This Light Between Us: A Novel of World War II

The water boils. Mother brings tea to the table. But neither she nor Father drinks. They sit rock-still, their faces stoic and unreadable, heads bowed toward the radio as if in apology. Father turns the dial, finds another report that Japan has begun to attack Manila. A minute later and the radio channels have resumed their regular programming.

Alex leaves the kitchen. He shuts the door to the bedroom he shares with Frank, sits at his desk. He thinks about the regular programming that has resumed on the radio. As if the attack on Pearl Harbor isn’t actually such a big deal. A minor skirmish, a boys-will-be-boys scrape. Dust off, shake hands, move on. Perhaps life will go on as usual? He stares outside. The day is bright, the sky blue, the sun blazing and glorious. As before. As usual.

But then he thinks about the group of men back in town. The way they approached the truck, elbows crooked, hands bunched into fists. The hatred in their eyes.

Nothing is the same, he thinks. Everything has changed.

From outside his window, a sound: whack. Coming from the barn. Whack.

Alex knows the sound. Years ago, Father hung an old tire on the cypress tree by the barn. The two brothers spent endless hours swinging on the tire until they outgrew it. A year ago Frank turned the tire into a football target, throwing the pigskin through it from varying distances, often on the run, sprinting right, breaking left, the tire swaying like a pendulum, the football sometimes striking rubber, usually sailing right through.

Alex goes to the window. He sees Frank at the tire. Hero standing at a distance, ears pinched back. Frank is holding a baseball bat. He raises it above his head, then swings it down on the tire furiously like he’s splitting firewood. Whack. Whack. Even from the window, he can see his brother’s chest heaving, his Sunday clothes twisted and disheveled. The bat rises again. Falls. Whack. Whack. Whack.

3

DECEMBER 8, 1941

On Monday morning, less than twenty-four hours after the Pearl Harbor attack, Alex steps off the school bus. He has never in all his life ever felt his Japaneseness more keenly.

He tugs down his woolen hat, wishes he had a pair of sunglasses. As he walks to the front entrance, every eyeball at Bainbridge High School seems to turn to him. Or maybe not, maybe no one is paying him any mind. Maybe he’s as invisible as always. The Nisei students tend as a rule to be unseen in this community, anyway, but even among them Alex usually goes about unnoticed.

Not that he especially minds. So long as he has his ABCs—Art, Books, Charlie—he’s fine.

Mr. Johnson, the gym teacher, stands on a landing at the top of the stairs before the entrance. This is unusual; Alex has never seen Mr. Johnson out here. He’s greeting the arriving students with an enthusiastic “Good morning, God bless America,” thumping the shoulders of some of the bigger boys. An American flag is pinned on his jacket. When Alex walks past, Mr. Johnson clams up.

In the hallway, Alex keeps his eyes on the floor. He stops by his locker to throw in his jacket, then slams the door shut. His homeroom is only three steps away, and he takes a deep breath before entering the classroom.

Surprisingly, it’s business as usual. Craig Webster and Jack Wells are goofing around. Josh Hunter is carving into the wooden desktop with a penknife. Leo Dalton and Jimmy Myers are arm wrestling, grunting red-faced. Mary Billings is copying homework. Charlotte Coplin is brushing her hair, pretending to ignore the gawking boys.

Only Billy Hosokawa, probably the funniest kid in class with his Daffy Duck impersonations, seems out of sorts. He’s sitting alone, hunched over and perfectly still. Like a tiny mouse caught out in the open field as eagles circle overhead.

Mr. Hartford tromps in. The class rises as one, chairs scraping against the wood floor. Mr. Hartford’s face often has a reddish hue to it, and there are rumors of a drinking problem. But this morning there’s a harder tinge to the redness. The red of anger.

“Good morning, everyone.” His eyes shine with an uncharacteristic clarity.

“Good morning, Mr. Hartford,” everyone chimes back in unison.

He pauses a moment, taking in the class. When he sees Billy Hosokawa, his salt-and-pepper moustache twitches with annoyance. He unfolds a sheet of paper.

“I have an announcement to make. From Principal Roy Dennis.” A look of mild disgust crosses his face as he reads aloud.

“‘Yesterday, Imperial Japan attacked Pearl Harbor. We are right to be angry about this. But we must not let our patriotic anger boil over into an unrighteous rage. I want to remind everyone that the Japanese American students here at Bainbridge High School are not only our fellow students but our fellow Americans. We will have no part of race hatred at our school today or any day. God bless America.’”

Mr. Hartford stares at the paper. In a blur of movement, he suddenly scrunches it up into a ball. The sound is impossibly loud, almost violent. He tosses it into the wastepaper basket across the room. Then squares his broad shoulders to the classroom, and stares at the American flag on the wall.

“Let me,” he says, “translate what Principal Dennis just said. Yesterday the Japs attacked us. A sneak attack I can only describe as cowardly and gutless.” His face twists into a scowl. “But they picked the wrong country, didn’t they? Because when we get punched, we punch back, don’t we, fellas? And no country punches back harder than the United States of God Bless America. So you just watch, we’re going to punch every rat-faced, squinty-eyed, bandy-legged Jap, every last one of them I’m telling you, all the way back to Tokyo.”

Some of the boys clap and booyah! Alex stays very quiet. Anthony Donner raises his hand and asks Mr. Hartford how long it’ll take President Roosevelt to officially declare war on Japan. “Before this day is done, and I’ll bet my britches on it,” Mr. Hartford answers, jutting out his meaty chin. “On that note, it’s time for the Pledge of Allegiance.”

The class recites the pledge louder that morning than any other time. Mr. Hartford, hand over heart, gets misty-eyed. Alex makes sure that his voice is neither too quiet nor too loud. And when the class sits down, he is similarly careful that he isn’t the first or the last to sit, that he stays right in the middle of the pack.

When he walks out into the hallway ten minutes later, it’s as if he’s grown a second head and become covered in leprosy. Every eyeball turns toward him. Whispers, whispers. And stares, glares. He keeps his eyes down. He has never felt so conspicuous.

A tall senior bumps into him, almost knocking his books to the floor. An accident, probably. But by the end of the day, he’s bumped two more times. When he goes to his locker to retrieve his jacket, he notices something scrawled on the front. Three words.

Go home Jap.

The three words are short, blunt, and cut deep. Alex has only wanted to be left alone. But now someone has thought of him. Someone has taken the effort to write these words on his locker.

He reaches forward to wipe the words away. But the ink holds, smudging only a little.

A group of girls, walking past behind him, start to giggle. Probably at something unrelated, probably they haven’t even noticed the words.

A few lockers down to his left, a boy laughs.

He should walk away. But he is frozen, unable to pick up his feet.

Someone approaches him from behind. Puts a warm hand on his shoulder.

“Alex.” It’s Frank. “I already spoke to the janitor. He’s gonna take care of it.” Frank squeezes his shoulder. “C’mon, let’s go.”

Al

ex nods. He tucks his head down and together they head down the hallway. Frank walks right next to him, and Alex is glad for it. He wonders if Frank has any idea how much he worships the ground he walks on, how his heart swells with pride every time he walks past the trophy case at school and sees Frank’s beaming face on the team photograph, front and center. How, at home, Alex secretly watches him practice for hours on end, throwing the pigskin through the swinging tire or into open trash cans placed at specific distance markers. Because it’s super popular Frank, with his ungodly athletic prowess and aw-shucks grin and happy-go-lucky personality, who is the sole reason why skinny, introverted, and more-than-slightly strange Alex Maki hasn’t been bullied mercilessly at school. Nobody touches the star quarterback’s little brother.

When they get on the bus, Frank, for the first time in years, sits next to him. Without speaking a word, they ride home together.

4

* * *

December 10, 1941

Dear Charlie,

Can’t believe it’s been only three days since the Pearl Harbor attack. This has been the longest week of my life.

There’re all these dumb rules for the Japanese American community. No traveling more than five miles from home. No radios. Our bank accounts frozen. Yesterday we had to register ourselves at the police station and turn over contraband. I even had to give up my pocketknife and flashlight. Just in case, I—yes, me, scrawny Alex Maki, the skinniest bookworm from sea to shining sea—decide to lead a revolt at night armed with nothing more than my puny pocketknife.

At school no one speaks to me. There are a few other Japanese American students but we avoid each other. I guess we don’t want to come across looking like the enemy, plotting an attack on America or something ridiculous like that.