A Fierce Radiance

by Lauren Belfer

  “May we come in?” Dr. Lind asked. He’d said on the phone that he felt some sympathy for this man because the man’s daughter had a link to Tia. Because of this link, he couldn’t bring himself to send the man away. Maybe Claire would be able to help the man.

  “Do come in, of course.” Claire remembered what she needed to do. The duties of hospitality. “Welcome.” She stepped back to let them pass.

  “This is Dr. Isiguri Ito,” Dr. Lind said when they were safely in the front hall.

  “How nice to meet you,” Claire said, automatically shaking hands with Dr. Ito. Claire found herself slipping into her mother’s demeanor of absolute politesse. “It’s a lovely evening, why don’t we sit in the garden.” Claire led the way downstairs.

  When Dr. Lind phoned to ask to stop by, she’d wondered if she’d feel awkward around him. He must occasionally see Jamie. She was glad to realize that she didn’t feel awkward—not about that aspect of Dr. Lind’s visit, at least. She’d succeeded in making herself numb to Jamie. Dr. Lind had been good to Charlie, and by now he’d come to belong to their world as well as Jamie’s.

  But as they walked through the house to the garden, Claire caught herself watching Dr. Ito’s hands, wanting to know at every moment the location of his hands. Not because he might steal something, but because he could use those large, strong, smooth hands to strangle her and Dr. Lind. Irrational, she knew. But this was the enemy, in a way that the German and Italian moms and dads of Charlie’s classmates—Karl’s father or Maria’s mother—could never be. Racism. Unwittingly she, too, had been infected by the war propaganda. The Japs, as they were called in common parlance, were the enemy. This was a Jap.

  They sat down in the garden, cool in the breezes, peaceful with the birdsong of the late afternoon.

  “Dr. Ito is a physician,” Dr. Lind said. He sensed that Claire Shipley was ill at ease. He never would have expected it from her. Surely her work would have made her more cosmopolitan and tolerant. On the other hand, maybe she was ill at ease over seeing not Dr. Ito, but him. Lind knew that she and Jamie had had a falling-out of some kind, but he didn’t know the details. In any event, Dr. Lind was not ill at ease about Dr. Ito. He had been raised to believe that all people were the same, regardless of their physical appearance. As a scientist and physician he knew this to be true. The same blood, the same bones, the same sinews. Only the outer surface was different. A superficiality, literally.

  Claire didn’t offer them anything to drink, then she remembered her manners. This was her mother’s house, too, and she’d been raised to welcome visitors, friend or foe.

  “Would you like some tea?” Claire asked, glad to hear herself sounding hospitable.

  “Thank you, how kind of you, Mrs. Shipley,” Dr. Ito said without a trace of accent. He could pass for a cultivated, highly educated American.

  While she boiled the water and organized the teapot and cups, Dr. Ito sat at the edge of his chair, as if prepared to stand and bow at the slightest provocation.

  After the tea was served, Claire said, “Have you had a long journey, Dr. Ito?” Her mother had often used this as an opening gambit with strangers. Have you had a long journey? And, Where are you from originally? Then, depending on the response, I understand the scenery is lovely there, wherever there happened to be. Thus her mother set strangers at ease.

  “I am from Seattle, Washington,” he said, as gracious as any gentleman of her mother’s acquaintance. “Born and raised.”

  That, at least, explained his lack of an accent.

  “I’ve been fortunate enough to travel to Seattle,” Claire said. “The scenery is lovely there.”

  “Yes, it is. Quite lovely. Recently, however, I have been living in the western mountains. In the State of Idaho. With others of my community. Beautiful countryside. Except in the winter, when it’s below zero. And the summer, when it’s above a hundred. The spring provides deep mud and the autumn provides dust, but apart from all of that, the setting is lovely.” A wry smile played at the edges of his lips, and with that bit of banter, Claire knew: he was among the tens of thousands of Japanese Americans sent to internment camps in the western states after a presidential order in February 1942.

  “And what brings you to New York City?” she asked, ignoring, as her mother surely would have ignored, any reference to his recent difficulties.

  “I am in transit. I have been called to join a Nisei regiment preparing for the European theater. As Dr. Lind has so kindly explained, I am a physician. I will be permitted to treat the wounded and ill of my own kind of Americans, not the Caucasian kind.” He gave a bitter laugh.

  “And I understand from Dr. Lind that your daughter was acquainted with Dr. Lucretia Stanton?” Claire asked, pretending she hadn’t heard the edge in his laughter.

  He smiled warmly now, with an unexpected generosity and affection. “Yes, yes, that is correct.”

  “How so?”

  “My daughter is, or rather was, before our current situation, a Girl Scout. Her troop was asked to send soil samples to a Dr. Lucretia Stanton at the Rockefeller Institute in New York as one part of a science badge. Akiko went about this with great concentration, collecting in forests and along the banks of streams and in our own garden. Dr. Stanton sent her a letter of commendation, reporting that although none of the samples progressed from the first testing stage, there was an impressive variety in the mold. That letter, with its Rockefeller Institute letterhead, is tacked to the wall above my daughter’s bed in our new…home.”

  “Your daughter must be unusually gifted,” Claire said.

  “Thank you. Perhaps she will be inspired to become a scientist. That would be an honor to our family.” He bowed to them, slightly, at the thought of this possibility.

  “Pray do continue, Dr. Ito.”

  “Recently, in our current situation, I had cause to remember these efforts of my daughter. I wrote a letter to Dr. Lucretia Stanton, and I’m grateful to say that this letter was forwarded to Dr. Lind.”

  “Indeed.” Claire had learned this language literally at her mother’s knee. Indeed, pray do continue—her mother was from the era and background of Henry James and Edith Wharton.

  “In February of 1942, my family, among other members of our community, was instructed by the authorities to leave our homes and our businesses. This was a time of sadness and confusion. After a brief stay at a somewhat unpleasant relocation center, we were sent to what became our current home, if you will, Camp Minidoka. Under difficult circumstances, we organized schools, a camp government, a fire brigade, and various committees for food, clothing, and entertainment.” He spoke matter-of-factly, without self-pity. “I was among the lucky ones, in that my profession is useful anywhere. I was permitted to serve as camp physician-in-chief. Our camp has hosted upward of thirteen thousand people, served by a medical support staff rather hastily scrambled together. You can well imagine the rates of infectious disease among people crowded into unheated barracks under such conditions.

  “Several months ago, a group of medical personnel arrived at the camp. I don’t know if they were physicians, although they tried to create the impression that they were. Certainly they needed some type of security clearance to be allowed in. We were, and are, considered enemy aliens, so undoubtedly certain standards must be met by those who wish to interact with us. At any rate, they came to us to test a new medication. They needed my cooperation. They didn’t ask for my cooperation, they assumed it, then ordered it when I requested more detailed information.

  “At first they seemed to be doing some good, so I went along without learning the details. We had many infectious conditions at the camp, streptococcal infections of the usual types, pneumonia, tuberculosis, several cases of meningitis, anything and everything that gains a foothold among thousands of people bunking together at close quarters. And this drug helped my patients. However, it was even given to those with relatively minor symptoms, patients who might very well have recovered without it. I assumed it must
be penicillin or a variant of penicillin, but no, these medical men informed me, penicillin was restricted to the military and what did I know of penicillin anyway—as if I must be a spy simply for knowing the name of the medication, when anyone could already read about it in the newspaper before the war. Thus they attempted to threaten me for being aware of what was common knowledge.” He paused, shaking his head.

  “One of them, a pleasant young man who gave his name only as ‘Pete’”—Dr. Ito pronounced the name “Pete” as if he assumed it was false—“admitted to me in an unguarded moment that this drug was similar to penicillin in that it was also made from mold. Thus I thought back on the work Akiko had so carefully undertaken, collecting soil samples in those days when we were still allowed to live in our proper homes.”

  He paused, seeming lost in his memories.

  “And?” Claire said.

  “Ah, yes. As time passed, I began to notice a mysterious set of side effects developing from the use of this medication. Granted, my patients would recover, some rather quickly. I saw several cures which I consider remarkable, if not miraculous. No one died from the medication. In fact many would have died without the medication. Obviously my community has no access to penicillin, and supplies of sulfa medications are limited. So perhaps some might consider us lucky. But side effects began to set in, as I say. Deafness, blindness, permanent tingling or lack of feeling in the extremities. The men conducting the tests found nothing amiss in these side effects. They had cured the patients of the disease at hand, the rest was meaningless. To them. One evening when I was nursing a patient with heart trouble, I was able to glance at their record book when one of then stepped away. Their records were meticulous. Miss J, age nineteen, suffering from scarlet fever, was listed as having fully recovered, but she is now blind. Mr. M, age thirty-six, suffering from pneumonia, was also listed as having fully recovered, but he is now deaf. And so on.

  “I began to comprehend the outrage perpetrated against us. Soon my patients and their families made the link, too. Most of us are citizens of the United States. I know we are a people without a voice, without rights; let us be frank, a people who are reviled. But surely this is not justice. As a medical professional myself, I know you have to tell people the possible side effects in advance, so they and their families can weigh the risk.”

  Claire leaned forward in her chair. “Did you try to do anything about this?”

  “What recourse do we have? I managed to secure some information from the Food and Drug Administration in Washington, but apparently they have no jurisdiction. Or aren’t willing to accept jurisdiction. I took the situation to the director of the camp, a military man, who listened with great sincerity and concern and promised to look into the matter. Two weeks later, I received orders to report to a Nisei unit on its way to the front. Forgive me for possibly sounding over-dramatic, but in my travels here from Idaho, I have sensed that I am being watched.

  “What makes an American? That’s what I wonder. I am an American citizen, born and raised in America. My parents are American citizens, born and raised in America. My grandparents were immigrants. Does being an American mean you have the opportunity to fight for your country? To aid the soldiers fighting for your country? If so, that is what I shall do. Tomorrow I go to Governor’s Island to be processed. My wife and children will stay at the camp in Idaho. I will be sent to Europe, not to the Pacific, where I would face the Japanese enemy and—the authorities fear—be tempted to turn traitor. I do not consider myself an enemy, but apparently I look like the enemy. Appearances can be deceiving, however, as we tell our children.” He stopped. For a moment he stared at her without blinking. Then he looked away.

  “In any event, I am grateful to have an opportunity to stop in New York City and share this information with you and Dr. Lind.”

  “Do you have any proof of your—” Claire almost said accusations, but caught herself. “Your concerns?”

  He took a sealed envelope from the inside pocket of his suit jacket. “I copied this from their record book. Not everyone suffers the side effects. Only a few. Perhaps that is their excuse. And I reiterate, no deaths can be traced to the medication. But I must also reiterate that some of these patients were only mildly ill and might very well have recovered without the medication. Once I overheard several of these so-called medical men discussing their expectation that this drug will receive full patent protection and be available for sale to the public within a year or two.”

  Claire didn’t know what to say. Dr. Ito put down his teacup and sat with his hands flat upon his thighs.

  “I wish I could have brought you a sample. I watched, I tried. I am sorry that I have failed in this regard. They were very careful. The used syringes were cleaned promptly. The medication was kept in a locked refrigerator. They were alert to spies. They didn’t want this miraculous medication to make its way to the Empire of the Sun.”

  Dr. Lind said, “The reason we came to see you, Mrs. Shipley, is that I thought you might be able to convince your magazine to cover this. It’s outrageous, probably against the Geneva Conventions, to conduct medical experiments on prisoners.”

  “Do you have any idea what company was making the drug?” Claire could take this information to her father. He was in a position to discover more. She would also alert Andrew Barnett and Vannevar Bush.

  “I tried to find out, but the vials were unlabeled.”

  “What did it look like?”

  “Ah, yes. I neglected to mention this to Dr. Lind. Its appearance was astonishing. Worthy of a haiku. A color like the brightest mountain lake. Like the sky on a cold winter morning. A color I have seen created by humans only in the finest watercolor paintings. An extraordinary shade of pure, transparent blue.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  How’s your son?” Mr. Luce asked Claire. His penthouse office was hushed, as usual.

  “As well as can be expected.”

  “Does he need anything?”

  “Things are stable now. Thank you for asking. He’s at a summer camp for deaf children. He’s enjoying himself.”

  “Who’s paying the fees?”

  “My father.”

  “Good. Let me know if Charles does need anything. If either of you needs anything. No time to be shy.”

  “Thank you. And thank you for giving me so much time off to care for him.”

  He shrugged off her thanks. “You made this appointment for?”

  “An injustice has been brought to my attention. A story the magazine should investigate.”

  She explained what Dr. Ito had told her, made her case. Luce listened without interrupting.

  She didn’t reveal that she suspected this was the drug that had made Charlie deaf, or that when Dr. Ito described its color, she had gasped. She didn’t tell Luce that she hoped against hope that someone else had stumbled upon the medication, that some other company, not her father’s company, was testing it at Camp Minidoka. Anyone could have found that mold. She wanted to know the truth before she confronted her father. She felt as if she’d had a veil across her eyes, and now the veil had fallen away: a logical conclusion was that her father was indeed responsible for the ransacking of her home and possibly even implicated in Tia’s death. Nonetheless, she couldn’t reconcile her image of such a man with the loving father and grandfather she knew. Her motivations for agreeing to pursue Dr. Ito’s story were deeply personal—although she would never share that fact with Mr. Luce. With Luce, she’d be strictly professional.

  After Dr. Ito had gone, she’d tried to contact Andrew Barnett. When he didn’t respond, she’d tried to reach Dr. Bush. Neither one had returned her telephone calls. She’d been cut off without an explanation. With Bush and Barnett apparently stonewalling her, Mr. Luce was now her only recourse.

  She gave Mr. Luce the list of names with test results and the side effects Dr. Ito had noted.

  Luce examined the list and gave it back to her. “What do you propose I do with this information?”
>
  “You should send me to Idaho with a writer to unravel this story. Find out the name of the company. Put a stop to testing this drug on innocent people who are essentially prisoners of war.”

  He said nothing.

  “In addition, you should brief your wife on the situation and ask her to hold congressional hearings about conducting medical experiments on internees.” Claire Boothe Luce had been elected to Congress from Connecticut the year before.

  “You ask for a lot, Mrs. Shipley.” Luce paused. “You may not know that a while ago, Mack sent a team to one of those internment camps in the desert. What did the photographer come back with? The Japs have organized themselves into music groups and dance studios and foreign-language classes. They’ve created their own newspapers and baseball teams. They’re acting as if they’re perfectly normal Americans under duress.

  “Mrs. Shipley, I take seriously the power of the photographic essay, its power to move men’s minds and hearts more deeply even than words. I have a responsibility to the nation. The people in that camp who became ill might well be dead now without this medication. From your description, the problem was that they weren’t told in advance. And some, you say, had mild symptoms. We both know that mild symptoms can turn serious, even fatal. As things turned out, these patients didn’t die. They received a free and unmerited gift, many would say.”

  “Mr. Luce, the drug causes a variety of severe side effects in a number of patients, and those people might not have become ill in the first place if it weren’t for the camp conditions.”

  Luce had the power to change the world with his influence, with his ability to bring problems to the attention of the nation. He wielded that power every day.

  “And I must tell you that in the”—she reached for the proper word—“in the private work Vannevar Bush asked me to do, this was one of the issues he raised: companies devoting themselves to antibacterial medications other than penicillin.”