It was a singular trip, magical, separate from time, as only an excursion removed from everyday life can be. We were our own little society, with its own norms and rules, self-contained, and never to be duplicated. I remember sitting with Elizabeth on those quiet afternoons, staring out the window at the changing scenery—the majestic mountains, endless plains, the countryside which was so varied and yet somehow all connected, the vistas of this endless land, America. I remember thinking, now that I had time to reflect, about the magnitude of my good fortune. Here I was, as famous and accomplished as a man could be, in a country not even my own. Two cars down from me were executives who wished me to sign a new, more lucrative contract. Across from me sat a beautiful and desirable woman. And I was finally, by my actions here, doing something I had never done—using my fame for a good purpose, helping America, and, in turn, helping my fellow Japanese.
And we did, indeed, use our fame for a good purpose. In every city where we stopped, there was a tremendous rally, and the crowds, swept up by the powerful combination of patriotism and celebrity, opened their pocketbooks and wallets to buy. With each rally the four of us grew more effective with our speaking, whipping the crowds up into such a state of excitement that I thought half of them might run off and enlist. I waved my hat, Buck Snyder struck shooting poses, Figgins worked an invisible baton as if conducting the crowd, and Elizabeth waved her fist in the air in a gesture both inspiring and adorable. Bands broke out into patriotic songs and babies were dressed up in colors of the flag. In Denver, Chicago, St. Louis, Pittsburgh, every record for the sale of government bonds was broken. Our studio bosses were beside themselves—not because of the success of the war bond sales, but because this trip had made them realize the scope of our popularity. The size and enthusiasm of the crowds was overwhelming, and thrilling, and boded well for the future of motion pictures.
In retrospect, it is incredible how naïve we all were. Perhaps because none of us had witnessed war in our life-time, we thought of it primarily as a battle of ideas, a struggle against evil that was essentially bloodless, or that only involved bloodletting by the enemy. We were like cheerleaders exhorting our team to victory. There was a gaiety in the air, in the crowds, that had no relation whatsoever to the reality of what was happening in Europe. Even the small pockets of Japanese who came to the rallies, yelling my name and waving American flags, were caught up in the excitement. Little did they know of the suffering that was enveloping the world. And little did they know what awaited them two decades hence, when the country was pulled into an even larger conflagration.
After a rally, the whole party of travelers would be enlivened—government men, studio men, and actors alike. The train itself would seem excited, its whistles more hearty, its engine chugging along with renewed vigor. Eventually David would chase the others away and escort us actors back to our cars. There, he’d arrange for meals—the cars were specially outfitted with dining tables so we could eat in privacy—and bottles of wine and beer. And we’d slowly wind down, talking of the particulars of that day’s crowd, marveling at our own successful efforts.
It was on one of those nights that I escaped my bunk and made my way to Elizabeth’s car. Snyder had enticed another woman on board in Pittsburgh, a big-bosomed brunette with too much makeup and cheap perfume, and I’d prepared for another long night of sleeping with pillows against my ears. But then, around midnight, I felt someone slip into my bed. My heart skipped—for a moment, I thought my dreams had come true—but when I turned over, I smelled the strong, stale scent of the Pittsburgh woman. She was naked—her fleshy breasts slapped against my face—and she breathed, “Take me, samurai soldier, brutalize me!”
I grasped her around the waist—her whole body shivered in response—and heaved her over to the other side of the bed. Then I slipped down out of the bunk and threw on a robe and fled to Elizabeth’s car.
She came to the door in her nightgown—it was clear she’d been asleep—but she turned on the lamps and invited me inside. After I told her what had just transpired— which caused her much amusement—she arranged for someone to bring us a pot of tea. She led me over to the facing seats by the window, where we talked about that day’s rally. Then we were still for a while. As the movement of the train rocked us gently, we looked out into the night at the gathering of lights that marked each little settlement we passed. Elizabeth took a puff of her cigarette and said, “These small towns, all the people who’ll never travel more than ten miles from where they were born, they remind me of the place I grew up in.”
I smiled, for although I’d come from a completely different land, I knew precisely what she meant. “But you left,” I remarked.
“I know. I never belonged there. I realized there was something bigger. It was like my life didn’t really start until I turned fifteen and ran away to Hollywood.”
She told me of her girlhood—the departure of her father when she was seven years old, her mother’s daily trips to St. Louis to mend clothes and clean houses; the whiskey-soaked men her mother sometimes brought home; the bruises she woke up with in the morning. “She always picked the roughest, meanest ones,” Elizabeth said, the lights from outside
