Within These Lines

by Stephanie Morrill

  Raymond glanced at his friend and snorted. “Oh, he’s certainly working with the administration. No one disputes that.” His eyes shined as he turned his gaze back to me. “Do you believe you are American, Taichi?”

  “I know I’m American.”

  “Excellent.” Raymond crossed his arms over his narrow chest. “My friend and I will come with you to the entrance and watch you walk through the gate. If you are not shot on sight, then we will believe you are American.”

  And now, standing in front of Mr. Campbell’s secretary, hearing her explain why it’s ridiculous to think anyone would bother stealing sugar when it would be impossible to leave the camp with it, it feels that Raymond is more right than I would like.

  I take a deep breath. Appearing angry and unstable won’t win me any points with this woman. “Could I please leave a message for Mr. Campbell?”

  She regards me a moment. “A short one.”

  But she makes no movement toward pen or paper.

  “May I have something to write with?”

  She hands me a square of paper and a dull pencil. I consider my words for a few seconds before writing:

  Dear Mr. Campbell,

  Please address the concerns about missing sugar and the pro-Japanese flags on the garbage trucks. I am a loyal U.S. citizen. That feels like an increasingly dangerous thing to be inside Manzanar.

  T

  I write the first letter of my name and stop the pencil as my mind flits to Raymond’s garbage truck careening around the corner, to the way he’d threatened me on the baseball field. I put down the pencil without finishing my name, thank the secretary, and leave.

  I shield my eyes to orient myself—the post office is to the left—and then I shuffle down the dusty path with my letter to Diego in my pocket. Hopefully I’ll have one waiting for me from Evalina too.

  I pull the post office door open, and I’m about to let the door close when I realize there’s a girl right behind me. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t see you.”

  It’s Rose. She looks like she’s in a bad mood.

  I hold open the door for her. “I didn’t realize you were right behind me.”

  “Yes, I know,” she mutters as she walks through the door.

  Rose stands in the short line with crossed arms and rigid shoulders. She appears to have zero interest in talking to me.

  I take my spot in line behind her. “Hot out there today.”

  Nothing.

  “Is something bothering you?”

  She throws a glare over her shoulder. “I’m not interested in discussing anything with you.”

  I stare at the back of her head. Evalina would just yell at me, and we’d be able to move on. Same with Aiko.

  It’s Rose’s turn in line. She purchases a stamp for her letter, and then marches back out the door without another word.

  I pay to mail Diego’s letter, collect a newly arrived letter from Evalina, and take off after Rose. She’s walking fast toward block nine, but I run her down. “Hey, Rose, wait.”

  “I said I don’t want to talk to you.”

  “I know. But I want to know why. What did I do?”

  “Why don’t you talk to your uncle about it?”

  “My uncle?” I search my memory for any possible time Uncle Fuji and Rose would’ve been in the same room, but I’m coming up blank. Fuji still rarely takes his meals in the mess hall. “What does he have to do with anything?”

  She turns so I can see her roll her eyes. “My father is still in North Dakota, you know. He didn’t make up lies about the other men just so he could get released. He has honor.”

  I blink rapidly in the face of Rose’s accusations. “My uncle didn’t do that.”

  “Of course he did. That’s why he was released and others weren’t.”

  A gust of wind kicks up with such force, it feels like a hand is trying to shove us backward.

  “That’s just gossip, Rose,” I say. “You can’t believe everything that everybody says.”

  “So you think I’m stupid.”

  “Of course not. I think you’re rightfully sad and angry that your father is still—”

  “I don’t care!” Rose stops so abruptly that I barely keep from crashing into her. “I don’t care what you think. You’re a rat just like your uncle, writing letters about what goes on at camp to your stupid white girlfriend. Or are you going to tell me that’s a rumor too?”

  I stare at her, baffled about where to start.

  “Just leave me alone, Taichi.” Rose marches away.

  Don’t we have enough problems in Manzanar without us turning on each other? Without stirring up crazy rumors about those who get released and those who are still wrongfully imprisoned?

  I trudge back toward the barrack, where my uncle is cutting squares of the linoleum the administration delivered. Instead of just laying them how they are, he’s gathered several different colors, cut them into squares, and is arranging them in a pattern.

  “The floor looks good, Uncle Fuji.”

  He bows his acknowledgment, but doesn’t look up from his scissors.

  If my father had owned a fishing boat instead of being a farmer, he also would’ve been taken to North Dakota in the days after Pearl Harbor. After the horrors of being wrongfully imprisoned for ten months, only to be released to a place like Manzanar, it seems horrible to me that those who should understand better than anyone have also turned suspicious.

  I sit beside him on the steps.

  He sets down the scissors and rubs at his knuckles. We sit there for a minute, watching those who pass by, and then I eye the scissors and roll of black linoleum.

  “Could I help?”

  Uncle Fuji looks at me a moment and smiles. “Yes, Taichi.”

  A few minutes later when I’ve started on my third square, my uncle exhales and says, “Thank you,” in a sad, soft voice.

  “Rose is just upset that you don’t carry a torch for her,” Aiko says in a flippant voice as she rolls bandages, sitting beside me on the empty hospital bed. “Ignore her.”

  I’m here to sit with Lillian, whose asthma has flared again, while Ted’s parents go eat dinner. Fortunately, she’s sleeping comfortably now.

  Or maybe unfortunately, because I don’t know that Aiko is going to say anything that I want to hear.

  “I don’t think that’s it—”

  “That’s because you’re naïve. She’s hurt because she found out about Evalina—”

  “How did she find out?”

  “I assume James, but I don’t know. What I do know is that Rose was crying in the co-op yesterday because she’d just found out. When Margaret and Rose realized I was standing right there, I told them Evalina was the best kind of girl and that she would be my sister-in-law someday. So ignore her. It’s just bruised pride.” Aiko pushes a basket of clean linens my way. “Make yourself useful while you sit here. Fold these into thirds.”

  I do what’s asked of me. Like Aiko knew I would. After I add three cloths to her stack, I grumble, “You could’ve been kinder about it, you know.”

  Aiko gives me a wide-eyed look. “I was as kind as the situation deserved. Margaret was telling Rose that it surely wouldn’t last, and that she just needed to be patient. Those girls didn’t need false hope, Taichi. They needed to know the truth.”

  I squirm in my chair, sweating, as I think of the girls talking about me like that. Back home, none of the girls ever seemed interested in me.

  “I’ve never done anything to encourage Rose.”

  “You really think you need to tell me that? Of course you haven’t. I only told you because I didn’t want you thinking this is a problem you need to solve. Just leave this one alone.”

  Several beats of silence fall before Aiko asks quietly, “Have you heard from her recently?”

  I swallow and meticulously fold a towel. “Of course.”

  “But you’re still pretending she isn’t worth fighting for?”

  If she’d said it with her usual tone
of judgment and hostility, I might have come back swinging. Instead, her tone is soft. Inviting.

  “I know it doesn’t seem like it to you, but I am fighting for her. I’m fighting for her to have the life she deserves. I don’t want her stuck here like Mrs. Yoneda.”

  “Do you think that’s how Mrs. Yoneda sees it?” Aiko arches her eyebrows at me. “From what I’ve heard, she fought to be here with her family.”

  “It’s different, because they’re married. I can still save Evalina from this.”

  “No, you can’t. Because she is going through this, through the evacuation, even though she isn’t literally here in the fence. You can’t save her from that.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” I snap. Then I remember where we are, glance at Lillian, and lower my voice, “And I can save her from it. Yes, she’s hurting now, but she’ll meet someone else. Someone who can eat at any restaurant. Someone who all her friends will accept.”

  For a moment, Aiko just rolls bandages in silence. And then, very quietly, “But think about if it was reversed, Taichi. If she were Japanese and you were Caucasian. Would you want to eat at restaurants that refuse to serve her? Would you want friendships with people who looked down on her? Of course not.” She waits until I look her in the eyes before saying, “Evalina being with you doesn’t cost her anything more than what her own principles already demand.”

  Lillian stirs, but doesn’t wake. I finish my assigned folding and immediately wish there was still more to do. Still more to occupy me.

  Aiko gathers the last of the folded linens in a basket and stands. “I’m going to put these away, and then I’m done for the day.” She sets it against her hip. “Ichiro already left, but Peggy is here if you need anything.”

  Aiko looks at me a moment longer, and then leaves. I’m certainly not sorry she is going, but her words continue to needle at me in her absence. Poking holes in all my good intentions.

  “So thankful you would sit here while we eat.” A soft voice startles me out of my thoughts, and I look up to see Ted’s mother smiling at me. “Did she sleep the whole time?”

  I stand, knees stiff even after less than an hour of sitting with Lillian. “She did.”

  “It’s that good medicine they give her.” Mrs. Kamei covers a yawn with her hand. “I wish I could have some. Then maybe I sleep better at night.”

  “You are not sleeping well, Mrs. Kamei?”

  “Last two nights, I wake up thinking someone is trying to get into apartment. That I hear man voices outside.” She laughs at my concern and shakes her head. “No need to worry, Taichi. Just dreams. Once in August, some angry men came to talk to my Ted. But just talk. I am just jittery, as Lillian says.” She laughs again, as if to drive the point home to me.

  “Mr. Kamei and Lillian haven’t heard anything, though?”

  “No, no.” She straightens Lillian’s already-tidy bedding. “Just my wild imagination.”

  There’s no real reason to doubt her. The three weeks that Ted and the others have been gone to Idaho, camp has been quiet. Residents have all been excited to have linoleum arrive for the apartment floors, and the temperatures and winds have been milder. The general attitude at camp feels upbeat.

  “Well, you know where to find me, should you need anything, Mrs. Kamei.”

  “Yes, yes.” Mrs. Kamei grips my hand between hers, squeezes, and smiles up at me. “Thank you for sitting with Lillian. Hurry now or you will miss your own supper.”

  “I’m heading to the post office first. Do you need anything?”

  “Oh!” She reaches into her bag. “I forget earlier. Lillian had a letter for Ted, and I forgot to mail it. Already stamped.”

  “Any word yet on when he’ll be home?”

  “Early November, he says. Weather depending.”

  “I’m glad he’ll be home for Thanksgiving.”

  “Us too.” From her bag, she pulls out her knitting needles, settling in for the evening. “Thank you, Taichi.”

  Outside, the air is dry and growing chilly with the setting sun. Many Manzanar residents are enjoying the cooler temperatures out in their gardens or chatting outside their front doors.

  When I cut through block twenty-two to get on course for the post office, my gaze catches on Raymond Yamishi. He sits on the front steps of a barrack with a few other Black Dragons who I know only by sight. They have a stack of papers on a table and appear to be discussing something as a group.

  Raymond sees me passing by, and when his gaze lands on me, a shiver races up my spine. I smile, trying to seem casual, but hurry my footsteps.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Evalina

  Saturday, November 7, 1942

  “If you’re upset about the way American citizens of Japanese heritage are being treated, come to our meeting tomorrow night!” I make my voice rise high so it will reach those who are purposefully skirting around me and the other students from the Future Leaders of America club as we pass out fliers in the courtyard. “Two-thirds of those locked away in camps are American citizens! If you think that’s unacceptable and you want to take action, come to our meeting!”

  Several boys gathered around a nearby bench look at me and snicker. A girl who took the flier I gave her chucks it into the closest wastebasket without breaking her stride.

  I take a deep, bracing breath. “If you think it’s wrong to hold people prisoner without due process, come to our meeting tomorrow night!” I offer a flier to a passing blond girl. I try to soften my voice as I add, “We’ll be discussing the unfair treatment of Japanese Americans.”

  Her face twists into an angry scowl. “My best friend’s brother was killed over the summer in Japan. The government should send every last one of those Japs back to where they came from.”

  “America is where most of them come from. They have nothing to do with—”

  “They’re raised by Japs.” She’s walking backward now, so she can continue to yell at me as she walks away. “Once a Jap, always a Jap.”

  Anger zips up my spine and shoots out my mouth. “Congratulations, that’s the dumbest thing I’ve heard today! What country are your parents from?”

  “Evalina,” Grace admonishes from behind me. “That’s out of line.”

  “Sorry.” My anger roars in my ears, like a sea throwing itself against the cliffs. “I just don’t understand how people can choose to not care.”

  “I know your passion is coming from a good place, but when is the last time somebody yelled at you and, in doing so, changed your mind about something? My mother is always saying, ‘When someone yells, we cover our ears. But when someone whispers, we strain to hear them.’”

  “How am I supposed to get people to our meeting by whispering at them?”

  “It’s not meant to be taken literally.”

  “Hi, girls. How is the social activist work going?”

  We turn to find Jack, the boy Grace has gone out with these last few Friday nights, grinning at us. He’s a soft, cheerful sort of fellow who nicely complements Grace’s harsher edges.

  I put on a big smile. “Ducky. Grace had to remind me to not yell at people.”

  Grace laughs. “Just one person. Otherwise I think it’s gone really well.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Jack taps his wristwatch. “Grace, we need to go. I told everyone we’d meet them at six.”

  “Oh, right. I’ll just run up and change real quick.” Grace smooths her sweater and turns to me. “Are you sure you don’t want to come?”

  “You really should,” Jack adds. “I’ve got a buddy who knows how to cut a rug, and you’re just his type.”

  Taichi always told me he’s a terrible dancer, but I never had the chance to find out. “Thanks, but no. I have a bit of a headache and loads of homework. Including a paper for Professor Blake.”

  Grace makes a sour face. “If you change your mind, come on over. It’s okay to have fun now and again, you know.”

  Jack fits his arm around Grace, and the way he smiles dow
n at her leaves my heart feeling achy and empty. How silly to not simply be happy for my friend.

  “Enjoy yourselves,” I say with a wave, and I turn toward my dorm.

  I pitch the last of the fliers into the wastebasket—where many that I passed out earlier ended up anyway—and try to push away the whispers that I failed. That I didn’t move a single person to action today.

  I try not to notice the mailboxes as I walk into my building. I shouldn’t stop. It’s just going to be an empty box. One more way I’ve failed. One more disappointment.

  I fit my key into the lock, turn, and then slam it shut.

  Of course it’s empty. What had I expected? That today of all days is when Taichi finally writes back?

  Maybe Diego never sent Taichi an angry letter after all. Or maybe he did, and it just didn’t have the impact I thought it would. Maybe I really do need to take a hint and give up.

  I stare in disbelief at the posted grade. How did I possibly get a D on my mid-term paper for Professor Blake? I peek through his cracked office door and find he’s inside. I say a quick prayer for strength and knock.

  “Come in,” Professor Blake calls. His face grows stonier when he sees me. “Ah, Miss Cassano. I suspect you are dissatisfied with your grade?”

  I sit in a wooden chair near his desk. I try to keep my voice soft as I say, “I would like to understand, professor. I felt as though I turned in a quality paper.”

  Professor Blake pulls open a drawer with a metallic whoosh, withdraws a file folder, and flips through the papers. Then he hands one across the desk to me. “My comments are in the margins. You may read those on your own time, as I’m currently working on—”

  “I cited all my sources.” I angle the essay toward him and jab at the first cardinal red comment scribbled in the margins. “There isn’t a sentence in here that I didn’t research.”

  “If that’s true, your paper did not—”

  “Of course it’s true.”

  “Do not interrupt me, Miss Cassano.” Professor Blake’s voice is dark. “You came in here for answers, you said. You’re not going to find them by interrupting me.”