Kiska

Books by John Smelcer

Fiction

Stealing Indians

The Gospel of Simon

Savage Mountain

Edge of Nowhere

Lone Wolves

The Trap

The Great Death

Alaskan: Stories from the Great Land

Native Studies

The Raven and the Totem

A Cycle of Myths

Trickster

The Day That Cries Forever

Durable Breath

Native American Classics

We are the Land, We are the Sea

Poetry

Indian Giver

The Indian Prophet

Songs from an Outcast

Riversong

Without Reservation

Beautiful Words

Tracks

Raven Speaks

Changing Seasons

A Novel

John Smelcer

Kiska

Leapfrog Press

Fredonia, New York

Kiska © 2017 by John Smelcer

All rights reserved under International and

Pan-American Copyright Conventions

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a data base or other retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including mechanical, electronic, photocopy, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Published in 2017 in the United States by

Leapfrog Press LLC

PO Box 505

Fredonia, NY 14063

www.leapfrogpress.com

Printed in the United States of America

Distributed in the United States by

Consortium Book Sales and Distribution

St. Paul, Minnesota 55114

www.cbsd.com

First Edition

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Smelcer, John E., 1963- author.

Title: Kiska : when her people need a hero, a young girl rises to the challenge / by John Smelcer.

Description: First edition. | Freedonia, NY : Leapfrog Press, 2017. |

Summary: In 1942, when 881 Aleuts are evacuated to an internment camp nearly 2,000 miles away, fourteen-year-old Kiska stands up against the injustice and secretly becomes their champion. | Includes bibliographical references.

Identifiers: LCCN 2017035677 (print) | LCCN 2017017470 (ebook) | ISBN 9781935248941 (epub) | ISBN 9781935248934 (paperback : alk. paper)

Subjects: LCSH: Aleuts--Juvenile fiction. | CYAC: Aleuts--Fiction. | Eskimos--Fiction. | Concentration camps--Fiction. | World War, 1939-1945--Concentration camps--United States. | Alaska--History--1867-1959--Fiction. | Admiralty Island (Alaska)--History--20th century--Fiction.

Classification: LCC PZ7.S6397 (print) | LCC PZ7.S6397 Kis 2017 (ebook) | DDC

[Fic]--dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017035677

for Unangan. Xristuusax!

Everyone knows that Japanese Americans were interned during World War II, but few know of the injustices suffered by the Aleuts of Alaska.

—U. S. Senator Ted Stevens (R-AK)

This is a work of fiction based on historical events and on the testimony of the people who survived it. It is meant to be representative of the Aleut internment experience, not that of a single individual, family, or group. Except for variations in time and character identification and placement, most of the events written in this story are true and actually happened.

The author thanks Bard Young, Steve McDuff, Rod Clark and Melanie Werth, Amber Johnson, Dan Johnson, and John Nash for their editorial advice. He would also like to thank Mike Rosenberg (Passenger) for his album, All the Little Lights, the only music he listened to (obsessively) while writing this book. A special thanks to the Starbucks baristas at Hy-Vee who created a warm atmosphere while writing this book. The author would especially like to thank the Aleut elders he interviewed during the mid ’80s and early ’90s at Alaska Federation of Natives (AFN) conferences held in Anchorage and Fairbanks. This novel is informed by their candid and heartrending stories.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Epilogue

Photographs

Questions for Discussion

Resources for Further Studies

About the Author

Also from Leapfrog Press

Chapter 1

A Distant Thunder

Pour me another cup of tea and sit down, Granddaughter.

I have a story to tell you.

No, that’s not what I mean. I have to tell you a story. It happened to me when I was about your age. It’s a part of history that’s not in any of the history books you study at school. It’s a story about what happened to our village and all the people who lived here a long time ago. It’s about my mother and father, grandmother and uncle, and about my brother and my sister and her baby. It’s also about the wisest man I ever knew. I guess it’s also a story about me because I’m in it, and I know what happened because I was there and I have a good memory. They say good stories are told from the heart, for the heart. I don’t know about that. The story I’m about to tell you has been breaking my heart for such a long time. It may be hard for you to bear. I’m going to tell it just the way it happened because I never forget and I never lie. My mother always told me not to tell lies.

Are you comfortable? Do you want another piece of cake before I begin? No? Then I will start at the beginning where most stories begin.

• • • •

The calendar on the wall in our little house said it was June 4, 1942. I remember because I was marking off days until my fourteenth birthday only a few days away. The only other thing hanging on the bare white walls was a cross, which my mother dusted and kissed every day.

Late that morning, I was gathering seagull eggs on the high cliffs above our village when I saw four baidarkas approaching on the sea. That’s what we call kayaks in our language. I waved and jumped up and down, trying to get the attention of the returning hunters, but I don’t think they saw me through the drifting fog. It is always foggy or cloudy or rainy on our island, and the constant wind scours the rugged land. Almost nothing grows but dwarf shrubs and grasses and sedges. There are no trees for a thousand miles; they can’t endure the battering winter storms—called williwaws—that blow in from the Bering Sea. The cliff tops are so high that on rare clear days when the sky is steep and barren, you can see the endless ocean bend to the curve of the earth. You may think it bleak, but it’s beautiful to us. It’s our home. We Aleuts have lived on these islands for ten thousand years. In fact, the word for Alaska comes from our language—Alaxsxa, which means Mainland.

With the egg basket in hand, I ran down the grassy footpath toward our village of a dozen or so small houses huddled around a white church on the only flat place above the rocky beach.

Kiska! Come here! my mother shouted from an open window when I passed near our house. Be careful with them eggs! You could break them running like that!

I glanced at the basket. Not a single egg was broken.

But I saw father and uncle coming around the point, I said. I want to go see if they caught any seals.

Leave the basket here.

By the time I got to the beach, the four kayaks were just arriving. As the bows touched the gravel beach, the men climbed out and dragged their crafts ashore. All four stretched after sitting and paddling for so long.

Did you get a seal? I asked my father.

Without saying a word Father nodded at a dead seal tied to the back of his kayak, its sleek body rocking gently in the lapping surf. My father was a quiet man, like my grandfather, who was slow to speak. When Grandfather did, it was almost always in Aleut. Many of the elders spoke in Aleut. I understood some of what they said, as did Mother and Father, but I spoke mostly English. That’s all they taught us in school. English Only! teachers yelled if we spoke Aleut in class. They even punished us. One time, when I was nine, my teacher paddled me and made me stay after school because I accidentally said something in Aleut. I don’t remember what I said, but it wasn’t a bad word or anything.

Untie the rope and help me drag the seal up the beach, said my father.

The seal was heavy, but I was glad to help. I tugged with all my might, and together we dragged the seal up to a drift-log above the high-tide line. Because there are no trees for a thousand miles, the log had drifted on the sea from just about anywhere before being washed ashore on our island. In truth, I don’t think Father needed my help at all. Girls aren’t allowed to hunt, but I wanted to be a great hunter like my father, who was the best one in our village. He almost always returned with a seal or a sea lion, which he shared with elders who were too old to hunt any longer and who had no sons to hunt for them.

Father was always teaching me the proper way to act.

Many times he told me, When a hunter is lucky enough to get a seal he must share it with those who are not so lucky. When the seal’s spirit sees the hunter’s generosity and how he used every part, wasting nothing, it will tell its kin to give themselves to that man in the future because they know he is respectful. Someday, Kiska, you will be old or sick and depend on others to help you. That’s our way. That’s always been our way. You remember that. A great chief is someone who provides for the people and takes care of them.

When I grow up, I want to be a hunter, I said proudly, yet knowing my father’s response.

How many times have I told you that girls aren’t allowed to hunt or fish? They aren’t even allowed to touch a kayak. It brings bad luck. They can pick berries and gather seagull eggs and clams; they can cut and dry salmon and other fish and render seal oil, but men do the hunting and fishing.

Well, I don’t think it’s fair, I grumbled, crossing my arms across my chest. Someday I’m going to be a hunter, and I’m going to help our people. You’ll see.

I was quiet after my father gave me a scolding look.

I sat on the massive gray log and watched as he skinned the seal. My older sister, Donia, came out from the house and sat beside me, holding her chubby three-month-old baby girl named Mary. Even though Donia was only nineteen years old, she was already a widow. Her husband disappeared a month before Mary was born. He had gone out seal hunting alone. A sudden winter storm blew in from Siberia and her husband never returned. Day after day, Donia walked up the footpath and stood at the edge of the highest cliff holding her baby in her arms looking out over the dark sea, hoping to catch a glimpse of her husband. In her grief, she imagined every whitecap on the horizon was a kayak. She went up there every day for almost two months. She didn’t eat, and her baby started to go hungry for milk. Mother sent me up every afternoon with a pail