Days of Infamy (44 page)

“You don't want to lose the fish,” he reminded himself, and lashed the crate to the mast with a length of his fishing line. He stood by the mast, too, holding on to it with one hand, adjusting the sail so it kept on pushing him shoreward.

People on the beach were pointing to him. They had to wonder what the hell kind of contraption that was out there on the Pacific and what he was doing with it.
I'll show 'em
, he thought, and rode in on the crest of a breaker, skimming along as graceful as a fairy tern. He didn't even think about what would happen if things went wrong, and they didn't. He came up onto the soft white sand feeling like Jesus—hadn't he just walked on water?

The surf fishermen actually gave him a hand. “That's the goddamnedest thing I ever saw,” one of them said, nothing but admiration in his voice.

Oscar grinned again. “It is, isn't it?”

C
OMMANDER
M
ITSUO
F
UCHIDA
muttered to himself as he walked up to Iolani Palace. Commander Minoru Genda sent him a quizzical look. Fuchida's mutters—and his misgivings—coalesced into words: “I don't like getting dragged into politics. I'm an airman, not a diplomat in striped trousers.”

“I don't like it, either,” Genda said. “But would you rather leave the political choices to the Army?”

That question had only one possible answer. “No,” Fuchida said. The Army had the political sense of a water buffalo. The unending strife in China proved that. Half of Japan's resources, manpower and manufacturing that
could have been used against the United States, were tied down in the quagmire on the Asian mainland, a quagmire of the Army's making. Maybe Japanese rule here wouldn't mean antagonizing everybody in sight. Maybe. Fuchida dared hope.

Japanese soldiers had replaced the American honor guard at the palace. They presented arms as Fuchida and Genda came up the stairs. Once inside, the two Navy officers climbed the magnificent inner staircase—Fuchida had learned it was of koa wood—and into King Kalakaua's Library, which adjoined the King's Bedroom. The Army officers waited for them there. Fuchida had trouble telling Lieutenant Colonel Minami from Lieutenant Colonel Murakami. One of them had a mustache; the other didn't. He thought Minami was the one with it, but he wasn't sure. Maybe Minami and Murakami had trouble telling him and Genda apart, too. He hoped so.

The Library was another fine specimen of late-Victorian splendor. The chairs featured elaborately turned wood, leather upholstery, and brass tacks polished till they gleamed like gold. There were book stands of walnut and of koa wood, all full of leather-bound volumes. Along with those of officials from the Kingdom of Hawaii, the walls boasted photographs of Prime Ministers Gladstone and Disraeli and the British House of Commons.

“Busy,” was Genda's one-word verdict.

“I like it,” Fuchida said. “It knows what it wants to be.”

Murakami and Minami just sat at the heavy green-topped desk in the center of the room. For all they had to say about the decor, they might have been part of it themselves.
Army boors
, Fuchida thought as he sat down, too.

Two minutes later, precisely at ten o'clock, a large, impressive-looking woman of about sixty with heavy features and light brown skin strode into the room. In a long floral-print dress and a big flowered hat, she made a parade of one—in fact, of slightly more than one, because Izumi Shirakawa, the local Japanese who'd interpreted for the Americans at the surrender ceremony, skittered in behind her. He might have been a skiff following a man-of-war with all sails set.

Fuchida and Genda rose. Half a second slower than they should have, so did Minami and Murakami. All four Japanese officers bowed in unison. The impressive-looking woman regally inclined her head to them. Fuchida spoke to the interpreter: “Please tell her Highness we are pleased to greet her here.”

Shirakawa murmured in English. Princess Abigail Kawananakoa replied
loudly and clearly in the same language. Shirakawa hesitated before turning it into Japanese. The woman spoke again, even more sharply than before. Shirakawa licked his lips and said, “She, ah, thanks you for the generosity of welcoming her to the palace her family built.”

“She has her nerve,” Lieutenant Colonel Murakami said indignantly.

“Yes, she does,” Fuchida said, but he was smiling. He found himself liking the Hawaiian (actually, half-Hawaiian, as her father had been an American businessman) princess. She was the widow of Prince David Kawananakoa, who was Queen Kapiolani's nephew. Fuchida looked back to the interpreter. “Tell her we appreciate her very kind greeting.”

Through Shirakawa, the princess said, “I suppose you asked me—no, you told me—to come here because you want something from me.”

That made both Minami and Murakami splutter. This time, Fuchida had all he could do not to laugh out loud. He
did
like her. She had a great sense of her own importance, and wasn't about to let anyone get the better of her. The Army officers didn't know what to make of that. They thought she should have been groveling at their feet, and didn't see that her sturdy independence might make her all the more useful to Japan.

Minoru Genda did. He said, “Tell me, your Highness, do you remember the days when the Americans put an end to the Kingdom of Hawaii and annexed these islands?”

“I do,” Princess Abigail Kawananakoa replied at once. “I was only a girl, but I remember those days very well.”

“How do you feel about them?” Genda asked.

For the first time, the princess hesitated. “Things are not always simple,” she said at last. “Look at me if you do not believe that. I have both bloods in me. That is what Hawaii is like these days. And what I thought then and what I think now looking back are two different things.”

Lieutenant Colonel Minami opened his mouth. Fuchida was sure what he would say and how he would say it. He was also sure Minami could not do worse if he tried for a week. Forestalling the Army officer, he said, “And yet you still have your disagreements with the American government.”

“With
this
American government, certainly.” Princess Abigail Kawananakoa let out a disdainful sniff. “How anyone could agree with that man in the White House has always been beyond me, though many people seem to.”

“You were Republican National Committeewoman for Hawaii,” Fuchida
said after checking his notes. The title translated only awkwardly into Japanese. He had no idea what a committeewoman might do, especially when Hawaii was only an external territory of the USA, not a province—
no, a state: that's why they call it the United States
, he reminded himself.

“I was,” she agreed. “And I have stayed a Republican even though my party is no longer in the majority. I do not abandon causes once I undertake them.”

There was the opening Fuchida had hoped for. “And have you abandoned the cause of the Hawaiians, your Highness?”

Again, Princess Abigail Kawananakoa hesitated. At last, she shook her head. “No, I have not abandoned it. How could I? I am one of them, after all.”

Now Fuchida could ask the question Lieutenant Colonel Minami would have tried too soon: “Since things have changed here, do you not think you could do most for them as Queen of a restored Kingdom of Hawaii?”

She looked at him. She looked through him—he got the feeling she could see the wall behind him through the back of his head. She said, “If I were to be Queen of Hawaii, I would rule; I would not just reign. I am no one's figurehead, sir: not the Americans', and not yours, either. Could I be anything more than a figurehead?”

The only possible answer to that was no. Japan wanted pliable puppets like the Emperor of Manchukuo. The Japanese told him what to do, and he told his people. That caused less friction than if a Japanese governor gave orders in his own name. A Queen of Hawaii would serve the the same function. Even the whites would be happier about orders from her than from General Yamashita.

A
Queen of Hawaii, yes, but plainly not
this
Queen of Hawaii. Still, Fuchida did his best: “You would serve the interests of your people, your Highness, and the interests of all the people of Hawaii, if you accepted.”

When Abigail Kawananakoa shook her head, her jowls wobbled. Oddly, that made her seem more impressive, not less. She said, “If I accepted, I would serve the interests of the Empire of Japan. I do not doubt that you make the offer in a spirit of good will, but I must decline. Good morning, gentlemen.” She rose from her chair and sailed out of the King's Library, Izumi Shirakawa again drifting along in her wake.

“She is a widow,
neh?
” Lieutenant Colonel Murakami said.

“
Hai
. For many years,” Fuchida answered.

“I can see why,” the Army man said with a shudder. “I would rather die
than live with a woman like that, too.” Fuchida and Genda both laughed; Fuchida wouldn't have guessed Murakami had a joke in him.

Lieutenant Colonel Minami said, “What do we do now? We've got orders to start up the Kingdom of Hawaii again. How can we do that if we have no royal backside to plop down on the throne?”

“We'll manage.” Genda sounded confident. “This woman isn't the only person with connections to the old royal family, just the one with the best connections. Sooner or later, one of the others will say yes, and we'll have the backside we need.”

“This princess would have been a nuisance even if she did say yes,” Fuchida said. “We're better off without her.” None of the other Japanese officers told him he was wrong.

W
HEN
J
ANE
A
RMITAGE
dug her first turnip out of the ground, she was as proud as she had been when she first got her driver's license. She might have been prouder now, in fact. The driver's license had given her the freedom of the open road. That first turnip, and the other white-and-purple roots that came out of the ground with it, gave the promise of freedom to keep on living.

If she'd seen her turnips in a grocery-store bin before the war, she wouldn't have spent a nickel on the lot of them. They weren't much for looks. Bugs had nibbled them, and they were generally ratty. Jane didn't care, not these days. Beggars couldn't be choosers.

Tsuyoshi Nakayama studied the pile with grave approval. “You have done well,” he said, and wrote a note on a piece of paper in a clipboard he carried.

“Thank you.” Jane had never imagined a Jap gardener's opinion could matter to her. But Nakayama knew how to grow things, even if he was the occupiers' go-between in Wahiawa. Jane knew in her belly—quite literally knew in her belly—how important that was.

“Because you have done so well, take a dozen turnips back to your apartment,” Nakayama said. “Take greens, too. The rest will go to the community kitchen.”

“Thank you!” Jane exclaimed. Food of her own! He could have given her no greater reward. Or could he? Doubt set in. “How am I supposed to cook them? I don't even have hot water, let alone a working stove.”

“You can make a fire. You can boil water.” The local Jap was imperturbable. “Or you can leave them there, and they will all go to the kitchen.”

“Oh, I'll take them,” Jane said quickly. “Will you watch the pile till I get back?” Yosh Nakayama nodded. Like her, he knew others would make turnips disappear if someone didn't keep an eye on them.

Jane picked what looked like the biggest and best turnips. Then she discovered that carrying a dozen of them was no easier than carrying a dozen softballs. She thought about making two trips, but doubted whether Nakayama would put up with such inefficiency. Instead, she tucked her blouse into her dungarees and dumped the turnips down her front. She looked ridiculously lumpy, but so what?

When she got to the apartment, she hid the turnips in as many different places as she could find. Even if someone broke in, he might not steal them all. And she locked the door behind her when she went out again. She hadn't bothered lately, but now she had valuables in there again.

Valuables! Before the invasion, she would have turned up her nose at turnips; she'd thought of turnip greens as nigger food, if she'd thought of them at all. No more. Before the invasion, she'd been worried about the beginnings of a double chin. Where so many fears had grown, that one had shriveled and blown away. Nowadays, her jawline was as sharp as anyone could want. Her cheekbones stood out in sharp relief under her skin. She didn't know anyone in Wahiawa who wasn't skinnier than before the war began. From what doctors said, that would add years to people's lives. Some of the days Jane put in felt like years.

To give Yosh Nakayama his due, he was skinnier than he had been before the war started, too. He wasn't living off the fat of the land for helping the Japs. In his weathered face, the prominent cheekbones put Jane in mind of the Old Man of the Mountain in New Hampshire. Nothing else in Hawaii reminded her of New England.

“Thank you for keeping an eye on things,” she told him.

He nodded gravely. “You're welcome. I do it for everybody, you understand, not just for you.”