I curl my lips between my teeth and clamp down. Indignant anger boils in my chest.
“As I was saying, if it’s true that you thoroughly researched your topic, I did not see evidence of it in your paper. I saw evidence that you thoroughly researched one side—the side you agree with, I suspect—but not the other. For example, nowhere in here do you talk about how immigration has hurt these countries.”
“I see.” I struggle to keep my voice quiet and steady. I flip several pages. “But I do talk about it some—”
“A cursory mention. Nothing substantial enough to show that you really understand the issue.”
I make myself inhale and exhale deeply before responding. “I didn’t understand from the assignment that our paper was meant to be an exhaustive discussion of all the views—”
“Clearly.”
Hot tears build behind my eyes. Through clenched teeth, I say, “Professor, I need a good grade in this class. Otherwise, I’ll lose my scholarship.”
“You will need the highest of marks for the rest of the semester if you want a passing grade, but I believe you can achieve this if you put your mind to it. You did very well on your last few papers.”
That’s because I had picked topics I didn’t care about. Because I had taken care to strip away any traces of my voice. I hadn’t been so careful with this one, and yet I know this is a superior paper to those other two.
I stand and turn toward the exit. “Thank you for explaining.”
“You are clearly a very bright, passionate girl. Just misguided.”
I freeze in the doorway. “Respectfully, sir, I think I just view the world differently than you do. That doesn’t make me misguided.”
“Good day, Miss Cassano.” His voice is clear and cold.
I leave before I can say anything else that I might later regret.
Back in my dorm room, I stare blankly at my desk. Before heading out to check my posted grade, I had been working on final edits for the article Grace asked me to submit about the treatment of the Japanese Americans. I stare at the byline: A Concerned Citizen.
That’s what I had told Grace when she asked if I would write a piece. I said I would write the article, but only if I could be anonymous, same as I have been for my letters to the big newspapers and the congressmen. I had told myself that I would be taken more seriously if they didn’t know I was an Italian American teenage girl, but for the first time I actually admit what I feel when I think of using my name:
Afraid.
I have felt afraid of people knowing that it was me, Evalina Cassano, who wrote those angry words. Afraid of being laughed at, ridiculed, told that I should just be quiet and feel grateful. Told that I’m too young to understand or too Italian to be a real American.
I feel afraid of people knowing that this fight I’m fighting isn’t just about the evils of racism, but that it’s personal to me.
From my handbag, I pull out my compact and fix myself with a hard stare.
“Here is the deal, Evalina. You may write papers you don’t care about for Professor Blake’s class. You may say what you need to say in private so that you can get the grades you need to keep your scholarship. But you are not allowed to write anonymously anymore. You must use your name.”
I snap shut the compact.
With my pen, I draw a single, bold line through the words A Concerned Citizen and replace them with the three most terrifying words I’ve ever written.
By Evalina Cassano
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Taichi
Thursday, November 26, 1942
“I have never seen you in a bad mood before, Taichi.” George reaches across me to refill the slices of turkey. “It is Thanksgiving! You should feel happy!”
But that’s precisely what I’m in a bad mood about.
George whistles as he saunters back to the kitchen.
Last year for Thanksgiving, we’d stayed in the city for several days with Uncle Fuji and Aunt Chiyu. There had been fish, cranberries, rice pudding, and competitive games of Go.
And then I claimed I wanted to go for a walk, and I met Evalina at Golden Gate Park. That had been our first time spending several hours alone together, and the first time I gathered the courage to kiss her. Two weeks later, I had still been flying high from the stolen, blissful moment.
I fell hard back into reality when Japan attacked Pearl Harbor. Sometimes it feels like I’ve been falling ever since, and now we’re coming up on the one-year anniversary. I can’t imagine life improving anytime soon.
I leave my lunch shift a bit early after spilling gravy down the front of my pants, and when I hurry back to the barrack to change, I find my parents, my aunt and uncle, and Ted standing on our steps, talking. Their faces are all grave.
As I approach, Father is saying, “It isn’t that I don’t believe you, Ted. It just seems that if such a list exists, the administration will put a stop to it.”
Ted’s gaze connects with mine. “Hello, Taichi. I’m glad you’re arriving in time for this discussion.”
Their heads swing to look at me. My mother stands closest; she puts her arms around me.
“Mitsuno, you’ll scare him,” Father says.
Even if Mother hadn’t touched me, their faces alone have me scared. “What’s going on?”
Everyone looks to Ted, whose gaze falls heavy on me. His face is a shade darker than all of ours after all his weeks away harvesting sugar beets. “Joe Kurihara and his followers have put together a list of names. They claim it’s a death list, but I don’t know how seriously to take it. As big and brave as he talks, and as the Black Dragons talk, I’m not convinced any of them could actually go through with killing someone. I don’t think so, anyway.”
I think of that night when I stumbled into the meeting. Of the man who yelled, “Cut their heads off!” Maybe Ted is right if we’re talking about individual men, but when they get together as a group . . .
“You are on the list.” I mean for the words to curl with question, but they lie flat instead.
Ted nods.
“So are you and Fuji,” Aunt Chiyu says before clapping a handkerchief over her mouth, as if to hold in tears.
My mind flips through individual moments. Raymond razzing me about Evalina, about being disloyal to Japan. The garbage truck flying around the corner, nearly crushing Ted and me. Raymond questioning if I could walk out the front gates without getting a bullet in the back. The way he watched me cross block twenty-two that night when I had left Lillian at the hospital. Like one of those flip-books for children, the isolated memories add up to something greater.
“You and Fuji are on the list, yes.” Ted says in an even, measured voice. “I was telling your family before you arrived, Taichi, that this is all information given to Lillian by Fred Tayama, so I don’t know anything firsthand. Fred is gone now for the JACL convention in Salt Lake City, but he’s, of course, number one on the list.”
My family nods, as though this makes perfect sense.
“I feel a bit stupid saying this, but I don’t know who that is.”
“Fred used to be the leader of the Japanese American Citizens League chapter in Los Angeles. He believed and promoted the idea that if we evacuated peacefully, it would show our loyalty to the U.S. Many of the Issei, especially those from Terminal Island where the evacuation was particularly cruel, blame him personally for us being here. That’s nonsense, of course, because we would’ve been sent here no matter what he did, but he’s become something of a scapegoat.”
“I want to know who these people think they are, putting together such a list.” Aunt Chiyu’s voice warbles.
“There’s nothing in particular that gives them authority. Joe was an accountant and lived on Terminal Island, so he carries some weight with the boys from there. He is a fine enough speaker, though I’m surprised that so many follow him. But they do.”
Joe doesn’t worry me nearly as much as those like Raymond who follow him. “You said Fred is number one
. What number are you?”
Ted offers me a wry smile. “Four. Tokie Slocum is second, since he likes to speak very loudly about how close he is with the FBI, and then Karl Yoneda. You and Fuji are so low, you don’t have a number.”
“Well,” I say dryly. “We will have to exert more effort in the future.”
Ted snorts a laugh, but my aunt snaps, “This isn’t funny, Taichi.”
I bow an apology. “I’m sorry, Aunt Chiyu. You’re right.”
Ted bows too. “That’s my fault, I’m afraid. My wife has always said I find the oddest things funny.”
“Have you already spoken with the administration?” Father asks. “Has the new camp director come yet?”
“Not that I know of. I have an appointment with Mr. Campbell tomorrow morning. I came to tell you all about the death list business because I thought you deserved to know, but I don’t think you’re in any real danger. Some of the same men got angry with me back in August and showed up at my house in the middle of the night, but it was just angry words that were thrown about. Not even fists. Certainly bar your door and perhaps keep Taichi’s baseball bat handy, but I don’t think it will turn into anything.”
“Ted.” Uncle Fuji clears his throat, but his voice remains gravelly. “We are not like you. We have always kept our heads down, so we don’t have any experience with a situation like this.”
Ted considers this. “I know, sir. But now it seems as if we must all fight, regardless of whether it is our nature or desire. I’m sorry for that.” He offers a slight bow. “I’ll let you know how my meeting with Mr. Campbell goes. I hope he will give this matter the respect and attention it deserves. Taichi, will you walk with me for a moment?”
I glance at my family, whose faces are still etched with worry. Father nods at me to go on.
When we’re out of hearing range, Ted claps me on the shoulder. “How’s your Japanese, my young friend?”
That’s not the direction I expected the conversation to take.
“Passable,” I say. “Why?”
Ted’s eyes shine. “Because the military has finally seen our value, and I’ve been asked to gather a group of men willing to serve our country as translators.”
My stomach does a strange flip-flop, part excitement, part terror. “Oh. I don’t know what my parents—”
“I already spoke to them. Right now, they think anything that gets you out of camp is a good idea.”
“Two months ago, they wouldn’t let me harvest sugar beets in Idaho. But being sent to war is okay with them?”
“Two months ago, you weren’t on a death list. And this wouldn’t be a combat situation. We would be in linguistics intelligence. Code breaking, that kind of thing. The military is finally recognizing the value in having some people around who speak the same language as their enemy.”
I consider this. “You are going?”
“Yes.”
“You barely got home two weeks ago. What about the baby?”
“This is a time of war. Sacrifices must be made.” But his duty-filled words don’t match the regret in his eyes.
“We would be paid?”
“Of course.”
“And we would be considered soldiers?”
“Yes, sir.”
If I could earn a decent living and serve as a soldier, that would put me back on the right path for being able to court Evalina. “Okay, what do I do?”
“First, you’ll have to pass a language test four days from now. Those who pass the test will take a bus the next day to training in Minnesota.”
That means by this time next week, I could be gone. Not only that, but I could be on a journey—however indirect—to get me back to the life I’d once imagined with Evalina.
My heart soars at the possibility.
The last three days are the hardest I’ve ever studied. As I stop by the post office on my way to take my test, I try to make myself think in Japanese the entire way.
Kywa samui desu. It is cold today.
Sanpo wa nagai. The walk is long.
Of course, thinking in Japanese isn’t where I struggle. I can understand it okay when I hear it, but I’m still very clunky with speaking, and my writing is abysmal.
There’s a dusting of snow on the ground that I can feel in my bones. Especially the bones of my feet. I need to order myself new shoes. Or maybe, if I pass this test today, there will be shoes issued to me with my uniform. Do you get a uniform when you arrive at training?
Doa o akeru. Open the door.
“Hello, Taichi,” the clerk at the post office says as she disappears into the back room. “Give me just a moment.”
Watashi wa gamandzuyoi. I am patient.
She returns with a smile and two letters. One is from Diego with a month-old postmark. It appears to have traveled around the world to get here. Maybe twice. There’s even a boot print or two on there. The other, oddly, is from Mr. and Mrs. Medina, mailed just a few days ago from home.
On my way to the testing room in the administration building, I tear into Diego’s and find that it’s surprisingly long, considering how much Diego loathes writing letters. I don’t have time to read much before my test, which begins in ten minutes. I skim enough to see that he’s happy and healthy, and that he calls me an idiot at least three times for pushing Evalina a way.
When I write him back, maybe I’ll be able to tell him that I’m no longer a prisoner of the U.S. government, but rather in training to be a linguistic specialist for the military. And that I’ve already written to Evalina and begged her forgiveness.
I refold the letter and stick it in my back pocket. I intend to tuck away the missive from the Medinas, assuming it’s addressed to my parents, but rather it’s my name that is printed on the front. I’m at the door to go into the office building, but I linger outside a moment longer. Why would they write specifically to me? The envelope feels thin. I pull open the flap so I can satisfy my curiosity before I walk into the room and sit for my test.
The single sheet of paper contains only a few lines.
Dear Taichi,
I am writing to share the sorrowful news that we’ve learned Diego is missing in action and assumed to be a prisoner of war. We knew you would want to know. Please tell us if you hear from him, and please pray for his safety.
Mrs. Medina
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Taichi
December 1, 1942
When I awake, my eyes are crusted shut, as though even in my dreams I cried for Diego. It’s dark enough that the searchlights still scan the blocks, occasionally illuminating a part of my wall. Who is in charge of the lights? Have they ever seen anything that made all that watching worthwhile? What’s he supposed to be looking for, since the administration doesn’t seem to care about the concerns we bring to them?
Through the grimy window, I see clear, starry skies. I pull the blanket as tight around me as possible to ward off the cold. Is Diego somewhere cold as well? At least the government in charge of my prison feels somewhat responsible for and benevolent toward me. Does Diego get a bed? A toilet? A meal each day?
Is he even alive?
Tears roll down my temples and into my hair as I gaze up at the single lightbulb, which swings lightly from the occasional gust whistling through the barrack. I watch shadows move in the room as memories spin through my mind. Diego whooping and hollering as he swung from the rope into the creek. The spectacle he made of himself when he had his first crush. The fierceness in his eyes when we learned about the impending evacuation.
As quietly as I can, I reach under my cot for the box where I keep my stationery. While the sky lightens from inky black to steel, and the searchlights shut off, I let my pen ramble to Evalina without bothering to censor or sterilize. About Diego. About the what-ifs circling my head.
And about Manzanar. Raymond Yamishi at the baseball game. The garbage truck. How the searchlights follow you to the latrines in the middle of the night. That I haven’t eaten a meal with anyone in my
family since April. The meeting I accidentally found myself in. How some of the residents have put me on a death list.
About how I’m sorry for putting space between us, because it was really the last thing I wanted.
I shove the letter into an envelope, slap a stamp onto it, and slip out of the barrack.
Outside of the Kameis’ and Yonedas’ apartments are two Caucasian MPs, their guns at their sides and their faces grim as they watch me walk by. I pass as far away from the MPs as I can, my thoughts on the summer, when Hikoji Takeuchi was shot for no reason, and our newspaper couldn’t even report on it.
Are these MPs part of the entourage that will help the fifteen recruits get to their training? After reading Mrs. Medina’s letter, I had been a shell of myself during and after the test yesterday. I can’t remember everything that was said, but I have a foggy memory of protection being offered to those who passed the test and would be leaving.
The administration is apparently smart enough to realize protection is needed . . . they just don’t care enough to try and fix the problems.
My heart sags with disappointment that there was no need for MPs to guard my barrack last night. Nearly everyone who did pass the language exam had spent years in Japanese schools. Ted had encouraged me to keep at it, that he’d heard the recruiters would make another round in a few months, and if I continued to study hard, I could be joining him in Minnesota soon.
The thought of a second chance buoyed me, but it didn’t prevent me from feeling crushing disappointment as the life I had imagined for myself—outside of Manzanar, earning a living that could someday support Evalina and me—evaporated.
At the post office, I stare at my letter to Evalina for a moment, debating putting it back in my pocket for editing. I’m confident I’ve never written anything so raw. But I’m equally confident that I can trust Evalina with my uncensored self. Before I can change my mind, I drop the letter into the box.
When I get back to the block, Ted is outside his barrack with a suitcase at his feet. He’s chatting with James, who has just returned home from his night shift in the dispatch office. The MPs are nearby, but don’t seem particularly interested in what’s going on.
Within These Lines Page 23
