This Light Between Us: A Novel of World War II

My homeroom teacher, Mr. Hartford, has been sober for the whole week. Yes, Mr. Drunk himself. On Tuesday he flat out told Billy Hosokawa and me that he didn’t want us reciting the Pledge of Allegiance anymore. He told us we should stand out of respect, but he didn’t want “no Jap” defiling the flag. If I was blond with blue eyes and had a surname like McCarthy, I’d have told him to go to hell, no one is stopping me from pledging my allegiance to my home country. But all I did was stare down and wish I could disappear through the floorboards.

But I get the last laugh. Because I’m still saying the pledge every morning. I whisper it secretly like a ventriloquist. Mr. Drunk doesn’t have a clue. Betty Baldwin sits in front of me, and she hears. She always gives me a quick sideways wink as she sits down.

I’m sorry that this letter is all doom and gloom. They say writing helps clarify your thoughts and emotions. Well, it has. And my thoughts and emotions are clearly just the darkest of clouds pouring down the bitterest of rain.

Alex

* * *

Alex leans back in his chair, rubbing his hand. Night presses against the window. In the darkened glass, he sees the reflection of the small guttering candle on his desk. He sees his own reflection, too, his thin arms poking out of the blanket thrown over his hunched shoulders.

He folds the letter and inserts it into a stamped envelope. Later today, he’ll drop it into the mailbox where it’ll begin a five-thousand-mile journey to Paris: first from Bainbridge Island to Seattle to New York City, then a long flight to Lisbon, Portugal. Then by rail across Spain and into the zone non-occupeé to a town called Perpignan where it’ll hopefully slip past the prying eyes of censors, and arrive at long last in Marseille.

There a man named Monsieur Wolfgang Schäfer, to whom the letter is addressed on the envelope, will pick it up. Monsieur Schäfer, a close friend and business partner of Charlie’s father, is an exceedingly well-connected and influential industrialist in possession of great wealth and, importantly, the necessary travel documents. He makes biweekly business trips to and from Paris, and his briefcase, which is always stuffed with documents and contracts—and on occasion a letter from or addressed to Bainbridge Island, USA—is never searched.

“Alex,” a voice says from across the room.

Alex almost cries out. “Frank? You scared the hell out of me.”

Frank laughs quietly. “What time is it?”

“Almost three.”

“Dang. The dead zone.” He rubs his eyes with the balls of his hands. Ever since Pearl Harbor, he’s been waking up at all hours, very unusual for him especially during football season.

“Can I ask you something, Frankie?” Alex hasn’t called his brother “Frankie” in years.

But Frank doesn’t seem to notice, much less mind. “Go ahead.”

“What’s going to happen to us?”

Frank stops rubbing his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, are we okay?”

Frank stifles a yawn. “I’m too sleepy to read your mind. Just spit it out. What’s buggin’ you?”

Alex lifts the pen nib off the page so it doesn’t blot. “Are we going to be, I don’t know, expelled from school or something?”

“Expelled from school?” He snorts. “Whatever the hell for? Don’t be ridiculous. Nothing’s going to change, okay? We’re Americans, born and raised.”

“How about Mother and Father? Will they be sent back to Japan?”

“Nah, don’t be stupid.” Frank pulls himself into a sitting position, his knee bent, an elbow resting on top. His eyes tired but wide, the flames of the candle flickering softly over his face. A handsome face, breaking into full manhood, gazing at Alex. “Everything’s going to be fine, kid.”

“Will they let you stay on the team? And still be quarterback?”

Frank gives a cocksure grin. “Now I know you’re nuts.” He rubs his thick forearm. “Without me, there is no team. And just today, Coach was telling us we’re going to be busier than ever. Maybe play some charity games after the season, raise money for the military.” He leans toward Alex. “Nothing’s going to change, Alex. Everything will be fine, you worrywart.”

Alex stares out the window, then back at Frank. “I hope you’re right. Because I heard rumors about roundups and other stuff.”

“Hey, when have I ever been wrong? Don’t worry.” He flicks his chin at Alex’s desk. “Whatcha drawing?”

“Not drawing.” Alex pauses. “Writing a letter.”

“To Charlie again?”

“Yeah.” Alex turns his eyes away, a little embarrassed.

“It’s good to have a friend,” Frank says softly after a moment. “Especially now.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

Alex hesitates, puts the pen down. “Frankie, can I ask you a question?”

“Shoot.”

He pauses. Then whispers, “Do you think I’m weird?”

“Of course you are, you little goober.” He leans forward, rests his chin on his kneecap. “But what do you mean?”

“Never mind.”

“No, seriously, Alex.” His face curious but also tender and protective.

Alex stares down at the page, swallows. “Is it normal to … feel this way for someone I’ve never met?”

“And what is this way?”

Alex shrugs. “I don’t know. Just like, real close. Like we’re best friends. But maybe even closer than that.”

“Closer than best friends? Yeah, that’s called a girlfriend.” He clucks his teeth in amusement.

Alex shakes his head. “Never mind.”

Frank’s voice turns earnest. “Hey, I’m just joshin’. Look, I think it’s fine, kiddo. Not everything has to have a clear label. You can be somewhere between best friend and girlfriend, and that’s a perfectly okay place to be.” He rubs his bicep. “She feel the same way?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’ve never told her how you feel?”

Alex pauses before answering. Soon after he turned fourteen, he’d confessed his feelings to her in a feverish, blathering nine-page letter. Two seconds after he dropped the envelope into the mailbox he wanted to reach into the slot and retrieve it. But it was too late.

She didn’t reply for six weeks. The longest period he’d gone without hearing from her. He thought maybe this was her way of ending things, ending the awkwardness. He wished he’d never sent that letter.

He returned home one day to find a letter from her. He ripped open the envelope. In reply, she told him he was—

“Well?” Frank says. “You ever tell her how you feel?”

“Once I might’ve confessed my feelings.”

“Yeah? How’d she respond?”

Alex pauses. “She basically called me an idiot.”

Frank laughs, not unkindly. “Too funny. And true.” He grabs his pillow, throws it at Alex, hitting him on the head. A perfect strike. Of course. “Because you are an idiot, kid.”

Alex picks up the pillow and throws it right back. It thuds against the side of the bed, missing badly, and flops to the floor. Of course.

“You guys ever talk about it again?” Frank asks.

“Nah. We just let it drop.”