by Traci Chee
Then I turn back to the Itos’ apartment. Through the curtains, I watch Mas’s silhouette cross to the window.
I duck into the shadow of another barrack as he peers through the curtains. From behind, he’s lit with this glow, like he’s Superman coming out of the clouds, and for a second, I’m sure he can see me, out here in the dark, me and my stupid anger.
What was I thinking?
Was I really going to fight Mas? The guy who brought me into the group? The guy who’s always stood up for me, no matter how bad I messed up?
He lets the curtain fall closed again.
Shaking, I pick up the rock from Mrs. Ito’s garden and place it back where it belongs before slinking away like the coward I am.
* * *
That night, I dream about horses, the wild ones, with shaggy black manes and mud-spattered coats and flashing eyes. I dream about jumping the fence and running so hard, my hooves tear up the earth. Me and the horses and the stars.
* * *
The next morning, when I stride into Dining Hall 1 to fill out my questionnaire, I’m sporting a shiner to match my split lip. I can feel myself sneering at all the stooges, some of them keto, some of them nihonjin, sitting at the long tables to log everyone’s answers.
Loyal or not.
Volunteering or not.
I must look a mess, because the guy who’s supposed to help me with the questionnaire kinda recoils when I sit down across from him, but I just grin.
Uncle Yas was right. I can’t stay here. I can’t be locked up with my anger like this. If I stay here, my anger’s gonna eat me up from the inside, like a white-hot fire, and if I don’t get it out somehow, I’m gonna turn on everyone who ever loved me.
And I’ll die before I let that happen.
“Sign me up,” I say. “I wanna fight.”
VI
THE INFINITE INDECISIONS OF A DEWY-EYED IDIOT
STAN, 18
FEBRUARY 1943
Once, when I was younger, my dad let me hold the Katsumoto Co. deposit bag for six full minutes. We had closed the store and were walking toward the bank when he leaned over, plopped the leather envelope into my hands, and said, “Here, Stan, you take it.”
Can you imagine? A whole day’s revenue steaming in my hot little hands. I couldn’t stop thinking of all the things I could do with that money. I could buy a truck or a hundred books or a swimming pool full of Jell-O. I could visit Egypt or send my little sister to a convent or buy a house for my buddy Shig so his family wouldn’t have to rent anymore. The possibilities were endless!
No, the possibilities were endless, and that was a lot of money. What if I misplaced it on our three-block walk to the bank? What if someone drove by while we were on the corner and snatched it right out of my arms? What if Bonnie and Clyde rode up with their Thompsons and opened fire?
Convinced I was going to lose the deposit bag somehow, I tried tucking it under my armpit. I tried clasping it to my chest. I tried swinging it between my thumb and forefinger like nothing bad would happen as long as I pretended not to care about it, and it nearly slipped out of my grasp.
That’s when Dad smacked me in the back of the head and snatched the bag back.
It was only six minutes, but I still remember how good it felt to hold all that money and how fucking scary it was to know it could all be taken away.
* * *
Ten years later, and it happened anyway: We lost the store. We lost our freedom. Sometimes, it feels like we’re losing even more than that.
As I pass Dining Hall 1 on my way to the post office, I watch people from Block 8 queue up for the registration, which is what the WRA is calling this stuff with the loyalty questionnaire. It’s barely ten a.m., but the line’s already starting to wrap around the building. The administration’s going to have a hell of a time if they don’t step up the pace—for every person who trickles out of the mess hall, two more join the end of the line.
But I guess it wouldn’t be Topaz without a wait.
“Hey, Katsumoto!”
I turn to find Frankie Fujita coming out of the mess hall, sporting what looks like a new black eye. Dumb kid just can’t keep his hands to himself, can he? He slouches toward me with his fists in his pockets. “What d’you got there?” he says, nodding at the letters in my hands.
I look down, frowning. Damn, I was trying not to think of them.
“Nothing,” I lie. Nervously, I shuffle the envelopes—one, two, three, four, five, six—and almost drop them. “Letters to my sweethearts.”
Frankie snorts. “What sweethearts?”
“Your mom, for one.”
“Say something else about my mom, Katsumoto, and you won’t be talking for a month.”
We both drop the subject. I stuff the envelopes in my back pocket and pat them twice to make sure they won’t fall out. “Did you fill out your questionnaire?” I ask.
He nods.
“What was on it?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “I said I wanted to fight, and they said okay.”
I laugh. And they’re going to put a gun in this guy’s hands? God bless America, I guess.
* * *
Look, I didn’t want to tell Frankie, but sometimes you want things so bad, you’re scared to even say it. I wanted to stay in San Francisco. I wanted to be treated like an American citizen.
But maybe this time will be different. Maybe if I say it, it’ll come true.
I’m going to college. Hopefully.
I was supposed to go last year, after I graduated—I had the grades for it, anyway—but most universities weren’t accepting Nisei students at the time, so I didn’t bother applying. Sure, I could’ve gotten help from the Quakers or the National Japanese American Student Relocation Council, who were getting kids set up at religious places like BYU and St. Olaf’s, but here’s the thing: Why should I have to?
We’ve been in camps for almost a year, and no one’s been found guilty of espionage. With background checks, people are getting resettled all the time in cities like Denver and Detroit. After the loyalty questionnaire, that process is going to go even faster. They have to accept me now. They’ve got no reason not to.
So I’m writing letters to a bunch of universities, requesting application forms. I’ll just fill them out, tell them I’m loyal, and poof! I’ll be out of here in time for summer classes, a dewy-eyed freshman just like the rest.
* * *
But it’s never that easy, is it? They couldn’t just ask, Are you loyal to the United States of America? Yes or no? and be done with it. Not this government, who said last year that there was no way to measure the loyalty of the Japanese in America. At least not until after they put us in camps.
I guess asking for things to “be simple” and “make sense” was kind of a high bar.
Of course, we’re all curious to see what kind of white nonsense we have to deal with this time, so Twitchy nabs us a copy of the questionnaire, and we crowd onto the steps of the Itos’ barrack with Shig and Tommy to pore over the pages.
Don’t call it stealing. Call it “test prep.” I learned a long time ago that the secret to academic success isn’t smarts. It’s knowing what they want from you and giving it to them with a smile.
“‘Statement of United States Citizen of Japanese Ancestry,’” Twitchy begins.
“Yeah, yeah, let’s get to the good stuff.” Impatiently, Shig flips through the pages. After a second, he laughs. “‘Number nineteen: Sports and hobbies’!”
Twitchy drums the stair with his palms. “What do they care what sports we play?”
“Maybe they want us to have played American sports like football?” Tommy asks.
“Nah.” I snort. “They’re scared of us doing shit like judo and karate. They want to know if we’re forming a secret ninja army or something.” Snatching the questionnaire, I flip to the front again.
It’s from the Selective Service System. You know, the guys in charge of the draft. No wonder they’re so obsess
ed with armies.
Shig scoffs and takes the pages back from me. “‘Number twenty-two: Give details on any foreign investments.’ What do they think we are, rich?”
“Yeah.” I roll my eyes. “Rich ninjas.”
We laugh, but no one really finds this funny. Four pages of the government trying to trick us into revealing that, oh shit, we really are spies? We didn’t even know! Damn, shouldn’t have visited those grandparents in Fukuoka, huh? Shouldn’t have joined that Japanese theater club. Whoopsy-daisy, guess I’m a traitor now? Good to know!
* * *
Eventually, of course, we find them, Questions 27 and 28, the questions that are causing so much trouble, the questions that are actually about loyalty and not about whether we macramé in the evenings or crochet.
“What the fuck?” I say.
“What?” Twitchy glances at the questions again, then back to me. “What’s wrong with them, Stan?”
I stare at the bottom of the last page, blinking, like the words are going to cha-cha into new arrangements while I’m not looking.
But they don’t.
STATEMENT OF UNITED STATES CITIZEN OF JAPANESE ANCESTRY
27. Are you willing to serve in the armed forces of the United States on combat duty, wherever ordered?_______________________
28. Will you swear unqualified allegiance to the United States of America and faithfully defend the United States from any or all attack by foreign or domestic forces, and forswear any form of allegiance or obedience to the Japanese emperor, or any other foreign government, power, or organization?_______________________
Shig leans back on the steps, shrugging. “What’s so hard about that?” he says. “‘No’ and ‘Yeah.’”
“Why ‘No’?” I ask.
It’s a nifty trick, playing dumb. You ask the right questions, and people magically come around to your way of thinking. Dad hates it, but I tell him to blame Socrates.
“Can you picture me in the army?” Shig chuckles. “They’d kick me out for folding my socks wrong or something.”
Twitchy laughs. “Since when do you fold your socks?”
“But this isn’t asking you to volunteer.” I flick the paper. It snaps against my fingernail, making Tommy jump.
“It isn’t?” Shig asks.
“Nah.” I smirk. “But it is asking you to give up your loyalty to Hirohito.”
“What loyalty to Hirohito?”
“Exactly.”
Tommy’s brow furrows. “So they’re wanting us to say we were loyal to Hirohito, but we’re not anymore?”
I make finger guns at him. “Bingo.”
Shig groans, like he’s just been sucker punched. I guess we all have. “You were right, Stan. What the fuck.”
* * *
Turns out, Shig couldn’t answer “No” and “Yeah” even if he wanted to. The following day, the Topaz Times announces that Questions 27 and 28 must be answered the same. A “No” to one is a “No” to both, no room for exceptions or explanations. You’re loyal and a true American patriot, or you’re not and you’re a filthy goddamn traitor! Go back to Japan if you don’t like it!
I slide the stolen questionnaire out from under my mattress, where I’ve hidden it like a dirty magazine. Are you willing . . . Will you swear . . . I’ve got the rest of the month until I have to report for registration, and I need to figure out how I’m going to answer.
If I say “Yes” and “Yes,” I get to leave camp. I get to go to school. I get a shot at my education.
If I say “No” and “No,” I give all that up, but at least I’ll keep my self-respect.
* * *
I check the post office every day to see if my applications have come in, but it isn’t until a week later that I finally get a reply.
I open it right there at the counter, ignoring the way Bette, who’s behind me, huffs and tosses her hair. She already waited an hour to get in here. She can wait a few seconds longer.
Surprise twist! It’s not an application at all. It’s a letter describing all the hoops I’ll have to jump through, some of them flaming, if I want to attend their undergraduate program. Given these prerequisites, if I’d still like an application form, they’ll be happy to supply one.
They want me to be the acrobat, but they’re the ones bending over backwards to reject me without really having to reject me. I wonder if they’ve got a manual or something, some step-by-step instructions on how to keep undesirables out of their hallowed alabaster institutions.
Part I: Salutations
Call the subject “my dear.” At all times, you must cultivate an air of gentility, so in the event that you are unfairly accused of bigotry, you will have your respectability as your defense. Bigots are not well-mannered, but you, my dear, are a paragon of propriety. Ergo, you cannot be a bigot!
Bette’s at the counter now, picking up the new camera she ordered by mail. “Get anything good today, Stan?” she asks.
I crumple the envelope and toss it toward the trash, where it hits the rim and falls to the floor, uncurling like a cramped fist. “Oh, you know,” I say, “the usual.”
* * *
Since we graduated last year, Twitchy and I have gotten jobs with the commissary. Every morning, we load up the truck from the iceboxes and warehouses to deliver food to the mess halls. It’s a job a trained monkey could do, but hey, it’s a paycheck, which is more than my dad brings in right now.
Sometimes, when we’re done, we swing by to pick up Shig and Tommy after school, and we go joyriding around camp for a while. Sometimes we return the truck with our heads spinning because Twitchy thought it would be funny to turn circles in the firebreak.
Whiplash. Hilarious.
Today, we’re lounging around in the truck bed while Shig tells us he said “Yes” and “Yes,” like Frankie, Bette, Mas, and Yum-yum, although he didn’t volunteer. “I just want to graduate and work at the commissary with you guys,” he says, folding a random page of the Topaz Times. “Can’t do that if I’m getting my toes shot off in Europe.”
“You could’ve kept your toes if you’d said ‘No,’” I point out.
He’s silent for a second as he fiddles with that piece of paper. I think he’s turning it into some kind of bird. A seagull, maybe, like the ones we used to chase around the playground, almost convinced we could catch them. Then he says, “Yeah, I know. But it’s what my dad would’ve wanted.”
* * *
That’s five of my friends who’ve declared “Yes” and “Yes” for this country. Five out of nine. More than half. I think of the questionnaire and that pre-rejection rejection stuffed under my mattress, the paper crimping from the bed springs.
I’m still waiting on five colleges. I could still get out of here if I say “Yes-Yes” too.
I sigh. It’s a weekend afternoon, so the barrack is pretty quiet. Mom’s at work at the dining hall, and my younger brother, Paul, is out, probably caterwauling on the other side of the barbed-wire fence with his friends. The guards on the watchtowers must see them, but it must not matter, because they’re just kids, I guess. The most harm they can do is pulling the legs off of scorpions to watch them wriggle in the dust.
Dad, as usual, is in his chair by the stove, reading his newspaper.
“What would you say?” I ask Mary, who’s reading. “If you had to answer the questionnaire?”
She glances over the edge of her book and back down again, like I’m a gnat she can’t be bothered to swat.
Thanks, Mary. I love you, too.
“I’m not seventeen yet,” she says. “I don’t get a say.”
And that’s the conversation. What a victory! I should run around camp with my fists in the air and the American flag draped over my shoulders.
Mom likes to say Mary’s a woman of few words, but really she’s just a grouch. I reach over to ruffle her hair, but she ducks out from under my hand, rolling her eyes.
At the table, Dad doesn’t look up. Honestly, I don’t even know if he knows we’re
here. He turns the page of his paper. Smoke curls from his pipe like the mustache of a cartoon villain.
* * *
Before the evacuation, Dad was always in motion. He was restless and impatient, an earthquake of a man. He was insistent that we work harder, move faster, bring home better grades, sweep the floors, restock the shelves, learn to take inventory. At the store it was always “Do it again, Stan,” and “Hurry up, Stan.” On family outings, it was “Keep up or be left behind.”
Then there’s Dad after the evacuation: Every day, he sits by the stove with a weak cup of coffee and the most current edition of the newspaper. He reads that thing every day, page by page, skipping nothing, not even the ads. It takes him hours, because his English isn’t great and he won’t be caught dead taking Americanization classes with Mom. When he finishes, he flips the whole thing over and starts again from the beginning.
You could look through our windows and think nothing’s wrong. He’s healthy, I guess. He’s tidy. His mustache is trimmed. But he’s like a wax figure. If I sat him too close to the stove, he’d melt.
* * *
I get my second and third responses from colleges on the same day, and I swear they could’ve been written by the same prim white secretary for the same prim white dean. The only difference is that one calls me “Mr. Kistumoto.” It’s nice to have a little variety in your rejections, like extra fiber.
Part II: Requirements
List requirements that at first glance seem reasonable but are in fact nearly impossible to meet. For your convenience, examples are provided below.
