Caged Eagles by Eric Walters

no spy, he’s a fisherman!”
    â€œThat’s right, you told me … and that means that the interview might take a lot longer.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œDon’t you read the newspapers?” Sam asked.
    â€œSure, sometimes, but what’s that got to do with anything?” I demanded.
    â€œI read them, every day. There’s been a bunch of articles about how the Japanese fishermen know the coastal waters better than anybody, including our own navy.”
    â€œOf course the fishermen know the waters. If they didn’t they couldn’t survive. But I still don’t understand.”
    â€œWell, the headlines in the papers said that the Japanese fishermen could lead the Japanese navy right into any harbor or cove or inlet up and down the whole coast,” Sam explained.
    â€œThey could, but that doesn’t mean they would!” I snapped.
    â€œHey, you don’t have to convince me. The reason they took away my father’s trucks and all those other vehicles was because they thought they could be used to transport the Japanese soldiers once the fishermen finish leading them into the ports.”
    I couldn’t help but laugh. I hadn’t laughed for a long time and it felt good.
    â€œLet me show you the playing fields first,” Sam said.
    â€œThat sounds interesting.”
    â€œThere’s a soccer pitch and three baseball diamonds, and —”
    â€œAre they any good?” I asked.
    â€œAre you kidding? They’re among the best ball fields in all of Vancouver. The semi-pro league uses them — or, at least, used to use them. Do you play ball?” Sam asked.
    â€œOf course I play! And you?”
    â€œAll the time,” Sam replied.
    â€œDo you think that maybe we could try to get a game together sometime?”
    â€œWe wouldn’t have to try. There’s been a game there almost every day since I got here. I’ve gotten into a few games already.”
    â€œThat’s great … How long has your family been at Hastings Park, anyway?” I asked.
    â€œJust over a week.”
    That seemed like a long time. I was hoping that we wouldn’t be here that long, but who knew?
    As we moved along all the paths among the buildings we continually passed by people. They were standing or walking or just sitting on the benches that were frequently placed beside the path. Some of the people were quietly talking, some looked solemn and serious, and others were actually laughing. People would often nod as we passed, or say a few brief words. Twice people asked us for directions. I didn’t know much, but I did know where the family residence was located and told them the way.
    I could nearly always predict which language people would use, even before they opened their mouths. The older people, people my parents’ age or older, would always start off talking in Japanese. Kids or teenagers would begin speaking in English, and those in between might be talking in either language. No matter who it was, though, it wasn’t like they could only speak the one language. Almost everybody had at least some of both.
    Except Sam. Here was a kid with Japanese blood in his veins but, from what he’d said, hardly a word of Japanese in his head. I had thought he was just kidding when he said he knew virtually no Japanese, but I quickly realized that he was telling the truth. As I answered questions or greeted people, Sam would occasionally mutter one of his very few Japanese words — things like hello or goodbye. But more often than not, his one-word reply was totally unconnected to what was being said. And even then, he spoke with such an awkward accent.
    Two RCMP officers came toward us along the path. Sam and I separated and moved just off the path to allow them to pass.
    â€œGood afternoon, boys,” one of the officers said.
    â€œGood afternoon,” I answered.
    â€œDon’t do that,” Sam said quietly