Moloka'i (45 page)

Rachel’s breath caught in her chest.

Only twenty-six miles away, the island of O'ahu lay on the horizon; but none of them had ever seen it like this before. Enormous columns of smoke rose from the tip of the island that was Honolulu, obscuring the harbor and most of the city. Much of the smoke was blacker than a stormcloud, but there also were pillars of gray, brown, yellow, and white straddling the horizon. Licks of flame danced on the water as though the ocean itself were afire—which they later discovered was the case, oil from the shattered naval vessels having spilled and ignited. It was impossible to tell, through the clouds of smoke eclipsing the city, how much of Honolulu survived; for all they knew it could be in ruins, broken to bits by Japanese bombs.

Rachel, Kenji, David, Hokea, Crossen, all of them stood in stunned, horrified silence, unable to take their eyes off the catastrophe written in the clouds. Rachel’s eyes welled with tears as she wondered if her family was there, dead or alive, behind the evil-looking smoke. And then an even more horrifying thought:
Ruth
. Was their daughter there on O'ahu, was she hearing the shrill of bombs falling to earth? Had one found and shattered the shelter of her home? As if reading her mind Kenji reached out and took her hand, and from his tight grip and the tears in his eyes Rachel knew that they shared the same fear, the same uncertain dread.

And then—strangely—they were startled to hear the silence broken not by a cry or a curse or a sob, but by the sound of a voice raised in song. Rachel turned, even more surprised to discover it was Crossen. He stood gazing into the distance with eyes shadowed by grief and impotence, something like a dirge spilling out of him, his voice so soft he might have been singing it to himself.

“Day is done, gone the sun

From the lakes, from the hills,

From the skies—”

Rachel recognized the melody, if not the words; they all did. All eyes went to the young sailor singing “Taps.”

“All is well, safely rest

God is nigh . . .”

In the distance the water burned, as black fingers of smoke groped helplessly at the sky.

______

A

t 4:25 that afternoon, the commercial radio stations went briefly back on the air to announce that martial law had been declared throughout the Territory of Hawai'i; the self-styled military governor was Major General Walter C. Short. Almost everyone expected an imminent invasion, or at least further bombing, and defensive measures were immediately put into effect. Nightly blackouts, a curfew, the issuing of ID cards and gas masks to everyone in the territory, all these actions were seen as prudent and necessary. Less applauded was the suspension of civil law—the U.S. justice system replaced by military justice, civil judges by military provosts—and of elections.

That first night saw people throughout the territory eating dinner in the dark, forbidden to light so much as a candle to guide forks to their mouths. In Kalaupapa this could be downright dangerous, as a stubbed toe or an unnoticed cut could lead to gangrene. Those residents who possessed flashlights and a little blue cellophane could at least see their hands in front of them, as illumination in the blue spectrum was permitted. When it became clear that blackouts were here for the duration, residents and staff lined the inside of their windows with tar paper or painted the glass black on the outside. Cantankerous Abelardo was appointed “blackout warden,” mainly because no one else wanted the job, and delighted in descending upon residents whose keyholes were emitting even a flicker of visible light and levying stiff fines. For the first time at Kalaupapa, the sound of a plane passing overhead was no longer a cause for celebration.

Yet the war brought unexpected joy to the settlement as well. In recent years the number of children in Kalaupapa had steadily declined as the Board of Hospitals and Settlement chose to keep more young leprosy patients at Kalihi, closer to friends and family. But now, fearing further attacks on Honolulu, the Board decided the children might be safer at Kalaupapa. In March of 1942, twelve girls and twenty boys shipped out at the furtive hour of four in morning aboard the SS
Hawai'i,
bound for Moloka'i.

When the children arrived they found themselves the puzzled recipients of more love and attention than they had ever dreamed of. Kalaupapans, delighted to hear the laughter of
keiki
again, spoiled them mercilessly, buying them candy and ice cream, treats and toys. There were birthday parties and
l
'aus
and trips to the beach; the children went fishing, explored sea caves, played softball and volleyball, learned to ride horses.

Rachel found herself spending more time helping Sister Catherine—at seventy the eldest sister at the convent, stubbornly resisting retirement as she helped train a new generation of Franciscans—at Bishop Home. Given her infirmities Rachel couldn’t do much manual labor, but she had no lack of energy or strength to play croquet with the girls on the convent lawn, or to read aloud from L. Frank Baum and Jack London. At one such reading, which took place on the beach with children from both Bishop and McVeigh Homes, a ten-year-old boy named Freddie asked Rachel hopefully, “Do you have any comic books?”

Rachel blinked. “ ‘Comic’ books? What are they?”

“They’re like the funny pages in the Sunday paper,” another boy explained, “except in a magazine.”

“I can show you!” Freddie announced, racing back to McVeigh Home and returning a few minutes later with an impressive stack of magazines under his arm, which he handed to Rachel. Every title was an exclamation promising adventure and excitement:
Whiz Comics, Thrilling Comics, Smash Comics, More Fun Comics, Amazing Mystery Funnies, Crackajack Funnies, Slam-Bang Comics, Wow Comics, Sensation Comics, Pep
and
Prize
and
Jackpot
and
Top-Notch
. The glossy covers were populated by a wondrous cast of characters: hawk-winged birdmen swooping out of the sky, muscled strongmen lifting cars, men made of fire, men made of rubber, spectral figures cowled in green, turbaned swamis with magic wands. In gaudy costumes they squared off against leering gargoyles, evil doctors, murderous cavemen, Grim Reapers, rampaging mummies, fiery rockets, Nazi tanks and Japanese Zeros.

“Ah,” Rachel said, “I see. Heroes and magic. I know some stories like that.” She asked the children, “Have you ever heard of a hero named M
ui?”

A boy objected, “Maui’s an island, not a hero!”

“Oh? Where do you think they got the
name
for the island?”

“M
ui was a real person?” a girl asked.

“He was more than a person. He was the son of a goddess, Hina, and a mortal man, so he was half-human and half something more than human.”

“Like the Sub-Mariner,” Freddie observed sagely.

“M
ui was what they call a ‘trickster’ because he used his wits as well as his
mana,
his power. And because he was a little mischievous. Like the time he turned his brother into a dog.”

“My brother’s already a dog,” a girl said, and everyone laughed.

“According to legend, when the world was new the sky and the clouds rested on top of the earth. They pressed down so heavily that when the first plants began to grow, their leaves were flat.”

A boy nodded soberly. “That makes sense.”

“When trees started to grow they pushed the sky up farther—enough that the human race could now walk upright. But the skies were still much lower than they are now. One of M
ui’s first great deeds was to lift up the sky. He braced himself against the top of the clouds and
pushed,
pushed the heavens up to where they are today.

“Also back then, the nights were longer than the days; the sun moved too quickly through the skies. There was hardly time to dry
kapa
cloth—it had to be taken up at night and put out the next day again. So M
ui fashioned ropes of green flax and used them to snare the sun, forcing it to move more slowly across the sky.”