“I sat with him as often as I could. Whenever I did not have to drill or care for the horses.” Was that guilt he heard in his voice? The other boys visited the taverns or played basketball in the warming spring air. Other boys fraternized with the daughters of the families with whom they were billeted.

Amarjeet reached inside his pocket. “I brought you these letters. Harry was writing them to you. So many of them, every day in the hospital. He didn’t want you to get them with the other things.” They had argued when Harry said he thought he wouldn’t make it back. Amarjeet’s voice cracked. “He wanted me to carry them to you myself.”

He held the letters out like an offering. His hands were shaking. When Mr. Moriyama took them, Amarjeet felt hollow, devoid of substance. “And there is this. He wanted me to give you this too.” Mr. Moriyama took the small box and opened it slowly. Inside was Harry’s gold chain. His face flushed pink. Mrs. Moriyama made a small noise, like a chirping bird, a squeaking mouse. She rose quickly and left the room. Amarjeet saw Karak’s motorcar turn from the roadway and he groped for his handkerchief and suddenly he could not contain his tears. “I am sorry Mr. Moriyama I could not bring him back with me I am sorry I am sorry I am—”

Masa closed her eyes.

Mr. Moriyama was waving his hand. “No no, Amarjeet. No no no no no.”

THE NEXT AFTERNOON, Masa arrived at the Eggenberger farm, driving the Moriyamas’ team and wagon. Amarjeet was in the barn, mucking out the mare’s stall.

“Mother wants to see you,” Masa said. “If you will accept to visit.” She spoke in clipped, clear English.

He followed her on horseback. When they got to the house, he saw that Mrs. Moriyama had been waiting. “Come, come,” she said, indicating the formal dining table. She spoke in Japanese, looking steadily at Masa and glancing at Amarjeet. Amarjeet wondered why. Several years ago, her husband had arranged for an English tutor to visit this home as part of the county Americanization classes, and she and Kishen had sat with that woman, in this same room, every week for six months.

“Please sit and speak with her,” Masa said. “She has questions that she wishes you will answer. She would be grateful if you would do this service.”

Mrs. Moriyama had tea ready, and she poured it into the porcelain cups. Mr. Moriyama did not appear to be home. She moved quickly, as if she wanted to complete the conversation before her husband would interrupt. She sat across the table from Amarjeet, facing him, and Masa placed herself at the head, between them. Mother and daughter spoke to each other in rapid Japanese while Amarjeet looked from one to the other, palms on his knees, patient.

“Mother says—”