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Back Passage West
Chapters (59)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Epigraph
  4. Cast of Characters
  5. Part One
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. Letters
  14. Part Two
  15. 8
  16. 9
  17. 10
  18. 11
  19. 12
  20. 13
  21. 14
  22. 15
  23. 16
  24. 17
  25. Letters
  26. Part Three
  27. 18
  28. 19
  29. 20
  30. 21
  31. 22
  32. 23
  33. Letters
  34. Part Four
  35. 24
  36. 25
  37. 26
  38. 27
  39. 28
  40. Letters
  41. Part Five
  42. 29
  43. 30
  44. 31
  45. 32
  46. 33
  47. 34
  48. 35
  49. 36
  50. 37
  51. 38
  52. 39
  53. 40
  54. 41
  55. Epilogue
  56. Acknowledgments
  57. About the Author
  58. Also by Rishi Reddi
  59. About the Publisher

By the time Ram rose to greet the visitor, the Western Union boy had already made his way to the back and inquired, mangling the name, “Is a Mr. Moriy— Moriyami— Morayama here?”

“I am,” Tomoya said, standing.

The lad handed him the telegram, jumped back on his horse, and cantered off. Later Tomoya would wonder: Why wasn’t that boy in uniform, overseas?

He tore open the envelope and read. He grabbed the back of a chair for strength. Then his legs crumpled beneath him and he fell to the ground as Jivan lunged forward, trying to catch him.

25

June 1919

HARRY HAD DIED OF SPANISH INFLUENZA IN THE FIELD HOSPITAL, ONLY A week before he would have boarded the ship to come home. This was the fact that Amarjeet had been trying to understand for three months, as he journeyed back from war. Now, as the train approached the depot, he looked up to see the crooked sign proclaiming FREDONIA: AMERICA’S DREAM. The full impact of Harry’s absence hit him. How would he face Mr. and Mrs. Moriyama on the platform?

But, of course, the Moriyamas were not there. Why would they be? Through the window of the rail car, Amarjeet spotted his own family in the midst of others, milling around the depot. He gasped the moment he saw them. In their faces was an eager expectation, a worry, expressions of relief and disbelief mixed together.

As he stepped off the train, the sixteen boys he had traveled with said goodbye. He had not known any of them before the war, except by sight. Sam Pinkerton had been one of them—the sergeant whom Harry had hated, but pulled into the trench and saved. Now Sam clapped Amarjeet on the back. “Feels good to be home, don’t it, Jeet?” he asked. “Feels real good,” another soldier responded for him, and Amarjeet’s gaze took in all of them, every one, including the three Negroes who had emerged from the rear car into the bright sun; he had joked with them on the platforms during the stops in San Francisco and Los Angeles.

“Take good care of yourself now,” said Sam quietly. Already the Anglo boys were standing together, eyeing their waiting families. If Amarjeet had wanted their recognition before the war, he had it now. All the soldiers were grinning, every one wearing the uniform of the American Expeditionary Forces for this last brief moment before joining society again: African faces and European, Hindustani and Chinese and Mexican.