Sophie and the Rising Sun (10 page)

The strength of his voice surprised her, the words coming distinct and round, like cannonballs. So that she thought:
Who is this man? This man who has taken tea right at my very own table?

“I am an American,” he said again, only this time his voice was softer and strangely calm, and still those dark, earnest eyes seemed to bore into her very soul.

For long, agonizing moments, they stood in the terrible silence, looking into each other’s eyes. Then finally, finally, Miss Anne spoke. “Yes,” she said simply. “Yes. You’re an American.”

Her own words seemed to soothe her, and she took a deep breath. “I was just afraid, God forgive me. I was thinking that someone would come and take it all out on you—maybe a mob even, come and... hang... you, thinking that you were one of them! I tell you, people will be infuriated by this horrible and cowardly thing!’’

“Thank you, Miss Anne, for worrying about me. But I am safe. I am an American.’’

“But will you promise me that you’ll be careful?” she asked. “Some people may not understand that as well as I do.’’

“I will be careful,” Mr. Oto assured her, bowing.

“And that’s exactly what I mean,” she said in a voice so soft that he could hardly hear it.

“What?”

“The bowing you do. You shouldn’t do that anymore.’’

“Excuse me?” he almost bowed again, but stopped himself.

“We’ve all seen those newsreels at the movie over in Brunswick, and that’s the way those Japs do all the time. Bow and bow at each other.” Her voice began to crack. “Bow even to our ambassadors and then turn around and attack us!’’

Mr. Oto had never seen her so angry before.

“Pigs!” she spat out the word and then turned and went silently back across the garden.

He stood at the gate for a long time, until his heart slowed its pounding and he could breathe once again. His one thought was that he should go to Sophie right away. But then... supposed this terrible news would cause her to end her friendship with him? That, he simply could not bear. But the mere thought of it taught him, once again, the true meaning of a broken heart.

In the end, he did not go to Sophie, could not bear the possibility that she would now hate him. If that happened, it could wait until the next Sunday, when he would go to the riverbank to paint, as always.

And maybe she would come.

And maybe she wouldn’t.

Around that same time,
Sophie was sitting in a wicker armchair on her sun porch, reading a little, but more often, simply looking out across the backyard and thinking of the beautiful Sunday morning she’d had in Mr. Oto’s company.

From the radio in Sophie’s kitchen came soft strains of music. But then some static and an excited voice saying something—almost yelling something that she couldn’t quite make out. A strident sound that seemed all out of place on such a beautiful afternoon. She waited for the music to resume, but the voice just kept going on and on.

Finally, she got up and went into the kitchen, and in that first moment when she fully comprehended the news about the attack on Pearl Harbor, she felt her world change forever.

War! This will mean war once again. All the fine young men going off to die in distant battlefields. Like Henry.

But then, right away, another thought leaped into her mind:

Grover!

A sudden, loud knocking on her front door and her feet moving mindlessly into the living room.
Grover?

But when Sophie opened the door, Miss Ruth was standing on her porch, her mouth in an impatient pout and her shoulders huffy and offended-looking.

“Miss Ruth?”

“Yes,” Miss Ruth answered. “Who did you think it would be?” she asked suspiciously.

“Uh... come in, please.”

The polite words came out, despite the turmoil in her heart, and somehow, her mama’s voice showed up in her ears: “
You must always have good manners, Sophie!”

Miss Ruth entered the living room, glancing around as if seeking something to criticize. Sophie still stood at the door, unable to move her feet.

“Sophie? I’ve come to ask why you aren’t coming to church anymore.”

“I...” Somehow, Sophie couldn’t make her mouth work just right.

“Sophie?”

Silence. Only silence.

“What’s wrong with you, Sophie? Are you ill?”

“I... can’t talk right now.” The words sounded weak and tired, but inside, Sophie’s heart and mind were a jumble of mindless, flapping wings, darting this way and that, flying into each other and then darting off in another direction.

“Sophie? I’m speaking to you! Are you ill?” Miss Ruth’s shrill, relentless voice.

“Pearl Harbor!” Sophie finally managed to say.

“What? What are you talking about? Have you lost your mind?”

A terrible sob erupting from Sophie’s chest, and her hating herself for it. “The base at Pearl Harbor. In Hawaii. It’s been bombed!”

“What? Bombed, you say? Bombed?” Miss Ruth put a shaking hand over her heart. “But
who
? Who would do such a thing? And how do you know this?”

“Radio,” Sophie whispered. “On the radio.”

“But
who
?” Miss Ruth insisted. “
Who
bombed the base?” Miss Ruth’s beady eyes were filled with both alarm and tears.

“Japan.” Sophie breathed out the word.

“Oh! My dear Lord!” Miss Ruth’s voice caught in her throat.

“Miss Ruth, I’m sorry. I just can’t talk right now. Please ma’am, just you go on home and listen to the radio yourself. Please,” Sophie added again.

And Sophie was ever so grateful when Miss Ruth started moving toward the door.

“Japan,” Miss Ruth muttered, and then she stopped right in her tracks.

“You better stop spending time with that Chinaman of Anne’s, right away, Sophie. He’s a stranger—a foreigner—maybe even a
spy!
”

Sophie couldn’t speak a word.

“You better
stop
!” Miss Ruth warned again in a terrible whisper. And then she was gone.

On her way back through the kitchen,
Sophie turned the radio off. But the words and their terrible images still remained in the room:

Sneak attack!

Bombs falling!

Ships burning!

Sophie went back to the sun porch, where she had been sitting so peacefully. She stared silently at the chair she had been sitting in, the book she had been reading, the cup of tea on the table—all things from what felt like a different world, with everything now divided into
before
and
after
.

And Grover. What about her dear friend Grover?

“No,” she whispered. “Not Grover, but just
Grove
—a peaceful, green place.”

A stranger? No.

A foreigner? No—an American.

A spy?

Never!

Of Japanese ancestry? Yes, “But only Grove and I know about that.”

A good, gentle man? Yes.

And the Sunday mornings of painting together and talking? What would happen to that?

His face seemed to appear before her: the deep, kind eyes—the color of the finest garden soil; the gentle smile; the clean-sunshine aroma of him.

And then Miss Ruth’s mean face appeared and her bitter words sounded in Sophie’s ears.
“You better stop spending time with that Chinaman of Anne’s, right away!”

“No, Miss Ruth. No,” Sophie said aloud. “You sound like maybe we have something to hide, but we don’t. You make it sound
dirty
, but it isn’t! We’re simply friends, and I will not give up my friend!”

It isn’t like that, Mama. He’s a very nice man.

In the cottage
at the back of Miss Anne’s garden, Mr. Oto poured himself a cup of tea with hands that shook so badly, he almost spilled it.

What insanity!
he was thinking.
A sneak attack? How dishonorable! How enraged the Americans will be—we will be! We are!

And he wondered if Miss Anne was right about people in the town taking out their rage on
him
. Even if they all thought he was Chinese, not Japanese, wouldn’t the sight of his oriental features be enough to send them into a rage?

The people of the town—how to tell what they would think or do. Because in the two years he had lived there, even though no one said anything unkind to him—except for Matilda, who was always somehow resentful toward him—he felt the chill behind their polite manners and their half-frozen smiles. And he also knew that even though he and Sophie could quietly meet to paint and talk on Sunday mornings, if they had been brazen enough to walk down the street together, even the half-frozen, smallest of smiles would stop, and the eyes would be hostile and accusing. That is, unless he walked behind her and carried her packages, as if he were a servant.

My dear Sophie! What is to become of our friendship now?

And the full grief came upon him at that moment. The loss would be unbearable!

But what am I thinking? Here will be war, and all I can think about is losing the Sunday mornings with my beloved. What kind of a man does that?