The Hummingbird (18 page)

AS THE TIME OF SOGA’S VISIT APPROACHED,
American officialdom began to lay the contentious issues to rest. The Kennedy administration responded favorably to the Jaycees’ inquiry. Temple Wanamaker from the State Department wrote, “On behalf of the president I congratulate the Brookings-Harbor Jaycees for their efforts to promote international friendship and goodwill.” Mark Hatfield, Oregon governor and a World War II veteran, also wrote in support of Soga’s visit.

Then Claude Waldrop granted an interview to the
Portland Oregonian.
Recall that Waldrop was commander of the 174th Infantry at the time of the bombing. The incident had occurred on his watch. Waldrop’s junior officer, Second Lieutenant Joseph Kane—who memorably had ordered soldiers to keep quiet about seeing Soga’s first flight and failing to report it—was court martialed for deceiving investigators. Yet for Waldrop, time had healed this wound.

“I have no animosity,” he told the newspaper. “He was doing a job and we were doing a job.”

Although the momentum of these sentiments quelled some of the dissent, it did little to bolster the fund-raising.

Eugene Reiling, a World War I veteran and commander of VFW Post 966, wrote in the
Pilot
that he “can’t see why we should pay for someone’s way here who was trying to bring disaster to us.”

By mid-April, the Jaycees had collected less than half the money. Several made personal loans to cover the difference. Later donations rewarded their risk.

On May 3, 1962, the Jaycees formally invited Soga and his family. That step prompted another round of letters to the
Pilot
.

World War I veteran R. C. Baugh wrote, “To us, an invitation to Fidel Castro, or erecting a monument to John Wilkes Booth, would be just as sensible a project.”

Marion McElroy added, “The point in question should not be whether Soga is still an enemy or a person worthy of tribute. The main issue is how the $3,000 should be spent.” She suggested library books.

Jean Willard proposed that Brookings invite the astronaut John Glenn and his wife instead.

A few voices joined the debate with another point of view. “We are forgetting the most important factor,” wrote Helen Lucas, “the art of forgiving.”

Bill Krieger declared that opponents to Soga’s visit “thrive on hatred. We have looked with considerable distaste on (prejudice in Little Rock) and anti-Semitism in Germany and elsewhere. The war is long over, and Japan and the United States are joined in a firm effort to fight the threat of Communism.”

The ministers of seven area churches issued a joint statement of support for the visit. Once the pulpits had spoken, dissent quieted—though it did not cease.

In the days counting down to Soga’s arrival, security plans became increasingly thorough. Deputies drove to more than a dozen area homes, inviting certain people to skip the Azalea Festival that year. There is no record of which houses police visited, nor whether the list of dis-invitees included Donny Baker III.

By then he had appeared in the public record six times: on a marriage license, on the birth certificate of his daughter Heather, on a pilot’s license that certified him as equipped to fly a single-engine aircraft, and on a filing to create a corporation for a nursery business he and his wife had opened south of Brookings. The sixth occasion was a brief notice that he had won a regional shooting competition in the pistol division. Aside from his name on the newspaper ad, the first of his appearances, Donny was not evidently a leading spokesman among the opponents to Soga’s visit. Primarily those voices belonged to battle veterans, whose animus to all things Japanese was explicable.

By then, events had too great a momentum to change direction. On May 24, the Soga family disembarked in Portland. They walked down the airplane’s steps onto American soil. Ichiro was a small man in a gray suit, fifty-one years old, his hair combed neatly back, wearing square black glasses. His wife, Ayako, wore a yellow blazer, her head in every photo tilted to one side, an expression of listening with great interest. Son Yoshi stood stiff-backed at his father’s elbow. Daughter Yoriko hovered demurely two steps behind, her eyes on the ground.

Dignitaries greeted them warmly, even effusively. The Japanese pilot bowed to each person who addressed him but spoke only to his son, who translated the reply. When volunteers met them inside the airport to help with the baggage, Ichiro Soga insisted on carrying his own suitcase. There was a brief awkward moment when a zealous volunteer insisted on helping, until Yoshi stepped forward.

“Please pardon,” he said. “My father wishes to manage for himself.”

At that the volunteer stepped aside, and the delegation proceeded to the cars. In a photograph from that moment Soga held the suitcase not by its handle, but under his arm, against his ribs. He alone knew that within, wrapped in fine fabric, a 400-year-old relic of pride and honor lay tucked among the clothes, a stealthy weapon secreted like a pilot in a submarine.

CHAPTER 12

THE THUNDERSTORM HIT AT AROUND TWO.
Or that was when the noise woke me. I lay diagonally on the bed, so I knew without moving that Michael was not there.

It was a good summer ripsnorter: flashes of lightning every few seconds, thunder distant at first, but approaching steadily till it struck right above our neighborhood. It was like standing beside the tracks as a freight train came barreling through, a big noise but complete safety. I remembered the August storms of my childhood in upstate New York, how scary they were, yet reassuring as the front moved over our town and on to the next.

Finally one crash hit directly overhead, rumbling away across the sky like a chair thrown down the stairs, and I gave up on sleep. The bedside clock read 3:18. I pulled on a shirt and shuffled to the kitchen for a glass of milk.

The room was pitch black. I only noticed because I was usually annoyed at how every appliance came with a little clock that had to be changed forward at daylight savings and set back in the fall each year, not to mention putting out a steady and unnecessary nocturnal glow.

I stood in the doorway, letting my eyes adjust. Had we lost power in the minute it took me to walk from the bedroom? Or perhaps the kitchen circuit breaker had blown? If so, the reset switch was in the basement, but the flashlight lived in the kitchen junk drawer.

I took a step toward it and banged into a chair. Now I was confused. The breakfast table normally sat against the wall, but in the dark my eyes could make out that it was against the back door for some reason. I slid a hand along the oven and there was tape over the clock.

I slid the chair aside; it made a trumpeting sound against the floor.

“Jesus, Deb, would you shush?”

Lightning flashed, and I saw Michael. The image was brief, but it told me so much.

He was crouched under the table in full combat gear: a military helmet, flak vest, and desert camouflage fatigues. A bandoleer of ammunition hung over his shoulder. He was clutching his rifle.

“Michael honey, what is going—”

“Shhhh, I said.”

The storm thundered above us, the rain poured down. I knelt and crawled toward him. The gun smelled of oil. “Sweetheart, what is it?”

“Mortars,” he whispered. “Two hundred yards.”

I knelt beside him. “Michael, you are home now. There are no mortars.”

“The Franklins. They’re using them.”

“Lover, you are in Oregon now.”

He clutched his rifle closer. “You think I don’t know that? This is the last thing I expected.”

I could have said the same. My strong man, hiding under the kitchen table with a weapon in his hands. I had no doubt that it was loaded. Every instinct told me to run, get safety, find shelter—everything but my heart. “Michael, I want to be near you right now. I am going to touch you, so don’t freak out.”

I placed my hand on his upper arm. The muscle trembled. “OK?” I said. “Can I get closer?”

His nod was like a little boy’s, wordless and tentative. Michael’s bent legs had pinned him against the door, so I could not exactly snuggle up. But I wrapped my arms around his shoulders as far as I could reach, and whispered, “Michael, what do the Franklins do for a living?”

“They’re doctors. For kids.”

“Do you think they are the kind of people who would have mortars?”

He ran his hand up and down the stock of his gun.

“Besides,” I continued, “who would they be firing at?”

He faced me, blinking several times, pondering. His chin trembled.

After his second tour, Michael wept all the time. At movies, TV commercials, the closing minutes of professional sports games. When he said good-bye to that slobbery dog Elvis after one barbecue, Brian laughed.

“Pretty sure you guys will see each other again,” he joked, but Michael’s face was creased at the brow.

After the third deployment, not one tear. No more room for sadness. Now, after six months at home, he buried his head in my shoulder and took several huffy breaths. I squeezed him closer, ready for the downpour. Release it, lover.

Instead, he calmed. Michael shifted his legs, and the gun was awkward between us. Closing my hand on the barrel, I aimed it at the living room and slid it away on the floor. He did not resist, only burrowed closer against me. Something about removing the gun shifted his energy, his mood.

Another peal of thunder smashed the air above us, and Michael flinched. Every muscle went rigid. The nightmare of a man wide awake.

Oddly enough, I remembered a time we drove to Idaho on vacation and went to a zip-line playground in the forest. I was nervous, insisting Michael go first. After he went whirring down ahead of me, I reached out and touched the wire. It was alive with tension, the strength of the cable versus gravity’s pull on my husband, the metallic intensity.

That is what Michael’s body felt like, under the table on our kitchen floor. He was not going to cry, no, because he was not sad. It was something else.

I pulled back and his eyes were wide, like a horse about to bolt. And finally I realized the thing I had missed from the day he came home. Somehow I had overlooked it completely. He was not bitter, he was not confused, he was not resentful. This man was terrified.

PERHAPS THE MOST ASTONISHING THING
is that no recording survives. Ichiro Soga visited factories, schools, and city hall. There are photographs at each place: grainy 1962 newspaper quality. There are news reports, stories, and letters to the editor. Yet not one inch of motion pictures remains, nor one minute of audiotape.

Thus is the warrior’s voice lost for all time. Eyewitnesses, interviewed later, speculate that it would not have mattered. Soga did not speak to people directly during his visit. Whenever someone addressed him, his son Yoshi would translate into Japanese, Soga would lean close to whisper a reply, which Yoshi would then deliver in a strong, clear voice.

“Factory is most industrious.” Or “Coastal landscape is most beautiful.” Or even, “Hot dog is most delicious.”

This latter pearl of diplomacy occurred during the Azalea Parade, which, as the organizers had hoped, enjoyed record attendance that year. To appease critics of Soga’s invitation, festival boosters did not invite him to march in the parade, give a speech, or sit behind the red-white-and-blue bunting on the reviewing stand.

Instead Soga joined the local audience, standing among loggers, fishermen, and their families, and, while a reporter stood near, accepting one teenage boy’s offer of a classic boiled American hot dog, striped with yellow mustard.

Elaine Howell was crowned 1962 Azalea Queen. Her court included not only the runner-up princesses, but also five former queens. They rode in open convertibles.

One woman came forward to address Soga in Japanese. The
Pilot
reported that he listened closely to Lizzie Hinks of Mount Emily, who had learned some phrases during her college years in New York City. Soga bowed to her, but as ever, did not answer directly. Instead he whispered to Yoshi, who replied in English.

Later Soga toured a plywood plant. He attempted to play the bagpipes and laughed at his lack of musicality. He strolled the beach, still wearing black wingtips but exclaiming through his son at the beauty of the dramatic rock formations offshore. He spent an afternoon in Azalea Park, where he praised the abundant flowering rhododendrons. To the great amusement of a gathered crowd, he struggled to understand the purpose and operation of a parking meter.

On Sunday he and his wife attended Christian services. While Ayako knelt during prayers, head bowed, Soga stood at the back, tape recording the hymns.

If the critics of his visit confronted him at any time, there is no record. The
Pilot
makes no mention of any incidents. In one photograph of the parade, Donny Baker III lurks in the background. A blur of black and white, his arms-akimbo body language nonetheless conveys scorn and disapproval. Apparently he minded both his manners and the sheriff’s warning, and kept to himself.

There was one misunderstanding, however, in the parking lot after the religious services. Apparently Yoshi, translating for his father, described the house of worship using the word “shrine,” which prompted a passing member of the congregation to speak up.

“This is a church, not a shrine. If you want to see a shrine, go to the woods where your lousy bomb went off.”

The speaker of those words went unidentified, but their effect was immediate. Soga asked many questions about what the man meant. Jaycees and churchgoers attempted to change the subject, but Yoshi persisted on his father’s behalf. Yes, there was a monument where his last bomb fell. Yes, it was a memorial.

Within the hour, Soga and his family rode in a black Ford at the rear of a six-car motorcade, vehicles inching along a rutted road, their destination a small clearing at the edge of the woods. As people disembarked the mood was somber, lacking the bemused chitchat that had characterized the rest of Soga’s visit.

A trail led into the woods. There was some confusion about who should go first, what protocol to observe, until several Jaycees led the way. Soga insisted upon going last.

When they reached the monument, a pillar of mortared river rock with a bronze plaque on its face, Soga whispered to his son. Yoshi read the words aloud.

“In memory of Elise Mitchell, Age 26, Dick Patzke, Age 14, Jay Gifford, Age 13, Edward Engen, Age 13, Joan Patzke, Age 13, Sherman Shoemaker, Age 11, who died here May 5, 1945 by Japanese Bomb Explosion.”

And below that: “Only Place on American Continent Where Death Resulted from Enemy Action in WWII.”

Soga spoke to his son, who asked the assembly: “Who were these people?”

“A Bible study group,” one of the Jaycees said. “And the minister’s pregnant wife.”

Yoshi murmured to his father, who stiffened. After a moment he bowed at the waist till his head was even with his belt buckle. He remained in that position, facing the ground, for several full minutes. The Jaycees shifted from foot to foot, but no one spoke.

At last Soga straightened, his face flushed, and he directed a speech to the monument. He went on for several sentences, bursts of words between long pauses, after which he bowed as deeply again. Yoshi waited till his father had returned to an upright stance before speaking.

“My father says, ‘I had not known anyone died. I was ignorant of this fact. It was war. Terrible things happened on both sides. But this woman, these children, a religious group? It is a shame on my conscience. It is a stain on my honor.’ ”

By the time Yoshi finished translating, Soga had already marched back down the trail. When the group hiked to the trailhead, they found their guest inside the black car, all of its doors and windows closed.

THAT NIGHT, THE LAST OF SOGA’S VISIT,
the chamber of commerce hosted a farewell dinner. This time he was the guest of honor, his place card at the head table with Jaycees president Mike Moran, the group’s public information officer Rev. Del Roth, and at the far end, the mayor of Brookings, C. F. Campbell.

Soga did not leave a written record of his thoughts during the U.S. trip. Nor had he confided to family members, at least as they recalled in later interviews. Therefore, there is no way of knowing what his plans were on that evening. Photographs from the event confirm, however, that he arrived at the reception carrying a suitcase, which he subsequently handed to his son.

Did the boy know he was playing the role of Okuda, wingman to his father? Did the former bomber pilot intend a dramatic, unexpected blow? The 1962 Jaycee equivalent of an attack at dawn? A sudden self-sacrifice in the name of ancient honor? History leaves only speculation.

During the cocktail hour, while the Americans downed drinks and enjoyed raucous laughter, Soga moved from person to person in the crowd, bowing wordlessly. His wife remained near, Yoshi hovering on the other side, but whenever people spoke to Soga, at all times he caused his son to reply. It seemed he would go the entire trip without addressing a single American directly.

There was a hubbub in one corner. Soga happened to be nearby, among local clergy. Someone was angry. A photo from the moment shows Soga turning in the direction of Donny Baker, whose nose is inches from that of a uniformed sheriff’s deputy, and whose finger is pointed at the Japanese visitor. Donny’s shout brought the rest of the room’s conversations to a halt:

“Are you saying this Nip bastard has more of a right to be here than I do?”

Soga crossed the distance between them so quickly, his son had to bump past two people to remain close. Bowing, Soga spoke and Yoshi translated. “Is this a local citizen I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting?”

Thus did they stand face-to-face. Donny reached for something inside his jacket, but then he scowled at the deputy and jammed his hands in his pants pockets. Scrutinizing the members of the Soga family from head to foot, he pointed with his chin. “What’s with the suitcase? Gonna fill it with silverware?”

Yoshi did not reply. Meanwhile the deputy made his decision. “You can stay, Donny, but you’d best behave yourself.”

“Or what?” he replied, though he was backing away. “Or you’ll do what?”

The mayor’s wife appeared, informing the Soga family it was time for everyone to take their seats. The murmur of conversation recommenced.

There were speeches and jokes, an exchange of gifts. Yoshi stood at the podium and read into the microphone from notecards filled with Japanese characters. He said he spoke for his whole family, then thanked the community for its welcome and generosity. In the middle of his remarks, Soga rose from his chair.

Yoshi turned to his father, the speech trailing off. Fortuitously, a reporter for the
Pilot
sat just below the head table, a photographer stood near, and thus was the sequence of events memorialized.

Photos show the pilot not bowing in the least, as he had during the entirety of his trip, innumerable times daily. To the contrary, he stood ramrod straight. He spoke to his son, quietly as ever, and Yoshi translated for all.

“On this day my foremost wish is to express gratitude. You good people of America have been most generous. Let us agree that we have made progress toward peace. This is our task on earth, and to teach these things to our children.”

The crowd applauded politely. Yoshi straightened, at attention for his father.

“That is not all.” Soga maintained his rigid posture. “I visited the shrine today. I learned the human consequences of my mission. Children, and a pregnant woman, died in a circumstance of worship. Thus do I also feel sadness and shame.”

The room had gone utterly silent. Donny Baker leaned against the back wall, scowling, shaking his head at every word.

“War does ugly things,” Soga continued, through Yoshi. “Its necessities turn good people into ugly creatures. In all nations this is true. All creeds, all races. Once fighting ends, both victor and defeated must choose: to deny what took place and resume life as before, or to acknowledge the moral consequence of what war required them to do. I belong to the second group.”

Moving a water glass aside, Soga placed the suitcase on the tablecloth. He pushed the brass clips, popping the spring latches open. He turned, facing not the assemblage, but his son—who continued to translate but in a wavering voice.

“In our culture, if we behave with honor, we bestow honor on our name, and family, and nation. If we cause dishonor, we must take responsibility, on behalf of our ancestors and for the sake of our children, to restore that pride and legacy. This I intend to do. Here. Now.”

He raised the top of the suitcase and brought out a bundle of cloth. Unwrapping the colorful silk, with a flourish he revealed the sword. People made noises of surprise. He lifted it above his head, displaying it to one side of the room, then the other: The handle had been restored, newly wound with fine thin rope that ended in decorative tassels. The scabbard had been polished until it shone.

Soga continued speaking to, and through, his son. “I am a direct descendant of samurai, most honored of Japanese peoples. This weapon has been in my family for nineteen generations. Four hundred years, more than twice as old as your good country. Today it has one more use to serve.”

Yoshi leaned toward his father with his mouth open. But the pilot silenced him with a raised hand and continued speaking. His son translated in stutters.

“This sword has shed blood many times. It could do so again tonight, and thereby return honor to the Soga name.”

He drew the blade, long and bright and slightly curved. Someone gasped. Soga held the sword in front of his face, tip pointed at the ceiling.

“But as I said, we must learn from wars. We must make our choice, to deny or to acknowledge. So it is that today my honored lineage will serve another purpose. Would the honorable Mayor Campbell please come forward?”

The mayor hoisted himself from his seat and worked his way behind the chairs. Soga’s posture was so straight, a photo from that moment makes him appear to be bending backward. The mayor seems to not want to stand too close.

Soga sheathed the blade and held the weapon out horizontally. “May this sword become a lasting sign of peace between people and nations.”

The mayor looked around, then back at Soga. “I don’t understand.”

Yoshi’s face was pinched with emotion. He leaned forward to explain. “It is a gift. This treasure of our family. He is giving it to you.”

The mayor rubbed a finger under his nose, glancing around.

“Thank him,” his wife called from down the table.

A nervous titter passed through the crowd. At last Mayor Campbell accepted the sword from Soga’s hands. He gripped it in one fist, turning to the microphone. “On behalf of the good people of Brookings, and Oregon, and the United States of America, I thank you for this unforgettable gift.”

The people begin to clap. Mayor Campbell held the sword high, and the crowd rose to its feet. Soga stood erect amid the applause. He glanced at his wife, who was weeping. He touched his son on the elbow, and the boy bowed.

Donny Baker rolled his eyes. “Give me a goddam break.”

Once the noise began dying down, Soga ushered his son aside. At last he stood at the podium himself. He cast his gaze over all of them, waiting until the room was quiet. Their faces were raised toward him. He bowed once more, as formally as ever. Then, lifting himself on tiptoe to bring his mouth to the microphone, he uttered a single word: