The Bomb Read online

  Sorry was barely five feet. His head was crowned with black curly hair. His skin was dark brown. He looked a lot like his late father, who had been short and stocky, a man of quiet strength. All sinew, no fat ... How Badina died out on the water, no one knew. The mystery troubled Sorry.

  The answer to his question about the soldiers came a little later: No cooking fires and no one on the beach after dark. Chief Juda could not burn his kerosene lantern, a symbol of his importance.

  The Japanese, afraid of invasion, demanded total blackness so the island would vanish in the night.

  Tara Malolo said, "We must remain calm."

  In September 1933, it occurred to a young Jewish-Hungarian physicist, Leo Szilard, that it might be possible to set up a nuclear chain reaction and construct an atomic bomb.

  3

  Sorry remembered the first lesson taught by Tara Malolo in the one-room, pandanus-thatched, council place that also served as the school on Bikini Island.

  Sitting on a stool cut from a palm trunk, she'd said with a wide smile, "Good morning. My name is Tara Malolo. I am one of yours. I was born on Rongelap. I'm twenty-four years old and with the grace of the good Lord, I'll be here the next few years as your teacher."

  She had trained at the missionary college in Majuro, funded by Hawaiians, and she spoke enough English to be able to talk to people from the outside world. She had soft, dark hair and a full mouth, a beautiful smile, and skin the color of oil-rubbed mahogany. She always wore a flower in her long, shining hair, and her cotton dresses from Hawaii had flower prints. Though she was the prettiest woman on the island, the Japanese did not molest her. They respected her as a teacher and were even polite to her; no one else received these courtesies.

  She had brought some seeds from Majuro—yellow and red hibiscus, pink bougainvillea and oleander, mango and coral tree. She tended the plants with love, sparingly fed them coconut water during the dry period. They were flourishing, like she was.

  The missionary college had provided her with one copy each of books written in Marshallese on geography, history, spelling, and arithmetic; a world atlas; and a blackboard, with chalk. She had debarked from the trading steamer when there was still peace in the mid-Pacific, and did not have a permanent home on Bikini. She stayed with a different family each week so that no one would become jealous.

  Along with the thirteen other morning-class students, Sorry sat on a pandanus mat over sand. School for his group was on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday; the young ones attended Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. For his class the hours were eight to twelve, with occasional interruptions so they could help net fish in the lagoon. Outside it was sunny and breezy and hot, as usual; a typical winter day.

  Adults often craned their heads in through the open spaces that served as windows in the leaf-mat walls to listen to Tara Malolo. In fact, for most of the first year that she taught, regular work by the adults was often neglected. She'd said it was a different school in that no grades were given and no homework assigned, so anyone could participate.

  That first morning, in late November 1941, she said, "How many of you know anything about the history of Micronesia and this island in the Marshalls?"

  Micronesia was a Greek word for tiny islands. There were more than two thousand of them spread over three million square miles of Pacific Ocean.

  Sorry said, "Only what my father and grandfather taught me."

  "Well, I don't know what they have taught you, so maybe I'll repeat some of it. And if I tell you something entirely different from what they said, let's talk about it."

  Sorry nodded.

  He already knew, from Grandfather Jonjen's wisdom, that there were three types of islands in Micronesia: low atolls, barely above sea level, like Bikini; raised atolls, islands pushed up by underwater violence, usually volcanos, some with sand hills two hundred feet high; and high islands with rugged green mountains, like Guam, Palau, and Kosrae.

  Bikini's reefs enclosed the blue and jade green lagoon, which was twenty-four miles long, east to west, and fifteen wide, north to south. Because the atoll's islands were so low, Sorry could not see them while standing on the beach. He had to go to the middle of the lagoon in an outrigger canoe to pick up the palm tops on the horizon across the way. Warm water washed the outer edges of the barrier reef on the windward side. Waters within the lagoon were even warmer and comparatively calm, except during summer storms.

  Tara held up a large map of the Pacific Ocean and said, "A long, long time ago, thousands of years, many people of Indonesia—here on the map—fled from the Malay warriors of Asia and began to settle Australia and New Guinea. Then, much later, around fifteen hundred B.C., Pacific voyagers probably reached the Marshall Islands, our islands."

  "Where are we?" asked Kilon Calep, of the Shem Makaoliej family.

  "Way up here, in the Marshall archipelago," Tara replied. "But first let me tell you how we got here, or how some historians think we got here. They believe we became mixed with the dark-skinned people of New Guinea and the Solomon Islands—here. Many of the males of New Guinea have bushy hair. So do our men. So we likely have Indonesian, New Guinean, and Solomon blood in us. Then we, too, settled eastward, island by island, sailing our outrigger canoes. Now, look closely. Micronesia is on about the same latitude as Siam, the Philippines, Central America, and the Sudan in Africa. So it's hot here, and palm trees grow."

  Sorry asked, "Do they have palm trees in Africa?"

  Tara smiled. "The closest I've been to Africa is Majuro, but, yes, I think they do. Now, again, look at the map. On a north-south line, our islands lie south of Japan and north of New Guinea. Though most of Micronesia is ocean, with an area as large as the United States, there are ninety-five major atolls and large islands, and the total population is somewhere between forty-five and fifty thousand ..."

  "Including us?" Tomaki Kejibuki, of the Uraki Ijjirik family, asked.

  "Including us," Tara replied. "Now, how did you get here?"

  Sorry said, "Grandfather Jonjen said that we came from Wotje, in the Ratak group, around a hundred and fifty years ago."

  "I think your grandfather is mostly right, but I question the date. From what I've read, Bikini has been inhabited, more or less, since the seventeen hundreds. Maybe before that."

  Sorry asked, "Are we a cowardly people?"

  He remembered that his father said they were. They had lost the warrior spirit, he'd said.

  Tara laughed, then said, "No, I don't think so. We are a gentle people, living the way we do. I don't think we are cowardly."

  "My grandfather said we used to murder the white man."

  "He's right about that, too. But we don't anymore, thank goodness."

  Sorry fell in love with Tara Malolo that day. Her laughter was musical, and even better, she knew about the ailīnkan.

  Less than two weeks after that first session in Bikini school, the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor in Hawaii, and the whole Pacific raged with war.

  An Italian physicist, Enrico Fermi, split the uranium atom in 1934, striking the initial sparks of a nuclear chain reaction. It was the first step toward the making of an atomic bomb.

  4

  Three mornings after the U.S. planes flew over the island, Sorry, who had gotten up to go fishing while it was still dark, broke the silence with a shout: "Ships! Ships!"

  Grandfather Jonjen, who never slept much anyway, blew mightily on his treasured pink conch shell, the largest ever found on the atoll. The hollow Ah-hoooo! Ah-hoooo! Ah-hoooo! was a warning signal as old as the first warriors.

  Again, everyone stumbled out of their dwellings.

  A three-quarter moon lit the lagoon, painting it in mellow silver, and Sorry could see the ghostly outlines of two large ships and a smaller one, anchored about two thousand yards from the beach. They had not been there the night before. No lights shone from them. Warships, he guessed.

  Soon there was a harsh sound of engines, and coming toward the island were four small, dark shapes separ
ated from each other by several hundred feet. For a moment, he thought they might be Japanese boats. More soldiers to reinforce the men at the weather station. More trouble. More cruelty. More threats.

  Jonjen, also straining his eyes to pierce the darkness, said anxiously, "Oh, I hope they're Americans. I hope. I hope..."

  His words were spoken as prayer. "Hope" was often said on Bikini. The people hoped it would rain; hoped the trees would bear much fruit; hoped the tuna would school; hoped much copra would be made.

  As the boats came nearer, Chief Juda shouted, "All women and children to the barrier beach!"

  Sorry's mother, grandmother, sister, and Tara started running with the others toward the windward side of the island, across the shallow ravine, where there was thick undergrowth, berries, and edible fruit. But Sorry stood by Jonjen, looking at the white bow curls sprinkled with phosphorus. The boats were moving relentlessly toward the beach, their engines hammering, exhaust rising like silver steam. Sorry suddenly had trouble breathing.

  Finally, three landing craft pushed up on the shore, dropping their flat bows. The fourth seemed to have gotten hung up on a coral head about a hundred yards from the beach and was motionless. The engine on that one was roaring, trying to break the boat free. Some of the coral heads in the lagoon were larger than the village dwellings.

  Then there were distinct voices. Sorry knew they didn't belong to Japanese soldiers. His fear went away like a school of rabbitfish chased by slashing bonitos. In its place, he felt great relief.

  The men who had been in the boats, dim figures bulky with equipment, began to move quickly and almost silently into the palms.

  They disappeared into the dark groves, heading toward the weather station. Soon, explosions rang out, and Sorry bolted the opposite way, joining his grandfather and the other fleeing village men. It was not their battle. The Japanese and the Americans had been killing each other for more than two years.

  Then the noise stopped and aside from the new voices, it became quiet. The voices were calm, untroubled by what had just happened. No shouting, no harsh words.

  Jonjen said, "I think it's safe now."

  Though the sun had yet to rise, yellow-gray daylight was spreading quickly, and Sorry returned with the others to the center of the village, near the monjar, the church, and the council-school structure. There were several hundred U.S. marines there in full combat gear, talking and smoking. The "battle" of Bikini was already over.

  Chief Juda, who had taken time to tug on a shirt and trousers, though his callused feet were bare, said, "Welcome," to the tall marine who seemed to be in charge. Juda could speak two words of English, welcome and good-bye.

  Everyone laughed when the marine replied, "Yokwe-yuk."

  In Marshallese, yokwe-yuk meant hello and farewell and love to you.

  The tall marine, taller by three hands than any Bikinian, wore an olive-colored helmet, and Sorry saw a pistol at his hip. But his eyes were blue and friendly. He smiled, shook hands with Juda, and spoke to his riukok, his interpreter, a man from another Marshall atoll, who wore white man's clothing, white man's sunglasses, and a white man's wristwatch.

  Addressing the gathered people, the riukok said, "Your troubles are over. Rather than be captured, the Japanese have killed themselves. They were hiding in a bunker."

  The plundering and raping were over. The people no longer needed to fear the men in the wooden house. Lokileni and the other women could breathe easier.

  The officer spoke again and the interpreter said, "We'll bury the enemy for you and give you all their food supplies and some of their equipment."

  "Thank you, thank you," said Juda in Marshallese.

  Sorry had heard only what Tara had said about Americans but was immediately impressed with their kindness and generosity. They shared. They were not at all like the Japanese. At least this tall marine wasn't. He again shook hands with Juda when the American flag was raised.

  Sorry's mother told Lokileni to run to their house for a seashell necklace, an alu.

  When Lokileni returned, her mother placed the alu around the marine's neck and chanted in Marshallese:

  This alu

  I bring and place upon you

  As a reminder of us

  On this joyous occasion.

  After hearing the translation the tall marine said solemnly, "I accept on behalf of all my men."

  Ruta Rinamu smiled. She had long black hair and a round face and large dark eyes that usually sparkled like the white water of the barrier reef when sun was shining on it. Lokileni had her eyes.

  Soon, holes were dug for the enemy soldiers and they were buried nude near the barrier reef, dumped in without regret or ceremony.

  After the burial, Sorry joined the rest of the islanders, who stood lined up while navy doctors checked them for health. There was little sickness on Bikini. The diet of fish, coconuts, and taro was a healthy one.

  At sundown, Sorry was on the shadowy beach with everyone else, saying, "Kommol, kommol"—Thank you, and All good things to you—as the Americans returned to their boats.

  Then everyone went to the church to thank God for deliverance. Juda lit his lantern, they sang songs, and Jonjen, who always looked distinguished in his white waiter's jacket—a gift of long ago—read Psalm 147 from the Marshallese Bible: "Praise the Lord! For it is good to sing praises to our God..."

  Then they took dried-palm-frond torches and—singing again, this time "Amazing Grace," Sorryy's favorite hymn—went toward the weather station to see what was there. It was a night Sorry would never forget—thirty or forty torches, blazing red, crackling, flowing toward the barracks against the black, calm night, the voices carrying out over the splash of low surf.

  The women who had cleaned the wooden building, including his mother and Yolo, already knew what was there—different things from Japan. Tools and food and kimonos and sandals and books and rice bowls and chopsticks and beer. The marines had taken the guns.

  Chief Juda said he would divide everything equally among the eleven families when it was daylight.

  Sorry saw a thick Japanese magazine with many photographs in it and decided to ask Juda for that gift in the morning.

  Several hours later, the American ships sailed off into the night and the islanders began a kemen, a celebration.

  ***

  They were richer by eighty big bags of rice and hundreds of tins of fish and red meat and cans of vegetables that no one had ever eaten or even seen before, and life on Bikini would slowly return to normal, Jonjen predicted.

  In the morning, Sorry claimed the magazine.

  In 1939, world-famous physicist Albert Einstein wrote to U.S. President Franklin O. Roosevelt warning him that Germany had the capability of producing a "horrible military weapon," an atomic bomb.

  5

  Sorry took his magazine and crossed the ravine to the barrier beach to sit in the shade of some bushes that had thick, waxy leaves. Plants out there had to be tough to withstand the salt spray carried by wind toward the village. He'd often go there alone to think about things and wonder what was beyond the horizon. Sometimes he'd find a mound of bright shells and blossoms, an offering made by Grandmother Yolo to the old gods. It was a lonely place.

  Among the trees that grew on the barrier-reef side of the island was the tournefortia, its brown, tangled, bare branches looking like long fingers. Grandmother Yolo said it talked at night; she recently heard it say something terrible was going to happen to them. Yolo didn't speak anymore unless the matter was of grave concern.

  Sorry was amazed by the pictures in the large magazine. There were buildings ten times as tall as their palm trees. There were ships that seemed to be half as long as the island; there were machines that ran on tracks. Everyone wore clothes. There were many other things that he'd heard about but had never seen. He'd often wondered about that other world, the ailīnkan, and what it was really like. Now, at last, he was seeing it, and he wanted to go there.

  He sat under the wa
x-leaved bushes, near a moist taro pit, for three hours that morning, turning the pages back and forth, the ocean slamming nearby. Then he walked home, thinking that he'd ask Lokileni to make a pocket out of pandanus to store the magazine.

  Making mats was woman's work. Men were not allowed to do it. In the old days, women were not allowed to fish from the canoes. From the shore, yes; the canoes, no. There were strict laws. Even now, only men could cook over open fires. Men were not allowed to bake in the um, the pear-shaped oven made of piled pieces of coral rock.

  Usually, everyone slept at midday, when al, the equatorial sun, was hottest. Even the dogs and pigs and chickens slept. The only sound was the flutter of palm fronds, wind being almost constant from December to April. Usually, Sorry slept, too. This day he couldn't. He stayed on his mat and pored over the magazine, looking for two or three minutes at each picture, then looking again. He was hungry for knowledge of the other world.

  ***

  In the afternoon he went about his two main chores, the first of which, gathering green coconuts, he shared with Lokileni. His toes gripped the narrow notches on the palm trunk. As a climber she was as good as he was, but she didn't have the strength to twist off more than two or three.

  From the ground, she called up, "Do you see any fish?"

  He'd forgotten to look. Everyone who went aloft for coconuts spent a few minutes searching the lagoon for schools of fish that might be moving out there. Frothing water was the sign. The conch would blow. Then canoes would be quickly launched to skim out and drop the nets.

  "Can't see any," he yelled back, twisting off a fat coconut.

  He remembered the day he'd climbed his first palm, when he was five; how proud his father had been. Water from thirty coconuts was what each family needed daily during the drought season. Rain came only in the summer and the villagers trapped it as best they could, storing it in hollowed tree trunks and large tins, and now in the Japanese cisterns as well.