This Light Between Us: A Novel of World War II

Alex

14

MARCH 28, 1942

The last few days pass by in a blur. Six days to pack up. Six days to make arrangements for the farm. To decide what to throw away and what to store, what to pack and what to burn.

Nineteen years to build a life. Six days to make it all go away.

Still it must be done. The clothes will not fold themselves, the books will not pack themselves. When Alex and Frank return home from school this last week, they find Mother on her knees packing boxes in the attic, or in the living room scrubbing the floorboards clean, or in the bedroom dusting the shelves.

Why, Mother? they ask, exasperated. They see her drained body, hear her labored breathing. It doesn’t matter. Not anymore. Who cares if the house is dusty or the floor dirty? We’re leaving.

But still she labors.

Six days until evacuation. Then five. Four, three. And now, only two.

When Alex returns home that day, he finds Mother carrying a packed box down to the basement. A sheen of sweat covering her face even in the cold.

“Mother,” he chides, taking the box from her. In the basement are dozens of stacked boxes lining the walls. He opens the nearest ones. Clothes, sweaters, jackets, all neatly folded, a few mothballs thrown in. Inside other boxes he finds books, framed pictures, old teddy bears. Their whole lives now stored and hidden away in darkness like skeletons in a coffin.

He hears voices from above. A man’s voice. In the kitchen. Mumbled English.

He heads upstairs. Through the window he sees a dented pickup truck with chipped paint parked outside, one he’s never seen before. In the cargo bed, a piano and oak farmhouse table secured by rope. He recognizes both items: over the years he’s eaten at that very table and performed on that piano during family recitals at the Yamadas’ home.

A stranger is standing in the kitchen. A beefy white man in dirty denim overalls towering over Mother. His boots still on, a trail of mud left behind. “I’ll take the fridge for five bucks and the clock for one.” He has the brusque air of a man in charge granting favors.

“What’s going on?” Alex says.

The man turns around, hooks his meaty fingers around his suspenders. The short stub of a cigarette dangles from the corner of his mouth. Smoke curling up. “Thought I’d come by and help you guys out.” The cigarette bobs up and down as he speaks. “I’ve made a quality offer on a few of your things. Your ma was just about to say yes.”

Alex looks at Mother. Standing perfectly still in the corner of the kitchen, impossibly petite against this large imposing man. Her face starch white, her wiry frame sharp. She’s upset.

Something catches the man’s eye. He walks over to the glass-door cabinet, throws open the door. He pulls out a stack of Wedgwood china and brings it over to the table. These are the limited-edition plates Father splurged on years ago, after she gave birth to Alex. They use them only twice a year, on Thanksgiving and Christmas. The man slides a plate out of its protective velvet sleeve, licks his lips. “I’ll take these for a buck. Total, that is.” He pats down on them with his fat, grubby hands, his wedding band clinking against the ceramic.

“Too cheap,” Mother says. “These plates expensive. Twenty dollars just for plates.”

The man laughs. “No.”

“The refrigerator thirty dollars,” Mother says. “And the clock, you cannot buy. We don’t sell.”

The man laughs again but this time with a mocking tone, as if at her accent. He scratches his scruffy beard where peanut butter is smeared on a few bristles. “Where you’re going, you won’t be needing a refrigerator. Or a grandfather clock, or these plates.”

“You give me forty dollars, I give you plates and the refrigerator.”

Now the smile disappears completely. “Listen, lady.” His eyes are cold pinpoints in his jowly face. “Case you don’t realize, I’m doing you a favor. I’m offering you a fair price for these items.”

“You think you’re offering a fair price?” Alex cuts in. “You’re insulting us, you’re—”

“Quit your sermonizing, right now, son,” the man snarls, snapping his fingers. “Don’t think for a minute that the second you’re gone other folks less honorable than me ain’t gonna come up here and help themselves to what’s left behind. Strip this place clean.” He turns back to Mother. “So I suggest you accept my offer with an appreciative bow of the head and a really nice ally-ga-toh.”

Mother stares at him. She only understood about a quarter of his words, but she understands him completely. She walks over to the kitchen table, picks up the plate.

“You want this?” she says. The plate trembles in her hands. “For one dollar?”

The man tut-tuts. “One dollar for all of them—”

She lifts her hand, raising the plate.

“Hey—” he starts to say.

She smashes the plate to the floor. The shatter is a thunderclap, the pieces flying in every direction.

“And you want this?” she says, removing another plate from its velvet sleeve. Her voice, high-pitched now. “One dollar?” She picks it up, smashes it at his feet.

“Daggum it, woman.” He glares at her, eyes wide. “You people have it coming for you.” His elbow catches the stack of plates as he storms out, knocking them over.

“Hey!” Alex shouts.

The man brushes past him, the ripe stink of body odor thick and pungent. “When you Japs are done with your prison time,” he shouts over his shoulder, “don’t even think about coming back here. Ever.” He smacks open the screen door, drives away.

15

MARCH 29, 1942

And then there is only one day until evacuation.

The Japanese church service that Sunday morning is a somber affair. People are exhausted, having spent the last few days scrambling to get their affairs in order. Rushing to lease or sell their land. To pack and store what they cannot carry with them. To liquidate every asset, selling off their cars, boats, freezers, for pennies on the dollar. They mumble through “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God,” their minds burdened with a thousand worries and fears and anxieties.

Alex sits in a state of disbelief. He still cannot believe they’re all leaving tomorrow. That come this time next week, this sanctuary will be completely empty in the morning hour. The whole Japanese congregation absent, vanished as if Raptured away.

He thinks of the empty farmlands, the empty storefronts, the idle trucks. Will anyone notice? He thinks of Bainbridge High School, how at this time tomorrow, his desk will be empty in an otherwise full classroom. The teachers will continue to teach, bells will continue to ring throughout the day, students will continue to crowd hallways and goof off and laugh aloud. Life will go on. But Alex will be gone.

Will anyone care? Will anyone notice?

After church service, Mother, Alex, and Frank—who’s been morose and silent since the football-game incident—stop by the hardware store to pick up a few last-minute items. Like string to tie around their suitcases, and canteens for—according to rumors—a forced march through the California desert.

On the way back, Alex asks Frank to stop by church. “I left my scarf in the pew,” he says. “Please, Frank.”

The sanctuary is empty when Alex walks in alone. It’ll be another hour before the regular congregation begins their service, and this is the dead in-between time. He walks down the center aisle, and it isn’t until he reaches his pew that he realizes there’s someone else in the sanctuary.

Jessica Tanner.

She’s two rows in front and hasn’t noticed him. She’s bent over, picking something off the pew. Alex thinks to duck away before she notices him. But too late: her eyes flick up to meet his.

“Oh, hi,” she says, straightening. Her face is slightly flushed from bending over. In one hand she’s got a stack of worship bulletins. “My week to set up for our service,” she says.

Alex nods, not sure what to say.

“Are you looking for this?” She holds up his s

carf. “I found it under your pew.”

He nods. “Thanks.” He doesn’t know what to say. The sanctuary seems too quiet and empty and airy. He hears the clock on the balcony ticktock louder than he’s ever heard it. He gives a quick smile, turning to leave—

“Are you looking forward to it?” she asks.

“Huh?”

“Tonight’s dance.”

“Oh.” He shuffles his feet. “Umm. I don’t think I’ll make it.”

Her eyebrows arch with genuine concern. “You should totally come. It’s gonna be real fun.” She looks at him earnestly. “Seriously.”

He doesn’t fault her for forgetting about the curfew. It’s not her world, not her problem. “I … the curfew.” He stares down at his feet. The silence is excruciating.

She looks confused, then turns bright red. “Oh my gosh, I’m sorry, I totally forgot—”

“No, no, no,” he says, holding his hands up. “It’s no big deal. Besides, I have some last-minute packing to do.”

“Packing?” Her blue eyes narrow with confusion; then, with an almost audible gasp, they widen with realization. Her hand flies to her mouth. “When do you leave?”