This Light Between Us: A Novel of World War II

The interior is like that of any other barrack. The same walls and wooden planks, the same tepid air inside. But there are a few differences. A metal file cabinet in the corner. An Underwood portable typewriter sitting on a desk. A blond veneer armchair, the cushions covered with a faded blue pinstripe flannel. A cheap bookshelf made of corrugated steel, its shelves stacked with newspapers. The Los Angeles Times. The New York Times. The Santa Ana Register. The San Francisco Chronicle. And stacks of magazines. The New Republic. The Atlantic.

“Would you like some tea?” Ray Takeda asks, observing Alex.

Alex swings his eyes from the bookshelf back to Ray Takeda. “Tell me what’s happening in France.”

“Well, there’s a lot, depends on what you—”

“I have a friend who lives in Paris. She’s Jewish. I think something may have happened to her.” He glances at the stack of newspapers. “Do you know anything?”

Ray Takeda looks at Alex for a very long time. “Are you sure you want to know?”

“Yes.”

He hesitates. Brushes off dust from his sleeve. “I’ve been reading things,” he says after a moment, his face grim. “Disturbing stuff. I need to warn you—”

“Tell me.”

“There’ve been rumors of roundups.”

“I know that already. But you know more, don’t you?”

Ray Takeda’s voice is soft now. “There are other stories. Of whole families, women and children, being sent by train to undisclosed locations. To camps. And then…” His voice falters.

“Then what?”

“This is just a rumor. But there are rumors of … executions.”

“Executions?” Alex feels his stomach turn. He points to the bookshelf. “Show me these articles.”

Ray Takeda shakes his head. “It’s just tidbits of information.”

“Still. Show me.”

“Like I said, it’s a sentence here, a few words there scattered among different news reports.” His voice turns grave. “But I suspect we’ll be hearing more in months to come.”

“Then I want to read everything you have. And every magazine and newspaper as they come in.”

Ray Takeda snorts. “This is not a public library. It’s a printing press. And the staff, we’re very busy.”

“So I’ll work.”

“We’re not hiring.”

“Then I’ll intern. As a volunteer reporter. Whatever. I just need to be here.”

Ray Takeda takes off his glasses, starts polishing them with a handkerchief. “Listen. I understand your situation, and I’m sympathetic. Truly, I am. But we don’t need writers currently. We’ve got college students on leave from Harvard and Princeton who write better than you.”

“Then I’ll draw.”

He shakes his head. “We’re strictly a printed-word publication. No illustrations.”

Alex quickly whips out the blank page from the typewriter. Grabs a nearby pencil.

“What are you doing?”

Alex ignores the question. Seconds later, he holds out the sheet. He’s drawn Ray Takeda, a quick caricature. “If I had another ten seconds,” he boasts, “it’d be twice as good.”

Ray Takeda puts on his glasses. “You have talent. Clearly.” He hands back the paper. “But like I said. We don’t print illustrations.”

Alex refuses to take the paper back. “Her name is Charlie Lévy,” he whispers. “I haven’t heard from her in months. I don’t know what’s happened to her. I don’t know if she’s even alive.” He looks at Ray Takeda. “This is my only way of … staying connected to her.”

Ray Takeda blows out his cheeks, walks over to the window. Stares outside. “Fine. You can work here. Strictly as a volunteer. Mostly you’ll sweep and mop the floor, you’ll wash out our coffee mugs, you’ll run errands to and from the post office. But you get in our way, you so much as sneeze too loud, and you’re gone, do you understand?”

Alex is already grabbing the broom.

37

FEBRUARY 3, 1943

At the crack of dawn most days, Alex rises from bed, puts on his boots, and slips out. The camp is eerily quiet and deserted and beautiful at this hour. Faint figures dot the dawn-rimmed horizon: mess-hall staff working the breakfast shift; or those carrying laundry, hoping to get an early jump; or the elderly heading to the bathroom for the illusory promise of privacy. A few, even in the cold, wear getas, traditional Japanese clogs made out of wood, to keep their feet clear of mud.

Some mornings he arrives to find the office in a flurry of action. Three, maybe four staff workers hunched over desks, glue and tape and scraps of paper scattered about, the Underwood typewriter clacking out its tune. Ray Takeda, always unflappable, always immaculately dressed even after working through the night, typing away in rolled-up sleeves, a lit cigarette dangling seemingly forgotten from his lips.

But most mornings he arrives to find the office unoccupied and dark. He turns on the lights, empties ashtrays, sweeps the floor, brews a pot of coffee. All to give evidence that he has been at work in case Ray Takeda should walk in.

And only then does he read. Starting with any magazines or newspapers that have come in, then working chronologically backward through the stacks, picking up from where he left off. He pores over any news about Europe. Time magazine prints a war map every week, and he sees the black spill of Nazi occupation across Europe, the dense black soaking up the nations, absorbing France. Paris. Charlie.

Ray Takeda wasn’t lying: news about the plight of Jews in France—or in Poland or the Netherlands or anywhere—is scant. A sentence here and there. A remark about some rumor overheard. Of prisoners in striped clothing, starving to death. Shaved heads, even numbers tattooed onto their arms. But nothing more than those throwaway pieces of information.

Charlie seems so far away.

He finds other articles. Not about the situation in Europe, but closer to home. About Japanese Americans. Like this “Survey of Opinion” published by the Los Angeles Times:

Do you favor a constitutional amendment after the war for deportation of all Japanese from this country, and forbidding further immigration? Yes: 10,598; No: 732.

Would you except American-born Japanese if such a plan as the above were adapted? Yes: 1,883; No: 9,018.

One morning he arrives to find Ray Takeda and three other staff standing over a stack of flyers. “Ah, good, you’re here,” he says on seeing Alex. “We need you to help post these up around the camp.”

Alex picks up the top flyer. This must be a cruel joke. An April Fools’ joke come two months early.

President Roosevelt announces establishment of the 442nd Combat Team, a military unit composed exclusively of Japanese-American soldiers.

“No loyal citizen of the United States should be denied the democratic right to exercise the responsibilities of citizenship, regardless of his ancestry. The principle on which this country was founded and by which it has always been governed is that Americanism is a matter of the mind and the heart; Americanism is not, and never was, a matter of race or ancestry. A good American is one who is loyal to this country and to our creed of liberty and democracy.”

“That’s fresh, coming from him,” Alex says. “He throws us into jail in the middle of the desert. And now he wants us to fight for him? In a segregated unit? Is he for real?”

“These flyers are for real, and that’s all that matters,” Ray Takeda says. “And we have our duties. Everyone to your assigned blocks and post these on the bulletin boards.”

At Block 9, Alex nails up the flyer

and turns around. A crowd has already gathered.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” someone says.

“What does this mean?” a teenager asks.

“It means we can enlist,” another teen answers, peering closely at the page. “It means they finally want us. We can fight for America.” The teen bounces from foot to foot. “Hey, we get to wear uniforms. Shoot weapons. Fight Nazis. We get to leave this dump!”

“You’re an idiot,” someone tells him.

“How old do you have to be?” the teen asks.

“Probably eighteen.”

Alex steps away from the bulletin board. He’ll be eighteen in two months. Not that it matters. There’s no way he’ll enlist. Not after this country has taken away Father, taken away their freedom, and thrown them in this prison. Not after that “Survey of Opinion” showing this country would overwhelmingly choose to deport him—a fellow citizen—to Japan, a country he’s never even visited before.

Alex walks off. In the next block, he goes into the bathroom and drops the remaining flyers down into the cesspool.

38

FEBRUARY 10, 1943

A week later an army recruitment team pays a visit to Manzanar Internment Camp. The team is made up of a lieutenant and three sergeants. The top brass, not the low ranks, the grunts. They’re here to impress.

This surprises most people.

The mess hall is packed fifteen minutes before start time. Most in attendance have ulterior motives. Memories of the December riot are still raw and fresh, and these four military uniforms standing before them draw icy stares. Alex squeezes in and elbows his way to the third row.

The lieutenant speaks first, a silver-haired, stony-faced man. He’s followed by two of the sergeants. Nobody laughs at their canned jokes, their corny sense of humor meant to set the internees at ease. When they make cheesy calls to patriotism and duty and honor, a few in the audience, their arms folded, snort.