by Don DeNevi
“What’s that monument?”
“I’ll pull over so you can read the inscription. It’s dedicated to the camp boys who have died in North Africa, Sicily, Italy and France. From Rohwer, a dozen or so have given their lives to America.”
Pulling into the entrance of the camp, and across from the Rohwer Military Police Office, Timmy turned the motor off of the flatbed jalopy truck in the parking lot in front of the monument so Peter could study the inscription of the two-story obelisk. The tall, four-sided stone pillar tapering to a flat top which supported a large metal wing-spread eagle atop a sphere of the world. At the bottom, engraved in Japanese and English on the foundation block was the inscribed dedication,
“To him who sleeps eternally here a descendant of glorious Yamato who came in his prime with hopes and ambitions heroic to battle, the fortunes of life, peace and bliss be yours.”
After a somber, reflective moment reading and rereading the chiseled inscription on stone, Peter nodded quietly,
“I understand from my Brass-powers-that-be that we have as many as 15,000 Japanese-Americans from the camps fighting alongside our Army forces in southern Europe and now in France. In the Pacific, there’s a group of Niseis who are serving as interpreters with our Marine, Navy and Air Force. They are also interpreting for the Army units that joined the Marines units. Some 18 to 20 Medals of Honor have been earned by those brave guys. Maybe another 10 or 15 before the end of the way. By next July of ’45, there may be as many as 20,000 to 23,000 Nisei men. Almost every teenage boy in camp wants to sign up like his older brothers. I was told by Major General Rupertus that the 442 Regiment Combat Team is well on its way to being the most decorated unit for its size and length of service in the U.S. armed forces.”
“Yeah,” responded Timms, “we heard that, too. Can you imagine what kind of spirit they have? Before the outbreak of war, they and their families faced terrible discrimination in certain parts of our country.”
“All parts, California included. I saw it often in Stockton.”
“And, yet, of all peoples in America, they are, always have been, the nicest, gentlest, generous, honest, cleanest, forgiving, caring and loving.”
“Because of where I grew up, the neighborhood, and because of Joan, I’ve known hundreds, mostly my age, and I’ve never known one, not one, to badmouth another human being, or cheat in a game, or curse a swear word.”
“Maybe after the war, even our McGehee citizens learning how many were killed in action serving our country, will feel differently about them.”
“Joan and I don’t want our children to have to go through the prejudice, bias, and outright discrimination she and her parents and family had to go through.”
Glancing at the monument again, Peter reflected for a moment, then said,
“And, in terms of their courage and fighting spirit? Let me say this. Joan wrote to me that when her brothers volunteered to join the 442nd, her parents told them the same thing all Japanese-American parents told their sons: always follow the Bushido Samurai; Code of Death. She said her father put his hands on their shoulders and said, ‘Departing sons, try hard to live. But if you must die, and there is no longer the possibility of remaining alive, fight to the end with honor. Never bring shame on your family or country.’”
Timmy also looked long and hard at the monument, then added,
“How fortunate you are to have a Nisei girl. Even at my age, single and alone, I would gladly share the rest of my life, and her life, together. O.K. Enough of all this. I can go no further and have no reason to accompany you into the Military Police offices. I’ll turn around and leave you. With your order in hand, explain that after all is said and done, you request that Ray D. Johnston, the Project Director of the Rohwer Red Cross Unit of the Relocation Center, take you under his arm to arrange for your visit with your wife-to-be. Upon your completion of your first visit, you will telephone me, as I explained. You will stay with me for the second, even third night, should you remain extra days. Regardless, the entire Southern Pacific Railroad Company is ready to assist and will remain at your disposal for the duration of your visit to Rohwer.”
With that, Timmy Timms shook Peter’s hand as the lieutenant exited the flatbed. The station manager watched Peter walk across the street, saluting various officers and personnel in and about the entrance, walk up the porch stairs, and, with a final wave, disappear into the building.
Inside, Peter drew a deep breath to steady his excitement. Despite consumed by the fidgets, a vibrating, head and a pounding heart, he remained calm and composed as he crossed a small walled-in lobby-waiting room toward the obvious receptionist seated behind a large desk, typing at professional speed. Glancing up and seeing a smiling lieutenant approaching her, she rose to greet him with an equally endearing smile.
“Sir, we’ve been expecting you. Even though I’m a civilian, I was tasked with tracing your movements on the rails from McClellan. I’ve spoken to more station managers, conductors, porters in three days that’ll be enough for a dozen lifetimes of train travel. In addition, I’ve been in contact by radiogram two or three times a day with Captain Oscar Del Barbra on Pavuvu Island in the Russell Group. I take it you know him?”
“Boy, do I!” explained Toscanini.
“Well, sir, less than an hour ago, two radiograms arrived within minutes of each other. They were marked ‘extremely urgent’ and ‘classified-confidential’. Without reading them, Red Cross Project Director Ray D. Johnston had them sealed. He’ll hand them to you in person in his office.”
“I’m certain they are congratulatory in nature, that I arrived safely.” Peter smiled. “We got to know each other pretty well over this past month.”
“One is from your Commander, General Rupertus.”
“Oh, really? He and I got to know each other especially well.”
“I’m to bring you to Mr. Johnston’s office immediately, he’s right down the hall, there” she pointed “The camp’s civilian administrators are away in Washington. All camp administrators are in a weeklong conference. I’m sure our people would have enjoyed hearing first-hand, what our boys are doing out there on those cold-water islands. And, by the way, you’re the first serviceman to visit one of our residents since camp began two years ago.”
Led down a hall of half-empty offices in an administrative unit surprisingly quiet, Peter inquired,
“Yours is the only typewriter that works around here?”
The receptionist chuckled, “No work to be done. All 9,685 internees are honest. Never had a problem with anyone. The older boys can’t wait to join up with the 442nd, the younger ones are policed by their own internal security policy authority, the same way their 12-member fire department crew handles all fires. We don’t even need the gun towers. Our staff could be cut by two-thirds. Five of us could handle the little work and investigations 20 M.P.’s do. Our only problems revolve around the occasional suicides.We don’t carry guns, and there are no guns in the towers. Same for all camps, except for the Tule Lake camp. But the suicides hurt us staff very, very much. Usually older, lonely men, and young women kill themselves. So, so sad. Men hang themselves, women will hang themselves, too, but a month ago, one young woman threw herself under the locomotive that supplies our materials off a SP branch line.”
Entering an obviously large double office area, Peter’s first sight was a young woman with blonde hair sitting behind a desk at work on a stack of papers, pen in hand. Morning light from the window near her desk cast a soft glow on her, producing a gentle, glowing result. Her eyes, measuring every step he made into the room were wide, pure, and vivid. She was beautiful, and, suddenly, he flashed on Ellen and the first time he saw her. As a tense sadness momentarily overwhelmed him, he continued following the receptionist into the office of the Red Cross Project Director. Peter turned and flashed a smile at the young woman behind the desk who was still staring at him, an ever-so-slight smile crossing her lips.
“Hello there, Lieutenant Toscanini. W
e’ve been waiting for you. You’re quite the sensation, I understand. These two radiograms marked urgent and confidential are for you. No one here has read them. Came in about the time you were being driven over here.”
As he handed the two radiograms, to Peter who stuffed them into his pocket, he smiled,
“My people back on Pavuvu congratulating me for getting here safely, I’m sure, sir.”
“Well, I’m Ray D. Johnston. Let me say we’ve been made privy not only that you were on your way to see fiancée Joan Ikeda, the shining star of our internment camp, but also your remarkable achievement of saving Mr. Hope’s life while defeating the so-called murder mad Mr. Ghoul.”
“Only one question, sir, does Joan know I’m here?”
“No. Only the Rohwer Camp administrative staff does. But since all this broke within a week, there’s been little time for rumors to filter down to her level. I can’t be 100% certain she doesn’t know. I even had a phone call from a reporter at the San Francisco Chronicle about you.”
“How soon can I see her?”
“Right now. I’ve cleared my desk to get you two together this morning! We’ll go through the back door there. I know where she is and what she’s doing.”
“Is there any way I can observe her for a few moments without her seeing me…and then surprise her by just walking out? I so want to surprise her... “
“I don’t see why not. I’ll be with you, observing, telling you the do’s and don’ts. Let me show you on the camp map behind me where she lives.”
Peter liked Ray Johnston instantly. He was obviously a gentleman with a warm gleam in his eyes. Like Timmy Timms, he was a kind, gentle man who made friends easily. A slender, sinewy, thin waist body held up broad shoulders, while a thin mouth and small nose seemed to be topped by short balding hair.
Sitting behind the usual sparse governmental wooden desk, scattered with papers, contracts, documents, etc, the Project Director sensed Peter’s inquisitive stare sizing him up. Especially interesting to the lieutenant was the large map with various colored pins, colored rectangular designations of the maps entire 10,161 acre capable of accommodating 10,000 internees. In addition, it indicated the perimeters of Desha County, and directions eight south to Watson and 25 miles northwest to Arkansas City. To the east, the shores of the Mississippi River were noted.
“Interesting, is it, Lieutenant?” Johnston asked, standing up and facing the map.
“I have all 51 barracks numbered with the block and barracks’ managers listed underneath. For example, Joan Ikeda is there, Block 25, Barracks 3. Mr. Hayashi, a wonderful man, is in charge of her block. The barbed-wire 12-foot fence runs alongside of her barrack, which is adjacent in the middle of the outside length, which means the guard tower is virtually overlooking her barracks. There are three towers on each side of the camp quarters occupying less than 1,000 acres of the camp’s 10,000.”
“I see,” said Peter, slowly, perusing the map. “I see how the colors identify all aspects of normal life, the various churches in each of the blocks, the libraries, recreation areas, elementary schools and nurseries. Even the pine trees within each block are identified. My goodness, I’m impressed.”
“You understand, my office is separate from the U.S. Farm Administration’s responsibility. The American Red Cross, for our supplies and activities, including the salaries for me and my staff, are donated. The US Army, in general, and the Military Police in particular, handle the costs for interning the residents. I operate on less than $10,000 a year. The cost for each relocation and internment camp in America is well into the hundreds of thousands of dollars.”
“Thank you for the time explaining much of it to me. Very little, if anything, at all, is ever reported about life in the camps in the national newspapers and magazines, especially the locally- oriented newspaper in my hometown, Stockton, California. In the various military offices I’ve been in, especially the waiting rooms, there are puff pieces celebrating how wonderful life is behind barbed wire.”
“I know. I know.”
After a pause in which both men continued gazing upon the map, the Project Director said,
“I know how to get you as close as possible without her being aware of your presence. Then, when you’re ready, watching you step out in front of her, and seeing her expression will indeed be something to behold. Never has it happened before. I’ll bet you a thick, juicy doughnut, she’ll start crying.”
“I know.”
“Well, as it so happens, today is special, the noon hours being the most important. Sponsored by the Rohwer Red Cross Chapter’s executive board, 12 members, all Japanese-American; the more than 100 block and barracks managers, and Home Service Office staff, and 70-member Community Council, are celebrating the Annual Tomonokai Day. In preparation for the ceremony and luncheon, Joan, and a host of at least 200 teenage girls and their mothers, are busy setting up the chairs and tables. I thought you’d have at least a half hour just watching her before surprising and joining her.”
“Won’t the people resent me showing up and just stepping in?”
“On the contrary, they would be proud. After all, their sons, their brothers and uncles are being led in Italy and France, even the Pacific, by officers like yourself.”
“Well…”
“When we get to the supply closet window, I’m thinking of where you can observe her at work, and the small patio where you can step forward to surprise her. As we make our way over there, I’ll tell you what the ceremony of Tomodachi is all about. Tomodachi means ‘friends’. Tomonokai, which comes from ‘Tomodachi’, refers to ‘the gathering of friends’. But more of this later.”
“Yes, I’ve often heard Joan speak of that ceremony because it’s one of her favorites.”
“Let’s go!” Johnston’s voice snapped vibrantly, as a feeling of excitement swept over Peter.
A quarter of an hour later, Johnston, with Toscanini at his side, walked hurriedly down the green slope leading from the main administration building, and the administration and personnel apartments, toward the small picnic area adjacent to the main hospital. From the Military Police building they had crossed the street before the parking lot, the warehouses, the motor pool, and main post office. Meanwhile, Johnston greeted everyone who crossed their path, while Peter saluted all officers and smiled at every internee. More than all else, he wanted to be alone with Joan, to hold her, to make sure she was still his fiancée, to convince himself beyond all fears she was still his and worth to go on living and fighting for. Somehow he sensed her nearness that she truly was less than 100 yards away and that standing before her in an unexpected surprise would be the major drama of his life thus far. This is the hour, Peter thought, and the scene is ready, the veil within minutes to be raised, and the last act performed. How excited he was!
A third of the way down the sloping path, the Red Cross Project Director slowed and pointed,
“Look beyond the roof of the hospital. There’s the picnic area and your Joan Ikeda is among those women setting up folding chairs, hauling portable tables, spreading tablecloths. Soon, the guests will walk over from their barracks. I’m taking you to a linen closet where there’s a window to watch. Just outside of it is a partially ivy-covered patio. When you’re ready, you can merely step out into it and walk over to get her. Are you certain she won’t have a heart attack? There are several two-seat benches there where you can talk. I’ll always be within hailing distance because as a visitor, even as a high-priority officer, you can’t be allowed to be alone on grounds, with her, or any internee for that matter.”
“Let’s hurry, please, Mr. Johnston.”
The Project Director glanced back at Peter with somewhat of a sarcastic smile. He said nothing as he entered the Rohwer Relocation Center Unit hospital with the lieutenant trailing close behind. They hurried down a hall off offices for doctors, dentists, and nurses, the Office of the Rohwer Board of health, reception room, nurses’ aides’ area, dental clinic, x-ray room, operations
center, obstetric ward, several classrooms for first-aid instruction, before reaching the unlocked linen closet Johnston had in mind.
Entering the room, Peter saw the window he was to peer through beyond the shelving of bed sheets, towels, various linens and other supplies. Several startled aides who were busy unpacking boxes of linens for empty shelves looked up as the two men entered.
“Don’t mind us, nurses. Go on with your work. We’re going to use the back window as an observation post.”
As the aides smiled at Ray Johnston, they continued unpacking and recording the contents on clipboards. Peter was the first to reach the window. Quickly, he rearranged several unopened boxes so that he could sit and watch. The morning sun was reflecting in such a manner that the shadows cast prevented anyone from the patio area attempting to see within. Peter was allowed to look out, but no one in the picnic area would think of attempting to look within.
“Perfect, isn’t it, Lieutenant?”
Peter didn’t hear him since he was so intent on scanning the large number of female faces busy setting up for the ceremony.
Then, suddenly, there she was, in green pedal pushers and a white short-sleeve cotton collared shirt carefully placing embroidered tablecloths, with her two sisters, Kimi and Sayu, on tables. He allowed a tear to run down his cheek as he watched her work authoritatively and competently with the young teenage girls.
Observing Peter’s marvel and wonder as he watched Joan arrange the Tomonokai party tableware for the Rohwer senior citizen group. Johnston smiled and said softly, slowly,
“No question about Joan being popular in to our community. I hear everyone, men and women, young and old, even the elderly address her as Ne-san, ‘big sister’. Now, she’s arranging the Bingo materials for each table This Tomonokai is a big deal around here. It’s supposed to take place once a year, but here in camp we do it once every two months. The McGehee bakeries help out because they deliver boxes and boxes of free pastries by noon.”
