THE WAR JOURNAL OF LILA ANN SMITH
A NOVEL BY
IRVING M.WARNER
PLEASURE BOAT STUDIO: A LITERARY PRESS
New York, NY USA
The War Journal of Lila Ann Smith
A novel by Irving Warner
ISBN: 978-1-929355-33-4
Edited by Ruth Misheloff
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“A great many things keep happening, some of them good, some of them bad. “
Gregory of Tours, History of the Franks, 590 A.D.
INTRODUCTION
ORIGINS
Lila Ann Smith died just a few days beyond her ninety-eighth birthday in
August 1979. She was the oldest resident at The Meadows extended care facility at
Cedar Falls, Iowa, where I was activities director.
She had been widowed in each of two marriages that had produced no
children; also, Lila had no known relatives or friends, at least those who survived
her. The management arranged her funeral and disposition. Only a few people
attended her memorial service; I represented The Meadows, though I would have
surely gone anyway.
When I came on staff the year before, she was in full dotage and didn’t know
individual employees at all. Records show she had been placed in The Meadows by
a Mr. and Mrs. A. J. Winters in 1969 when she was eighty-eight. Under the section
marked “connection with client,” the Winterses simply checked “friends.” Their
contact address proved years out of date and subsequent efforts to locate them
were unsuccessful.
So, when Lila Ann died, her unclaimed estate, such as it was, became my
concern—one of those unwanted duties activities directors seem to inherit.
Her belongings were few, and it was while sorting through them, I came
across The War Journal of Lila Ann Smith. It, along with a single newspaper article
(see Appendix), is my only sources for information about Lila Ann, aside from
county documentation.
•••
Lila Ann Smith was born in 1880 to missionary parents serving in
northeastern China. She lived through an extraordinary swath of history. To begin,
she along with her family witnessed the events of the now forgotten Sino-Japanese
War in 1894-95. Four years later came the violent Boxer Rebellion, during which
her parents and only brother were murdered. Though she escaped, Lila Ann was
soon taken hostage along with four other missionary daughters by a freebooting
warlord who eventually exchanged them for military equipment.
Once repatriated to her parents’ hometown in Delbert, Iowa, life returned to
normal for almost four decades. In 1940, along with her second husband, Osmond
(she had been widowed years before), she took employment with the Bureau of
Indian Affairs, Alaska Territorial section.
At the journal’s start, Lila was 61 years of age and her husband Osmond two
years younger. Her first entry began en route to her new posting as schoolteacher
on the island of Attu (the westernmost Aleutian island; see Map A), September 1,
1941, along with Osmond. He served as a territorial aerographer and radio
operator.
After she completed the first school year, the Japanese captured Attu Island
and its inhabitants on the morning of June 6, 1942. Within a few days the invaders
executed her husband and though she was beaten her severely, she survived. In
contrast to these early outrages upon the Smiths, the Japanese treated the resident
forty-two Aleut natives with uncharacteristic civility and respect.
In September 1942, after three months of comparatively peaceful occupation,
all the villagers and Lila were transported via coal ship to Japan, specifically the
town of Otaru, Sapporo Prefecture. No official reason for this unlikely decision has
ever surfaced.
Here the Attuans and Lila Ann spent the remainder of the war under civilian
“house arrest.” In the ensuing three years, half of the Attuans died due to starvation
and disease. The Red Cross arrived at their place of internment in September
1945. At that point, no one knew of the Attuans capture and survival. Though there
are wide lapses, especially in 1945, Lila Ann maintained her journal writing activities
until December 1945. The dramatic survival and persistent care of the journal,
despite extreme adversity, demonstrates an extraordinary sense of purpose.
•••
Essentially, Lila Ann Smith left behind nothing but this journal. At first reading,
it was clearly a unique document. When she and the Attuans were captured, no
American citizens had been taken on national soil by an invading army, then
transported as prisoners to a foreign land, in over 150 years.
Despite the journal’s special qualities, my attempts to interest archivists over
the years were unsuccessful. So, until my retirement, this work languished.
Between 1977 and her death in 1979, when I knew her, Lila spent her days in
the fog of advanced age. She was, even then, a tall, stately woman. She had
largish facial features, most prominent of which were large light brown eyes, always
wide open. While I knew her, these beautiful eyes were sadly disconnected from
her mental processes.
Not so her ears: upon certain occasions, she would listen attentively to
music, following the beat by tapping her long, narrow foot lightly against the floor.
Sometimes she’d supplement this by keeping time with her index finger against a
chair arm, or table. After noticing this, I made it a point to include music in her daily
life.
•••
Her journal began on the cheerful note of shipboard adventure and discovery
on September 2, 1941. But soon war again overtook her life, as it did all of America,
with the bombing of Pearl Harbor. She then records not only life in her new home,
but emotions and fears resulting from the imminent threat of foreign invasion.
After the Attuans’ capture, and for the next three and a half years, she
faithfully journalizes the loss of liberty, life, and finally and most sadly, the heritage
of the Attuans. Through callous official acts by the territorial government of Alaska,
the Attuans never returned to their island. Wartime events stamped the villagers
and Lila Ann Smith with deep indelible scars.
THE MANUSCRIPT
I feel certain the journal was kept, then stored, with eventual discovery in
mind. The handwritten pages, of all sizes, varieties and condition of paper, were
tidied up and glued individually into a scrapbook, then numbered.
Entries were episodic, and often chatty in a good way, I feel, especially prior
to capture. Of course, as war approached Attu and the hope of official evacuation
was dangled before them, the tone of Lila Ann’s entries Changes
After capture, the reportage, of course, becomes somber; the length of each
entry decreases for some time. Oddly, after the first week of the invasion, despite
their criminal treatment of the Smiths, Japanese authorities showed little concern
for Lila’s presence amongst the Attuans. Also, during her convalescence from the
beatings, the journal has its longest gap in time. When she resumes, we find a
different Lila Ann Smith.
Despite the foregoing, or perhaps because of it, I took care to transcribe Lila’s
journal as-is. If I felt a note was in order to clarify content or bridge wide time gaps, I
bracketed and italicized my comments. It is my view, and I hope that the reader will
come to agree, that the voice and eyes of Lila Ann Smith were a unique and
fortunate alignment of time, person, and circumstances. She moves her journal
beyond a war-and-survival account to create an intimate testimony to the calumny
and delusion that is warfare.
Tuesday, September 2, 1941. Aboard the Northern Supplier
This is the third day aboard the good ship Northern Supplier,
our humble transport to Attu Island, the village of Chichigof, and my
Aleut charges. All these names! And this exciting mission.
The weather, thus far, has been beautiful, and this morning we
entered the Shumagin Island Group at a stately seven nautical miles
per hour. After these many days aboard, it is almost incredible to
realize it is 1,200 more miles to far-flung Attu. Mr. Smith declared
that at this rate, “Your little papooses will be grown before we reach
there.” Such impatience from the masculine set is to be expected,
but I, by contrast, am happy with our progress.
There are numerous souls aboard the Supplier, a hulking tramp
freighter cut full-cloth from adventure books. In fact, there presently
are eighteen “civilians,” all but six of us bound for Dutch Harbor.
For passengers, meals are group affairs, served by our cook
and waiter, a good-hearted chap who insists on being called
Sidemeat, a most extraordinary sobriquet. Suppressing a laugh, I
declined referring to a fellow soul thusly, and being informed of his
given name, opted for it. So, to me, he is Louis. His great ebony
features grew quite pleased when he said, “I ain’t been called Louis
since I left Passagoula before the Great War.”
Captain Eustace Winston is the master of the Supplier, an
elderly salt familiar with all the bays, inlets, and waters of Alaska,
and particularly the Alaska Peninsula and Aleutian Islands. Since we
came aboard in Seward, the Captain is not a frequent sight, instead
the chief mate, Mr. Arlo, seems to superintend everyday affairs,
especially the unloading and loading of cargo at every stop, of
which there are many.
We are aboard the “milk run,” though Mr. Arlo in his somewhat
crusty manner opines that the beverage is more likely raisin jack
than milk. His reasons are based in the natives’ overweening
craving for alcoholic beverages. Though Aleuts and Eskimos are
discouraged - actually disallowed - from having strong drink
shipped to them, a similar prohibition does not exist on the
ingredients for biwok, local parlance for home brew.
Though I suppose northern seafaring is not a gentle life, I still
feel that Mr. Arlo’s words are perhaps too severe. The people I see
at dockside are sober and happy. The villages have such names as
Chignik, Perryville, Ivanof, etc. Each welcoming party is filled with
joy to see the Supplier - for in some of the smaller towns, we are
the last boat prior to the holidays.
Our next stop is Sand Point in the Shumagin Islands. I cannot
express my excitement at being at sea. After three months in
Anchorage, and a year at River Station [Lila Ann and Osmond Smith
worked for the Bureau of Indian Affairs, and were stationed at Three
River Station from 1940 through mid-1941], even the comparative
confines of the Supplier are a great improvement, especially for Mr.
Smith. The poor man could never fully enjoy Three River Station.
But, his sense of purpose is immeasurably better now, and in truth I
can say we both have high hopes for our new and unique posting on
Attu.
September 12, 1941. Aboard the Northern Supplier
One would think shipboard life is conducive to keeping one’s
journal, but it is not, perhaps [more] due to my own lack of discipline
than events. Oh! Progress toward our new home is so arduous.
We’ve spent the last two days anchored before the village of Akutan,
a tiny native hamlet located on an island of the same name. But, an
Aleutian Island, no less! My pallet is so brimming with new “colors”
it is daunting to know where to begin!
Since my entry of September 2, much has happened, not the
least is Mrs. Lieskof giving birth aboard the Supplier, a loudly
protesting seven and a half pound boy-child! She is a lovely Aleut
woman of advanced age for a new mother. Mother Lieskof came
aboard at the village of Pavlof, en route to Unalaska where her
sister and oldest daughter live.
Upon coming aboard (in view of her advanced expectant
condition!), Mr. Arlo was not happy, and voiced same, but Mr. and
Mrs. Lieskof assured him the baby wasn’t due for “long time now,” in
that strange abbreviated way of speaking these Aleuts have - with a
beautiful melodic touch as well. Well, the baby was early. So,
flouting Mr. Arlo’s stated ship policy about not giving birth at sea,
baby arrived while we were at anchorage in a remote bay after a
violent late summer storm. “Late summer storms, Mrs. Lila, they
don’t last long,” Third Officer, Mr. Kokkahiko, assured, but then we
sat on anchor for almost four days!
But I shall go back to our stop at Pavlof Village.
For some reason (seemingly!), almost half the village came
aboard for transport to Unalaska, but after long parley, with Mr.
Kokkahiko representing the captain, it was determined only four
souls had the price of passage, two of which were Mr. and Mrs.
Lieskof. One would assume that, so publicly denied passage, those
excluded might be humiliated, but they were not. Instead they joined
those in the longboat (there’s no dock at Pavlof), waving goodbye as
cheerfully as if they’d never planned on going in the first place.
Quite remarkable.
The storm was my first sea tempest, and it was frightening.
Most of my fellow “civilians” (Mr. Smith so coins our fellows) were
sick, save the villagers from Pavlov. The Supplier began to rise and
settle into the seas which were building rapidly. Mr. Smith urged me
to stay in my bed, or “bunk” as sea parlance deems it, to prevent the
mal de mer that so plagued others, including himself.
I, thank God, was free of this; perhaps it was the long
shipboard return after my evacuation from China those many sad
years back. But in any case, save for the buffeting, I was well,
although thoroughly scared. Going topside (meaning going up from
the inner sanctums of the ship, into the superstructure, or on deck),
I encountered a somber Father Mordvinof, his black and gray
checkered beard ribboning helter-skelter in the wind, his threadbare
black habit pressed tightly against him.
Beside him stood Mr. Lieskof, his powerful, short legs planted
securely on the deck, smoking his pipe despite our tiny group being
on the windward side, though in the leeward shadow of a lifeboat.
(Do I sound like Mr. Melville!) They chatted in Russian(!!), the
language of the Orthodox faith [actually, Old Slavonic, an earlier
form of modern Russian] but politely switched to English in my
presence, though neither is comfortable in it. Mr. Lieskof gestured
widely with the stem of his pipe and announced, to Father
Mordvinof’s obvious disapproval, “Big sea now, strong-as-hell winds.
Ya! Lots weather.” Then he stomped his right foot upon the deck,
smiled cheerfully, and opined, “But big-as-hell boat, so we pretty
OK, you bet.”
Stooping, then turning his back into the wind, he knocked his
pipe out—hot ash included—into his hand, scrunched his hand up,
and expectorated into it. Then, satisfied, he wiped his hand against
his thick, canvas coat and went “below.” A most extraordinary
maneuver. Father Mordvinof stood placidly during this, then looking
at me, lifted his chin somewhat—a gesture southward (?)--and in his
thickly accented but correct English said, “So, war with Japan is
close.”
And it was not a question, but a summation of the conversation
he and Mr. Smith had at mealtime the day before. Osmond is sure,
as are most, that war with Japan is inevitable. I tried to be more
optimistic and switched the topic to Attu, for strangely I already
prize my new home, and Father Mordvinof had been there some
years before—four, in fact.
But, a tacit man, I have had to extract details from him, and
was just commencing this when a great winnow of spume and sea
water struck the opposite side of the lifeboat, and a bit caught
Father Mordvinof in the face, poor man. Dignity lost for the moment,
further talk was ended when he politely excused himself and went
below, the opposing direction of topside, which for some reason is
not bottomside or belowside.
Seaward the waves curled and bowed, the wind had its way
with them, sending stray bits of ocean in clouds that dissipated
downwind. For the first time there were no sea pigeons or clownish
puffins, the former winging their way from wave-top to wave-top; the
latter pattering along the surface, in a great but frustrating panic to
become aloft. And always above, the gulls—small and large—
wheeling, alert for tidbits.
But these little friends were gone now, perhaps the wind being
too violent for them. So, the Northern Supplier was alone on these
irate seas, with all souls aboard grateful for its old but sturdy hull
between us and the deep.
September 13, 1941. Aboard the Northern Supplier
I became overtired during the last entry, fell asleep, and
woke up en route to Dutch Harbor! I am overjoyed to be on our way
once again.
I shall catch up, trying to resist verbosity, though without
intention of lessening the importance of infant Lieskof’s arrival!
Being soundly trounced by the storm, our indomitable ship
sought shelter in a haunting wilderness bay. And it was there, in this
primordial setting, where infant Lieskof arrived. How many countless
Aleut babes have come from the Creator in such untamed, natural
surroundings where, at one time, all Aleuts lived unencumbered by
civilization?
The mother, whose first name is Fervroyna, or Fern in
English, is forty-six years of age, and in a surprise to Osmond and
me, Captain Winston broke his long absence from public view for the
delivery. Fern’s elderly aunt (I’m guessing, for the relationships are
confused with language problems) assisted him, with Louis serving
as runner between galley and cabin.
Mr. Arlo seemed amused by my surprise at our Captain’s
unlikely additional duties. “Oh, the Captain’s delivered more native
babies than old Pocahontas herself.” And, it being Mr. Arlo, I’ve
edited his response, for he took opportunity to include rough
language about Aleuts, the Captain, and motherhood in general!
Osmond, who was close by, protested Mr. Arlo’s language used
before myself, and the scene became awkward.
Mr. Smith won’t have harsh talk before womenfolk, and
upbraids any infraction instead of allowing it to pass.
The birth, thankfully, was not prolonged, and soon the
Captain had retired to the privacy of his quarters, and the elderly
aunt showed us in one at a time to see Baby—father stood proudly
beside mother, who looked quite worn, poor thing. And in this tiny
cabin, this babe held his first reception for the world!
Four days—three days and four nights—we spent in the tiny
bay, on the extreme end of Tigalda Island. I’m told newcomers
become discouraged at the uniform (or drab?) appearance of
Aleutian islands;, most prominent is the complete lack of trees.
From the decks of the Supplier my first impressions are in contrast
to that: the islands seem vast giants in the sea, with—if Tigalda
Island is any indication—intricate tangles of coves and bays.
Beaches are steep, with the sea grasping at their rocky edges.
Ceaseless Aleutian grasses adorn the flanks of the mountains,
swaying and rippling in the wind as did the maturing millet fields in
Shansi Province.
Osmond has effected “shore leave” for us at Dutch Harbor,
and relishes the opportunity to “stretch his pins” and look about. He
will take in tour the communication station there. I will accompany
Baby Lieskof, mother, and father to the village, for they’ve extended
a warm invitation. I accepted at once—thrilled at the prospect.
In a confidential “Dear Journal” addendum, Himself is
smoking again (!!!), after vowing never to “poison” his body with the
dreaded tobacco plant. It gives me respectful amusement that he
still underestimates the superior function of the feminine olfactories
compared to those of menfolk!
September 16, 1941. Aboard the Northern Supplier
At the fastest rate yet, the good vessel Northern Supplier
arrived two hours ago at the village of Nikolski, on Umnak Island,
just under nineteen hours after departing Dutch Harbor/Unalaska. I
do understand from Louis, my constant informant for both fact and
scuttlebutt (read rumor, sea-going variety!), that we stopped at a
smaller village while I was abed. Louis didn’t know the name, but it
was no more than a “drop off,” shipboard parlance for briefly
stopping to unload and take on light cargo and mail.
As I write, we are departing (!) Nikolski, and since we arrived
just prior to 10 p.m. (or 2200, shipboard time, more about this
puzzlement later), I have seen little of the tiny Russian Orthodox
hamlet. And now, we’re departing, and the sun has yet to rise.
Mr. Kokkahiko’s unedited explanation of our present situation
is, “When Captain gets a hair up his snoot about being behind
schedule, that’s that. Forget everything else.”
This explained the canceling of shore-side activities at Dutch
Harbor/Unalaska, to the chagrin of those three passengers bound
further “westward” (the logical way locals refer to points further out
the Aleutian Chain relative to one’s present position). Mr. Smith was
irreconcilable about the Captain’s reversal. He had earlier
assurances for shore time, and demanded to go ashore to consult
about official communication issues.
I was not aware of additional functions Osmond had pending,
but I would not, of course. But I do know that the shipping agent
guaranteed one thing, but quite another was done. This brings me
back to Mr. Kokkahiko’s expression regarding Captain Winston’s
nose. When Mr. Smith insisted on appealing this reversal to the
Captain, Mr. Arlo shrugged and gave a typical smirk. Thankfully Mr.
Kokkahiko, usually a buoyant, cheerful Polynesian, became quite
“gray around the gills “—an expression my father oft used—and said,
“Oh, Mr. Smith, I would not do that if I were you.”
Mr. Smith is a stickler for keeping to one’s word. So, it was only
through my unrelenting and repeated invocation for peace and
tranquility that Osmond did not protest to the captain, thankfully
adhering to the advice of Mr. Kokkahiko.
Louis, using Mr. Arlo’s weakness for dumplings as leverage,
inveigled from him a worn nautical chart (“No, no; not a map, Mrs.
Smith! A chart,” pronounceth Sir Arlo!) of the Aleutian Island Chain.
I think they did this in hopes of stanching my constant flow of
questions geographic.
When unfurled, it quite takes up half of our cabin wall (aboard
a ship, walls are bulkheads, a term I do like, for it suggests great
strength!) and is not readily decipherable. I only barely follow it, but
I’m sure Osmond will interpret for me when his spirits recover from
the business at Dutch Harbor.
After breakfast I stood on the starboard quarter (right rear
portion of the ship—I’m getting to be quite the ancient mariner.) and
watched Umnak Island, and the unseen souls at Nikolski, fall behind
us, its great central mountain rising into a beautiful morning, as
clear as spring water. Our sea bird companions cruise and glide
around us by the scores, some immaculate white, some a dingy
gray; some quite large, others tiny, as black as ink specks against
the gray-blue waters. The Supplier’s propeller leaves a frothy
straight edge that occasionally juts a bit left or right by the sway of
the ship. Indeed, the Supplier rises and settles in a largish but
regular “lump,” as Louis calls the vast swelling waves that pass
under us.
There are now only three passengers: Mr. Smith, the dour
Father Mordvinof, and myself. If on deck, he stands in the leeward
side of either the port or starboard lifeboat, hands held behind him,
staring placidly at the land. The tacit cleric most certainly would not
appreciate being informed how much he looks like a cassocked Leon
Trotsky, but he most certainly does.
He is bound for Atka, the second most distant village in the
Aleutian Chain, where he’ll take over church duties, though I can’t
be sure, for with him, social talk is rare.
It is difficult to comprehend that after all this time we are still
almost 800 miles from our posting at Attu Island. This is such a vast,
unceasing expanse of islands. We are, with God’s grace, toiling to
the very terminus of it.
September 18, 1941. Aboard the Northern Supplier
We arrived at the village of Atka just prior to daylight this
morning. This is the first Aleut village I’ve been able to view in full
light. I admit to a sinking feeling at the experience.
It was low overcast, the thick rain clouds passing only a few
hundred feet overhead; the rain was composed of tiny, chilled
droplets. There was a gusty wind, not overly heavy, but insistent,
threading its way around and over the Supplier as it unloaded
freight onto a small barge or lighter, which ferried it to land. In the
rain and cold, people worked steadily to complete the necessary
duties and return inside to the stovefronts.
Now, unlike our earlier stops, Captain Winston personally
observed activities on small platforms that are to the port and
starboard of the wheelhouse. A small, roundish man, he was dressed
in oilskins with heavy clothing underneath, making him appear even
more ovoid. Quite out of region and character, instead of a rain hat
he had donned a pith helmet, so he rather looked like something out
of the chapters of R. Kipling or J. Conrad.
“Where on earth did he acquire that,” muttered Himself, still
peevish over Captain Winston’s decision in Dutch Harbor. I must
admit, Captain Winston did look something of a sight wearing it. But
he paced first to one side of the bridge, then passed through the
wheelhouse to the other, only to repeat the process.
I looked upon the rather sodden, unhappy appearance of Atka
Village, located on the island of the same name. All the old wooden
buildings, quite small and frail at this distance, seemed huddled
together more for protection than common society. The church, its
smallish cupola and Byzantine cross prominent, are the universal
emblem of the Orthodox faith.
So it was not a sight that buoyed one’s spirit. I could see the
Atkan people: Some (just a few children) around the houses, others
adult men—unloading the freight at the shoreline. And it was this
overall mood that seemed somehow matched to Father Mordvinof’s
departure. A launch came alongside, its small motor’s laborings
muffled in the thick weather, and by the time I reached the rail and
looked over, the craft was shore bound. Since Father Mordvinof was
looking aft (to the rear!) and the others in the opposite direction, he
saw me at the same moment I saw him.
I hesitated. Would such a person wave “goodbye”? But, I
would, so I waved very conservatively, and he surprised me by
raising his arm, then wagging it back and forth—an odd, railroad-
signal gesture. But, nonetheless, a sign recognizing the moment.
Oh, good fortune to you Father Mordvinof, may the good
feelings and words of Christ always serve you and your flock
lovingly.
My father was not unlike this Father Mordvinof. He was such
a good human being, a devout pastor, but unlike mother could never
laugh. I recall, those many years ago, once asking Father, “Father
Dear, why don’t you laugh as much as Mother Dear?”
“Because, Daughter,” and absolutely without any smile
whatsoever he pointed out to me, “the Laugh Fairy bit her and not
me. Didn’t you know, child?”
September 19, 1941. Aboard the Northern Supplier
According to our chart and Mr. Kokkahiko’s information, we
are 195 miles farther west toward our new home, “which isn’t that
bad a day’s run.” Mr. Smith does not share our Second Officer’s
view, and shakes his head at the Northern Supplier’s matronly gait.
He points out that it is little more than eight miles per hour. He has
taken charge of our chart and busies himself with calculations
diverse. This has improved his spirits considerably.
A remarkable incident happened, or at the least, remarkable
to this newcomer. It was in the middle of what had been the darkest
of clouded nights, and averse to such gloom I retired early. I awoke
some two or three hours later, for a restlessness again disturbed my
sleep. I grow anxious about my unique and new teaching
responsibilities, and the closer I draw to Attu, the more unsettled I
become.
In any case, I could not go back to sleep. To access the
galley—open at all hours—one has to exit our cabin (or stateroom,
which is, according to Himself, anything but stately!) via the hatch,
(salt-talk for door, and makes me think of chickens! Anyway, Lila
Ann, to the point!). Outside, it was no longer dark, but the sky was
brimming with stars and the generous wedge of a three-quarter
moon. I could see wonderfully in all directions, and as the ship
moved with the incessant swells, the stars seemed to rotate, stop—
and then return to center, quite making my head spin. On land, one
never experiences this disorienting strangeness.
This was my first experience approximating a queasiness,
though it ceased when I looked toward the horizon rather than
straight up. But, taken with this novelty, I would again look up,
become queasy, and then look away to recover.
The sea shone with the glow of the moon, and was a rolling
plain of ghostly light. But cold drove me into the galley. There I
poured piping-hot black tea Louis has waiting in a massive thermos.
I sat, drinking my tea, marveling about this strange night, and
drifted on to what my new young charges might be like. Then I had
quite a surprise. Captain Winston entered, wearing a floor-length
robe (actually its hem almost dragged, like that of most monarchs),
each foot adorned with worn carpet slippers, then lastly reading
glasses hanging about his neck. He too drew himself a large mug of
tea (I had been vain enough to think Louis kept this supply solely for
me, thinking myself the only tea drinker aboard!) and poured an
extraordinary amount of sugar into it. To all the world, our Captain
looked as if he’d just come in from listening to Amos and Andy on
the Philco.
Stirring in the sugar, he turned and looked at me, nodded a
silent hello, and said he hoped Mr. Smith was not still angry with
him for keeping everyone aboard at “Dutch,” a short way veteran
Aleutians hands use when referring to Dutch Harbor. I demurred to
repeat the word “angry,” and demoted it to “disappointed,” then I
surprised myself, blurting out that I was surprised he knew.
He put the spoon down, sipped, nodded his approval at his
blend, and said, “Mrs. Smith, I know everything that goes on aboard.
That’s my job, you see.” Then he bade me goodnight and exited,
hems, slippers, and all. What a curious fellow, our Captain. But I
can’t help but like him.
September 20, 1941. Aboard the Northern Supplier
Today a navy plane circled the Supplier which labored
somewhat in rough seas—not a storm, but then again, not calm.
“Sloppy, Mrs. Smith; we call this weather sloppy,” advised Louis. I
breakfasted without poor Osmond, who again suffers from
queasiness. So he was not on deck when, toward midday, the plane
circled just several hundred feet above us. I could see the blinking
signal light, and Mr. Arlo on the platform adjoining the bridge
signaling back with his light. They did this awhile, then the plane
left.
In the galley, I asked Mr. Kokkahiko what the plane wanted,
and he just shrugged and said they had “wanted to know if we’d
seen any Japs about.” For reasons unknown, this caused a chuckle
on his part, and I became more curious than before.
Because of the troubled seas, the Supplier made only 125
miles this day. Will we ever get to Attu Island?!
September 21, 1941. Aboard the Northern Supplier
It is late on in the day and I’m in improved spirits. Perhaps
our better-than-average rate of travel (203 miles in 24 hrs!!) has
made our destination more real, immediate. Also, Osmond is much
improved, for we’ve been traveling in the leeward side of the Rat
Island Group. Blessedly shielded from the southerly seas, the
motion of the Supplier is far less. When Osmond suffers, I attend
him—and though I’m without mal de mer, I hate to see him so
miserable.
He is curious about the plane that circled yesterday, and
quite inexplicably asked Mr. Yost if it had any messages for him. Mr.
Yost, of course, responded in the negative, and that was that. But
we could see he thought the query unusual.
Osmond points out that the long, low island to the south is
Amchitka Island, quite unusual (compared to almost all of its
neighbors) for its flatness and lack of steep mountains. Near shore,
extraordinary flocks of sea birds gather, feeding and building their
resources for the coming winter, I would expect. I wish I had a book
telling me more about the bounty of sea life, especially the birds. All
are unlike any land birds I’m familiar with, and except for the sea
parrots, or puffins—and of course the gulls—I’m unfamiliar with all.
In any event, these acres of birds—rafts of birds—part
before the oncoming Supplier as a floating mat of bog weed might,
some of the birds pattering off in a frenzy, their wings beating the
surface of the sea, others just paddling off, or suddenly diving—
almost daring to be ingested by our propeller. (It seems this way, at
least, to this newcomer.)
But I’m no zoologist, and save for great creatures like sea
lions and porpoises, behold all in ignorance. One thing absolutely
true is these seas teem with life, and surely the waters beneath
contain bounties of food.
“The Lord provideth for the innocent creatures of the forests,
skies, and vast oceans,” Father used to say. During the Shansi
famine I finally asked mother about the incongruity of father’s words
during those cruel times. She told me that father did not include
humans amongst the innocent, even infants. She herself did not
opine pro or contra regarding his view.
September 22, 1941. Aboard the Northern Supplier
This close to our long-awaited destination of Attu Island an
ugly incident has occurred, bringing to light another facet of Captain
Winslow’s personality.
Earlier in the day. I was on deck, trying to decide which island
was which. Mr. Kokkahiko approached, and told me gently but firmly
to go below, and limit myself to our stateroom until he called on me.
I saw several of the other crew members scurrying here and there,
and knew something was wrong. Mr. Kokkahiko, seeing that I feared
for our safety, assured me it was nothing connected with that.
In the stateroom, Osmond was abed because the motion of
the Supplier had resumed, though not as bad as before. When I told
him of events, he was curious beyond words, but knowing he
couldn’t go out, took a sly way of gleaning information. He opened
our single porthole, first the inner hatch, which is solid metal, then
the outer, which is thick glass.
At once, we heard shouts of protests—language of quite
exceptional vileness. “Put a pillow over your head,” Himself advised
at once, but showing unstoppable curiosity, I did not! The shouts
continued—then a veritable chorus of outcries. Then a moment of
silence, followed by one voice repeating twice an awful invective,
promising revenge for some outrage.
Then it was over.
“It might be mutiny.”
And initially Mr. Smith’s assessment seemed likely. Yet soon
came a knock on our door, and it was Mr. Kokkahiko, and without
comment we were again free.
Osmond and I went on deck, but though apparently the
hatches and such had been hosed down, nothing appeared unusual.
No one would answer Osmond’s queries, and I knew that Louis
would be my only chance to find out what happened.
I could not talk to Louis alone until midafternoon. Carefully,
he looked about, took me into the non-perishable locker, sat us both
down on cases of tinned groceries, then confided: Two of the
engineering staff—oilers—had broken into cargo and stolen liquor
bound for non-natives up north. They had become intoxicated. But
only one, named “Zebra,” was caught, but would not confess his co-
conspirator.
In full fury, Captain Winslow had the hapless man dragged to
the deck in manacles, and sprayed with ice-cold seawater until he
informed on his mate. The other guilty one forthwith joined Mr.
Zebra, and he too was sprayed liberally. They are confined for a
period of 48 hours, until the ship is clear of Attu.
“The union will hear of this,” Louis added, and, putting his
great ebony index finger to his lips, said, “and you heard nothing
from me, Mrs. Smith. Not a whisper.”
Osmond gathered this additional tidbit from the “deck boss”
(Edward): evidently the pilfering had been ongoing—the two men
imbibing on the sly—until the abundance of their forbidden cache
overwhelmed Mr. Zebra, and he went on a toot. Osmond explained
that corporal punishment was nowadays out of bounds for a ship’s
master, and the men could prefer charges when they returned to
Seattle some months away.
The excitement made me momentarily forget that we were
within a day’s run of our new home. As I write these lines, it is
estimated we will arrive in Chichigof Harbor on Attu at 7 a.m. It will
be difficult to sleep. Even Mr. Smith paces, and more than anyone
looks forward to our return to dry, motionless land!
September 28, 1941. Chichigof Village, Attu
Six days have elapsed since I arrived, and the first time I felt
free enough to dedicate time to these pages. I’ve been
extraordinarily busy!
We arrived on the morning on the 22nd September, which was
a Monday. Since this day is Sunday and the villagers are at worship
in the Chapel of the Dormition of the Mother of God (more on that
exotic name later), the children and their families are temporarily
absent from my life.
There is much to write, yet putting events into some sort of
organization, according to Himself, is not my strongest suit. And
he’s quite right! But I’ll start on Monday—the day the Northern
Supplier finally arrived in Chichigof Harbor. The name of this far-
flung village was borrowed from this bay (Chichigof Village). We
dropped anchor here not eight hours after the unfortunate business
of Captain Winslow’s unlikely disciplinary actions. Suffice it to say,
the crew wore long faces when unloading procedures began.
For myself, even prior to dropping anchor, I took in the sight
of my new home with nothing less than excitement. I know seasoned
Aleutian veterans view Aleut villages as “peas in a pod,” as Louis
expressed it. There’s a huddle of small, whitewashed wooden
structures close to the shore, ready access to water being key to
village life, of course.
Even from the ship, I could make out the distinct footpaths
between the tiny houses, and the larger buildings somewhat
removed from the houses. There are no roads or vehicles, motorized
or horse-drawn.
The church, central to all Aleutian villages, is conspicuous from
all else by its cupola, with its distinctive cross at the top. This holy
marker’s unique design (an added small, diagonal board below the
main crossbeams) marks it as a citadel of the Orthodox faith.
Without ceremony the village chief, Alexi Chirikof, scaled the
chain ladder up the Supplier’s side and was introduced to me and
Mr. Smith by Mr. Kokkahiko. Alexi was all smiles, looked us up and
down, and announced (I only approximate the strange syntax!), “We
have waited for you so long now that you are here.” Then he
pumped Mr. Smith’s hand once, then twice, but executed a more
gentle exercise with me. Himself and Alexi were conversing about
the status of his equipment, when two smiling faces appeared from
under the handrail, and immediately shinnied onto the deck—from
where, I know not.
One, a boy in midadolescence, looked me up and down and
asked, “You our teacher now?” And as I responded in the
affirmative, the far smaller fellow of not more than ten or eleven
years of age “surrounded” me by making two complete
circumnavigations of my person. And then they began in that strange
Aleut tongue for a few moments until Alexi—laughing—commanded
them good naturedly to speak English. “You guys talking to your
teacher, for goodness sakes, you know.”
Then, contradicting his own request, they all spoke Aleut—
breaking out in peals of laughter, leaving Mr. Smith and me looking
left to right. Alexi shook his head and explained to me, “They never
see any woman in their life so tall. But I say they’d only seen one
other white woman and she was smaller than Anna. That’s their
oldest sister’s name. These two smiling guys brothers.” And this is
how I met Zephryis and Alfred Tschigorin, scions of Attu’s House of
Tschigorin!!
At this point, Mr. Kokkahiko saw the boys and boomed, “Did I
give you permission to come aboard!?” And they shrank behind
Alexi, shyly looking out at this huge Polynesian man. With Alexi
smiling on, Mr. Kokkahiko reached down and slowly withdrew a dime
from Zephryis’s ear. And this sleight-of-hand (and its product) were
overwhelmingly well received. More laughter, while the little chap
admired the dime, front and back.
I hear the greatly revered chapel bell ending the service,
already! I know the little ones (eleven of them!) will be here soon,
and if I can prevent Mr. Smith from shooing them off, my time will
not be my own. I must close. But I could never begrudge the
children my time, Sunday or otherwise. I was so terribly late getting
here (twenty-one days!). I tell Mr. Smith, who is always very ordered
regarding time and place, that I owe them the extra time.
He states that my lack of resolve with “urchins” results from
never having children of my own. “Therefore, Mrs. Smith, you take
each urchin to your heart, and become quite permissive,” yet he
smiles, for Himself knows he can do little to prevent this.
October 5, 1941. Chichigof Village, Attu
Has it really been a week since we visited?!
If my goslings learn as much as I have during this last week
and a half, I’ll set records as a teacher. Did I say I had eleven
students? Well, one day I have eleven, the next fourteen, then the
following nine—and so on.
Before shoptalk, I suppose I should discuss the “shop” itself.
I’ve set up my school in the village’s largest building, which was
originally meant to be a school. Subsequent to its construction some
years ago, it was used for numerous purposes, one of which was a
fur warehouse. Fox-trapping is the key industry here, and even as I
write, the men of the village are preparing for this season’s
activities. These activities explain the variance in my daily student
body, for the boys close to “trapping age” (as Alexi Andreanof puts
it) are learning this business of preparing traps, etc.
I was cleaning the schoolhouse trying to reduce the aroma
from its former use when I met my new friend Anfesia Korovin, who
prefers the simpler “Anna.” We are a pair! I tower over the tiny
young woman, for she can’t be over five foot, a quiet little wren, not
much more than a girl, despite her advanced state of expectancy.
She is the young wife of Mike Korovin, a most positive, pleasant
Aleut gentleman at least twice her age. “Anna is my big happiness,”
Mike explained to Osmond, who only barely hid his mirth over the
ironic word play.
Indeed, my new neighbors and hosts, the Aleuts, do not say
or do one thing when meaning another. Coyness or device is not
their way. If they feel something positive, they come right out with it,
especially if there is humor attached. My height is a constant point
of village pride, for it seems I’ve become all seven wonders of the
Attu world. I’m nearly equal to Himself’s six-foot, though a tiny notch
under it. Even in the European world, I’m a “tall drink of water,” as
dear late Emmett [her deceased first husband, Emmett Hastings
Slater, 1875-1919] used to tell just about anyone. To Emmett, like
the Attuans (but unlike Himself), my stature was a source of
husbandly pride. “Women are not supposed to be tall, my dear.
Especially taller than their spouses,” I would oft remind, but Emmett
remained quite impressed.
The surnames of Chichigof Village are part of my everyday
vocabulary. There are six of them, not including our own, of course.
All of them are Russian in origin, which is the second language of
the village. English is quite rudimentary here, but the villagers are
proud of what little they speak. English is their “American”
language, which identifies them as citizens, they feel.
So, I have also begun English language lessons for adults,
three afternoons a week.
I’m so awfully weary, that Himself has convinced me that I
must take this entire Sunday off, and I have. “You are fifty-six years
old, and cannot work without rest.” Why is it that Osmond, who is an
absolute fanatic about dealing strictly in truth, cannot deal with my
true age?
“Well, my word, Lila Ann, you don’t look sixty-one, so don’t
complain, my dear,” Mrs. Wolfe, our BIA [Bureau of Indian Affairs]
supervisor, told me, “and men are off balance about being younger
than their spouses.”
Today, just after sunrise everyone heard a plane flying above
the clouds—thick, dark banks of them that pass right overhead.
Above this was the sound of the plane. “It is multi-engined,” Mr.
Smith commented, and listened attentively until after fifteen minutes
or so, it was gone. He nodded and when Peter Andreanof and Walter
Sergief walked over to the teacher’s residence (a tiny, two- room
wood-frame house, identical to the rest) wondering if it was
Japanese. Osmond, of course, will include this in his daily radio
dispatches to AMCS [Alaska Military Communication Service] Dutch
Harbor/Unalaska.
He is so happy, that it makes me happy—to see him feeling so
needed in a key location regarding our national defense. At Three
River Station [an Athabascan Indian village on the U.S. side of the
U.S./Yukon Territory boundary; according to the 1940 Census, its
population was 145. It would be 2,100 miles east of Attu], he felt
entirely ill-used, I’m afraid.
October 6, 1941. Chichigof Village, Attu
Oh, I hate to talk (or write!!) shop, but most of the classroom
materials provided by the Bureau [Bureau of Indian Affairs] simply
aren’t appropriate for my duties. Language is such a problem in the
village, and I mean for me (!) not the villagers or their children.
They do fine.
All the children are in widely different levels regarding
language. For instance, the Chirikof children—two boys and two
girls—can barely make themselves understood in English. However,
the Andreanof children do better in English, but cannot write it. (Oh,
I didn’t mention that the Chirikof twin girls can write English!)
Then there is little Anna Tschigorin who speaks and writes
English almost to her age level (thirteen years). I’ve promoted her to
Chief Tutor, a post of which she’s quite proud.
So, with the actual number of students varying each day, and
their different language levels, there is a confusing mix in the
possible number and type of skills. (I’m hesitant to apply the term
grade, herein.) This is far different than even Three Rivers Station,
and certainly any one-room school teaching in Iowa or China.
True enough, Mrs. Wolfe cautioned me this posting would be
quite unlike any others in the Territory of Alaska, which is how
Himself cautiously refers to our home of now approaching two years.
“Wife! This is not the United States, but United States Territory, you
see. And for good reason.”
Osmond considers this posting as adventurous in nature as
any in darkest Africa, and won’t hear of any comparisons I might
venture with my years in China. He claims China is the oldest and
most sophisticated of civilizations. “They don’t chew raw blubber
and run around naked in sweat houses in China.”
But, I’m digressing again—from classroom chat to raw
blubber! Lila Ann, how your mind wanders, as Father would say,
though never in a critical way.
In truth, I tire more easily and do feel my age. Since arrival,
my life is filled with getting our school off to a proper start. One
example: I’ve only recently diminished the scent of a fur warehouse
from it. My “sea chest” of school supplies is almost as priceless as
my first aid “station” I’ve brought via Nurse Garrison. Her one-week
medical training leaves me completely ill at ease in the healing
department. Yet she quipped, “If you treated Chinamen blisters and
such, you can do the same for Aleuts, so don’t worry, dearie.”
Mother was the nurse, of course. She had the healer’s touch
despite never having so much as an hour of training. Our mission
was “healing headquarters” for miles around in Shansi Province.
Mother was of the kindest and most gentle nature, which makes her
and Father’s fate even that much more unkind. “The Lord’s way, at
times, is impossible to fathom.”
When I am tired, memories best left alone do come forth.
October 18, 1941. Chichigof Village, Attu
My student body (!) has settled down, for the men have left
for fox-trapping. They shall be gone until January. Though this might
be considered by some wives and families to be a hardship, it is a
way of life to our Attuans, and they forbear without any complaint.
So, I have eleven full-time students, and three afternoon adult
students.
A routine has set in, as it has for Himself, who under the
tutelage of Peter Tschigorin the Elder—a youthful eighty-one—has
taken to learning about our island home. Mr. Smith, if I may air this
gentle observation, has maintained a policy of some distance from
our native friends since coming north from Delbert [Delbert, Iowa,
birthplace of Osmond Smith and Lila Ann’s parents, Paul and Miriam
Howland] eighteen months ago. This first was evident in Three
Rivers Station with the Athabascan folk.
And just as it appeared he might continue in the same
manner here, he was “adopted” by the “Elder” Tschigorin, who took
to (initially, by walking in and sitting down uninvited) posting himself
nearby, smoking his pipe and observing Himself at the radio. I try
and not see the connection between Elder Tschigorin’s endless