“You were in Iolani Palace. Do you remember?” the other man said.

“Hai,” Senior Private Furusawa repeated, again as if from very far away. He remembered finishing Commander Genda. Genda had died as a samurai should. And he remembered a hole blown in the ceiling, and U.S. Marines jumping down into the palace basement roaring like tigers. He remembered trying to fight off a big one… and that was the last thing hedid remember. That meant…“ Zakennayo!” he exclaimed. “Am I…?” He couldn’t make himself say the words.

The other man nodded. “Yes, you are a prisoner of war. You were taken while unconscious. It is not your fault. You did not surrender.”

That helped-about as much as bailing with a bucket helped keep a battleship afloat. “A prisoner!” Furusawa said in despair. The knowledge hurt almost as much as his head, which said a lot. Furusawa squeezed his eyes shut as shame washed over him. “My family is disgraced forever.”

“Your family doesn’t know,” the other man said. By his old-fashioned accent-and by how thin he was-he had to be a local Japanese working with the Americans. “No one will tell them till the war is over. You can sort it out then. Meanwhile, aren’t you glad you’re alive?”

“No.” Furusawa shook his head, which also hurt. “What… What will they do to me?” You could do anything to a prisoner, anything at all.

As if picking that thought from his mind, the local Japanese said, “America follows the Geneva Convention. No one will torture you for the fun of it, or anything like that. You will be questioned, but it will only be questions. Do you understand?”

“I hear you,” Furusawa said wearily. He heard gunfire, too, not close enough to be alarming but not that far away, either. “We’re still fighting!”

“Yes, but it’s mopping up now,” the other man said. “Honolulu will fall. Oahu will fall. The war will go west.”

Furusawa wished he could call a local Japanese a liar. He knew he couldn’t. He’d been sure Oahu would fall since his own countrymen couldn’t keep the Americans off the northern beaches. Hawaii would no longer be the Empire’s eastern shield. Now the USA could use the islands against Japan. Shigata ga nai, he thought. He certainly couldn’t do anything about it.

“Are you hungry? Are you thirsty?” the other man asked.

“Hai.” Furusawa sat up on the edge of the cot where they’d put him.

“I’ll get you food,” the local Japanese said. “There are guards outside. Don’t try to leave. It would be the last thing you did.”

Furusawa hadn’t thought of leaving. He barely had the strength to sit. The local Japanese went out. He spoke in English. Someone answered him in the same language. He hadn’t been lying, then. Furusawa hadn’t thought so. The other man came back in a few minutes with U.S. ration tins and a cup of coffee. Furusawa ate greedily. He felt a little more alive when he finished.

“You were in the palace basement, neh?” the local Japanese said. Furusawa nodded, and didn’t wish he was dead right afterwards. The other man-who was, Furusawa slowly realized, an interrogator-went on, “Do you know what happened to the man and woman who called themselves King and Queen of Hawaii?”

“Hai.” Why not answer? What difference did it make now? What difference did anything make now? This felt more like a strange life after death than anything else. “He shot her. Then he shot himself. They didn’t want to be captured, either.”

“Well, I can believe that,” the local man said. “They would have had a hard time of it.” He paused to look at a notebook. Questions he wanted to ask? “Do you know who the Navy officer who committed seppuku was?”

“Commander Genda.” With a certain mournful pride, Furusawa added, “I had the honor to act as his second.”

“Lucky you.” The interrogator’s tone proved him more American than Japanese.

“I thought so.” Furusawa paused and winced. It felt as if someone were trying to drive a blunt spike through his skull. “Please excuse me. My head hurts.”

“I believe that. They say you’re lucky it didn’t get broken for good,” the local Japanese answered. This is luck? Furusawa thought. The local Japanese held out two white tablets. “Here are some aspirins. They may help a little.”

Poison? Furusawa wandered. But, as a druggist’s son, he recognized aspirins when he saw and smelled them. He swallowed them with a last little swig of coffee. “Arigato,” he said. Maybe the interrogator meant it. Maybe the Americans were easier on prisoners than his own people would have been-were. He could hope, anyhow.

And hope was all he could do. He’d fought as long and as hard as he could, but now, for him, the war was over.

XV

KENZO TAKAHASHI WONDERED IF HE’D BEEN SMART TO MAKE SURE HIS GIRLFRIEND was all right. For the first few days in the shelter under the Sundbergs’ house, things had been pretty quiet. He and Elsie and her folks could go up and use the bathroom. They could come out at night during lulls and get avocados out of the trees in the back yard. They could even sleep in beds if they wanted to, though that was risky. You could get caught when the shooting picked up again.

Now, though, the fighting had moved east. Too much of it was right in this neighborhood. The Japanese special naval landing forces didn’t yield ground till they had to. By the pounding U.S. forces were giving them, they would have to before long. In the meanwhile, though…

In the meanwhile, what had been a quiet, prosperous residential street turned into a good approximation of hell. Shells burst all the time. Machine guns stuttered and chattered. Rifles barked. Planes flew low overhead, strafing anything Japanese that moved-and anything that moved that might be Japanese. Coming out would have been suicidal. Kenzo had long since lost track of how many bullets tore through the house above them.

Mrs. Sundberg cried softly. “Everything we worked so long and hard to build and get…” she choked out.

“Not everything,” her husband said. “We’re still here. Things are just-things.” He’d always struck Kenzo as a sensible man.

“What do we do if the house catches fire?” Elsie asked.

“Get out as best we can and pray,” Mr. Sundberg answered bleakly. “That’s the one big worry I’ve got.”

There were smaller ones. Mr. Sundberg had dug that narrow trench to a latrine pit. People used it when they couldn’t go up above. It wasn’t pleasant, or anything close to pleasant. He’d stowed bottles of water down below, but not a whole lot of food. Everybody got hungry and cranky. Kenzo also felt very much the odd man out. Elsie’s folks were polite about it-he didn’t think he’d ever seen them less than polite. But they and Elsie made a group he wasn’t fully part of.

Her father joked about it: “If you can put up with her here, Ken, you’ll never have to worry about it again.”

“I think you’re right,” Kenzo answered. He and Elsie slept huddled together. So did her parents. They had no room for anything less intimate. Mr. and Mrs. Sundberg didn’t say boo. They had to know he’d really slept with Elsie, but they didn’t let on.

And then the firing got worse. Kenzo hadn’t thought it could. Japanese soldiers were right outside. They shouted back and forth to one another, trying to set up a defensive line. They sounded excited and frightened, but still full of fight.

Maybe one of them smelled the stink from the latrine pit. He came over and shouted, “Who’s in there?” Elsie and her folks couldn’t understand the words, but the tone made them gasp with fright. Kenzo was scared almost out of his wits, too-almost, but not quite. Trying to sound as gruff as he could, he barked, “This is a holdout position. Get lost, you baka yaro, or you’ll give it away.”