Breaking the Code

by Karen Fisher-Alaniz

  I sent another snap of yours truly yesterday. You probably have it by now. Notice the clenched fist and dirty look I was giving the camera man. Had made up my mind to resist his sales talk but glad I changed my mind. Think it turned out better this time. My feet still go North and South as Ray says.

  Be glad when the radio and foto album get here.

  Write. Love, Murray

  I read each letter again and again, through February 19. Then I worked backward to February 1. I studied his handwriting. I even looked at the first letters of his sentences, hoping to discover some kind of code, a secret hidden in the letters. Maybe it was something that even my grandparents had missed. I looked at the dates, the signatures. But there was nothing—absolutely nothing about code breaking, secret training, or the fact that he’d been sent off on a top-secret mission. There wasn’t even a break in the letters.

  I lay back on the bed, hours later. Only then did I feel the tension I’d held in my back and shoulders. They were stiff and aching.

  “What are you doing?” I said aloud.

  I so wanted the letters to read like an autobiography of my father’s wartime experiences. I wanted to discover the truth in his letters. I wanted to understand.

  I kneaded my neck until my fingers hurt. And I suddenly wished I hadn’t told my father that I was going to reread his letters from the time just prior to Iwo Jima.

  After bursting through the story that day, my father quickly after became unsure. He had always been able to rely so confidently on his amazing memory, that to have a forgotten story come to him from what seemed like nowhere made him start to doubt whether the story was even true.

  I’d told him, though, that I was sure I could find his whole story, or at least important parts of it, in his letters. I was so sure he would have talked about it in some way. It fit with what I knew about him. After all, it was likely that he had at least considered the notion that he might not return from this mission alive. He would have wanted his folks to know what he was doing if that were the case. I was just so sure that I knew him.

  But now that I saw the answers weren’t there, I wished I hadn’t told him that there just had to be some kind of reference to the secret mission in his letters. Because I knew he’d ask. And he did.

  I didn’t go over to his house that week. I deluded myself into thinking that if enough time passed, he’d forget to ask me about what I’d read. But I couldn’t avoid him forever. So the next Wednesday, on our regular day, I drove out to pick him up.

  He’d just gotten a cell phone and learned how to text, so our new routine was that I sent a quick text saying, “omw,” meaning “on my way.” Then when I turned the corner on his street, I’d send another that said, “corner.” He was just coming out the door when I pulled in the driveway. We exchanged our usual greetings and started driving to Mr. Ed’s.

  I’d only driven a few houses from his when he asked the question I’d been dreading all week.

  “Did you reread those letters?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” I answered.

  Silence followed.

  “You find anything?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. “I didn’t find anything.”

  I tried to explain.

  “I even looked for things like a break in the letters you sent. I looked for a discrepancy or some kind of a secret reference to Iwo Jima.”

  “And you didn’t find anything,” he said.

  Another silence. The thing about these car conversations was that we could talk without worrying about nonverbal communication. He couldn’t search my eyes and I didn’t have to see the disappointment in his.

  “It was just so drilled into our heads,” he said. “We knew everything was censored. But when that sergeant told us we’d be shot if anything leaked out, I just didn’t…I didn’t even have to think about it. I’m sure it didn’t even occur to me to write about it to my folks. I don’t think you’ll ever find anything in those letters.”

  There was sadness in his voice now. He looked down.

  “Maybe I was never there,” he said. “You know the other night I was thinking, maybe I made all this up. Maybe I was holed up in a cabin in the Blue Mountains above Dayton during the war. Then when it was over, I came back down and lived my life just like before.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I said.

  “Maybe,” he replied. “Maybe not.”

  He was giving up. Faced with the possibility that there wasn’t concrete evidence that he’d been where he remembered being and experienced what he thought he’d experienced, it was easier for him to chalk it up to being an old man who made the whole thing up. I knew that wasn’t true. And inside, I believed he knew that wasn’t true too. Still, he’d put a period at the end of the sentence. But just because there’s a period, doesn’t mean the story’s over.

  Whether it came from his letters or someplace else, my father needed validation. Having me, his daughter, believe him, wasn’t enough. He needed it in black and white. I so wanted to give him that. But I didn’t know how I could after all these years.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Limbo

  I take my Shaeffer “triumph” pen, which cost twenty-two bucks, in hand and go to work. I’m getting so darned swamped with mail nowadays.—February 23, 1945

  For a while, after not finding validation in his letters, my father and I didn’t talk about the war. The disappointment ran deep for both of us, but especially for him. I could see it whenever we were together—the deep, deep sadness.

  At home, the letters sat on the shelf untouched. I searched the Internet for information on code breaking and Iwo Jima. But searches on code breaking always pointed to the Native American code breakers. And information on Iwo Jima was common and well-documented history. I bought books on Iwo Jima and I spent hours at the library reading history books. I went to bookstores and sat with piles of WWII books, searching the table of contents and indexes for reference to Katakana. But my research wasn’t getting anywhere.

  When we were together, my father and I didn’t know what to say. Anything that I rehearsed just sounded like I was making excuses for him. What I wanted to say was, “I believe you, Dad. And I don’t need to read it in your letters or anywhere else.” But even that sounded inadequate. So I said nothing. And neither did he. We talked about anything but the war, avoiding it all.

  I wanted to know the rest of the story, though. He’d simply stopped talking at a crucial part. I pictured him as a young sailor, in the middle of the ocean on a calm day. I wanted to know what happened next. But it seemed that every time I tried to help, things only got worse. So we simply ate our breakfast each week while we talked about other things. It was always on my mind. But I learned that I could pretend too.

  I found myself spending more and more time in my favorite place in our home, a room that wasn’t a room at all. In fact, it wasn’t even in the house. Our large, covered front porch, which ran the entire length of the front of our house, was the heart of our home. It was the place where our children grew up and where we did too. Memories took up residence there, like tiny droplets of dew on the spring tulips below. I had wonderful memories of my grandmother’s porch, one almost identical to mine. My sisters and I spent many childhood hours playing with our cousins there.

  Built in 1907, the craftsman style house was my dream home. I fell in love with it from the outside in. It didn’t hurt that the first time we saw it, it was Christmastime and adorned with colorful lights all the way up to the top of the second-story roof.

  It was a few days before Christmas 1990, and we were driving around town looking at the Christmas lights, a family tradition. We drove past a house with a large front porch like my grandmother’s. As our two young children craned their necks, oohing and awing at the lights from the backseat, I saw the sign I’d been looking for: a for sale sign. And I just knew, that this house would be not only our first home, but the only home we’d ever need.

  I sat on the porch swing one afternoon, gli
ding back and forth. It was a perfect place to people watch. And the best thing was that those who strode by rarely knew I was there. Tucked back a bit from the street, it simply didn’t occur to them that someone might be watching. Not even the rhythmic creak of the porch swing caught their attention.

  My mind wandered, my thoughts easily going to my father. I was lulled once again into a mode of what I should have said, what I should have done, how I could have handled the situation differently, so that I wouldn’t have hurt him.

  I was so deep in my thoughts that when I spotted my father, at first I thought it was just part of my daydream. But then I sat up as I saw it was really him.

  He stood on his Segway, rounding the corner toward our house. He let go with one hand and waved. Then he cut across the street and rode up the sidewalk, stopping just short of the steps. Stepping off the platform of the stand-up scooter, he leaned it against the railing and climbed the stairs. He sat down on the wicker chair across from me with a loud sigh.

  “You want a glass of water or something?” I asked.

  “Oh, how about a something?” he joked.

  “OK. Something, coming right up,” I said.

  I went to the kitchen and filled a glass with ice and water, taking a moment for a deep breath. I knew I had to somehow break the moratorium on all things WWII, even if it was just a baby step. So I stood there, glass of water in hand, and I prayed, “God help me.” It was a silly and cliché prayer, but I meant it.

  I pushed the screen door open with my elbow and handed Dad his water as the door clunked shut. Sitting back down, I stuffed a pillow behind my back.

  Keep it simple, I thought.

  After some small talk about the weather, the Seattle Mariners game last night, and the newest information he’d learned in the Segway chatroom, he was all talked out. So, after a brief silence, I gathered all the courage I could muster.

  “Hey, Dad,” I said. “You sure did talk about cars a lot in your letters.”

  He smiled, then took a long, slow drink of water. He set the glass on the small wrought-iron table beside him.

  “I was probably just running out of things to say,” he said. “After arriving on Oahu and then a few weeks of describing it, I suppose there wasn’t much else to talk about. And cars were really a big deal back then.”

  He talked then for a half hour about his cars. But it wasn’t about the subject really; it was about talking again. It was a teeny, tiny baby step, but our communication lines were open once again.

  Later, I watched him ride his Segway past our neighbor’s house on the corner, a two-story craftsman like ours. The young children playing in the front yard stopped momentarily to watch him ride smoothly down the sidewalk and around the corner. He waved without looking back. After setting our glasses in the sink, I took the letters down from the shelf for the first time in days.

  Feb 23, 1945

  Dear Folks,

  I take my Shaeffer “triumph” pen, which cost twenty-two bucks, in hand and go to work. I’m getting so darned swamped with mail nowadays. I’m just about snowed under. Got one from you and it only took four days to get here. Nothing new to write about.

  Saw Fibber and Molly in “Heavenly Days” last night and visited Jonesy a little.

  Still hot as blazes although we have had a little rain now and then. Doesn’t stay cool tho. About all I can say for it, is that it’s real cool at night so I can sleep good.

  I told Ray to collect my tax refund and spend it foolishly on the Cord. Eighty bucks too.

  From the sound of things about the Fiat, I’d just about bet you even money I end up fixing it myself. Sure is slow going when you can’t get any cooperation from mechanics. After working on such a mess as a Ford V8 that little Fiat should be easy as duck soup. That motor is about as simple as they come. I know when it was running it started so quick that you hardly heard the starter at all.

  Suppose you’ve heard all about Iwo Jima by now. Quite an operation huh? Doubt if any of my gang got there in time for any of it. Of course that’s kind of out of our line anyway.

  Write. Love, Murray

  And there it was. Just like that.

  When I took a break from reading the letters, I’d somehow expected that the letters too, or at least the story contained in them, would be taking a break. It was as if I’d expected my father, fifty years earlier, to be in his Quonset hut, lying on his bunk, waiting for me to continue the journey of reading his letters. So when I picked them up again, it was without any expectation at all.

  But suddenly, there it was; the reference I was searching so hard for was right there in the letter dated February 23, 1945.

  Granted, it wasn’t much. But I knew Dad would be pleased that I found something. If this letter had something, it was conceivable that others did too. Perhaps in others he would elaborate.

  It was late, but I picked up the phone and dialed his number.

  “Hi, Dad,” I said. “I just thought I’d tell you that I found a reference to Iwo Jima in your letters.”

  “Really?” he asked.

  I could tell he was surprised. His voice had a tiny lilt to it—something that only after months of conversation had I come to recognize and describe as something between joy and relief.

  “Yeah,” I continued. “You said that you supposed your folks heard about Iwo Jima by now and that you doubted if any of the gang got there in time for it.”

  “Well!” he said and then there was a long pause. “Maybe I wasn’t hiding in the hills after all.”

  “Good night, Dad,” I said.

  “Good night,” he said. But before I’d pulled the receiver from my ear, he added, “Thanks.”

  My father felt validated. I don’t know how I knew that, but I did. It was something he needed. It didn’t matter that his family believed him. He needed to see it written down.

  I wondered if this was all there was to this odyssey. Maybe it was about getting his secrets about code breaking out in the open where they could be validated. Could it be as simple as that? I didn’t know.

  For now, though, I was just thankful for an answer—no matter how small. When I lay my head on the pillow that night, I was satisfied that I’d finally brought some little bit of peace to my father. What I didn’t know was that doubt would soon come crashing down on me.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Nightmares Return

  My address is Ad.Com.Phib.Pac., which is merely an abbreviation for Administrative Command Amphibious Pacific—which is just what we wanted to stay out of.—January 22, 1945

  The mention of Iwo Jima was just that, a mention. It wasn’t anything personal, like, “I was there.” Still, I had renewed energy and motivation to keep searching. The following Wednesday I was a little early picking Dad up for our regular breakfast. As Dad went to shave and get his coat for breakfast, Mom motioned for me to go outside with her. We stood on the brick steps.

  “The nightmares have started again,” she said.

  She looked at me as if I was an expert in this field, as if she’d asked a question that only I could answer.

  “Really?” I asked.

  My mind went back to the first nightmares. Shortly after 9/11, my father had become depressed. He didn’t realize it at the time and it’s only on reflection that my mother and I put it together, but somehow his WWII experiences got linked with the tragedy of 9/11. Soon, he immersed himself in everything having to do with WWII. Then the nightmares began. They weren’t specific at all. But to him, they were real and troubling.

  As he tossed and turned, my mother would feel the bed move. His screams came out as pathetic whimpers. If she tried to wake him, it seemed to make it worse. Then he’d wake with a start and sit on the side of the bed, sweating profusely. But he never remembered what the night terrors were about, only a general sense that they were about the war.

  Then for no obvious reason at all, they stopped. It was sometime after that he gave me the letters.

  My mother twisted her wedd
ing ring.

  “I wonder why they’ve started again,” I said.

  I wanted to help. I wanted to offer something to her, like she’d done for me so many times over the years. Still, my father’s reaction baffled me. Was it just chance that the nightmares started again? Was it the mere mention of Iwo Jima? What else could there be? He still hadn’t told me anything about what he did there. My mother stared at me. I wanted to help; I just didn’t know how.

  “He was restless and calling out in his sleep last night,” she said. “I couldn’t understand what he was saying, but he just tossed and turned all night long. In the morning, when I picked his pajamas up off the floor to throw them in the dirty clothes, the top was just drenched with sweat. I mean, you could practically wring it out it was so wet.”

  Just then, my father appeared at the screen door. He frowned at my mother.

  “Oh, you stop talking to her, Bettye,” he said. “Wednesdays are for me. You’re not allowed to speak on Wednesdays, don’t you know that?”

  At breakfast, I watched for signs. I expected him to ask about the reference to Iwo Jima that I’d found in his letter. After we ordered our food, there was a lull in our conversation. But he didn’t bring it up, so I decided not to bring it up either.

  When I dropped him back at his house, the whole breakfast had come and gone without him saying a single word about it. And that made me wonder: What had changed? Why wasn’t he anxious to talk about it now?

  That evening, while watching the news, an image came on the screen. It was a report on the war in Iraq—dusty roads, abandoned buildings, and U.S. soldiers who wore so much gear that even their mothers wouldn’t recognize them. They were on a rooftop lying in wait. They were on their bellies or squatting by glassless windows. Suddenly, gunfire erupted from the abandoned buildings.