Harry Turtledove - Days of Infamy

A lot of intersections had policemen posted to keep traffic moving. Honolulu’s cops sprang from every group in the islands: haoles, Hawaiians, Chinese, Japanese, Filipinos, Koreans (which Jiro found revolting, but Koreans weren’t subject to Japanese authority here). Normally, the police got obeyed because they were the police. Now people who weren’t Japanese swore at the Japanese cops-and sometimes, if they were ignorant, at the Chinese and Koreans, too. When the cursers guessed wrong, the policemen angrily shouted back. Stoic as samurai, the officers who were Japanese ignored whatever came their way.

Some of the intersections that didn’t have cops had soldiers. They wore helmets and carried bayoneted rifles, and looked nervous enough to shoot or skewer anybody who rubbed them the wrong way. They were cursing Japanese as loudly as any civilians. Jiro pretended not to hear; arguing with armed men struck him as suicidal madness. His sons muttered to themselves, but not loud enough to draw notice.

The Aala Market was half deserted. That shook Jiro. He hadn’t thought anything could keep the dealers away. Only the smell of fish lingered at full strength.

He and Hiroshi and Kenzo went on to Kewalo Basin. But more soldiers waited, along with a few fishermen who’d arrived ahead of the Takahashis. Some of them, the younger ones, were talking with the soldiers in English. Jiro’s sons joined the discussion. After a little while, Hiroshi’s voice rose in anger. One of the soldiers aimed a rifle at his chest. Jiro sprang forward to push his son out of harm’s way. But Hiroshi took a step back on his own, and the soldier lowered the Springfield. He and Hiroshi went on speaking English, not quite so furiously.

“What’s going on?” Jiro asked. The soldier scowled at him, probably for speaking Japanese. He ignored the man. It was the only language he could speak, and he needed to know.

“We can’t go out.” Hiroshi’s voice was hard and flat.

“What? Why not?” Jiro exclaimed. “How are we supposed to make a living if we can’t go out? Are the Americans crazy?” As he always did, he used the word to label other people. It didn’t apply to him or, as far as he was concerned, to his family.

“We can’t go out because the Army doesn’t trust us,” Hiroshi answered. “It doesn’t trust any Japanese. Didn’t you see that yesterday, when the airplane shot up that other sampan? It could have been us just as easily. The soldiers are afraid we’ll go out and tell the Japanese Navy what’s going on here, or maybe that we’ll go out and bring back Japanese soldiers.”

“That’s…” Jiro’s voice trailed away. He couldn’t say it was mad or impossible, for it was neither. He hadn’t thought about actually helping Japan against the United States, but the idea didn’t disgust him. Maybe some other fishermen had thought about it. How could he know? If they had, they would have kept their mouths shut. That was only common sense.

And some sampans, bigger than the Oshima Maru, could range out five hundred miles, maybe even more. They could surely find the Imperial Navy. They could bring back soldiers, too, if their skippers were so inclined. If a boat could carry tons of fish, it could also carry tons of men, and each ton was ten or twelve fully equipped soldiers.

“That’s an insult, that’s what it is,” Kenzo said. “I’m loyal, you’re loyal, we’re all loyal.” He raised his voice: “ We’re all loyal! ” Then he spoke in English, probably repeating the same thing.

The fishermen nodded. Some of them said, “ Hai! ” Others said, “Yes!” More protests in English followed.

For all the good those protests did, the Japanese men might have been talking to a bunch of stones. The American soldiers glared at them and shook their heads. One, an older man with stripes on his sleeve, made pushing noises with both hands. Go away, he was saying. Even Jiro had no trouble understanding that.

Fishermen who spoke English kept arguing. Jiro started to turn away. He saw they could argue till they turned blue in the face without persuading the men in uniform. Then another soldier ran up shouting something in English. Jiro could make out Japs, but nothing more. All the soldiers exclaimed, some of them hotly. So did the fishermen.

“What does he say?” Jiro asked. Most of the time, not knowing English didn’t bother him. Every once in a while, he felt the lack.

Grimly, Kenzo answered, “He says Japanese soldiers have landed on the northern beaches. We’ve been invaded.”

“Oh.” Jiro took the news in stride. “It’s part of war, neh? If America could, she would invade Japan, wouldn’t she?” But, as he knew very well, America couldn’t. If that didn’t show which country was mightier…

His sons didn’t seem to see it like that. They both turned away from him. Hiroshi said, “I’m not going to translate that for the soldiers, Father. And you’re lucky I’m not, too, or we’d all end up in trouble.”

Kenzo added, “This is our country. We were born here. We like it here. We don’t want anything to do with Japan now that she’s at war with us.”

Another fisherman, a weathered fellow of Jiro’s generation named Tetsuo Yuge, shouted angrily at the two younger Takahashis: “How dare you talk to your father like that? If my boys were that rude, I’d be ashamed of myself-and of them.”

Jiro wondered what the other fisherman’s sons would say if they were here. One of them worked at a gas station; the other was a bank clerk. They thought of themselves as Americans, too; Tetsuo had complained about it. Jiro said, “War makes everybody crazy for a while. Sooner or later, things will straighten out.”

Several of the tall American soldiers put their heads together. When they separated, the man with stripes on his sleeves shouted in English. Some of the younger men, the ones who understood what he was telling them, started to walk off. Kenzo translated: “He says we have to leave. He says this place is off-limits for civilians. That’s Army talk-it means we’re not allowed here.”

“Can he do that?” Jiro asked doubtfully. He didn’t like the idea of leaving the Oshima Maru tied up where soldiers who hated Japanese could do whatever they wanted to her.

But both his sons nodded. Hiroshi said, “It’s martial law. If the soldiers say we have to do it, we have to do it. The only ones who can change things now are other soldiers.”

“This would never have happened if Japan hadn’t jumped on us,” Kenzo said.

“What are we going to do without a day’s catch? What are we going to do without a day’s pay?” Jiro asked. “And how long will the soldiers”-he almost said the American soldiers, but judged that would cause more trouble than it was worth-“keep us from going to sea? What will we do for money if it’s a long time?”

Those were good questions, important questions. Jiro knew that. Neither of his sons had any answers. He didn’t see what else they could do but go back home. Reiko would have a lot of questions for them then. Jiro didn’t have any answers, either.

JANE ARMITAGE WAS glad they’d called off school for the day in Wahiawa. Half the kids in her third-grade class were Japs. They were bright and eager. They were respectful, and they mostly worked harder than haoles. But she didn’t think she could stand the sight of so many slanty-eyed faces right now.

She’d had a devil of a time getting used to what people in Hawaii looked like when she came over with Fletch. Columbus, Ohio, wasn’t like this at all. In Columbus, the Negroes mostly stayed in Bronzeville on the east side of town. Elsewhere, even Italians were out of the ordinary. Her own blond, blue-eyed good looks were as normal as sunshine. Not here. Hawaii was different. Coarse black hair and swarthy skin were the expected; she was the one who stood out.