This Light Between Us: A Novel of World War II

“Hey, Maki, do me a favor,” one of them says.

Alex walks over. “Yeah?”

He points to a crate of leftover raw meat. “Put that in the refrigerator, would you? My back’s killing me.”

“The refrigerator? Only you guys are allowed in there.”

“And I just gave you permission.” The man scratches his armpit. “Put it on the third shelf with all the other meats, okay? Door’s unlocked.”

The inside of the refrigerator is packed, every shelf filled with prep food, tubs of butter, minced meat to be turned into meatballs for the next day’s dinner. He sets down the crate on the third shelf, quickly glances about the interior. The fridge is massive, with shelves running along the walls, five high.

He realizes that an opportunity has unexpectedly presented itself. If he wants to, he can take a quick look around. Not snooping, not exactly. More like a quick look-see. Not because he expects to find any stolen milk, sugar, or meat. But simply so he can tell Frank, Yes, I searched for you, and no, I did not find anything. It would be an olive branch that would appease Frank, help patch things up between them. Things have been very tense of late.

He moves toward the back of the refrigerator. Darker back here, light from the single bulb barely illuminating the many corners and shelves. Nothing seems out of the ordinary.

He is tiptoeing on a crate and poking around the top shelf when he hears footsteps approaching.

“Looking for something?”

He spins around, almost falling off the crate. “No. Nothing. Just, um, nothing.”

The man gives him a knowing smirk. “Over here,” he says, grabbing a bottle from a nearby shelf. Royal Crown Cola. Uncaps it, offers it to Alex with a wink. “We won’t tell if you don’t.”

It’s only later, as he’s tying his bootlaces readying to leave, that he makes a discovery. On the floor are the square contours of a trapdoor leading to the space under the mess hall.

The two staffers are turned away, chatting by the sink on the far side.

Partly because he’s emboldened by his earlier search, and partly because he can hear Frank already asking—Well, did you look for an underground cellar like I asked you to?—he decides to makes one last stab. Quickly, he pulls up the door, and lowers his head into the space. He pulls out a lighter from his back pocket, and peers about. On the nearest side, in the flickering light he sees bottles of beer and wine, even some bootleg sake. Cartons of Chesterfield and Camel cigarettes. Tins of foreign cigars. No big deal, just knickknacks. Nothing major, no stolen jugs of milk or bags of sugar. Job complete. Now he can go. He is about to snap off his lighter, when—

He sees something. He sweeps the lighter across the far wall. His eyes widen, his blood turns cold.

* * *

He runs past Block 13, 14, 15. It’s Friday afternoon, the only time of the week he knows exactly where to find his brother.

Onlookers crowd the sidelines of the football field. Alex pushes his way to the front. Less than a minute remains in this tied game, and the field is torn up into a mucky mess, the players themselves covered in mud, their faces streaked with dirt.

Alex sees Frank standing behind the offensive line, yelling out a series of numbers. A different Frank, this one joyous, energized, a throwback to the Bainbridge Island Frank. The center thrusts the ball back into Frank’s waiting hands. Bodies clash. Frank: a marvel on the field, graceful and fast as a gazelle. His legs, running and cutting so effortlessly, dodging defenders who go flying past him. He pulls his hand back like a slingshot drawn, then unleashes the football, a propulsion of force that sends the ball sailing an ungodly distance down the field. And into the arms of a wide receiver. Touchdown. Game over.

The crowd roars its approval, the players go wild in celebration. Smiles on mud-streaked faces, thumps on the back. The crowd soon disperses, and Alex is left standing alone on the sidelines that have been almost completely erased by all the mud. It’s almost impossible to see where the playing field starts and ends. Frank sees him then. Reads the expression on Alex’s face.

He says a few words to his teammates, then jogs over.

“Alex. What is it?”

Alex steps toward him. Opens his mouth but cannot speak.

“Did you search the WRA mess hall?”

He nods.

“What did you find?”

Alex swallows. “Everything.”

* * *

The next morning the camp wakes up to posters put up during the night. They’re nailed everywhere: on electric poles, the sides of mess halls, outside the laundry and ironing rooms in each block. Angry diatribes against the camp administration, accusing them of stealing meat and sugar for the black market.

The posters are quickly pulled down by MPs. Police presence is increased. Throughout the day, jeeps and trucks race recklessly up and down streets in a demonstration of power. Curfew is enforced. At night, those stationed on the guard towers consider it their patriotic duty to shine the spotlight right into the barracks, waking up the occupants.

If the intent is to quell any unrest, the heightened police presence has the opposite effect. Their presence agitates, enflames, provides a target for all the internees’ pent-up anger. Roving groups of young men make their way through the blocks. Yelling their voices hoarse. Barging into mess halls, fists pumped, shouting to be heard.

Alex watches with Mother from inside the barrack. Then against her wishes, he opens the door, stands in the doorway. He watches another MP jeep tear down the road, braking to take down more posters.

“Where is your brother?” Mother asks. “Is he staying out of trouble?”

Alex doesn’t answer. He is thinking of the sacks of sugar, the jars of milk he discovered yesterday under the staff mess hall. He is thinking of the babies dying.

For so long he’s been a mere spectator to the growing anger. Standing behind the lines of the field, firmly on his side. But now, like the football field yesterday covered in mud, the lines are blurring. The separation between player and spectator, between Frank and himself, fading away.

“Did you hear me?” Mother asks. “Is your brother okay?”

He looks at her. “He’s fine,” he says, and steps out.

31

DECEMBER 6, 1942

Just after midnight. The door swings open, smacking against the wall. Ice-cold wind sluices in. Then a stampede of pounding footsteps, racing across the floor.

“Wake up, Frank! Get up!” The voice gruff, urgent, angry.

“What is it?” Frank’s voice, thick with grogginess.

Alex sits up. In the darkness, he sees four, five men standing over Frank’s cot.

“Daisuke?” Mother alarmed, her hair a riot. “What’s happening?”

One of the men says to Frank, “They got him, oh hell, they got him—”

“Slow down, everyone slow down,” Frank says, raising himself on one arm.

“They got him—”

“Who’s him?”

“Harry Ueno!”

Frank shoots up. Rises up from the huddle of bodies. “What do you mean?”

“They arrested him earlier tonight. Slapped cuffs on him and hauled him off to prison.”

“Prison?”