They came one day, their green army trucks all in one winding line, rumbling down the nearby road. I’d heard the noise, running to the balcony to look across the familiar swaying fields of sugar cane in our family’s plantation, palm fronds bowing gently to the humid breeze. Lazy mosquitoes flicked in and out of the courtyards of the large house, a solid white against the tropical background. Yet there was a difference; at the normally deserted road I could make out a line of trucks with their fluttering white flags and blood-red circles. Soon I heard the rush of running footsteps to find my mom tugging me away from the open balcony to the sheltered curtains within. She was joined by all the other women—the maids, my nanny and my older sister. I looked questioningly at their pinched faces, eyes revealing a fear they dared not voice. “Whose trucks are those, Mommy? The ones with the flags? Why can’t I look?” I was shushed by looks from the rest, all of them craning their necks to peek at the line. “Whose trucks are those, Mommy? The ones with the flags?” “Th- they’re the Japanese and that is their flag,” my mother answered hesitantly, adding bitterly, “probably bringing reinforcements for the cities.” The trucks were only a distant rumble now, like the thunder before a storm. I looked up at her, my ten-year-old braids swinging, wondering if this was about that word I’d heard whispered during meals. What was it? Occupation. One never said it out loud, as though to do so would be to accept defeat, but even I knew it existed, a looming storm cloud not yet bursting to rain. It meant long famished months of food shortages and foreign soldiers who destroyed our government, all the while claiming the Philippines as their own. It was 1942 and somehow, that storm cloud seemed so much closer to raining after I first saw the Japanese trucks. Somehow I knew our lives were about to change. How, I did not know. Somehow. * * * I’d heard my mom say often that change was slow on the islands. If it ever came at all, it came slowly. And even if it did creep up on us unsuspected, it was met with such determined opposition it usually ran away. She said all this with pride, as though change was something to be feared. Maybe there was more truth to her statements than anyone realized, for after that first day the Japanese came my world did change, and it was every bit as awful as Mom made it sound. Except it wasn’t slow; this change arrived overnight and no matter how hated I knew it wasn’t going to run away. Change was evident at school, where our class was taught about bomb raids. Once a week a shrill siren would sound and like scared cats in water at once we all jumped and huddled under our desks, glancing at each other. It was almost a game—who could remain the quietest and most still until the imminent all clear. Then, at home ugly black curtains were put up on all the windows every night, dark shadows next to the familiar flowered frills. When I asked why these were needed, Mom pursed her lips, while Daddy muttered something about needing to be “invisible” and “safety” against “bombs.” The following day Mom placed all her jewelry in one big metal box. The pearls I’d longed to play dress-up with, heavy gold chains and even the sparkling diamonds were all put in, never to twinkle again for a very long time. She gave this box to Daddy, who dug a hole one night and dropped it in, burying everything. My older sister finally admitted that it was to hide them in case of war. War? Who ever said anything about war? That was a long forgotten remnant of the past, remembered only in dusty school textbooks. The Japanese may be occupying the Philippines, yet they weren’t causing war. Really, they didn’t do much that we could tell, not yet at least. The bomb drills were a precaution, nothing more. But if all that was true, why was my sister talking about war? And suddenly it came to me. This change was war. “You’re the Japanese and I’m the Americans,” my sister announced one afternoon, weeks after the Japanese had arrived. We were playing a familiar game of Bad Guys versus Good Guys, except now the Japanese were bad and the Americans were good. Our plantation was a bubble, and though we might catch rare glimpses of the war outside, that bubble had yet to pop. Without any chance of seeing real battles, my sister and I had to be content with our own fake ones. And as usual, I was the bad guy. “Not fair! I was the Japanese last time!” “Fine . . . but only this once,” my sister conceded surprisingly Sometimes being the older, better, smarter sister wasn’t the unbeatable weapon it appeared. Satisfied, she started running down the lawn, whizzing past green-fronded plants and a menagerie of jewel-like flowers or even the odd bird, the scorching afternoon sun beating down relentlessly. Shaded by the cluster of trees, I waited. I was still too little to win if I tried to beat her running, so I listened to her feet pounding, bouncing, skipping, until finally my chance came. She stopped, gasping for breath, and I darted into the hot sun, tapping her back and declaring, “I win!” “You can’t win . . . The Japanese always win!” “Yeah well . . . the Americans are the good guys and the good guys have to win.” “If the Americans are so good, the Japanese wouldn’t even be here now!” “Shhh . . .” I was hissing at the sound of wheels on gravel breaking the tense silence. “What, it’s just a stupid truck.” All the same, she peered around the bush with me.
Historical
First in Flight
“They’re crazy!” shouted my father, bursting through the door and coming in for dinner. Mother, careworn and ever patient, calmly laid the bowls for supper. “Now, Jim,” she said practically, filling our bowls with warm soup. That was what she always said when Father got excited. “I mean it Mabel!” he said, lifting his arms into the air. “If those men think they can get away with making a machine that can fly, well, I just think they’re craz- . . .” “If the Good Lord had intended us to fly, we would have wings,” agreed Mother. “Supper’s ready.” * * * The next morning at breakfast, I gulped down my food. “Papa?” I asked, downing a spoonful of porridge. “Yes, son?” said my father, busy doing something else. “Papa,” I said, “tell me about the men who are making that flying machine.” Papa grumbled disapprovingly. “The fools. They’ve come here to Kitty Hawk to play with gliders and try to make the silly things fly without wind. Like birds. Ridiculous.” “What are their names, Papa?” “Wilbur and Orville Wright. A pair of daydreamers.” “Maybe they’ll be famous someday, Papa.” “Famous?” roared Father. “Famous? The whole business will amount to nothing! Nothing, I tell you!” Mama, clearing the table, mildly interjected, “Now, Jim. You said the same thing about the horseless carriage.” ‘Are you making the flying machine?” “And what became of it?” Father broke in, waving his hat. “An automobile, like Uncle Bill’s,” I said dreamily. “A cloud of smelly black smoke with a steering wheel, that’s what! Anyway, I am off to work. Good day!” He violently slammed the door. Mother gave me a reproachful glance. “He’s right, Ben,” she said. “Now you got him all excited. He’s never been the same since that time with Uncle Bill . . . Ah! What am I doing? Children, you get along and do your chores. Frannie, scrub the dishes. Carolyn, you can help with lunch. Ben . . .” I was out the door like a shot, racing to the sand dunes of Kitty Hawk. I wanted to see the men who were going to fly. My arms and legs pumped faster and faster. Perhaps they had figured out how to fly already I just had to get there in time. Finally, I reached the barren windswept wastes of Kitty Hawk. Off to one side was Kill Devil Hill, a mountain of sand towering above me. To the other were two tents, which I had never seen before. Faintly, I detected dark objects moving around inside the tents. I crept closer and closer, my bare feet soundless on the sand. The black objects left the tent and became men, carrying something large. What were they doing now? They were letting it go . . . the breeze caught it up . . . it was flying! Gliding, rather. I moved closer. And closer. Even closer. It was like some kind of magnetic attraction. I continued to gravitate toward the kite until I was standing next to the man flying it. Startled at finding myself there, I gasped and hopped back. The man looked down at me with a cheerful smile. He had a small, black mustache and was dressed quite neatly “Hello,” he said, “I’m Orville Wright.” My mouth went dry “Ben Thompson.” “This is Wilbur, my brother.” A thin man leaned out from behind the first Mr. Wright and smiled, doffing his cap. “Are you . . . ?” I started. “Are you the craz- . . . I mean . . . are you making the flying machine?” Orville nodded. “We’re trying. Still in the experimentation stage. Want a try?” He handed me the kite, gently steadying my hand. There was a fair breeze that day, blowing in from the ocean. “You want to make this fly?” I asked. Orville nodded. “We’ll have to find a way to make it fly without wind . . .” Throughout the next hour, I learned almost as much on the subject of flight as the brothers knew. Then, Amelia, my big sister, came and called me home to lunch. “You better hurry,” she said in her prim, superior way. I waved to Orville as I trotted down the road, trying to catch up with Amelia. She was daintily stepping along, avoiding muddy patches and stopping briefly at puddles as if she expected me to be Sir Walter Raleigh and sweep off some velvet cloak for her to walk on. “Ooh! What will Mama say when I tell her you were flying kites instead of doing your chores?” she said as I panted alongside her. “Amelia!” I pleaded. “Won’t you catch it!” she gloated. I pulled her hair. * * * “What’s wrong with Ben?” asked 1VIama that evening as I stood motionless with a broom in one hand. I awoke with a start from my reverie and started sweeping again. I couldn’t seem to keep my mind off the Wright brothers. One thing was certain: I was going back tomorrow. * * * I kept visiting the Wright brothers all summer, and soon took to calling them by their first names. They didn’t seem to mind that much. One night, after dinner, I ran down to Kitty Hawk to see them. Orville played his mandolin, and Wilbur, his harmonica. We spent the evening singing, laughing, and talking about the long journey that lay before us on the road to flight. I liked the way that Orville said us, not just himself and his brother. It felt nice to be appreciated and part of a group doing something important. Wilbur and Orville, although several years apart, made a great team. Yet there were so many differences between them. Wilbur, the elder of the two, was solemn and quiet. Orville took his job seriously, but he was merrier and more outgoing than his brother. Wilbur was also the frailer of the two. Although both brothers became my friends, I was more
Of Governesses and Greasers
“Larissa! Get back from there.” The voice cut into Lacey’s musings like a knife, ripping her daydream and dumping her back in the present. To be precise, 1912. “I won’t have you standing that close to the edge of the deck,” Lacey’s governess, Mrs. Etchman, said apprehensively “What would your mother think?” “She’d probably be standing there with me,” Lacey muttered. Mother had taken a ship to New York three months ago, saying that Lacey should come when she had set up a home there. Now five-year-old Lacey and her slightly overprotective governess were over halfway there. Despite the fact that this was one of the safest ships in the world, Mrs. Etchman still harbored doubts. “I hate these engines! In my day, ships had sails or, at the very least, oars. Not these big clunky hunks of metal pumping out smoke. Why, I remember…” “Mrs. Etchman!” Lacey interrupted. She knew these one-sided conversations could go on forever. “Can I go to our cabin?” “Yes, you may. I’ll come with you, of course.” When they got to their first-class rooms, Lacey belly-flopped onto the bed. Despite the ship’s restaurant, lounge, reading room, gymnasium, swimming bath, and squash court, Lacey was bored. She let the gently rocking ship roll her around the bed, wishing that she didn’t have to have a guardian all the time. Suddenly, she sat up. “Oh, don’t worry about that. This ship surpasses all others before it. It won’t be a problem” “Mrs. Etchman, may I go to the bathroom?” “Yes, you may” Mrs. Etchman approved. Once out of sight, Lacey headed for the main hall, away from the bathrooms. She wandered up corridors and down stairs, not sure where she was going. Presently, she came upon two women talking to an officer. Lacey heard one of the women address him as chairman. He was reading a telegram, trying to sound important. “‘Icebergs and large quantity of field ice 41.59 N 49.9 W’ Oh, don’t worry about that. This ship surpasses all others before it. It won’t be a problem.” Lacey passed them without noticing. She was thinking about her governess. Her spiteful, rude, malicious governess. Lacey had thought that her first trip overseas would be enjoyable. But not with Medusa’s mother-in-law watching her like a vulture. The voyage had got off to a bad start in Queenstown, anyway. She’d been seasick the first few days, while Mrs. Etchman, perfectly well, watched disapprovingly As if it was her fault she was sick! Mrs. Etchman was always pointing out problems and correcting manners. Larissa, tuck in your shirt. Larissa, don’t bolt your food. Larissa… Suddenly, Lacey’s thoughts were scattered when the floor beneath her changed from lush, dark red carpet to gray, metallic steel. The cold sheet metal sent shivers up her bare feet and rang faintly when she stepped on it. She jumped up and down on it. Booum! B000um! This was fun. She walked farther down the corridor to see whether it sounded louder over there. * * * Eventually, she got tired and decided to go back. But wait. Was that dead-end there last time? And that door wasn’t locked. Lacey was suddenly aware that the engine sounded much louder than it always did. In fact, she could feel the vibrations through the walls. It was coming from a door ahead. The opening door ahead. Out of the door stepped a young man in grimy coveralls. He was a rangy six- or seventeen-year-old; easily recognized as a mechanic because of the trademark oily rag in his back pocket. “Hey” he said, surprised. Then, more gently and with a grin, “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?” The young mechanic radiated goodwill and, against Mrs. Etchman’s command to not talk to strangers, Lacey soon found herself telling him everything. “Well, it seems like this governess of yours is really mean,” the greaser theorized. “Or, so you seems to think. But didja consider that maybe she’s just being too possessive? She is suppos’d to take care of ya, after all. I’m sure she doesn’t do all those things to you to be cruel, just to help your welfare,” he went on. But Lacey wasn’t to be moved so quickly. She was five years old, after all. The mechanic talked to her longer, telling her his name (Axel) and his occupation (greaser). “Ya know,” Axel remarked, “people can be very prejudiced. Why, there’s a couple in second class who were frightened just last night because it was the thirteenth. They were prejudiced against a number, but you’re prejudiced against a person.” Lacey was having trouble following the conversation, perhaps because she didn’t know what “prejudiced” meant. “See if you can find something nice about her. Try asking where she grew up. That usually works.” Axel winked and got up from the pipe they’d been sitting on. “I’ve got to get back to work. You head in that direction and stay to the right, and you should get back to the deck.” Lacey watched Axel walk back to the engine room. Then she turned and walked back, thinking about what he’d said. By the time she reached her room, she had decided that Axel was right. Maybe she had been too hard on Mrs. Etchman. But when she opened the door, her resolve dissolved. “Where have you been?” Mrs. Etchman shrieked. “I’ve looked all over the first-class area. I was getting ready to call on the captain. If you’ve been…” Lacey tuned her out. Maybe Axel was wrong. Mrs. Etchman seemed plenty mean to her. She decided to try one last time. “Mrs. Etchman, where did you grow up?” Mrs. Etchman stopped her tirade and stared at Lacey “Where did I- now, don’t try to change the subject. We were discussing your shameful behavior.” “Yeah, just answer this an’ I won’t interrupt or disagree or anything,” Lacey pleaded. “Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease?” “Oh… very well. But don’t think you’ll get away with this, because you won’t.
