LITMIR.BIZ

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down like my mother, to appear humble and harmless, but I couldn’t avoid the deeply suspicious looks as we passed the Blackstone Tavern. I didn’t have to guess how they felt. Across the street, in the window of a dry-goods store, a sign written in large, black letters made the general attitude clear: JAPS KEEP MOVING. THIS IS AN AMERICAN NEIGHBORHOOD.

      Well, that’s exactly what we were doing. We were moving, and didn’t intend to stop until we reached the railroad station. Forget that Mom had money put aside to buy heavy coats. The fog and the cold would have to be endured.

      I don’t know why, but I somehow fastened on the stupid idea that everything would be all right if we only got to the depot. Maybe I thought we’d walk through the doors to find our old lives on the other side. I began to walk faster, almost pulling Charlie and Mom along. Hurry, hurry, hurry. I think I might have started running if a man hadn’t stepped away from a tavern doorway to block our path.

      “Well, well. What am I lookin’ at here?” he said. “Japanese or Chinese?” Behind him his two companions laughed.

      “Please,” Mom said, “excuse us.”

      The man wore a thick, black mustache that curled around his mouth to hang down on either side of his chin. He plucked at one end, then glanced at his companions and said, “Get Wong. I’m gonna try a little experiment.”

      Mom tried to walk around the man, but he moved into her way. I could smell the alcohol on his breath, and I turned my head only to find a poster tied to a lamppost: NO JAPS IN OUR SCHOOLS. The poster was weathered and frayed, put up at a time when there had still been Japanese-American children in San Francisco to go to school.

      A small, Asian man wearing a soiled cook’s apron stepped out of the tavern. He wore a button on his breast: I AM CHINESE. Now I knew how the cab drivers had identified us as Japanese. We weren’t wearing labels.

      “Say somethin’ to ’em,” the man with the mustache said. “Let’s see what they’re made of.”

      Hawaii is a land of minorities. Polynesians, Japanese, Chinese, Filipinos, Koreans, and Malaysians all mingle together, especially the kids. I knew a few words of Cantonese—not enough to understand whole sentences, but enough to figure out that the little man, when he used the words gwailo and gouzazi, wasn’t paying these bullies any compliments. Gwailo means “white ghost” and refers to white people in general, while gouzazi means “dog.” Plus, he finished with the words bao quian, which translates to “very, very sorry.”

      Sorry or not, the man who blocked our way seized on our obvious ignorance. “See what I mean?” he asked his companions. “They’re Japanese.”

      “Ain’t supposed to be no Japs in San Francisco,” another man said. “What do ya think they’re up to, Frank?”

      Up to? Me, Mom, and the Whizz? I wanted to laugh in his face, and I wanted to cry. Both at the same time. Only before I had a chance to do either one, a police officer approached from the opposite side of the street. Big enough to dwarf Frank, he wore a blue overcoat with his badge and a nameplate pinned to the front. A long, black nightstick dangled from a hand big enough to cover my entire head.

      “What’s the trouble here?” the policeman asked.

      “They’re dang Japanese,” Frank said.

      “Is that right? Are you Japanese?”

      Mom couldn’t bring herself to raise her head or speak. But somebody had to say something, and I had the biggest mouth in the family.

      “We’re on our way to Connecticut,” I said. “From Hawaii.”

      “Then what’re you doin’ on Market Street?” Frank said. “I mean, the waterfront’s only two blocks away, so figure it out for yourself.”

      The policeman scowled. “Ya know somethin’? That’s exactly what I intend to do. Without your help.” He glanced at Mom, who refused to look up, then he turned to me. “You’re a long way from home, girl.”

      “We have a letter of authorization to travel from—”

      Frank cut me off. “A letter of what?”

      I didn’t have to answer, because the policeman slapped his nightstick against the palm of his left hand and stepped to within a yard of Frank. “Move on. You and your buddies,” he said. “Inside the bar or down the street. I don’t particularly care which one.”

      The policeman’s voice was filled with menace and I took a step back. Naïve child that I was, I’d only heard that tone in movies like Each Day I Die and Angels with Dirty Faces. In real life it was a lot scarier. Frank managed a scowl, then he and his cronies quickly retreated into the tavern.

      The policeman waited until the door closed behind them before returning to us. “Here, come with me.”

      He led us twenty yards along the sidewalk, to the shelter of an awning over a notions store. A sign in the window read NO JAPS SERVED.

      “Now, tell me about this letter.” There was no menace in his voice, which surprised me. “I’m Officer Mackley, by the way.”

      The Whizz suddenly recovered the ability to speak. “My dad’s a navy pilot,” he said. “He’s out on the ocean with a big fleet. When they find the enemy, he’s gonna have to fight.”

      “Is that so?”

      “It is,” I said. “Dad’s a lieutenant commander. He’s on an aircraft carrier that left Pearl Harbor a month ago. We’re trying to get to my Aunt Ellen’s house in Gardner, Connecticut. We’ll be staying with her until—”

      I stopped as a little wave of panic threatened to take hold of me. I’d watched the attack on Pearl Harbor, seen the flames, heard the explosions, watched the ambulances rushing by. No, I couldn’t fool myself. There was a big fat if out there. Still, I finally completed the sentence. “Until he comes back after the war.”

      “I’ll need to take a look at that authorization. Being as the entire West Coast is off limits to Japanese, and I’ve never seen or heard of such a document.”

      Mom finally looked up at him as her hands went to her purse. “I’m very sorry to trouble you,” she said. “Here, please.”

      I don’t know exactly how Dad had secured the letter, but it was signed by Admiral Nimitz, the commander of the American fleet in the Pacific, and it authorized the Arrington family to travel from Hawaii to Connecticut. Officer Mackley read it slowly, taking his time. Just as he finished, a black Ford with a round police light on top pulled to the curb.

      “That would be Sergeant Carnahan,” Officer Mackley explained. “If you’ll wait right here, I’ll just have a word with him.”

      By that time I’d pretty much come to expect things to go from bad to awful. The Whizz too, because he squeezed my hand and said, “Are they gonna take us to jail?”

      “Of course not,” Mom said.

      But I wasn’t so sure until Officer Mackley returned and I saw the smile on his face.

      “The sergeant tells me I should escort you to the station and put you on your train.” He winked at Charlie. “See, once you’re out of San Francisco, you’re someone else’s problem. Sergeant Carnahan, he prides himself on being a problem solver.”

      I closed my eyes for a second as a sense of relief flooded through me. I felt Mom straighten, heard her release a long sigh. On the other side, Charlie suddenly discovered his zip and became the Whizz again. He was practically dancing.

      “So,” Officer Mackley said, “shall we be off?”

      He made good on his word. He waited with us for two hours before escorting us to the platform where we boarded the train. Along the way he told us a story that explained a lot of things, although I didn’t sort them out at the time.

      “I live in a little house just outside of the city,” he told us as we approached

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