by Don DeNevi
“My understanding,” said Peter, is that each community, say, Stockton, California, has a slight deviation of the name. There, my Stockton high school friends called it ‘Tanoshimi Kai’. ‘Tanoshimi’ means ‘something to look forward to.’”
“’Tomonokai’ comes from the Japanese word ‘Tumo’ which means ‘friend’. So, ‘Tomono Kai’, according to what Joan taught me back in Stockton, refers to a social gathering of friends, especially senior friends, for fellowship. To the delight of the elderly, hot lunches are always served.”
“Wish we could afford them here,” Johnston added. “Just tea and pastries. Several of our internees owned restaurants and they work together when our extra supplies permit them to create unimaginable good tastes. The tiny cakes are always intricately detailed.”
“In Stockton, Joan loved attending the December Bonenkai meeting which, as you know, is the Tomonokai New Year celebration.”
“Look, here come Joan’s parents with her grandparents!” Peter exclaimed excitedly. “Never thought I’d see all of them together again! What a day for me and my future wife, the mother of our children.”
“Yes, a fine family,” added Johnston. “For a few hours, she has to behave as ‘oyakoko?”
“Yes, I know the term. She says she prefers being ‘nonky’, or ‘laid-back’, but relishes being a ‘oyakoko’, a child who takes care of her parents. ‘Oy’ means ‘parents’ and ‘koko’ means child. She calls her grandfather, ‘oji-chan, and her grandmother, ‘oba-chan’.”
Peter was beyond himself with joy. Just watching her with Kimi and Sayu, the oldest sister who just joined them, relating with their parents and grandparents, almost overwhelmed him with warmth and good feeling.
“Anyone of that family can recognize me. I know them so well, and they seem to appreciate me, although I think down deep in their hearts, they wish she had fallen in love with a Nisei.”
“But, the way I understand it, she isn’t really a full-fledged Nisei, she is a Nisei-sansei, right?” asked Johnston.
“Yes, and our children would be Italian-American-Sansei-Yansei-human.”
Johnston chuckled softly,
“How so? It certainly is complicated.”
“Well, the way I understand it, Joan’s father was born in Japan, which makes him Issei. Her mother was born in California, which makes her a Nisei. Joan, born to an Issei and Nisei is a Nisei-Sansei, a third-generation born. Our children, Sansei-Yonsei, will be fourth-generation. That’s why I call them Italian-American-Sandei-Younsei-human.”
“Look at Joan now, in between mom and grandmother, standing and greeting the first arrivals of the elderly with their sons and daughters. Wish I had photos of these moments.”
“Cameras strictly forbidden,” said Johnston, a touch of sternness in his voice.
“Mr. Ikeda had a camera at Tule Lake. Why not here?”
“The Ikeda family was interned there first, when the interment experience all began. Rules were lax. Later, when the family was transferred here, he was asked if he had one in his luggage, and, being the honest man he is, he said, ‘Yes’. It was confiscated instantly, without a word or comment. He’ll get it back at the end of the war. But I agree, watching her relating to everyone without being aware of it is truly a highlight, a peak life moment. You’ll never forget it, lieutenant.”
“I’m so glad I’m here. This was just wonderful, Mr. Johnston. Thank you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. I will cherish the last half hour, candidly watching her go about her business without her knowing. I was observing every moment, has been very, very special. So, now, let’s walk into the patio and I will walk toward her and . . . Oh oh, who’s that soldier crossing the picnic grass toward her . . . he’s wounded, an arm in a sling . . . why, that’s . . . that’s Yoshi! He was in our high school classes. He always had a little crush on her . . . Yes, I think it is him . . . and he’s headed straight for Joan’s family table. Is that a Purple Heart on his chest?”
“No, lieutenant, I heard he arrived late last night from a ceremony with the President. He’s wearing the Congressional Medal of Honor. I didn’t know he knew your Joan.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
-
“No! No! Pure Insanity! No! Impossible!”
hom’o-phon’ic adj. (Greek homophonos), French homes…the same pitch; unisonous. Of or pertaining to sounding alike; of the same letter or character expressing a homonym, a word or name with the same pronunciation as another by with a different meaning origin and spelling.
Invisible fingers seemed to suddenly emerge from an ethereal disbelieve to clutch his heart. Instinct forced him to instantly turn away, lest Mr. Johnston observe his initial vague alarm surge into a crippling shock and anxiety.
His mind in a devastating whirlwind, Peter, feeling the first tear reach his cheek, turned back to continue observing Joan and her irresistible charm, beautiful face, and pleasant soft voice in animated discussions with internees he didn’t recognize. Joan, hearing quick steps on the picnic grass then the flagstones of the hospital courtyard behind her, turned, then allowed herself a joyous yelp.
It was indeed Yoshiaki Ito, one of Peter’s several friends in the ninth and tenth grades at Edison High School on South Center Street in Stockton. In a virtual dash across the half-dozen steps toward him, Joan, with her singular mannerisms and enthusiasm, eagerly slid her hand into the palm of his free hand, her fingers grasping his fingers. Rivetted, Peter watched Joan inquisitively scrutinize his eyes, verifying he was well. Clasping his face with both her hands, she kissed him hard and long on the lips.
Then, smiling broadly, and with quivering lips, she bit his ear, and whispered something into it. Yoshi nodded eagerly, an obvious radiance gleaming from his eyes.
His mind a chaotic mess, Peter sagged. Backing away from the window, and leaning against a stack of linen boxes, Peter had seen enough. Cold, sick, and riddled with grief, he staggered as he began to walk out. His face ashen, his head slightly drooped, he turned to Johnston and whispered hoarsely,
“Mr. Johnston, thank you for your thoughtfulness in taking me under your wing here this morning. Truly, thank you, sir.”
“I’m so sorry, lieutenant. Being an old southern romantic, and too old to serve, I was hoping to assist a damn good fighter, I’ve learned. Miss Ikeda is precious and all here, including the U.S. Army MPs, love her. It didn’t take me long to see why she chose you. I’m so sorry. Usually my words come like rain-filled streams. No pauses between them. But now, there are no words to be said.”
“Well, you good man, if my friends have to be rounded up like common criminals and sent thousands of miles away from their homes to so-called ‘relocation’ and ‘internment’ camps, I want them under your safety and security. No finer man would there be to watch over their health and well-being.”
Peter paused, as he felt a single tear reach his upper lip, then added,
“Right now, for both of us, words are futile and unnecessary. I need time to staunch the flow of pain the only way I know how, being alone in a long walk. So, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be walking and trotting back to the station in order to leave immediately for the California West Coast and my next assignment.”
“Well, sir, again, I…”
“Oh, for goodness sake, it’s all O.K. A broken heart isn’t a life or death issue. My joy was to see Joan a few minutes ago with her heart beating high with delight when she saw the man she truly loved.”
Johnston remained silent as he observed the activities in the courtyard.
“As I think about it, Yoshi always seemed a little keen on Joan. But, she wanted me, and the whole city of Stockton, California, knew I wanted her. We were both on strict college-bound academic course work. So, we were in the Latin Club, Honor Society, Student Council, etc. together. He wasn’t. He was a team baseball and football star, and taking classes in the industrial arts. I dealt with words. He dealt with nuts and bolts. She chose to be at my side. That’s not to put him down. I alwa
ys liked him. He’s honorable and courageous, like all the Nisei boys I know and respect. His personal qualities are sterling. I suppose Yoshi and his family arrived in camp about the same time as Joan and hers.”
“Yes, Joan’s a few weeks earlier than his. From California, they went to Tule Lake, then transferred here. Once here, they were inseparable in all events, activities, and volunteer services.”
Peter, shaking visibly, turned for the final time to glance through the window. Joan and Yoshi were huddled on a bench at the near end of the courtyard within a dozen yards of where Peter was gazing upon them.
“Look at how ineffably tender her mannerism are around him. She is truly the ‘hidden deer’, now, the ultimate feminine, pure womanhood in love with a wonderful man.”
“Last night, he arrived from Fort Shelby in Mississippi, and reported to the Rohwer camp acting director, Mr. Marvin Ziegler, the principal of our onsite school while the Director is away for a conference in Washington. After welcoming him ‘home’, he was led to the Community Council, which had been alerted the wounded hero was back. After Yoshiaki, described his fight with German machine-gunners in northern Italy, and how he was decorated with the Distinguished Service Cross and Silver Star, Mr. Hayashi, the block manager of his parents’ apartment, led him there where he is now a resident. Not even his parents knew he was returning last night.”
“Can you believe that? A genuine hero, severely wounded, having to return to his parents’ ‘apartment’ separated from other ‘apartments’ by blankets, and given an old, used World War I cot to sleep on?” asked Peter angrily.
“He said that his Commander, Lieutenant Colonial Gordon Sinclair, chief of the 100th Battalion of the 442nd Regiment Combat Team, asked for a Congressional Medal of Honor, but the higher-ups discouraged it. They told him to rewrite the request for the Distinguished Service Cross with Silver Star.”
“What action?”
“Serenity under fire, whatever that means,” responded the Red Cross Director. “All I know is what he told us last night. With part of his shoulder shot off, he underwent intense German Wehrmacht fire, machine gun, mortar and artillery, to retrieve, one at a time, four, fellow wounded Nisei Troops. Before he went out to get them, he tried drawing fire away from them onto himself. Once he got the four back to safety, he quickly organized a standoff with those who could still fire. His standoff lasted more than an hour until rescue troops arrived. From Rohwer, Captain Darrell Nishikawa witnessed the whole three-hour episode, from beginning to end.
“Oh,” smiled Peter, “Yoshi wouldn’t quit. Not him. Just like him. A true hero. I always had enormous regard and admiration for him. But I never once figured on that out there,” Peter said calmly, standing straight and stiff, head down. Johnston noted the twinkle in Peter’s eye he had admired earlier that morning had died. So had the red flush in his face.
“Naw, no matter how I try to cut it, they make together one heck of a team for human decency, propriety, Japanese-American culture, and love between a full man and a beautiful woman, and mother-to-be. How is one disappointed or depressed about that? I wanted the guy to be me, but…Well, Yoshi, that lucky guy, now holds a piece of the sun in his hands,” he soliloquized more to himself than the Red Cross Director.
Unable to endure the scene, the linen closet, even the presence of the gentle, kind, Mr. Johnston any longer, Peter, with a pale, silent face, wheeled and hurried out of the small linen supply room and hospital for the street leading to camp’s outer fence and exit. As he was waved out by the Military Police, he heard Ray Johnston shout, “Don’t forget the radiograms I gave you!”
It was nearing 0100 that day as Peter walked across the tracks of the Missouri Pacific Railroad 71 to the nearby Highway Arkansas State Highway No. 1. Without a glance over at the Rohwer camp, which was parallel to the tracks and highway, he walked naturally, normally in the midday heat and mild humidity. He bit his lip, thinking he should have asked Mr. Johnston not to mention to anyone, especially Joan and Yoshi, that he had been present at the very moment they were reunited after Yoshi had enlisted.
No sooner than he had begun his journey back to the Southern Pacific Station down, walking neither hurriedly nor leisurely, when passing vehicles, automobiles, trucks, buses, vans, panels, lorries and virtually every four-wheeled motorized transportation in that part of Arkansas stopped to offer him, one of America’s finest in uniform a ride.
“Like a lift, soldier?”
“Thank you, citizen. No, I’m just fine. Need time to think and exercise. Appreciate your thoughtfulness,” Peter responded, waving the drivers on. Scanning the horizon, relishing the rare views of the Mississippi from occasional rises in the road, Peter marveled over what everyone in the Armed Forces knew to be true: No military man on foot along any road in the nation was denied transportation lest the driver be subject to lifelong guilt. The American public was truly proud of its fighting forces.
For almost three hours, Peter walked in the glaring sun. Virtually every vehicle driving toward him honked, its driver waving. Every form of transportation that passed him headed in the same direction pulled over and offered a ride anywhere the lieutenant wanted to go in McGehee.
Floor-flat, but punctuated by native pines, the geography between Rohwer and the train station was uninspiring. A light breeze helped in cooling the landscape, but not in his feelings of rejection, betrayal and abandonment. Although he yearned for solitude to ponder his future without Joan at his side, he was, in all honesty, helpless, distraught, haunted and lonely, perhaps the loneliest of his entire life. He had never been so disturbed. His usually cool, easy, all-solving mind was gone. Whirling thoughts told him he would have to live with an oppressed, dead heart.
With the edge of McGehee in the distance, and the station a few blocks beyond, Peter’s moist eyes began to dry and his mind cleared a bit. He paused, panting from the long exhaustive exertion in a small roundabout and gazed toward the Mississippi River. Temporary U.S. Army wooden storage buildings lay between the river and himself, with all their natural work and activities encircling them. What was going on was so normal and wonderful to behold that he decided to resolve his despondency. He chose at that very moment, at that spot, not to live his future life in her memory. He would never bear any antipathy toward Joan and Yoshi. No consternation, resentment, or jealousy. He would never be sulky, sullen, or bitter. He would never again be consumed by her, her wide, oval amber-brown eyes and jet-black hair, or how cute and pert she looked in home-sewn pedal pushers.
No, he thought, as the weather in the late afternoon became more onerous.
Then, as Peter was to finalize the trek to the Southern Pacific Station less than 30 minutes away, he remembered the unopened confidential radiograms that had arrived in the Military Police Administrative section that morning.
The first radiogram he pulled from his pocket was from Captain Oscar Del Barbra. Expecting a terse congratulatory sentence about his successful arrival at Rohwer, he opened it by tearing the end off. His half-smile froze in disbelief as he read,
“McClellan M.P. has flight schedule for your immediate return.”
“What?” he gasped. “What?”, he almost yelled.
Peter instantly searched his pocket for the other radiogram, pulled it forth, ripped it open, and saw it was radioed from Major General Rupertus’ Headquarters-office. To his utter shock and horror, he read,
“Ghoul struck again early this morning. Return this day.”
Peter felt his knees buckle.
At first, the cogent radiograms were so overwhelming, so trenchant, he did not comprehend the meaning of the words. Slowly, ever so slowly, as he gazed up into the cloudless sky, he began to grasp the inevitableness of their meaning.
“A third murder-mad Marine is involved?”
To Peter, at that moment, all the love stories in the history of the world rolled into one was not as significant as finding the third, maybe fourth, even fifth murderers. The change of heart of a young woman, rega
rdless of how devastating it was to her fiancée who was “moon burned” every time he spoke to or saw her, was nothing compared to more young Marines doomed to death.
As Peter again attempted to vocalize a sound of shock, the familiar twinge of that “something” that undefined annoyance again hit him. Suddenly, an outburst of questions deluged him. A copycat Ghoul at work? A killing of passion made to appear planned and systematic in order to blame the Ghoul? Was Pinoe a wanna-be mad-murderer? Or, did the real Ghoul finally show himself? Are there more than two Ghouls? Three? Maybe, four or five? Each a facsimile of the other? Using the same systematic methodology? Or, was this latest death blamed on the Ghoul’s resurrection, nothing more than a typical grudge fight between two Marines, resulting in a death made to appear the Ghoul committed it?
Peter concluded that the answers were quintessentially innate, intrinsic, to Pinoe’s utterances as he was fighting for his life.
“For God’s sake,” he thought to himself, “I simply couldn’t grasp what Pinoe was desperately trying to utter with his lisp. Peter felt the overall answer was within his grasp! But how soon would the clue break through? First of all, was he attempting to say one or two names? All he heard was “silly-gun”, “believe-in-your-gun”,“spider man,” “billet-gun”, “willowy-gun”, “winning-gun”, “wiggle-gun”, “widow-gun”, “billings-gate gun”, etc. etc.
Did any combinations make sense? For example, “billet-gun”, or “billet”, was a note or short letter. “Billing-gate” was a former London-city gate fish market notorious for foul, abusive language. No combination made any sense. Peter was conscious SOMETHING was within those lisped-pronounced words. But what? And, the more he thought about the various combinations, and the scramblings, the lonelier he became.
As he entered McGehee, the traffic along the highway seemed to increase. In the town’s outskirts, pedestrians waved, yelled or greeted him in some manner or other.Although always respectful in acknowledging a hail or salute with a smile and thumbs up, Peter hurried, the burden of anxious-confusion on his shoulder.
