Angelia - III -- Navajo Codetalkers

May 17, 2007

Angelia
Chapter Five

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         Jackson came up from behind me and tapped me on the shoulder. I'm jumpy and I hate it when he does that. "Hey, Ellaine," he whispers.

         "What is it? I'm busy," I say brusquely. He knows I don't like being interrupted when I'm doing my homework. "And why are you whispering?"

         "I have a secret. Wanna know what it is?"

         "I'm sure it can wait. Don't you have any homework to do?"

         "Yes, but this is important. You should know about it before Dad gets home."

         "Stop whispering. Nobody can hear you but me."

         "Okay," he says still under his breath, "but it's your loss. It's about Angelia."

         I stop typing, and quickly swivel around to face him. It's been months since we last saw Angelia. We all miss her more and more. Dad doesn't really talk about it much. What if we don't see her ever again? That would be so horrible. Dad will never find a girlfriend as great as Angelia.

         "What about Angelia? What secret could you possibly have about her?"

         "Now you ask," he says with a smirk, grabs the controller, and drops his skinny butt on the sofa with one leg dangling over the armrest. He turns the TV on. "Just because I'm only ten you think I never have anything important to say to you."

         "Okay, I'm sorry. What about Angelia? And turn the TV off."

         He points the controller to the TV and powers it off. I pull his leg up from the armrest and let it drop to the floor. "I found something in her room downstairs," he says grinning. "It looked like a diary."

         I am appalled. One thing we've learned from Dad is that every one has a sacred right to privacy. And when Dad finds out that Jackson has invaded Angelia's privacy by going through her personal stuff, boy, is my brother going to get it.

         "What were you doing in Angelia's room? I'm going to tell Dad."

         "Okay, but then you'll never find out what the secret is about." He looks so confident. Maybe his discovery is really important to risk Dad's punishment.

         "Did you read her diary? You know that's a no-no."

         "I didn't read it. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't. It's in a different language."

         "What language?"

         "I said it's in a different language. How many languages do I speak? Duh!"

         "Don't be a smart aleck. Just tell me more."

         "Well, when I opened the book, some photographs spilled from it. One picture had men in uniform, and they looked like those Indians in the movie."

         "What movie?"

         "You know . . . the Windtalkers."

         Now he's really got my interest. To this day, I'm still not convinced that Angelia has told us everything about her connection with the Navajo Code Talkers. What really got her so distressed when we were watching the "Windtalkers?" Why did she get so upset when Jackson playfully imitated the way the Navajos talked? He's just a stupid little boy.

         I wasn't satisfied with Angelia's explanations. I know I'm only sixteen, but something tells me that there's a lot more than what she led us to believe. She said that her best friend's grandfather was one of the Navajo Code Talkers whose best friend was killed by his own captain because he was going to be captured by the Japanese at Iwo Jima. Just like in the movie, when Nicolas Cage shoots the Code Talker because several Japanese soldiers are going to capture him. It's an official order to protect the code. Cage has no choice but to kill his own troop. Apparently, it worked because the Navajo codes were never broken. Experts say that without the Navajo Code Talkers, the war would have gone on a lot longer.

         So anyone would think that the Navajo Code Talkers would be greeted with huge heroes welcome, and that each one would have received a Medal of Honor. Angelia explained that the only thing they received after the war was a handshake and an order to keep the codes safe in utmost secrecy. The soldiers went home as if nothing happened since they left. They were so proud of their contributions to the U.S. Military, but they could not tell anyone about it. It even took sixty years before any congressional medal was given to them.

         According to Angelia, her friend's grandfather was a very intelligent man who at seventeen left the people and culture he loved to escape the harsh life in the Indian reservation. He concealed his heritage to escape racial discrimination. Being a half-breed with Caucasian features and light complexion with an Anglo-Saxon name, no one suspected that he was a Navajo Indian. He attended UCLA, and there he met his future wife from a prominent family. The wife would only learn of her husband's Navajo heritage when the officers from the U.S. Marines came and took him to fight for the country that persecuted his people for centuries. Because of the sensitive mission of the Navajo Code Talkers, she would not learn of her husband's secret until long after the war, when she discovered her husband's writings and many letters from the Navajo Code Talkers Association.

         "Hurry up before Dad gets home," Jackson says. For a skinny little boy he makes such a big sound going down on the stairwell.

         I feel like a criminal breaking and entering a private property. My heart is racing as I watch Jackson rush toward the shelf of books just above the desktop computer. The solid oak computer desk set looks a little dusty because it hasn't been used in months. Dad keeps the room closed. I don't think even he has been in this room since Angelia was here last.

         "Here it is!" Jackson says, as he pulls out the leather-bound book with no lettering on the spine. Quickly, he goes between the pages that contain the photos and pulls them out of the book. "See?" he says excitedly, pointing at the soldiers in uniform. "Don't they look like the Navajo Indians?"

         I grab the photograph and study it closely. He's right. The black and white picture is old and is browning with age, but the faces of the men are still very clear.

         "And look at this picture," he says, practically shoving the print to my face. I wince. I think he's worried that Dad could walk in on us while going through Angelia's things. This picture is of an Indian man and a white woman holding a beautiful infant girl in her arms. The man is in a soldier's uniform like the kind the Navajo Code Talkers wore in the movie.

         "Do you think that baby is Angelia's friend when she was just born?" asks Jackson.

         I snicker. "Oh, yeah. So that would make Angelia . . . let's see . . . about more than sixty years old," I say sarcastically.

         "Ooops!" he says embarrassed. He's good in math but he still doesn't have a very good concept of time periods.

         "But she could be Angelia's friend's mother," I say in contemplation.

         "Why would Angelia keep her friend's personal things?"

         "How would I know?" I scrutinize some of the writings on the book. I can't understand any of it.

         Suddenly, we hear the sound of the garage door closing. My heart jumps, and I thrust the book back to Jackson. He looks fearful as he puts it back on the shelf.

         Like passengers jostling each other out of a crowded train, we rush out of Angelia's room and run upstairs. I position myself on the chair in front of the computer while Jackson immediately turns the TV on. Then I hear him squeal in a high pitch,voice, but not loud. "You still have the pictures in your hands," he says. His eyes are big and round, and his freckled face is as white as can be. I panic and don't know where to put the pictures.

         "Hide them in your room," Jackson says. "Dad never goes in there." Sometimes my brother can have flashes of brilliance.

         I run into my room and put the pictures in my dresser, underneath my under thingies. By the time Dad sees us, we're already looking innocent, calm and comfortable doing our homework. It's a good thing he had groceries in his truck to unload before coming up.

         He asks how our days were, looking pleased that we're so into our school assignments. We tell him it's been an okay day, and ask him how his day was. Nonchalantly, he tells us that he's found another job at the university while he puts the perishables in the fridge. Jackson and I scream and happily jump at Dad, causing some of the stuff to spill all over the floor.

         We celebrate Dad's new job with a homemade pizza that he makes better than any pizzeria. He always makes it in different ways to please everyone. For Jackson, it's two slices with pepperoni; mine is two slices with extra cheese only; and Dad's is deluxe, with sausage, pepperoni, olives, green pepper, and some jalapeno peppers. When Angelia is around, hers is one large slice with extra cheese, chicken, mushroom, pineapple and olives. I thought it was weird to put pineapple chunks in pizzas, but I found out later that that's what Californians do.

         It's a very happy night for us. I almost forgot about the pictures.

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To be continued.