Breaking the Code

by Karen Fisher-Alaniz

  Better get a letter off to Iris. Think I’ve written an average of almost three a day in past month. I’ve been on the island just a month now. Write. Love, Murray

  As I read through more of his letters, I realized I was looking for something, a clue perhaps. But a clue to what? A clue to why he’d kept the letters a secret? That was part of it. But there was more. I had the unmistakable feeling that I’d missed something. When I read the line in his letter that said, “The place is deserted now. You’ll just have to guess why and read the papers,” something quickened in me. And something else bothered me.

  Dad has a favorite game that says a lot about his memory for detail. He likes to challenge me, “Say a word, any word, and I’ll tell you a story about it.” Then I say some random word like, “horse” or “red” or “sidewalk.” He thinks for just a moment and then recalls some story, some obscure parable from his past. He recalls details that anyone else would never have committed to memory in the first place. So why couldn’t he answer any of the questions I asked him?

  It didn’t fit with what I knew about him. He could read a complicated, technical book and then use the information years later, from memory, to design or fix something. Our family had long thought he had a photographic memory, though he was adamant that he didn’t.

  Then I remembered something important: his memory for detail was never more obvious than when he wrote an email.

  My father had been online since the Internet first came to town. In fact, he is proud to share that he was one of the first in Walla Walla to have it. When I finally jumped on the Internet bandwagon, I realized what a prolific writer he was. The whole family gives him a hard time about his extremely long emails. “Ask me what time it is,” he jokes, “and I’ll tell you how to build a watch.” And it’s true. If I emailed, casually asking how lunch was, he’d reply with every detail: who he went with, where they ate, what they ate, how it tasted, and what the conversation entailed.

  It was this attention to detail that gave me an idea: perhaps if I put my questions to him in an email, he would answer me, without the awkwardness we both seemed to feel when we talked in person.

  Though I tried to save working on the letters for nighttime, I couldn’t wait to try this. After supper, I propped my laptop on my knees, opened to the letters I’d typed so far. I minimized the page to half the size of the screen and then opened my email and transferred the bolded questions. I numbered each one and left space for him to answer. I hit send and butterflies invaded my stomach.

  I wondered if he’d even respond. My predictable father had become unpredictable to me. He’d never failed to answer an email promptly in the past. But after my failure to get him to answer the simplest of questions, I wasn’t sure of anything anymore. I’d just have to wait and see.

  The next day, I received a three-page response. He answered each question in the blank space I had left. And just as I’d predicted, he answered in detail.

  The first question was about his glasses.

  “In your letters, you always seem to be getting your glasses fixed. Could you tell me about your glasses?”

  He told the story, starting when he was a little boy.

  Dad was eight years old when, one day, as he was walking with his dad, he commented on the two cows in the pasture.

  “Two cows?” My grandpa laughed.

  Dad repeated his observation.

  “There aren’t two cows,” Grandpa said. “There is only one.”

  That is how my father found out that it wasn’t normal to see everything in duplicate. From then on he wore thick glasses, and unlike others his age, he was happy to wear them.

  The glasses issued to him by the United States Navy were flimsy, the lenses tended to pop out easily, and his prescription was not a standard one, so getting it right was a perennial problem.

  I scrolled down the page, browsing the responses to each question. One…two…three…I smiled when I saw the answers and the detail to each. Then I got to the last question, number four.

  “In your letter dated February 9, 1945, you say, The place is about deserted now. You’ll just have to guess why and read the papers. Do you remember what you were talking about?”

  The space below it was blank. Maybe he didn’t notice it, I thought. But before the thought was even complete, I knew it was unlikely. My dad didn’t miss things like that.

  Perhaps he’d answer it later. I checked my email periodically over the next few days. Still no answer.

  Finally convinced that an answer was not forthcoming, I printed off a copy of the email, grabbed the notebook, and drove over to my parents’ house. I didn’t know what to expect but I knew I had to try.

  When I pulled into the driveway, the double garage door was up and he was hammering away at something in the shop inside.

  “Hi, Dad,” I said coming up behind him.

  “Well, hello,” he said smiling. “What’re you doing here?”

  He glanced at the paper in my hand.

  “The email,” I said cautiously. “There was one more question. You probably didn’t see it.”

  “Hmm,” he said.

  He went back to hammering.

  I stood behind him, waiting. Maybe he just needed to finish what he was working on. I waited some more. He didn’t look back, not even a glance over his shoulder. As the noise continued, I slowly came to the realization that he wasn’t going to respond to me. So I slowly turned and went inside the house.

  Mom greeted me at the door.

  “You look nice,” I said.

  Though in her seventies, she always had someplace to go, a meeting, a church group, or lunch with friends.

  “Thank you,” she said. “What do you think of the necklace with this?” Mom always dressed stylishly in slacks, colorful blouses, and coordinating jackets. “Does it look OK?” she asked.

  “It looks great,” I said.

  “Oh, good. I’m meeting a friend at the church in an hour,” she said.

  She went into the other room and returned with a box of chocolates. She opened the box and set it on the coffee table in front of me and then sat on the sofa with her back to the picture window. The sun made her silver hair sparkle like glitter.

  “I’ve been reading Dad’s letters,” I said. “And I emailed him some questions.”

  “I heard,” she said, pursing her lips. “He printed them off to show me.”

  “Did he tell you he didn’t answer all the questions?” I asked.

  “No,” she replied. There was no surprise in her voice.

  “Listen to this,” I said.

  I glanced at the front door before reading from the letter dated February 9, 1945.

  Well, guess you know by now what my deal is here, I read.

  “And then this,” I added. The place is about deserted now. You’ll just have to guess why and read the papers.

  I looked at her and squinted.

  “I asked him what he meant when he wrote that,” I said. “He answered all the other questions, but not this one.”

  “Well, he’s in the garage, ask him,” she said.

  “I know,” I responded, looking over the chocolates. “I tried to ask him but I don’t think he wants to answer. He was hammering away at something.”

  A little bit later, Dad walked through the living room to the kitchen without looking at me. I heard the water running as he washed his hands. When he returned, he sat down in the recliner and set his Bowfin submarine cap on the end table next to him. He smoothed his hair to one side.

  “Why are you doing this?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, Dad. All I do know is that these letters are a gift, and I want to understand what’s in them. I just want to know more. I can’t explain it.”

  “It was Iwo Jima,” he said abruptly. “That letter I wrote must have been referring to Iwo Jima. It was in all the newspapers. So many guys were sent out that the base was pretty much deserted. I couldn’t talk about it in my letters because of the censors
, but I knew my folks would be reading about it in the newspaper back home.”

  “What exactly was Iwo Jima?” I asked.

  “Well, you know,” he began, “Iwo Jima was just a tiny island. It was only about five miles long and maybe two miles across. Admiral Nimitz wanted the island for a place to refuel our B-29s. You’ve probably seen the photograph of the marines raising the flag on Iwo.”

  I nodded.

  “That became the most famous photograph of WWII,” he explained.

  As he started to talk, I remembered the notebook and pen I’d brought. They were in my purse on the floor, but I was afraid he’d stop talking if I looked away, even for a moment. So I kept my eyes on him. He stared at the blank television screen as he spoke, but it felt like he was staring at me. I didn’t move.

  “So the flag was raised after they’d overtaken the island?” I asked.

  He laughed, a sparkle in his eyes.

  “The thought was that it would only take a few days to take the island from the Japs,” he said. “That’s what we called them back then: Japs. Anyway, our guys went in and strafed the beaches.”

  “Strafed?” I asked.

  “Oh, you don’t know what strafing is, do you? I suppose you wouldn’t. Strafing was when you sent up these small planes and they flew in low, shooting up the beaches. We…they…could see that sand and dirt and dust in a cloud over the beach. Every grain of sand was turned over several times. Everyone thought the Japs were hiding by burying themselves in the sand. And I suppose a few were. But for the most part, I don’t think it helped at all. The Japs had an elaborate tunnel system on that island. They were in caves that were connected by tunnels all through it.

  “So, back to the flag. It was raised on Mount Suribachi four days after the initial landing. We…they…could see it from the water. But it took a total of thirty-five days I think, before we had taken the whole island.”

  He sat back in his chair and looked out the window.

  “So that’s the story,” he said.

  My mind was whirling. Had he misspoken when he said “we”? Or was there something more to it? Clearly, he was done talking. He was quiet now, as if in deep thought. Time passed as we sat silently. There was something about his demeanor that held an invisible hand up, refusing to let me pursue it.

  “Are you going to Caleb’s soccer game?” I finally asked.

  He was quiet.

  “Dad?” I asked.

  “What?”

  “Caleb’s game?” I asked again.

  “Oh, yes. We’ll be there. What time does it start?”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Two Questions, One Answer

  Another day. Nothing new. Saw a very good U.S.O. show last night.—February 15, 1945

  Ric had already left for work when the kids piled into my car for the ride to school. I tossed my purse and book bag into the backseat and buckled in. I had a trick to be sure the kids buckled in quickly too: I wouldn’t start the car until I heard three clicks. Click, click, click.

  I turned the key. Nothing happened. I turned it again. Nothing. There was no sound, no turning over, just silence. I looked at my watch. My carefully timed morning had just taken a huge hit.

  “Everybody out,” I said.

  “But, Mom,” Danielle said, “I’m supposed to meet Casey before school.”

  “I can’t be late,” Micah joined in.

  Caleb was already out and jumping up and down beside the car.

  I groaned loudly as I bolted up the steps and back inside. Not only did I need a ride, I also needed somebody to give all my kids a ride. That was a lot to ask of anybody. And the only people I’d feel comfortable asking were my mom and dad.

  I picked up the phone and dialed my parents, quickly explaining the situation to Dad. Mom had left for a prayer group, but Dad quickly agreed. While he was on his way, I phoned the school where I worked to let them know I’d be a few minutes late.

  We all got into Grandpa’s car and I wrote excuses for each of them on the way to their schools. After the kids were delivered, he drove me to my school.

  As he pulled up in front, I said good-bye and made him promise to pick me up right after my part-time teaching job ended at noon. I felt like a little kid again, getting dropped off by my daddy.

  “Are you hungry?” Dad asked when he picked me up.

  “Yeah. I guess,” I said.

  “Me too. How about lunch?” he asked.

  He drove us to Stone Soup, a little soup and sandwich shop. Inside, it was crowded with downtown business people, the line stretching from the counter to the door. Behind the counter, employees in white aprons made sandwiches and ladled soup from large pots. The menu was written on a large chalkboard. Enchilada soup was the Wednesday special. I ordered a cup and Dad ordered a bowl. I pulled out my checkbook but he insisted on paying. I poured ice water into Styrofoam cups while he found us a seat at one of the little round tables.

  My father had read tons of books on every aspect of the war over the years, and I’d been reading about Iwo Jima, so now I had a little background information. Unlike the more personal questions, the general ones would often launch him into lengthy and detailed answers—though, he never offered information on his own. So, I asked a few questions about Iwo Jima. But his answers were uncharacteristically short. Then, to my surprise, he asked a question of his own.

  “Why do you suppose my mother kept the letters?” he asked.

  I shrugged. I hadn’t thought about it.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “I guess I’ll never know,” he said as he finished his soup.

  “Dad?” I asked. “Would it be OK with you if I put your letters in archive-safe sleeves? They’re plastic and have holes punched so I could put them in binders.”

  I looked down and dipped the spoon past the crunchy strips of tortillas on top.

  “I don’t care,” he said. “I mean, I don’t know. I don’t want you to go to any trouble or anything.”

  “It’s no trouble,” I explained. “Actually, it would be easier. The paper is so thin and I’ve been researching on the Internet. I found out that it’s not good to handle the actual letters over and over. I also talked with our school librarian. She said the same thing. In fact, I took the notebooks to school and showed her. You should have seen the look on her face. She was so excited that I was transcribing them.”

  “Transcribing?” he asked. “You’re transcribing them?”

  I’d forgotten to tell him. It had just come about so naturally, that it didn’t feel like I really made the decision at all. It was just another tentative step on this journey we’d started together. I looked at him, hoping to read his reaction. We were right across from each other, no more than twelve inches away. He glanced up from his soup a few times, but his expression never changed.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’m transcribing them.”

  “You mean you’re typing every letter?” he asked, putting down his spoon.

  “Yeah,” I answered.

  “Why?” he asked in the same tone I’d heard months earlier.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  Feb 14, 1945

  Dear Folks,

  Yesterday, I decided early to get my traffic course application signed. Then got permission to go to Honolulu to the main offices to get the actual course and get started. Got all that done by 1 pm and then went out to Waikiki to a show, “None But the Lonely Heart.” Not bad. Ate all the ice cream in every form I could get my hands on and caught a bus back to landing and by boat to camp again.

  As for the course, they gave me the whole works all at once. In case I move around I’ll have it all with me that way. It consists of 27 books about like my radio course and three big folding maps with Freight Classification Territory and various railroads in U.S. and Canada marked. The course seems to be quite thorough. It covers freight tariffs, rail and water rates, and routes tracing and expediting—air express and parcel post regulation to mention a few. Looks v
ery interesting especially since I already have a kind of haphazard knowledge of a lot of it. In this course it’s all catalogued right so it’s kind of a bridge toward getting my present knowledge and learning more later, together.

  As I finish a few lessons I’m going to send the books home so you can look them over. I’m going to figure out a plan now to study when it’s cool in the morning so I can get the most done. Jonesy is going to take a course in accounting while he is here so we’ve decided to run a regular classroom schedule. Just in the morning tho. Afternoons get too hot to work.

  I’ve gone about a week with no mail again. Something’s sure wrong with my mail—Jonesy hardly misses a day. I’m going to start tracking it down if don’t get any tomorrow. Let me know how mine is getting to you—if it skips a few days and arrives in bunches or they come about the same length of time all along.

  Nothing new in any line, still loafing.

  Write soon. Love, Murray

  Feb 15, 1945

  Dear Folks,

  Another day. Nothing new. Saw a very good U.S.O. show last night…All soldier cast. Also, they opened our new outdoor theatre. It’s called, Phillips Theatre. It’s just a few steps from our tent. The other one was several blocks.

  This camp isn’t really the nicest in the world. Not a blade of grass and not a tree. Just lots of dirt and very hot sun. Believe ’tis kind of an existence would get monotonous after the first few months.

  Got a flock of magazines yesterday. Most of them almost up to date too. A lot of them we’ve been getting are quite old. Usually December issues.

  Studied a third of the way thru my first lesson. Have 27 lessons. So far it is very simple and easy to understand.