The Bomb

  "Uncle Abram and myself."

  "Let him go alone," his mother advised.

  Yolo nodded her head. Tara studied Sorry's mother.

  Alarmed, Sorry protested. "No, no..."

  "Did he tell you why he's going shark fishing so soon?"

  Sorry shook his head.

  Mother Rinamu stopped making the mat. "About fifteen years ago Abram was fishing off the Rojkora barrier reef and speared a tiger shark. Somehow, Abram got the harpoon line around his ankle and was dragged overboard. The shark took him toward the bottom. If he'd lost his knife he wouldn't be here today. He cut the line, and then the shark came back on him, jaws open. That scar that he has on his right side was put there by the tiger. Abram almost died. He said he'd get that shark someday."

  "He's been waiting all this time?"

  "I think so. That's Abram."

  "And he thinks the tiger is still there?" Perhaps fate had brought Uncle Abram home? Perhaps he could avenge the death of Badina Rinamu?

  His mother shrugged and laughed. "Maybe it is. Abram will find out."

  "I will go with him," Sorry said.

  His mother nodded. "I guess you'll be safe with any man who can sail here from Eniwetok by himself."

  Tara smiled, nodding, too. "Probably," she said.

  Sorry had gone fishing thousands of times. Hand line, trolling, spearing, netting—starting when he could barely walk. But nobody fished for the tiger. They attacked canoes. Yet Uncle Abram wasn't afraid.

  ***

  This week, Tara was again staying with the Rinamu family.

  Sorry said, "I saw you looking at my uncle last night."

  "I think everyone looked at him."

  "But you looked at him in a special way ..."

  She just laughed and shook her head.

  "You did!"

  "He's a handsome man and has a wonderful smile."

  Her own smile said as much as her words.

  In July 1945, the cruiser USS Indianapolis sailed from San Francisco, carrying elements of an atomic bomb named Little Boy. She delivered her top-secret cargo to the island of Tinian, in the Marianas group, a long-range bomber base.

  11

  Sorry and Abram pulled the Eniwetok outrigger from the canoe shed and slid it down to the water, setting sail to go south past Bokantuak and Eomalan, then around Rojkora, leaving the lagoon to head along the barrier reef and look for the tiger over the steep underwater cliff that dropped almost straight into dark ocean depths.

  The wind was light but steady a few minutes past sunrise, and the double-end canoe, under the lateen sail, cut a path through the water. Abram sharpened the steel harpoon head with a stone as they glided along. The zisst, zisst, zisst made a pleasing sound, adding to the song of the water and the low hum of the wind on the sail.

  "Mother told me about the tiger shark."

  Abram lifted his eyes from the gleaming tip of Sorry's father's favorite harpoon. "Someone might have sent him to fish heaven by now. But I doubt it. Not that one. Tigers are as bad as the great white shark of colder water. Both are killers."

  Sorry nodded. Jonjen had seen a tiger slice a man in half off Lokwor. "How big was he when he bit you?"

  "Seven feet, perhaps. A young one," Abram said thoughtfully. Then he added, with a laugh, "He wouldn't let me measure him."

  "If he's alive, how big is he now?"

  "Eleven or twelve feet, I'd guess. Maybe more."

  Sorry had seen them seven or eight feet long. The young ones had dark stripes, but as they became older the stripes faded to a mottled gray. Their bellies were stark white. Their noses were not as sharp as the makos', and their mouths stretched from one side of their blunt heads to the other. They had spike teeth. Just the sight of them sent a hot stab of fear into swimmers or men in outriggers.

  "Do they stay near home?"

  "I think they do," Abram said. "Why?"

  "I've always believed a tiger killed my father. There was no trace of him along the reef."

  "That's the mark of a tiger, all right."

  Sorry was thoughtful for a moment. "And if you spear the same one again?"

  Abram chuckled. "I won't let the line get around my feet, you may be sure. I won't make that mistake twice. And I want you to stay in the stern, feet up, if I do hit him."

  The line was coiled at the bow. It was strong, new line taken from the Japanese barracks.

  "I hope we find him," Sorry said.

  Abram nodded and ran a thumb over the harpoon head, testing its sharpness. A razor-thin line of blood came up. It was ready.

  "Uncle Abram, have you killed any men in the war?"

  "Me? No. I've only been on merchant ships, not fighting ships. We had guns to fire at submarines. They were manned by gun crews."

  "Did submarines shoot at you?"

  "Yes, at two ships that I was on."

  "Did they hit you?"

  "One did, with torpedoes."

  "Were men killed?"

  "Yes, most of our crew. Twenty-two of them. I was lucky, Sorry." Abram seemed to want to end the conversation, but he continued. "War is a terrible thing, and one of the reasons I left my last ship in Eniwetok is that I didn't want to be in war anymore. I was sick of it. What I did is wrong, but I did it anyway. I thought about how much time I might have on earth, then I decided to leave." His face was cloudy.

  After a few minutes of silence, broken only by the swish of the canoe through the water, the sigh of the sail, and the slight groan of the boom yoke, Sorry asked a question that had been on his mind for a long time. "What's the other world like?"

  Abram looked out across the sparkling sea for a while, then said, "It's good and bad, Sorry. I saw the big cities but didn't like them. Too many people pushing and shoving, rushing around. Too much noise. Cities are dirty. They smell of automobiles and factories. You wouldn't like them."

  "What are factories?" Sorry asked.

  "Big buildings with smokestacks where people make things."

  Sorry had seen the pictures in the Japanese magazine. "But I have to go out there someday, Uncle Abram. To the other world."

  "Yes, you should," he agreed. "But then you'll come back here, as I have. Now I'll live my life away on this island. Die here, be buried here. I've seen other islands, in waters they call the Caribbean and Indian Oceans. None are as beautiful as this one..."

  "You mean that?"

  "I do. I've seen all I want of the other world. The people are greedy. They work too hard doing stupid things. They hurt each other. They do not share. Their comb is their comb. They would never think of sharing their comb. Their hat is their hat. They would never think of sharing their hat."

  That was difficult to understand. If Sorry found a beautiful shell and Lokileni admired it, he would give it to her instantly.

  Sorry said, "The American navy men share." By seaplane and ship they'd come back a dozen times, with clothing, food, and candy. They traded cigarettes for pandanus mats and baskets and shell necklaces. They sent a dentist, to pull teeth, and an eye doctor, they brought books in Marshallese. They brought medical supplies.

  Abram said, "They should. They control all the atolls now and may never give them back. Their flag may always fly over Bikini."

  "You don't like them?"

  Uncle Abram shrugged. "We must be careful. The Germans and the Japanese didn't do us any favors. The Americans can give us candy and cigarettes but take away the land. Juda must tell them we can't be bought."

  Sorry had never heard anyone talk the confident way his uncle did, but Abram had spent a lot of time in the ailīnkan and was a self-educated man, wise like Jonjen. He knew things. The island was lucky to have Uncle Abram, Tara Malolo, and Jonjen.

  ***

  As soon as they reached the deep waters of the Rojkora barrier reef, Abram positioned himself in the bow, holding the harpoon. Sorry steered with the sweep oar under his right armpit and held a string of coconut shells against the side of the canoe, just above the waterline. The bottom sh
ell rested at the surface of the sea; the others rattled hollowly against the side of the boat. The sounds invited sharks to come up and investigate. How proud he was to be steering and handling the rattles for Abram!

  They tacked back and forth. The sea outside the lagoon was almost as calm as the waters inside, with long, smooth, glistening rollers passing under them. The clunk of the coconut shells, the slight slap of the sail, and the muffled drum of the rollers as they hit the reef were pleasant sounds.

  Abram stared intently down at the blue-green surface.

  Sorry watched him, thinking how his life had changed in just two days. Abram had promised to teach him how to speak English as well as write it, play white people's games, play the guitar. Up to yesterday he hadn't quite believed all the stories about Abram Makaoliej. Now he did.

  Abram suddenly murmured, "Come to me..."

  Sorry glanced over the side. In a wide ribbon of sunlight, he saw the dim shape of a shark slide through the drifting sea particles and tiny fish.

  "A tiger, but it's small," Abram said. "Keep rattling."

  Fish can hear as well as smell, Sorry knew. They listen and often become curious. Sometimes, for big fish, sound is better than bait.

  "Another one, also small," Abram said, and leaned out once more to look down at the water. This shark had risen higher and was plainly seven feet long, a young one. It fantailed toward the rattling, then curved away and sank back down into the depths.

  "The jimman is down there. I can feel him," said Abram. "Rattle harder."

  Sorry took another grip on the coconut twine and banged the shells harder against the side of the canoe.

  After what seemed ages, Abram said softly, "Here he comes."

  Sorry leaned out and his breath caught. What was beside and below them was at least fourteen or fifteen feet long, almost as long as the canoe; mottled gray, an old tiger.

  Uncle Abram was now standing, bracing his knees against the sides of the outrigger, body bent slightly forward. He was aiming the harpoon, ready to drive it down. "It is the same one, Sorry. My spearhead is still in his back."

  The tiger was swimming alongside and seemed to be eyeing them. He was about five feet below the clear upper surface, moving slowly, keeping pace. The body was so thick that Abram could not have wrapped his arms around it.

  For the longest time Abram aimed the harpoon at the great back, and Sorry waited for the plunge of the steel head, the whipping of the coiled line as the monster made his first bloody run, hauling the canoe along as if it were a gull feather. They might be towed for miles.

  Sorry's heart slammed as he waited. Silently, he thought, Now, Uncle Abram, now...

  If the tiger suddenly decided to attack the frail boat instead of running, they both might perish off the reef. The tail could crush them; the jaws would finish them.

  He waited, wondering if the size alone had frightened his uncle.

  Abram waited, poised, the muscles in his arms and back taut.

  Finally, with a glance at Sorry, he lowered the harpoon and sat down, a strange look on his face. He placed the harpoon in the bottom of the canoe; the hunt was finished.

  Sorry looked over the side. The fifteen-foot tiger was gone. There'd been plenty of time for his uncle to drive the spearhead into the shark. Why didn't he do it?

  After a while, Abram spoke. "I couldn't, Sorry. Here he was, years older. Still alive. Did you see my spearhead sticking out of his back? He'd carried it all this time, with honor. He gave me my scar. I gave him his. We're even."

  Sorry didn't understand. They'd sailed all the way to Rojkora, six miles south of Bikini. Abram had sharpened the harpoon head until it could cut wood. Hadn't he stood there, the big back only a few feet away? Was he suddenly a coward?

  Reading Sorry's face, Abram smiled. "Someday, you'll understand."

  ***

  No more was said about it all the way home.

  They talked very little, in fact. Once, Abram said, "Tell me about Tara Malolo."

  Sorry told him everything he knew about the teacher.

  "She seems very nice," Abram said.

  Sorry agreed.

  Uncle Abram stayed in the bow for the rest of the trip, resting his head on his knees, sleeping part of the way.

  ***

  Outside their house, where his mother was dyeing table mats with berry juice, Sorry told her what had happened.

  She looked out across the lagoon, which was dotted with late afternoon homecoming sails. She seemed to be making a decision of her own. Finally, she said, "Come walk with me," and rose up.

  "Come walk with me" was often heard on the island. It was a phrase that sought privacy, a way of being able to talk without being overheard: a way to say special tad important things.

  Past the Ijjirik dwelling, where no other ears could hear her, she said, "I have the strangest feeling that my brother has come home to die."

  That was in the Marshallese tradition, of course. Die on your home island. Off Rojkora, Abram had said he'd die here. Did he mean soon?

  Sorry was stunned. He looked so healthy.

  "The first thing he does is go after the tiger shark to settle an old battle..."

  Sorry nodded.

  "He brought a big bottle of pills with him. I can't read the words on it, but I know it came from London. He carries a smaller bottle of them in his pants pocket."

  Abram ill? Come home to die? That was hard to believe.

  "Have you asked him about it?"

  Mother Rinamu shook her head, frowning at the idea. "You never ask that kind of question. It is too personal." She added, "Don't say anything to anyone. I might be wrong..."

  Sorry nodded. He would keep quiet. Yet he knew he would continue to worry.

  On August 6, 1945, the Enola Gay, a U.S. Army Air Force B-29 bomber, released Little Boy over the city of Hiroshima, Japan. Every building within 4,000 yards of the explosion was destroyed. The death count was estimated at over 200,000, including those who died later.

  12

  Uncle Abram had listened to the news broadcasts from Kwajalein over the U.S. Armed Forces Radio Network and made notes each evening since a few days after he'd returned home over a year ago. He'd repaired the powerful Japanese radio set in the barracks building. A small gas engine powered the generator and fed electricity to big batteries. The broadcasts were in English.

  That was the way he'd learned to speak and write English, he told Sorry. Just by listening to the radio. It was a good way to learn. He'd done it on merchant ships when he was off duty, going to the radio room. Operators helped him with the writing and with the meanings of words. Sorry decided he'd do the same thing—listen and ask Abram about the words he didn't understand.

  So at around sunset each day, he went to the council place, and almost everyone in the village sat in a circle to listen eagerly to Abram Makaoliej relate the news. A miraculous event. Mothers and babies and men Jonjen's age and women Yolo's age, everyone, went to listen. No longer did they need to wait for an outrigger from Eniwetok or Rongelap for news from the ailīnkan. The outside world had become accessible.

  At first, eveiyone went to see and hear the amazing radio, crowding into the wooden building or standing outside it. But they soon realized they could not understand a single word. So Chief Juda decided it would be better for the islanders to go to the council place later and let Abram repeat, in Marshallese, what he'd just heard. The people talked for hours after each broadcast.

  Sorry usually went with Abram to the barracks.

  This August evening, Abram turned on the black box with its brass dials, warming it up for a few seconds. Then his body jolted forward. His eyes grew wide. His forehead bunched in a frown. His hard hands grasped the radio table until his knuckles turned white.

  "What is it, Uncle Abram?" Sorry asked.

  Abram held up a hand for silence, slowly shaking his head as if to deny the news. He was making notes.

  "What is it?" Sorry asked again.

  Abram w
aved his hand angrily, demanding silence.

  A few minutes later, he swiveled around, his face grave. He said slowly, almost in disbelief, "The Americans have invented a terrible new bomb. They dropped it on Hiroshima, a city in Japan, this morning. The Japanese are saying that thousands are dead. The whole city has been destroyed. One bomb. Just one bomb..."

  Sorry knew about bombs from the war talk of the last three years. "What kind of bomb?" he asked.

  "An atom bomb..."

  Atom? "What is that?"

  Uncle Abram shook his head and the next words came out in bewildered pauses while he looked at his notes. "It doesn't use gunpowder ... It uses nuclear fission ... whatever that is ... The heat was over three hundred thousand degrees ... The cloud from it went up fifty thousand feet ... People were turned into ashes in a split second ... Those who didn't die instantly were blinded ... It sounds like a bomb to end the world..."

  "One bomb did all that? Killed thousands?..."

  "Even the announcer didn't understand how it worked. He said it was a highly guarded secret. Only a few people knew about it." Abram stopped, as if trying to think through what had happened. "The American president said the bomb was dropped only to force Japan to surrender..."

  "Have they done that?"

  "I don't know." Abram just sat there numbly, saying nothing.

  A few minutes later, just past sunset, the people of Bikini Atoll, on their mats in the council place, learned of the atomic bomb.

  The lagoon was calm, lit with gold bounced from beneath the horizon. Gold lined the bottoms of the towering clouds to the west. The air was still. The tiny island was at complete and blessed peace. Sorry could not really understand what had happened in the sky over Hiroshima. No one else could, either, including Abram.

  At kejota, the evening meal, Sorry asked Tara, "Do you think the Americans are happy about all those people dying?" There was confusion on his face and in his eyes. He couldn't imagine that many people losing their lives instantly, with no warning.

  Tara frowned at the question. Finally, slowly, she said, "If you had a son or daughter or brother or sister who had been killed by the Japanese, then you might not be unhappy."