In the late afternoon, they left Kii. Even Howard had lost his good humor. He cursed quietly at the horse and combed his hair only once. The sun condensed from blinding yellow to a tight orange ball and began to sink below the horizon. The pilot was quiet. Yoshio ignored them both and stared silently at the water, thinking of the submarine. What would the Hawaiian sharks think when they saw that dark, silent shadow? Legend said that the large mano protected the island in an ancient pact bartered by the Niihauans’ ancestors. And it was true, no shark attacks had ever been recorded on Niihau, though men swam through infested waters often. Could the mano spirits protect them against this deadly man-made machine? Yoshio did not think so.
The radio was about the size of a small pig. It was wood paneled, with a dial on the right side that spun a thick metal shaft in a circle to catch the radio stations. The only identifying mark was the word “Supreme” etched in a copper plate on one corner, which Irene supposed was the silly, boastful name of a mainland radio company.
She always marveled at the good reception, despite the distance from the other islands. She imagined the radio waves slowing in the heat, perhaps dragging a long trail of red dust as they dropped down the chimney and squeezed through the cracks in the walls, finally alighting on her machine and wiggling inside. It was a miracle really, and a miracle too that Robinson had not removed what Howard Kaleohano had once called, in English, “a modern conniption,” after the white foreman had died. Mr. Robinson had not been happy that the old man had wanted a radio, but had relented, only after making him promise that the natives would not come over to the house and listen to the frivolity that burst from its wooden ribs. The old foreman had agreed, but sometimes the cowboys heard its melodies anyway, drifting to the wiliwili in the back field when they were tending the Arabians, or carried by the afternoon wind toward Puuwai. At first the radio had been a thing of mild interest, and the few who caught a glimpse of it told tales of mysterious gurgling and hissing inside a wooden crate. But no one understood the language that came out of it, and the music itself was strange and tinny—not nearly as nice as a live Niihauan voice and a ukulele—and it was easy to forget about because soon enough Mr. Robinson scolded the foreman and he was more careful to keep the music down. But the Haradas were glad for the “conniption,” and Irene was vigilant about putting it away when Robinson came around, to make sure she never lost her only connection to the world beyond Niihau.
Irene spent most of the day heaving the radio from place to place in the house, trying to pick up some news from outside. But there was only an insectlike hum; broadcasting had stopped completely except for an occasional voice that came on, clearing its throat in strangled bursts and saying in a high, nervous tone, Be calm, be calm. In the background Irene could hear the scraping of furniture in what she imagined was a fortress being quickly erected. The radio station that was the only link the world had to itself was barricading itself in, and that could not be good.
Behind the quick, repeated two-word pronouncement (Be calm, be calm) she caught the indecipherable shuffle of other voices, high and low, falling out as they moved too far from the microphone, wafting back in, disappearing again. Then, after only a few moments, the radio would return to its hiss and static. She swung the dial first with the careful precision of a sniper taking aim, then with abandon, trying to pluck the airwaves from the sky. She did not know that all over the Hawaiian Islands, radio broadcasts had dropped out hours ago. The broadcasters dared to come on only infrequently, for just a few seconds, lest enemy Zeros navigate by their signal. Irene was not the only one fiddling anxiously with the buttons, waiting in vain for news of what was happening in the outside world. Everyone in the Hawaiian Islands was. But she was the one most isolated. She imagined people on Kauai and Maui and Oahu walking to their neighbors, then clustering on porches or slouching around kitchen tables. There they would trade rumor and fact, not knowing which was which, but still comforted by each other and news, any news. Not Irene. The almost complete silence from the world outside was like being lost on a mountain and peering into a dark night for a light that had flickered once in the distance and then had disappeared. What was going on out there? Was it all over? Had the Japanese invaded, or was the United States military right now dropping bombs on Tokyo? How could she and Yoshio know what to do with the pilot if there was no clue from outside about the war and its combatants? Irene felt again her anger against Mr. Robinson and his silly, vain need to keep the island cut off from everything.
As she listened throughout the day, though, she pieced the fragmented words into a fuller story: Enemy parachutists had landed near King Street. Nisei citizens had been rounded up for questioning and detention. There were reports, then retractions, of Kauai being invaded by Japanese frogmen. As Monday afternoon gave way to Monday evening and Yoshio still had not returned, Irene’s panic level rose. The reception wandered in and out with fickle abandon, but Irene, her ear pressed against the ribbed amplifier as if listening for a heartbeat, had heard enough to understand. Japanese Americans were being forcibly taken from their Oahu homes by police and military. There were shots in the street. People attacked Japanese businesses and, in a few cases, beat up Japanese men. Police were being sent to investigate “suspicious” Japanese locals. Who qualified as suspicious? Irene wondered. Who called these suspicions in?
It was well past sundown when Irene turned the radio off and checked on Taeko. Irene dropped her face to her child’s tiny hands. In the dark, resting on her plump chest, the fists looked like small, perfect shells. Her musty, milky smell, ubiquitous to small children, hit Irene’s nostrils. She breathed it in and thought instantly of her younger sister. Perhaps she was right now, at this moment, being rounded up and pushed into some dark jail cell. Her oldest nephew had probably signed up hastily for military service at the Kauai airbase. He was that kind of boy, foolish and sincere. She fought the urge to pick Taeko up and press her to her breast and run to the boat dock to see why Yoshio still had not returned. It occurred to her how furious she was that she had ever agreed to come to Niihau.
She woke to Yoshio slipping into the single bed, next to her. He put a hand on her shoulder but she did not move. He pulled his hand away, rose, and went to his own bed.
-Everything okay with Mr. Robinson? she finally said. He didn’t reply for a long time.
-He didn’t come, he said finally.
-They’re rounding up Japanese on the other islands, she said.
There was a pause.
-Robinson comes tomorrow. Yoshio’s voice was muffled under the sheets.
-Yoshio, for all we know he’s dead. They say the Imperial Navy is sneaking up on the beaches as we speak. She sat up and looked at his prone form. It’s time to help the pilot.
-No, he said after a long pause. And when it was clear she was not going to lie back down, he added, Wives don’t disobey their husbands.
After a moment she whispered a response.
-Husbands protect their families.
He didn’t answer. Somewhere the wind swung a board against a shed. The scrub outside the house rustled. The island, thought Irene, creaked and swayed like a ship at anchor, and it wouldn’t take much for the chain to snap and set them all adrift on a dark, endless sea.