Harry Turtledove - End of the Beginning

“Don’t worry about me, boys,” Jiro said. “Consul Kita told me he would take care of me if he could, and I’m sure he meant it.”

They both stared at him. “Big deal,” Kenzo said. “Kita can’t even help himself now, let alone anybody else.”

“That’s the truth,” Hiroshi agreed. “All just talk and nonsense.”

“Well, I hope not,” Jiro said. “The consulate is still up and running.”

“Up and standing still, you mean,” Kenzo said. “It hasn’t got anywhere to run to. The Americans are in Pearl Harbor, Father. They’ll be here in Honolulu any day now. What can Kita do?”

Jiro shrugged. He got to his feet. “I don’t know. Maybe I ought to go and see, neh ?”

“You ought to leave that place alone, Father,” Kenzo said. “Haven’t you got in enough trouble because you went there?”

“If America wins, you will be happy,” Jiro said. “All right-be happy. I wouldn’t be happy even if I never went on the radio. America is not my country. It has never been my country. I came here to make some money, not to live.”

“And you made more than you ever would have in Japan,” Hiroshi said.

“So what?” Jiro shrugged again. “So what, I say? I have lived for all these years in a land that does not like me, does not want me, and does not speak my language. If you want to go on being Japs ”-he brought out the English word, too, and laced it with contempt-“in America, fine. Not for me, not if I can help it.”

He pushed past Hiroshi and Kenzo and out of the tent. His sons didn’t try to stop him. If they had, they would have got a surprise. They were taller and younger than he was, but he was meaner. I raised them soft, he thought. Most of the time, that pleased him. They didn’t need to be as hard as he had. But they didn’t have that toughness to fall back on, either.

The air stank of smoke, of burning. It wasn’t so bad as it had been when all the fuel at Pearl Harbor burned. Then Honolulu wore a shroud for weeks, till the fires finally burned themselves out. Still, it left his lungs as raw as if he were smoking three cigarettes at the same time. He smiled wryly. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d smoked one cigarette, let alone three.

Up Nuuanu Avenue he went. The guards at the Japanese consulate waved to him. “Konichiwa, Fisherman!” they called. “You haven’t got any goodies for us today?”

“Please excuse me, no,” Jiro answered. With so many American ships operating south of Oahu now, they probably would have sunk the Oshima Maru if he dared put to sea in her. “Is Kita- san in?”

“Yes-for now,” a guard said. Another one sent him a reproving look, as if he might have said too much. But no one stopped Jiro from walking up the stairs and into the consulate.

When he got inside, the smell of smoke was thicker. He needed only a moment to see why: secretaries were busy tearing up papers and burning them. That sobered him. If the staff at the consulate didn’t think Honolulu could hold, the game really was coming to an end.

One of the secretaries looked up from ripping reports into strips. For all Jiro knew, they were reports about him. If they were, better they should go into the fire. “Oh, hello, Takahashi- san, ” the secretary said. “The honorable consul will be glad to see you. He was just talking about you, in fact.”

Maybe those reports really were about Jiro, then. “Thank you,” he said, and went on into Nagao Kita’s office.

“Do whatever you can to buy time. We need it,” Kita was saying into the telephone when Jiro walked in. The consul waved and gestured to a chair. When he finished talking, he hung up. “Good to see you, Takahashi- san ,” he said. “Things are…” His little wave was more expressive than words could be.

“I see you are getting rid of your papers,” Jiro said.

“Can’t be helped,” Kita said. “Better not to let the Americans find out some of the things we did here. Better not to let the Americans find us here, either.”

“Ah, so desu-ka?” Jiro said. “Is there some way the Americans won’t find you here?” Despite Kita’s half-promise of a little while before, he did not presume to include himself among the number who might not be found here. When he talked with an important personage like the consul, he still felt very much like a horny-handed fisherman.

Nagao Kita smiled. “There is some way, yes. How would you like to stay here till tonight and come to Honolulu harbor with me? If we are lucky, a submarine will surface and take some of the people who matter to us back to Japan.”

“And you really would take me ?” Jiro hardly dared believe his ears. “I am a man who matters enough to go back to Japan?” He wondered what the home islands would be like. He’d been away so long. A lot had changed here in Hawaii since he came. Japan was bound to be different, too.

The consul’s smile grew wider, almost filling his broad face. “I would take you. I am glad to take you, Takahashi- san. Your broadcasts served your country and served your Emperor well. And we have two spaces on the submarine we were not sure we would. The King and Queen of Hawaii have decided to stay here and face whatever happens.”

“They are brave.” Jiro thought they were also foolish. Then full understanding of what the consul had told him sank in. “I will get a place on this submarine that would have gone to the King or Queen of Hawaii? I will?” His voice rose to a startled squeak. It hadn’t broken like that since he was nineteen years old, but it did now.

“Don’t worry about it,” Kita said easily. “Even if they had decided to go, we would have found a place for you one way or another.”

Jiro bowed in his seat. “Domo arigato, Kita- san. You could put me in a torpedo tube. I wouldn’t care.”

“Oh, you might, if they had to shoot you at an American cruiser.” Kita had a good laugh, the kind that invited everyone who heard it to laugh along. It made even a silly joke funnier than it would have been otherwise.

“I would like to go back and say good-bye to my sons,” Jiro said slowly.

“Takahashi- san, if you were going on the submarine alone, I would tell you to go and do this,” Kita answered. “We’ve never talked much about your sons, and one reason we haven’t is that I know they think of themselves as Americans, not Japanese. I don’t hold that against you. How could I, when it is true of so many of the younger generation here? I don’t know that they would raise the alarm. For all I know, they probably wouldn’t. But, please excuse me, I would rather not take the chance.”

Jiro bowed his head. “I understand.”

“Thank you,” Kita said. “I do not want to make things more awkward than they have to be.”

After that, Jiro had nothing to do but wait. He leafed through magazines from Japan. Everyone in them seemed happy and cheerful and prosperous. All the news was good. They talked about beating the Americans again and again. In their pages, the United States seemed a clumsy, stupid giant, not worth taking seriously. Off in the distance-but not far enough off in the distance-artillery and bombs thundered. Every so often, an American plane would roar over Honolulu. The USA made a more serious foe than the propaganda magazines cared to admit.

Darkness fell. The staff at the consulate went right on burning papers. Jiro felt useless. He didn’t know enough to help. But they wouldn’t want to take him back to the home islands if he were useless, would they?

He dozed in his chair. Nagao Kita shook him awake. “It’s time, Takahashi- san, ” the consul-the departing consul-said.