This Light Between Us: A Novel of World War II

Alex wanders aimlessly through bands of heat that shimmer off the baked earth. Already, he is regretting his decision to wear sandals. Heat from the ground has worked its way through the thin material, singeing his calloused soles.

He stops in the shade of a barrack. His eyes lazily browse the bulletin board there. There are posted warnings (to boys) to stop peeking into the women’s shower, sports schedules for the baseball league, the girls’ basketball league. A help-wanted listing for the new school being set up, for volunteer teachers. No experience necessary. A writer-wanted posting from the Manzanar Free Press, the official camp newspaper, an unpaid position.

His curiosity piqued, he scans the bulletin for a job. International mail to France is costly, and he’ll soon run out of money. Although he hasn’t heard from Charlie since receiving her letter weeks ago, he’s been writing her at a fierce clip.

There are many posted jobs—a city of ten thousand doesn’t run itself, after all. Listings for construction crews, farming hands, latrine cleaners. None pay well, barely a pittance for the hard, unglamorous labor. Alex is about to leave when his eye catches: WAITER WANTED. GOOD WAGES.

His first thought: There’s a restaurant here? With good pay?

He reads the rest of the announcement. Ahhhh, he thinks.

* * *

“Tell me why you want this job.” The flabby white man, whose name Alex has already forgotten, leans toward him from across the table, his weight supported by his meaty, hairy forearms. The staff mess hall is mostly empty this time of day.

Alex considers his options: Because I love to wait tables. Because the staff mess hall is one of only two buildings with air-conditioning. Because nothing excites me more than the thought of serving the very white people who lord it over my people.

Instead he simply tells the truth. “You pay well.”

The man leans back. He rubs his plump jowls. “All right. You start tomorrow. Mary-Ann in the office will get the paperwork started and issue you a card for security clearance.”

Fifteen minutes later Alex exits the staff cafeteria building, clutching his security card. The buildings in the staff housing zone, painted white and spread out, lend the area an airy, relaxed atmosphere. Beautifully manicured lawns sit before single-detached homes. The lush green of grass contrasts with the rock-wall patios where stand trellises interwoven by sweet peas and other climbing plants. It feels like a whole other world. Alex hurries along clean walkways lined with white-painted stones, feeling like a trespasser.

At the security gate, he shows his newly issued card to the officer. The on-duty guard barely glances up at him, waves him out. As he reenters the main camp with its crowded tar-paper barracks and dusty roads, it feels like entering a ghetto. He tucks his head down, hopes no one notices him.

Back at his barrack, he pauses on the front steps to pat off the dust. He checks the letter box—mail is delivered now—out of habit. It’s empty.

Mother is inside, lying on her cot. He takes in her crinkled, white lips, the radial lines now etched permanently into the corners of her eyes. He knows she hasn’t been sleeping well. In less than a year, she’s aged more than a decade and now seems less like a mother and more a grandmother.

“Mother? Are you all right?”

She sits up, her bones creaking, the cot coils squeaking wheezily. “I’m fine.”

“You should quit your job before it kills you,” he says. Her shift at the camouflage-net factory begins at the crack of dawn, and often doesn’t end until the dinner gong.

“We need the money. And besides, it might help Father.”

“Father? How?”

“We’re showing our patriotism. Helping America’s war cause. It’ll help Father get released.” She clears her throat clogged with phlegm. “We should buy war bonds, too. Maybe that’ll help.”

He ladles water into a cup, brings it over to her. “Drink, Mother.”

She takes it with a shaking hand. “Have you heard anything back about the release petition?”

“No,” he lies.

She looks up at Alex with hopeful eyes. “Soon, though. Right?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

“Well, I’ll keep working at the camouflage-net factory. At least I’m doing something. Which is more than either of my sons are doing. My young, healthy, tall sons.”

Alex feels a rush of shame. “If there were something I could do to help Father,” he says defensively, “I would. But there isn’t.”

She pinches her lips in disagreement but says nothing more. With a sigh, she leans her head against the wall, takes a sip as she stares out the window. She’s looking for Frank. Always looking for Frank.

“Oh,” she says, remembering something. “You got a letter. From your French friend.”

His head whips up. “What? Where?”

She points to his cot. “I left it there.”

In two strides he’s got the envelope in his hand.

She laughs softly, a rare sound from her these days. “I think it’s good you have a friend outside.” She peers out the window. “We all need something outside these fences.”

He’s already tearing open the envelope.

25

* * *

15 July 1942

Dear Alex,

I am at Papa’s factory. Afraid. Hiding in the back rooms. I do not know what to do, I keep pacing. So I am writing to you, maybe this will help calm me.

Just two hours ago, Monsieur S came running into the factory. He was in panic. He showed us a tract that appeared today in Jewish neighborhoods. I will translate it:

“Do not wait in your home. Take all necessary steps to hide, and hide first your children with the help of sympathetic Parisians … If bad people come for you, resist in any way possible. Lock the doors, cry out for help, fight the police. You have nothing to lose. You can only save your life. Be ready to flee at any moment. We must not allow ourselves to be exterminated.”

Papa read the tract with a deep frown. Because there have been rumors recently. About roundups. About trains to awful camps. And I think Papa finally came to his senses. He told us we are to leave for Nice. Tomorrow.

And then Papa left for the apartment to pack suitcases with Maman. They will return to fetch me in the morning. Papa instructed me to stay here and wait for them.

Oh, Alex, I am afraid. For the first time I am truly afraid. I sensed something these past few days. A tension around the city that is thick with danger. Like the moment before lightning strikes. Something awful is about to happen.

Oh! Monsieur S is leaving now to catch the last train to Nice. He will go ahead of us to make arrangements. I will end here and give him this letter so he can send it out once he’s in Nice.

Alex reads the letter a dozen times, each time willing its content to change. Or at least to lengthen another paragraph or page. A different ending, one more hopeful. But nothing changes.

We must not allow ourselves to be exterminated.

He rubs his thumb over that sentence. Wanting to erase it, unable to.

26

NOVEMBER 19, 1942

Alex ends his shift later than usual, and it’s almost dark by the time he leaves the administration compound. A block away, he hears someone approaching from behind. It’s Frank. Quickly, Alex zips up his jacket to hide the security pass hanging around his neck.

“Frank? Did something happen to Mother?”

“She’s fine. Relax.”

“What is it then?”

Frank flicks the cigarette to the ground. “Can’t believe you work there, Alex. Waiting on them, serving them.” He shakes his head. “Thought you were better than that, kid.”

Alex keeps his eyes to the ground. “You came all this way to tell me that?”

Frank snorts. He’s lost weight, his jawline more angular, his cheekbones sharper. “Come on. Let’s walk home together.” He turns and strides away.

Alex stares suspiciously at his brother. Somethin

g’s up. But he follows anyway. A week of heavy rain has turned the ground slushy, and their pants become speckled with fresh spots of mud. They walk past the orchards, Blocks 28, 27, then 26. They reach the Catholic church, then turn left.

“Wait,” Alex says. “Where are we going?”

Frank doesn’t stop. “This way. Want to show you something.” When they reach Block 35 in the corner of the camp, Frank stops outside a barrack. “In here.”

“What’s inside?”

“Just come in.”

There are five men inside. Sitting around a table, coats on, hats pushed low.

“This your brother?” one of them says to Frank. “Don’t see the resemblance at all.”

“You sure you have the same father?”

Before Frank can snap back, a man—the oldest of the group, in his midthirties—speaks.

“Apologies,” the man says. “We’re cold and irritable. There’s no oil in that stove.”