This Light Between Us: A Novel of World War II

PRELUDE

He was seventeen the first time he saw her. A February dusk in 1943 on the cold plains of Manzanar. The snowcapped Sierra Nevada mountains loomed in the distance, stoic and stark. She appeared for but a few seconds; an ashy smear of light on the other side of the barbed fence. Her clothes seemed too large and flapped in the wind. Her hair swirled madly, too, but slowly, even luxuriously, as if underwater. Dust swept across the plains and blew into his eyes. He blinked once, twice. She was gone.

An optical illusion, he thought. A dusk-lit reverie of dancing dust playing tricks in the windswept plains. Nothing more than a figment of his overripe, yearning, lonely imagination.

He stared at that empty space where she was and then was not.

Still he whispered her name:

Charlie.

1

18 March 1935

Dear Alex Maki,

Hello! My name is Charlie Lévy. I am your new pen pal in France. Nice to meet you!

You are in America! Ouah, so far away! Last week Mme Dubois say to my English class avancé, Who want to do a letter exchange program with American school? And everyone is so happy. Me the most! Because I am wanting an American pen pal for a very long time. Now I am very excited—can you see my shaking words? Sorry! And sorry for my poor English. Even though I am studying English for many years and have English nanny at home, I think I have a lot of grammar and spelling mistakes.

Anyway, Mme Dubois say I must introduce myself in this first letter.

My name is Charlie Lévy. I am ten years old. My Papa owns a big shoe factory. My Maman is busy at home with me. Our English nanny, Katherine, is from London. We live in Paris, a beautiful city. Do you know the Tower of Eiffel? It is famous! I can see it from my bedroom window. Maybe if you have a big world map you can find Paris.

What about you? Do you have brother and sister? Do you play sport or music? What are your hobbys? I like to study English, play cello, paint eggs, eat anything with Dundee marmalade, and swimming (but I hate swimsuits. I wish I was a boy—it is so easy for them, no?) And now I have a new favorite hobby—writing to my American pen pal!

Do you like reading? I love to read! My English nanny say the best book in history is Jane Eyre, and one day I will read it. But only when my English is good enough. (I will not read the French edition—that is cheating, no?) My dream is one day I am studying English Literature at Sorbonne University. Do you know Sorbonne University? It is the best university in the Earth!

I tell you something funny now. I make a new friend last week. She is from Helsinki, Finland, and her name is Aleksandra Mäki. We call her Alex so her nickname is Alex Mäki! Like you, no? Maybe you are relatives? Maybe you are twins? (I am laughing now.)

Please write back. I am excited!

Yours sincerely,

Charlie Lévy

April 9, 1935

Charlie,

Wait … you’re a girl?

Alex

April 13, 1935

Charlie,

My teacher Mrs. Graff wasn’t happy when she learned I wasted a stamp on a letter that was only one sentence long. So she’s making me write a real letter now. It has to be at least one page, she said.

I actually complained to her about you being a girl. She said it was a simple mix-up—she thought you were a boy. Anyway, it’s too late to change pen pals because everyone is already paired up. She told me that I’m just going to have to make do. So I guess I’m stuck with you. The worst part is the whole class knows now.

Mrs. Graff is making me introduce myself, too. There’s not much to say. My dad’s a strawberry farmer, my mom’s a strawberry farmer’s wife, my brother’s a strawberry farmer’s son.

I looked up France on a world map. I’m not impressed. It’s really puny compared to AMERICA, isn’t it? And Paris is just a tiny black dot on the map. No offense, but that’s your capital? What’s that like, living in such a small city? Do you feel trapped all the time? Is it hard to breathe?

So you can see the Eiffel Tower from your bedroom, can you now? Tell me, will they ever finish building it? Because I’ve seen pictures of the Eiffel Tower, and it looks like they started building it, then realized how ugly it was going to turn out. So they just up and left. Nothing but the ugly metal scaffolding left behind.

I also read that you French people don’t like to shower, and that you’re all really smelly. I think that’s true. When I sniffed your letter, I smelled something really foul. Like underarm odor combined with a fart. Maybe your farts are especially nasty because you eat too much Dundee marmalade. And just what the heck is Dundee marmalade?

I don’t have any hobbies. I don’t play any musical instruments. I don’t like to fish or hunt or play sports. I especially don’t like writing letters. The only thing I like to do is read and draw comics. The Famous Funnies. #3 and #5 are cool. #8 ain’t too bad.

And now I’ve finished filling up this one page so I can stop.

Alex

P.S. If you ever want to stop this stupid pen-pal thing, I won’t be offended. In your next letter, just write two words, I QUIT, and I’ll show it to Mrs. Graff. You don’t even have to write it in English, you can just write Je quit if that’s easier for you.

4 May 1935

Dear Alex Maki,

You are funny American boy! Let us keep writing!

Yours sincerely,

Charlie Lévy

THREE YEARS LATER

18 March 1938

Dear Alex,

Hello! This letter is celebrating our three-year anniversary as pen pals! Can you believe it? I can’t. I never think we will be pen pals for so long. All my classmates stopped after only one year, but we are still writing. Thank you for putting up with all my poor English! Pouah, will I ever improve? You keep telling me yes, but I wonder!

Oh, and thank you for listening (reading?) to everything in my life: my fights with my parents, my different hobbies (now I like tap dancing!), and the new boy I like at school (as you say, my new flavor of the month!!).

Your letters and funny drawings always make me forget the horrible things that are happening here in Europe. They make me forget Hitler and his stupid moustache and his oily hair and his crazy eyes, and how he comes closer and closer to France.

Haha! You keep asking me what I look like! You are always asking me! Okay, I will tell you now: I think I am a little pretty but not very pretty. Maybe pretty but in a different way. I think I have a certain fire in my eyes, like a purpose? A sharp focus that boys find pretty? Sometimes when I am reading a book in English class, I see them staring at me. And when I look up, they quickly move their eyes away, blushing.

Okay, now that we are writing for three years, I have a confession. I lied to you two years ago. You ask if I like strawberries and I said yes. But now I tell you the truth: I do not like strawberries. They are pretty to look at, but when I eat one, J’ai envie de vomir. Sorry. I lie before because you are a strawberry farmer son. I do not want to offend you.

Sorry for this small lie. Even small lies can destroy a big relationship. So inside this envelope I put a French flower. This is how I say sorry to you. I do not know the English name of this flower but in France, we call it œillet rose. It has a nice smell and pretty pink color, no? But maybe when you get it, it is dead. Maybe it is black and has bad smell in envelope (I am laughing!).

Au revoir!

Charlie

April 15, 1938

Dear Charlie,

Your œillet rose arrived œillet dead. But it wasn’t black or smelly so you can stop laughing now. By the way, how the heck do you pronounce œillet? Because what is œ? Why are the o and e mashed together like Siamese twins?

Anyway, you don’t need to apologize about not liking strawberries. I’m not too keen on them myself. All my life I’ve planted them, sown them, picked them, harvested them, smelled them, sold them, eaten them. My whole life. I’d be fine never seeing another one again. Which is why I can’t wait to go off to college and do something else with my life. Like become a cartoonist. Actually, not like a cartoonist, but to become exactly a cartoonist. That’s my dream job. (Note: this is a carefully guarded secret. My parents would have a fit if they found out. Because they’ve got designs on their youngest child becoming a dentist or something.)

Speaking of secrets …

Since you made a confession, I feel it only right that I confess something, too. Sit down because this is kind of a big confession. Okay, here goes.

I’m not really who you think I am. Do you remember how you once asked me to describe myself? And I may have told you that I have blond hair and blue eyes. Well, that’s not quite true. In fact, it’s not true at all. I actually have black hair and brown eyes. And my surname Maki is not Scandinavian in origin (in fairness, I never claimed that, you simply assumed it was. Yes, you did, I can show it to you in your very first letter). My family name Maki is actually Japanese. My parents are from Japan. My father was born in a city called Hiroshima. My mother is from Osaka. But my brother and I, we were born in America.

The reason I never corrected you is because you kept saying how excited you were to have an American pen pal. I guess I just didn’t want to disappoint you that I’m not actually a real American.

Sorry,

Alex

11 May 1938

Dear Alex,

You are an idiot. That’s how we French call someone very very very stupid.

You should never tell me such stupid lie about you. No, it is worse than stupid lie, it is UGLY lie. I am so mad at you I can’t remember my English and spelling is bad and grammer is bad and everything are bad because I am so angry, you are an idiot.

Maybe you are disappointed in me, yes? Because I am not a real French pen pal? Because I do not have yellow hair? Because I do not have blue eyes or green eyes? Because I have ordinary brown hair and brown eyes? Because I have a Jewish name, and Jewish face? Because I do not have French last name like Dubois or Beaumont or Lefebvre?

I am so angry I think I will not write to you for two weeks months years.

Charlie

P.S. You are an IDIOT!!

12 May 1938

Dear Alex,

Okay. I am calmer now. But you are still an idiot.

Charlie

June 1, 1938

Dear Charlie,

Yes, I’m an idiot. Sorry. I should never have misled you.

To apologize, I’m sending you a pink hair band. And no, I didn’t steal it from my mother, I actually had to go into the city to buy it. Just so you know, it took me hours—first the ferry to Seattle, then hours walking the hot downtown streets. Then finally Tilton’s department store where I had to fight through the crowds and fork over my hard-earned cash.

Since I’m sending you an expensive pink hair band, can you send me something in return?

Like a picture of yourself?

I’m only asking because Frank doesn’t think you’re real. He keeps saying you’re nothing but a figment of my lonely imagination. Even though I’ve shown him all your letters, dozens stored in milk crates over the years, he still doesn’t believe me. He says he doesn’t see how any girl—especially a Paris girl—could find a loner like me interesting, all I do is read and daydream at home all day, my head in the clouds.

So if you could just send me one picture, I think it would convince him you’re real. (Especially if you’re pretty. And I think you are. Sometimes you can tell, just from a person’s handwriting.)

Would you, Charlie? Send me a photo?

Let me ask in my high school French. Maybe that’ll sway you. Voulez-vous envoyer à moi une photo de vous s’il vous plait? That’s two years of French, baby!

Thanks!

Alex

29 June 1938

Alex,

No, I will not send you my picture. Why should I when you never sent me your picture? Of course, now I understand why—until a few months ago, you were pretending to be a white person.

Also: in your letter you wrote that my picture will make a difference but only if I am pretty. What does that mean? If I am not a pretty girl (and I am not saying if I am or am not)—do I now suddenly not matter?

And don’t call me baby. Never, never, never!

I think I will not send you my picture. Ever. Even if you send me your picture now, I will not send you mine. So don’t bother!

Actually, I change my mind. Send me your picture. I need a new dartboard.

Charlie

11 August 1938

Dear Alex,

I got your letter this morning. Your apology is not accepted. Being shy and an introvert is no excuse for saying stupid, careless things.

And now I want to tell you something serious.

Alex, I think you need friends. I think you need even one friend on Bainbridge Island. It is not healthy to be all alone! And I don’t care how okay you think you are!

Your brother Frank is right. You cannot hide yourself away all the time. You cannot be like a turtle retreating deep into his shell, away from everyone, away from the world. Otherwise you will become like Bertha Mason, the crazy woman locked away in the attic in Jane Eyre.

Charlie

P.S. Where’s your photograph? I need a dartboard!

September 9, 1938

Dear Charlie,

So you want my picture? Sure, no problem. But it’ll take a while because I’m not rich like you, I don’t have photos lying around that I can just pull out of albums. But in the meantime, I’ve enclosed something else. Something even better. Tada!

An original self-portrait drawn by yours truly.

One day I’ll be famous and my drawings will sell for a million bucks. So yes, You’re welcome for this million-dollar gift: a self-portrait, based on how you see me: a turtle with his head in the clouds.

The convenient thing about this new body of mine: when I visit Paris one day, I won’t have to climb the Eiffel Tower. My long neck will put me at eye level with you on the observation deck.

Alex

2 October 1938

Dear Alex,

Wow, you are so strange. But talented! Your drawings are getting even better!

Here is your drawing back! I added my words to it! Maybe you are mad at me for ruining your $1 million pièce de résistance? I am laughing!

Hey, I have an idea! Let’s keep sending this picture back and forth!

Your friend (no matter how bizarre you are!),

Charlie

PART ONE

BAINBRIDGE ISLAND, WASHINGTON AMERICA

2

DECEMBER 7, 1941

Alex Maki is in church when his world shatters.

It’s a typical Sunday. The pews are filled with people in their Sunday best, the men in suits and hats but still smelling of wet soil, the women with faces powdered and hands gloved to hide wrinkles and calluses on dark, leathery skin. And though the teens skulk and shift restlessly, they too have groomed themselves for church: the boys with front licks curled and dangling, sides gelled back, the girls with hair fashioned into finger waves and pinned curls and updos. Sunday is the one day of the week when both the Issei (first-generation) and Nisei (second-generation, American-born) members get to dress up.

A typical Sunday. Nothing unusual at all, nothing to suggest that Alex’s life—all their lives, in fact—are about to fracture.

If anything, things are looking brighter than usual. Certainly more crowded. Quite a few white families have joined the Japanese service.

This happens sometimes. The Bainbridge Methodist Church building is actually shared by two congregations: the Japanese congregation that meets on Sunday mornings, and the regular white congregation who have their service later in the day. Sometimes a community or school event—like this afternoon’s high-school football practice—will conflict with the later service. On those Sundays, many from the white congregation will instead attend the earlier Japanese service. When that happens, Pastor Ken Momose makes sure to conduct the service in English.

A few more families arrive. Including the Tanner family. They slide into the pew in front of Alex.

His back straightens. The Tanner family is well-to-do and highly respected. Their daughter, Jessica Tanner, is popular at school, and now sits down directly in front of Alex. Although they’ve known each other for years, and share the same homeroom at school, they’ve rarely spoken.

The congregation is called to worship, and rise. As they begin to sing, the scent of mint and a vanilla extract floats into Alex’s nostrils. From Jessica Tanner. He’s sure his own breath is foul and egg-soured and wafting down her back. He lifts the hymnal to block his breath.

Next to him, his parents are singing with religious fervor and abandon. The Japanese hymns have been replaced, and the archaic King James English with its thees and thous is throwing them off, making their thick accents even more garish. That doesn’t stop Father, though. An elder and leader of the Japanese congregation, he’s known for his demonstrative singing. But this morning Alex wishes Father would stop singing because the Tanners—especially Jessica Tanner—can hear each and every butchered syllable.

After the song ends, Pastor Ken smiles at the congregation and exhorts them to greet one another.

Henry, Mr. Tanner says, turning around to Alex’s father. Nobody ever calls Father Henry except white people who stumble over Fusanosuke. He extends his hand out to Father. How are you this morning?

Good. Real good. Father takes his hand with a wide smile, baring his crooked yellow teeth. His sun-darkened farmer’s skin is an embarrassing contrast to the white complexion of the Tanners.

Next to him, Alex’s older brother, Frank, is play-punching Josh Tanner. They’re teammates on the Bainbridge High football team, Josh a wide receiver, Frank the star quarterback, and they’re talking about that afternoon’s practice, and how they’re going to destroy Vashon High School on Friday—

Jessica Tanner turns side to side, looking for someone to greet. She starts whirling around. Toward Alex.

He panics. Looks down—

Hi, Alex, Jessica Tanner says brightly. She holds out her hand.

Hesitantly, he takes it. Her skin is so soft and porcelain smooth. His own calloused hand, which only an hour ago was cleaning out the chicken coop, is a monster wrapping itself around a swan.

Looking forward to the game on Friday? She’s looking at him with a friendly, focused gaze.

Y-yeah. His throat is thick and clogged. She seems even more beautiful up close. Her eyes are a blue that even the purest sky would envy. There’s a faint splatter of cute freckles over the bridge of her nose he’s never noticed before. You?

We’re gonna crush ’em, she says, winking before turning around.

Everyone sits. He’s still holding the hymnal in his left hand, and as he reaches forward to place it into the holder, Jessica Tanner flips back the long sweep of her hair so it doesn’t get caught behind her. Her hair waterfalls over the back of the pew, and pools softly on the back of his hand still on the hymnal. A few strands of her hair slip through the small spaces between his fingers.

He freezes. Can’t breathe. Jessica Tanner’s hair is on his hand, between his fingers. Strands of gold, the softness of lips.

And then it happens. The doors of the church slam open.

Everyone jolts and spins around. Jessica Tanner’s hair flies off Alex’s hand.

Backlit by the outside light and framed by the doorway, Bruce Fukuhara—a senior in high school who defiantly stopped coming to church a year ago—pauses. He looks around, panting, sweat beading his acne-ravaged forehead, unsure of what to do. Then he rushes up the center aisle to Pastor Ken in the pulpit.

Everyone leans forward. They’re all curious; they’re all guessing.

Somebody has passed away.

Somebody’s fishing boat has been vandalized, or worse, pillaged.

The price of strawberries or celery collapsed overnight.

But it’s none of these. It’s far worse.

Pastor Ken frowns as he listens to Bruce. His face goes white; his left hand trembles as he leans on the pulpit.

I’m sorry, Pastor Ken says, and Alex will always remember those first words of apology, how they might have set the tone for what is to come. That maybe if Pastor Ken hadn’t apologized as if he were somehow responsible, as if they were all responsible, perhaps things would have turned out differently?

But I have just learned… He swallows, stares down at his Bible. This morning, a few hours ago, Japan attacked Hawaii. His voice cracks. We are at war.

Someone gasps. Most sit in shock, hands covering mouths. Mrs. Tanner clutches her son’s arm, her fingertips going white. Josh Tanner is old enough—or will be, in a few short months—to enlist.

Pastor Ken murmurs something about the need to pray in this time of—

A white man stands. This single action so decisive, it shuts up Pastor Ken as effectively as if he were slapped. The man looks around, almost frantically. He finds what he’s looking for two pews away. Another white man. He stands, too. And soon it seems all the white men and white women and white children are gathering together, their voices getting louder. With stern expressions as they look around. This is what they must see:

Not Henry and Joe and Bruce and Tim and Cindy and Janet and Susan. But now Fusanosuke and Hideo and Kaito and Hidejiro and Hitomi and Kayo and Megumi. The exotic, the yellow, the inscrutable. The enemy.

One thing is clear: church service is over.

Come on, Father whispers to Alex, leading his family out of the pew. The other Japanese families follow suit, quietly leaving the sanctuary. The church isn’t theirs; it never was.

Alex and Frank hop into the cargo bed of the pickup while Mother sits in the front cab. Father speaks curbside to a group of Japanese men: each is to drive his own family back home, then head over to Father’s place. He’s the only one with a radio.

One by one the cars leave the church parking lot. Orderly as a funeral procession.

The town center is strangely quiet. The few people strolling about seem oblivious to what is happening, to how history has just veered off course.

Father drives just below the speed limit. At the last intersection before leaving the town center, the traffic light turns red. Father stops. Across the street, outside a tavern, a group of men in denim overalls are huddled around a transistor radio.

One of them peers up at the line of pickup trucks, then back down to the radio. A second later, his head snaps up like a man who can’t quite believe his eyes. His gaze sweeps across the three vehicles behind, at the drivers and passengers. He mutters something, and the other four men stand up.

They come as one, their anger raw. Elbows crooked, eyes red-rimmed, cheeks scruffy. Frank leaps forward in the cargo bed, pounds the cab window. Go, Father, just go!

Father slams the pedal right as the five men close in. Alex feels something moist strike his cheek. Spit. Then a cussword, swallowed up by the squeal of tires. They take off, all four trucks, in a cloud of swirling dust.

No one speaks as Father speeds home. Alex stares at the passing farmlands, his thoughts like flies buzzing over roadkill, flighty and restless. The football Frank normally cradles is left forgotten on the floor of the cargo bed. It rolls around, side to side, back and forth. Nothing seems anchored anymore, everything is dislodged.

Back at the farm, they hurry into the house. Hero comes bounding toward them, wanting to romp. But he stops, head cocked, sensing something wrong. Whimpers. Mother and Father speak in hushed tones even though there’s no one around for miles.

Alex doesn’t change out of his Sunday clothes. No one does. Father is at the kitchen table, turning on the radio usually used to receive sumo news from Japan. Mother starts boiling water. Frank leans against the counter, his fingers tapping, tapping. Static hisses from the radio. Father works the dial. A voice blares out, angry and declarative.

… the Japanese have attacked Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, by air, President Roosevelt has just announced. The attack also was made on all naval and military activities on the principal island of Oahu…

The report dies out to a wave of static. Father turns the dial, finds another live report from Honolulu, Hawaii.

… we have witnessed this morning a distant feud from Pearl Harbor, a severe bombing of great intensity with considerable damage done. This battle has been going on for nearly three hours— The report suddenly cuts off.

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