Free Soldiers in Hiding by Richard Wiley Page A

clothes still clinging to him. Jimmy’s cheekbones were high and he looked
smaller without his hair. The camera she used was one we’d brought from the United States, and as she clicked away with it I could feel my own hair joining Jimmy’s. Here the war had upset every household; I wondered what was happening in America.
    That same evening, after we lost our hair, Ike came to the house and we left for the middle school playground and the beginnings of the real war. Kazuko and her mother and grandfather walked with us, talking, taking turns telling us how glorious it would be, how the radio said the American fleet was already beaten and that the rest of the war would be merely a mop-up, a claiming of lands, an administration. Pictures of Pearl Harbor were posted everywhere, and it did look bad. Could it be true? Could Japan really be winning?
    At the edge of the playground the families of all the soldiers fused together, swaying as a single body, kimono colors blending. The officer in charge, a man named Nakamura, shouted through a megaphone, over the straight faces of the new recruits, and as he spoke silence settled in. Glory was one word I recognized. The honor to die in battle does not come to every generation. The Bushido spirit, between conflicts, is a sleeping tiger, but is born of us on this playground here today. Stand straight, young men, and remember the word victory. Some of you will die, but the rest must go on, not even taking time to regret that your lives still linger within you. The code of the Bushido cannot wither, only our flimsy flesh can do that, so do not worry.
    On and on the officer spoke. He was the commander of the unit to which we all would be attached, and he liked what he saw. Jimmy stood as straight as those next to us, so I tried standing straight too. I was afraid. I could no longer see Kazuko in the crowd around us. The poor and private streets of east Los Angeles came to mind and for just a second I began to cry.
    â€œThe wooden soldiers of the rice nation will be sorry to have challenged us,” said the officer, “for we are a people who know the beauty and special glory of violent death! Throughout our long history we have fought according to our code, and we have never
been defeated! We are Japan! There is no other nation that, in anyway, resembles ours. We are Japanese! In this war we will be victorious for there is no other possible outcome!”
    The crowd came together spontaneously, the soldiers and the spectators too.
    â€œBanzai!” they shouted.
    â€œRemember that our cause is an honorable one!”
    â€œBanzai!”
    â€œRemember Pearl Harbor and the glorious start it has given us!”
    â€œBanzai!”
    â€œRemember the Bushido and your Japanese ancestors!”
    â€œBanzai! Banzai! Banzai!”
    Everyone in the crowd raised their hands, fingers toward the clouds, shouting. Around the outskirts I could see the swaying civilians stretching skyward too. “Banzai!” Ike joined the chant and so did Jimmy and I. The air was electric, the urge to fight in them all. Once, quickly, I thought I saw Kazuko, her face tense, tears streaming. My skin was tight, raising itself into gooseflesh. I had the urge to speak in English, so I turned to Jimmy but held my tongue. I felt that to say something in English just then might mean my life, for English orders reality so differently that the whole spectacle might seem silly and I would laugh. When the speech was over we all stayed standing, waiting as men walked among us with instructions. The three of us kept calm, not saying anything to each other. There were buses parked along the far street, away from where Kazuko was, and as we walked toward them Jimmy didn’t once look back, yet my head was constantly turned. As we boarded our bus I stuck my face up near Jimmy’s ear and whispered. “Banzai,” I told him. “Remember your Japanese ancestors.” I kept craning my neck