Bridge of Scarlet Leaves. Kristina McMorris

47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59

       PART SIX

      60 61 62 63 64 65

       PART SEVEN

      66 67 68 69 70 71 72

      THE BRIDGE BUILDER AUTHOR’S NOTE ASIAN-FUSION RECIPES A READING GROUP GUIDE Discussion Questions Teaser chapter Copyright Page

      For those whose voices stayed silent so that one day others could sing

      ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

      As the daughter of a Caucasian American mother and Japanese immigrant father, I fell in love with the idea of creating a story set during the Second World War that combined the unique perspectives with which I was raised. The more research I did, however, the more responsibility I felt to accurately depict the experiences of those who survived this tumultuous era. If I achieved anything close, it is from the help and patience of a great many people.

      First and foremost, my gratitude goes out to the following Japanese American WWII veterans for so generously sharing their time and, most of all, their memories: Military Intelligence Service members Ken Akune, Don Oka, George Fujimori, James Murata, Ralph Kaneshiro, Frank Masuoka, the late Dick Kishiue, and 442nd Regimental Combat Team member Tets Asato. Your collective courage is surpassed solely by your inspiring humility.

      I extend my appreciation to former relocation camp evacuee Sets Tomita and Park Ranger Richard Potashin of the Manzanar National Historic Site, both of whom endured an endless peppering of questions. The only person who quite possibly answered more is my research buddy and friend Wes Burritt.

      For providing me with a crash course on historical baseball, I thank 1940s USC ballplayers and WWII veterans Al Spaeter and Hank Workman, as well as Scott Taylor, Jim Klee, and Pat Egan. And for aiding me in tackling the portrayal of legendary coach Justin “Sam” Barry, I am grateful to his godson and namesake, Justin Dedeaux, and USC Sports Information Director Tim Tessalone.

      My Army Air Corps scenes would have struggled for liftoff without the help of fellow historical author Sarah Sundin and WWII airmen Robert Gilbert and Kenneth Tucker. All three of you are my heroes in various ways.

      I am eternally indebted to others who guided me with their diverse areas of expertise, among them: concert violinist Emily Day-Shumway, the late Allied-POW historian Roger Mansell, vintage car enthusiast Neil Handy, Louisiana native Connie Cox, National Railroad Museum curator Daniel Liedtke, Japanese American National Museum docent James Tanaka, archivists at The Juilliard School and Stanford University, the Multnomah County Library Research Department (my new phone-a-friends), and Tomoko Hirata, who kindly reviewed my Japanese phrases with care, no doubt preventing inadvertent obscenities.

      For the privilege of borrowing her poem, which so poignantly captured the essence of my story, I thank the very talented Deanna Nikaido.

      As ever, I am grateful to my fabulous readers Julia Whitby, Darcy Burke, and Elisabeth Naughton (who ensures there is actually “love” in my love stories); to Whitney Otto, Tatiana Hulser, and Graceann Macleod for their valuable enthusiasm and input; to my unyielding group of cheerleaders for accompanying me every step on this often-bumpy yet never-dull road: Michelle Guthrie, Sunny Klever, Tracy Callan, Stephanie Stricklen, Lynne House, Jennifer Sidis, Sally Ramirez, Delilah Marvelle, and my mother, Linda. And, of course, to my grammar gurus Sue McMorris and Kathy Huston, whose generous spirits and contagious zeal should be packaged and sold in a heated auction.

      Once again, I offer my immense appreciation to my editor, John Scognamiglio, and my beloved literary agent, Jennifer Schober, both of whose support and faith made this experience not only possible, but utterly fulfilling. To the entire Kensington team: Thank you for rolling out the red carpet on this unforgettable journey. And to my film-rights agent Jon Cassir at CAA for stretching that red carpet ever closer to a childhood dream.

      Lastly, above all, my heart goes out to my husband, Daniel, and our sons, Tristan Kiyoshi and Kiernan Takeshi, for serving as my constant reminders of true success; for understanding that a B-17 ride far outweighed any other possible Mother’s Day gift; and for continuing to be the unwavering bridge upholding my life. I love you more than words.

      PART ONE

      Every leaf while on its tree sways in unison;

       bears the same light and shadow,

       is sustained by the same sap that will release it in blazing color.

      It is that moment before falling we all live for,

       to see ourselves for the first time,

       to hear our name being called from the inside.

      —Deanna Nikaido,

       daughter of a Japanese American “evacuee”

      1

      November 1941

      Los Angeles, California

      At the sound of her brother’s voice, flutters of joy turned to panic in Maddie Kern. “Cripes,” she whispered, perched on her vanity seat. “What’s he doing home?”

      Jo Allister, her closest girlfriend and trusted lookout, cracked open the bedroom door. She peeked into the hall as TJ hollered again from downstairs.

      “Maddie! You here?”

      It was six o’clock on a Friday. He should have been at his campus job all night. If he knew who was about to pick her up for a date . . .

      She