Within These Lines

by Stephanie Morrill

  I hang my apron and head out the door, where I’m met with a blast of wind and a face full of sand. I cover my face and feel an increasingly familiar flash of anger at being here, where even in September the wind feels like having a furnace blow on you. Where you never feel clean, and you always feel trapped.

  I flip my collar against the wind in meager protection. “Shikata ga nai,” I mutter to myself. It cannot be helped. I must endure. Must push through. Must make the best of a troubling situation. I repeat the Japanese phrase all the way back to the barrack, hoping the words sink into my increasingly rebellious soul.

  “It’s okay, Taichi!” Margaret shouts encouragement from the fence as I walk away from the plate having struck out. “You’ll get ’em next time!”

  I acknowledge her with the slightest wave I can—I wish she would be a bit quieter—but she’s already turned her focus to cheering for James as he steps up to the plate. Rose continues to look at me, though. I offer a flick of a smile and turn away.

  Since our extremely awkward dance together, all our interactions have been intensely polite. The only good that has come from it is that she must realize now that I’m a waste of time, and she should look elsewhere for a dance partner.

  Ted stands near the team bench. “Ken really throws fire. I’m impressed you even fouled one off.”

  A crack interrupts our conversation, and we cheer as James’s hit bounces between the left and center fielders.

  “Atta boy, James!” Ted yells through cupped hands. Then to me, “I hope your aunt isn’t too discouraged over the conversation at lunch today. That wasn’t my intention. I just wanted her to be prepared for possible pushback. The Wakatsuki family just got their father back from North Dakota, and they’ve faced great distrust from their neighbors. It’s awful when we suspect the worst of each other. Like we don’t have enough troubles in here.”

  “I’m glad you told us. My aunt . . .” Voicing that she isn’t a very strong person sounds far too disrespectful. “It’s a good thing for her to know.” I look toward the stands, but don’t see Lillian anywhere. “Was the wind too much for Lillian?”

  “And the heat. I finally convinced her to go back home and rest.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “Since we have a moment to talk, just the two of us, I want to let you know that I’ll be leaving camp soon. I’m heading off to help in Idaho with the sugar beet harvest.”

  Idaho. What’s it like there? Green? Dust-free? Fence-free? Toilets with doors? I would harvest anything they want if I can get out of here for a bit. “Really?”

  Ted must see my thoughts playing out on my face, because he says, “I already tried with your parents, but they don’t want you to leave camp.”

  “What?” Anger slashes through me. “They didn’t even talk to me about it. What about what I want?”

  Ted hesitates. “Their fear is understandable. We’re being given a military escort, because the administration is worried about violence against us. Honestly, I’m not sure that what we face out there will be any better than what we deal with in here, Taichi.”

  “But you’re going.” I wince at how childish I sound.

  “Because this is how I can best serve right now. I tried enlisting right after Pearl Harbor, but obviously they denied me. This is finally something I can do.”

  “What does Lillian think?”

  Ted considers this. “She may seem slight, but Lillian has a backbone of steel. She’ll be fine. My parents are here. And I know your family will help too, should she need it.”

  “Of course we would,” I say. “But I’m going to talk to my parents again. I want to come with you.”

  “There will be other opportunities to serve if this one doesn’t work out. Don’t be too hard on your parents, especially when your uncle is about to be released. We need good men here inside the fence, Taichi.”

  I stew on this while Yosuke fouls off several fastballs. I can see Ted’s point . . . but I’m itching to get outside the square-mile of Manzanar.

  “How are things with Raymond Yamishi?” Ted asks in a quiet voice. “Have there been any other developments?”

  “Nothing more than a snide comment or two when our teams play.” I shrug. “I can handle him.”

  “He hasn’t continued to harass you over correspondence from your sweetheart?”

  My heart twists at the mention of Evalina. Sweet, devoted Evalina who has sent me three to four letters each week despite my silence.

  “No, he hasn’t.”

  Ted turns his gaze to me. “And how are the two of you faring?”

  I should say we’re good, just so we can move on from this conversation. I swallow, and the lie slides down my throat. “I don’t know. Not great.”

  Ted exhales slowly. “I think I told you once before that I used to care for a Caucasian girl?”

  I nod.

  “We were in high school. She was a lovely girl. If either of our families had approved, then maybe Ted shrugs. “We went to different colleges and tried to stay in touch, but we got busy with our separate lives. She met a Caucasian boy, I met Lillian. We learned we could be just as happy—if not happier—with other people, and that was that.”

  My heart pounds in my chest. I don’t want Evalina to find she can be happier with someone else, and I know I couldn’t be.

  “I’m not trying to discourage you, Taichi, but I thought maybe it would be good for you to know that even if it doesn’t work out like you want it to, you can be okay.” He claps a hand to my shoulder just as the inning ends. “Don’t misunderstand, it’s painful. But that’s just love in general. Sometimes loving another person feels like the most painful thing there is.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Evalina

  Thursday, September 24, 1942

  Around me, classmates stream out the door, and I try to keep my knees from buckling as I approach Professor Blake at the front of the class. Praying my voice comes out steady and strong, I say, “Professor? Do you have a moment?”

  He looks up from the briefcase he’d been loading and peers at me over the top of his glasses. “I have a moment. What is it, Miss Cassano?”

  “I want to discuss my paper. And the grade you gave me.”

  He continues to look at me. “Okay. Discuss.”

  I swallow. “Well, I don’t think the grade was very fair—”

  “This isn’t high school, Miss Cassano. You can’t turn in poorly researched papers and expect a decent grade.” Professor Blake snaps his briefcase shut.

  It’s all I can do to keep my volume from rising. “My paper is not poorly researched.”

  “You were asked to write a paper on the role of the press in politics in several countries. What you handed in was your own personal conspiracies about the evacuation of the Japanese. I’m sorry if you don’t like it, but you handed in a D paper.”

  “I did not hand in a D paper.”

  “As your professor, I’m telling you that you did.” Professor Blake slides his briefcase off the desk and strides out of the classroom without another word. Was that supposed to be the end of the discussion?

  I follow, taking several steps for each one of his.

  “Professor Blake, I’ve been to the Japanese American camps,” I say between huffs of breath. “Two of them, in fact, and I can tell you without a doubt that the way the newspapers cover them—when they deign to cover them at all—is not accurate. How is that poorly researched? I have seen the camps with my own eyes.”

  Professor Blake turns and gives me a cold look. “Miss Cassano, if you don’t like your grade, you are free to drop my class. But if you continue to turn in papers that sympathize with our country’s enemies, then you will continue to be marked low. Good day.”

  He marches through the exit, and the door swings shut behind him. I watch him go, feeling like a riled bull in the ring baited with a red flag. I want to charge after him and knock those stupid words right out of his mouth.

  Believing the Japane
se Americans have been treated unfairly means I sympathize with our country’s enemies?

  You are free to drop my class.

  That’s what he wants, isn’t it?

  Professor Blake probably thinks it’s silly for a girl to major in political science, or to have any interest in politics whatsoever. Maybe he’s right, that I should drop it. A bad grade would cost me my scholarship, and my family can’t afford for me to go to college without it. Is there a chance I could drop the class and take it with a different professor next semester . . . ?

  But if I go into law or politics, this is something I’ll face for the rest of my life. I’ll always be discriminated against because of my gender, or because I’m Italian, or because my family has roots in the mafia, or—please, God—because my husband is Japanese American and my kids are biracial.

  If I tuck tail now, when I’m up against a skinny, scruffy-faced, know-it-all windbag of a professor, how can I expect to be strong enough to push back when the battle is public?

  I will think of Professor Blake’s class like studying for a final exam or training for a big game. I’m not going to back down. And I’ll just have to find a way to be so convincing, he can’t do anything but give me a passing grade on every other paper.

  As soon as the waitress leaves with our dinner order, Mrs. Bishop offers us the bread basket. “Tell us how your studies are going, girls.”

  Grace’s roommate, Sally, is a journalism major like Grace, and very outspoken. She launches into a list of assignments they’ve had, including her opinions on what would have been more worthwhile assignments, and how she’s done on them.

  The table is a rectangle, with Mr. and Mrs. Bishop on one side, and Grace sitting in between Sally and me. As Sally rambles, with Grace putting in a few details here and there, it becomes more of a conversation between Grace, Sally, and Mrs. Bishop.

  Eventually, Mr. Bishop glances across the table at me and smiles. He passes the butter and says a quiet, “How about you, Evalina? Are you enjoying your classes?”

  “I . . . am.” That sounded less-than-convincing. “Yes, I am.”

  Mr. Bishop arches his eyebrows. “Are you sure?”

  I spread butter across my bread with a self-conscious laugh. “Yes, I’m enjoying them . . .”

  “But?”

  “I’m taking one political science class this semester, and my professor has different political beliefs than me. It’s reflected in the way he grades.”

  Mr. Bishop frowns. “You should speak to the counselor about that.”

  I tear off a bite of bread, but I don’t eat it. I hate feeling so ignorant about how college works. “What would they do?”

  “Evaluate the situation. Help mediate between you and your professor.”

  My insides squirm at the thought. “I did okay on the first two papers. But on the one he returned this week, I got a D. He claimed it was because it was poorly researched, but I think he just didn’t like my view of the evacuation.”

  Mr. Bishop’s mouth quirks. “I wondered if that was involved.”

  “To claim it wasn’t researched well was just stupid. I told him I’ve been to two of the camps and read every newspaper article I can get my hands on. Not that the press is covering the story much anymore. And what they are saying is completely off base and makes it sound like living in the camps is akin to a holiday in Hawaii.” I shove bread in my mouth, hoping to prevent the rest of my rant.

  It comes out anyway. “I just don’t understand how anyone can argue that locking up the Japanese Americans isn’t about race. Why not Germans? Why not my family?”

  Mr. Bishop’s expression is thoughtful, but he chews and swallows before speaking. “There are some Italians and Germans who have been detained, but you’re right. There hasn’t been the widescale evacuation like with the Japanese. Germans and Italians are spread all over the country, while the majority of the Japanese were still on the west coast. And, yes.” He winces. “They’re more noticeable.”

  I look at the other ladies at the table and find they’re still locked in conversation. “What really makes me think Professor Blake is just biased against me is that on the first day of class, he commented that I’m Italian. That I would bring a different ‘slant’ to our class discussions. Can you imagine if he knew that both my grandfathers were in the mafia?” My laugh comes out high and self-deprecating.

  The waitress arrives with our entrees, thankfully breaking up the conversations. If only she’d arrived before I decided to air my family’s blood-stained laundry. Fortunately, Mr. Bishop is a kind, understanding soul.

  The rest of dinner passes in casual group conversation, and I try to forget about Professor Blake and join in.

  Loneliness surrounds me as dinner ends and we walk back to campus. I had so looked forward to tonight, to dinner away from the school cafeteria and my overly-quiet roommate. To enjoying time with the Bishops, whom I admire so much. And now it’s time to head back to my room and write a paper that hopefully Professor Blake will approve of.

  “Evalina.”

  I startle from my downward spiral of thoughts to find that Mr. Bishop has lagged behind the group, slowing his pace to match mine.

  “May I ask you about your Japanese American friends? How are they faring?”

  “Okay.” What else can I say? “They’re making the best of a bad situation, I think.”

  He nods. “I was speaking to Grace about them. She said your friends are farmers?”

  “Yes. Wonderful farmers.”

  “Has Grace told you that her older brother is a cattle rancher in Kansas?”

  I’m not quite sure where this is going, but . . . “Yes. Jeremy, right? She said that growing up, he always wanted to be a cowboy.”

  Mr. Bishop grins. “Yes, that’s my boy. With the war on, they’re increasingly short on help. Jeremy is going to talk to his boss about having a few Japanese Americans come help. More and more, the WRA is open to that.”

  I tell my hopes not to soar too high. That cattle are not crops. That Kansas is very far away. That Mr. Bishop may not even be thinking of the Hamasaki family, just making conversation with me about subjects he knows I’m interested in.

  “How does it work?” I ask, sounding breathless. “Getting a family released?”

  “We’re trying to figure that out. I’m not even sure we can ask for the release of specific families. But would you mind giving me your friend’s information? In case we’re able to?”

  “Of course.” I tear off a page from the back of my address book and scribble the names of Taichi’s family and his aunt and uncle, as well as their address in Manzanar. “Thank you so much for thinking of them.”

  Mr. Bishop tucks the paper into the breast pocket of his suit. “It may come to nothing,” he warns. “I’ll be in touch.”

  With my head light from hope, I thank Mr. and Mrs. Bishop for dinner, and then say goodbye so I can be alone to think. Kansas. If Taichi got released to there, could I go too? They have universities, same as California. Maybe even more affordable. Or maybe I could get a scholarship there.

  After I’ve said goodbye to Grace and Sally, I peek in my mailbox. My heart leaps into my throat when I spot the envelope, but it’s from Tony. I’m grateful that he’s such a faithful letter writer, even with his intense load of engineering classes, but right now I feel only disappointment. I close the square metal door, and the hollow sound echoes how my heart feels now that yet another day has gone by with no word from Taichi.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Taichi

  Monday, September 28, 1942

  Dear Tai,

  I don’t know how to write this letter. I’ve been trying to ever since I saw Evalina, but you know I’ve never been good with serious conversations.

  I cram Diego’s letter into my pocket. Judging by the opening lines, I’m guessing I don’t want to read it here in the post office.

  Squinting against the late afternoon sun, I slip through the crowds of dusty Japanese fa
ces until I happen to come alongside a face that isn’t Japanese. Mrs. Yoneda is also headed toward our block, walking with Lillian, only not with her usual efficient gait, but rather with a limp as she favors her right foot.

  As I’m about to say hello, Mrs. Yoneda waves to Lillian and hobbles into her own apartment.

  “Hi, Lillian.”

  Her face is serious and pinched, but she smiles at me. “Hello, Taichi. Are you headed home?”

  “Yes. You?”

  “Just trying to get some exercise while the wind is somewhat calm.”

  “Did I see Mrs. Yoneda limping?”

  “Yes.” Lillian grimaces. “She’s been working at the camouflage net factory, and not everyone cares for the work the women do there.”

  My teeth grind together as I think of the careening garbage truck and the flapping flags. “Black Dragons?”

  Lillian nods, and the anger that seems much closer to the surface these days flares inside me. “They were throwing rocks today, Mrs. Yoneda said. I have another friend who used to work in there, but her husband made her quit because of being harassed. Her husband was put on some ‘death list’ because of their involvement. What a load of hooey.”

  How is nothing being done about this? “Someone needs to tell Mr. Campbell.”

  “Oh, he’s been told. Karl Yoneda is off harvesting sugar beets with Ted, of course, but Mrs. Yoneda took it up with him, it sounds like.”

  She’s white. Surely he listened to her. “And?”

  “He told her she didn’t have to be at camp. That she chose to come here and could choose to leave whenever she liked.”

  I snort a laugh. “Never mind her husband and son being here?”

  “I guess.” Lillian’s cough has a wheezy tinge to it. “Of course she won’t quit, either. I’ve never met a more determined woman.”

  That’s because she hasn’t met Evalina. I coddle the memory of her reaching up to me on the bus. Of her fierce expression when she hugged me goodbye at the end of our visit. My dried-out sinuses prickle when I remember Diego’s letter in my pocket. She probably told him what I did, and he’s going to ream me out for it.