, it doesn’t seem possible that my feet are touching our linoleum floor. We got the best-ever early Christmas present — a postcard from Hank. The Navy had all the sailors in Pearl Harbor send them to their families. Pop read it aloud, which didn’t take long. Hank had only written four words, “Don’t worry. I’m fine.” Up in the left hand corner, he’d scribbled the date, December 9th — I don’t know why it took so long to get to us but now I don’t care. My brother is safe! That’s all that matters. We all hugged and cried after Pop read the postcard. Even Stan.
Pop brought out some root beer and we toasted. “To Hank!” Pop said.
We clinked our glasses and said, “To Hank.”
After our first sips, though, everybody got real quiet. Nobody said it out loud, but I think we were all wondering about the other two Musketeers. If their family had gotten this same kind of postcard.
Tuesday, December 23, 1941
DeeDee —
I caught Trixie before Language Arts to tell her our good news. She was chatting with Debbie Sue and some other girls but she broke right out of the circle when she saw me. She grabbed my arm.
