Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet

by Jamie Ford

  Henry had no idea what to expect. Would it be like where Mrs. Beatty's father was being held? It couldn't be that bad. He'd heard Camp Harmony was a temporary place, just until the army could figure out how and where to build more permanent camps farther inland. Permanent. He didn't like the sound of that word. Still, they kept calling it a "camp"--which sounded nice in a way that even Henry knew was probably false. But, the beautiful scenery and countryside managed to get his hopes up. He'd never been to a summer camp but had seen a picture once in Boys' Life magazine--of cabins by a beautiful glass lake at sunset. Of campfires and fishing. People smiling, carefree, and having fun.

  Nothing at all like the quaint town of Puyallup, a small farming community surrounded by lush acres of daffodils. Greenhouses dotted vast yellow fields and snowcapped Mount Rainier dominated the horizon. As they cruised down the main boulevard, past rows of Craftsman homes toward Pioneer Park, signs in many shopwindows read "Go Home Japs!" The signs were grim reminders that Camp Harmony was no summer camp. And no one would be going home any time soon.

  Henry rolled down the window and was hit by the pungent smell of fresh horse manure, or was it from cows? Was there really a whiff of difference? The ripe stench could have been goat or chicken for all he could tell. Either way, it sure smelled a long way from the crisp, salty air of Seattle.

  Near the heart of Puyallup they peeled into a wide expanse of gravel parking.

  Henry looked in awe at the long stables and outbuildings surrounding the Washington State Fairgrounds. By the giant grain silos, he could tell this was definitely farm country.

  He'd never been to the fair, and the whole place was larger than he'd ever imagined. The fairground area was probably as large as, if not larger than, Chinatown itself There was a big wooden stadium in need of a fresh coat of paint and what appeared to be a rodeo or livestock pavilion of some kind. Behind that was an open expanse with hundreds of chicken coops in neat little rows. The whole area was surrounded by a barbed-wire fence.

  Then he saw people walking in and out of those tiny buildings. With dark hair and olive skin. And he noticed the towers near the fence line. Even from a distance he could see the soldiers and their machine guns. Their dormant searchlights were aiming at the barren ground below. Henry didn't even need to see the sign above the barbed-wire guard gate. This was Camp Harmony.

  Henry had never been to jail. The one time he'd gone to City Hall with his father to pick up a meeting permit, the serious nature of the place had spooked him. The marble facade, the cold granite tiles on the floor. Everything had a weight to it that was inspiring and intimidating at the same time.

  Henry felt that way again as they drove inside a holding pen between two large metal gates. Both were covered with new barbed wire and a row of springy coil with jutting points that looked as sharp as kitchen knives. Henry sat stiff--terrified was more like it. He didn't move as the army MP came to the window to check Mrs. Beatty's papers. Henry didn't even move to make sure his "I am Chinese" button was clearly visible. This is a place where someone like me goes in but doesn't come out, he thought.

  Just another Japanese prisoner of war, even if I'm Chinese.

  "Who's the kid?" the soldier asked. Henry looked at the man in uniform, who didn't look like a man at all--more of a boy really, with a fresh, pimply complexion. He didn't look thrilled to be stuck in a place like this either.

  "He's a kitchen helper." If Mrs. Beatty was worried about Henry getting into Camp Harmony, her concern didn't show. "I brought him to be a runner, help switch out serving trays, stuff like that."

  "You got papers?"

  This is where they take me, Henry thought, looking at the barbed wire, wondering which chicken coop he'd be assigned to.

  He watched as the barrel-chested lunch lady pulled out a small file of papers from beneath the driver's seat. "This is his school registration, showing him as a kitchen worker. And this is his shot record." She looked at Henry. "Everyone here had to have a typhoid shot first, but I checked and you're clear." Henry didn't understand completely, but he was suddenly grateful for being sent to that stupid school in the first place.

  Grateful to have been stuck scholarshipping in the kitchen all these months. Without having to work the kitchen, he'd never have made it this far--this close to Keiko.

  The soldier and Mrs. Beatty argued for a moment, but the stronger man--or in this case, woman--won out, because the young soldier just waved her through to the next holding area, where other trucks were unloading.

  Mrs. Beatty backed into a loading spot and set the parking brake. Henry stepped out into ankle-deep mud, which made hollow, sucking sounds as he stuck and unstuck each foot until he reached the row of two-by-four boards that had been set down as a makeshift walkway. Shaking the mud off as best he could and wiping his feet on the boards as he went, he followed Mrs. Beatty into the nearest building, his wet socks and shoes squishing with each step.

  On the way, Henry could smell something cooking. Not something necessarily pleasant but something.

  "Wait here," Mrs. Beatty said, entering the cookhouse. Moments later she reemerged with a uniformed clerk trailing behind as she untied the tarp to reveal boxes of shoyu, rice vinegar, and other Japanese cooking staples.

  The two of them carried the supplies in, helped by Henry and a few young men in white aprons and caps--soldiers assigned to cooking duty. They set up in a mess hall that was maybe forty feet long, with rows and rows of tables and brown, dented folding chairs. The planks of the wooden floor were a tapestry of grease stains mottled by muddy boot prints. Henry was surprised at how comfortable he felt. The camp was intimidating, but the kitchen, the kitchen was home. He knew his way around.

  He peeked under the lids of rows of steamer trays, twice as many as back at school. Evidently lunch had already been prepared. Henry stared at the wet piles, some brown, some gray--canned sausages, boiled potatoes, and dry stale bread--the greasy smell alone made him long for the food back at Rainier Elementary. At least the condiments that Mrs. Beatty had brought would help in some small way.

  Henry watched as she and another young soldier went over papers and order forms of some kind. He'd been assigned to serve, along with another aproned soldier, who looked at Henry and did a double take. Was it Henry's age or his ethnicity that caused the young man in uniform to pause? It didn't matter; the soldier just shrugged and started serving. He was used to following orders, Henry supposed.

  As the first of the Japanese prisoners were let in single file, their hair and clothing was dotted with rain. A few chatted eagerly with one another, although some scowled, and most frowned when they saw what Henry was putting on their plate. He felt like apologizing. As the chow line inched forward, Henry could see young children outside, playing in the mud as their parents waited.

  "Konichiwa ...," a young boy said as he slid his tray along the metal countertop in front of Henry's serving trays.

  Henry just pointed to his button. Again and again. Each time, the person saying hello looked brightly hopeful, then disappointed, and later confused. Maybe that's a good thing. Maybe they'll talk about me. And maybe Keiko will know where to find me, Henry thought.

  He was sure he'd see Keiko in line. As each young girl entered, his hopes rose and fell, his heart inflating and deflating like a balloon--but she never appeared.

  "Do you know the Okabes? Keiko Okabe?" Henry asked occasionally. Mostly, he was met with looks of confusion, or mistrust; after all, the Chinese were Allies, fighting against Japan. But one older man smiled and nodded, chatting excitedly about something.

  What that something was, Henry couldn't tell, since the man spoke only Japanese. The old man might have known exactly where Keiko was, but he couldn't explain it in a way that helped at all.

  So Henry kept serving, for two hours, from 11:30 to 1:30. Near the end of his shift he fidgeted, shifting his weight back and forth on the apple crate he was standing on to reach over the serving pans. In that time he never saw any sign of the
Okabes. Not a glimmer.

  He watched the crowds come in, some looking hopeful, but the food did away with their optimism as the reality of their environment must have been settling in. Even so, no one complained about the food, to him anyway, or to the young man serving next to him. Henry wondered how this white soldier must have felt, now that he was the minority in the lunchroom--but then again, he could leave when his shift was over. And he had a rifle with a long blade on the end.

  "Let's go, we need to set up dinner in the next area." Mrs. Beatty appeared as he was breaking down the last of the serving dishes and collecting loose trays.

  Henry was used to following orders in the kitchen. They drove to another section of Camp Harmony which had fewer stock buildings and more shade trees and picnic areas that sat vacant. Mrs. Beatty's map showed an overview of the entire camp, which had been divided up into quarters--each with its own mess hall. There was still a chance to find Keiko, or three chances, as it were.

  At the next mess hall, lunch had finished. Mrs. Beatty had him wash and wipe down trays while she coordinated with the kitchen manager on needed supplies and menu planning. "Just hang out if you get done early," she said. "Don't go wandering off unless you want to stay here for the rest of the war." Henry suspected that she wasn't joking and nodded politely, finishing his work.

  By all accounts, the mess hall was off-limits to the Japanese when it wasn't mealtime. Most were restricted to their chicken shacks, although he did see people occasionally slogging through the mud to and from the latrine.

  When he was done, Henry sat on the back step and watched smoke billowing from the stovepipes fitted into the roofs of the makeshift homes--the collective smoky mist filled the wet, gray sky above the camp. The smell of burning wood lingered in the air.

  She's here. Somewhere. Among how many people? A thousand? Five thousand?

  Henry didn't know. He wanted to shout her name, or run door to door, but the guards in the towers didn't look like they took their jobs lightly. They stood watch, for the protection of the internees--so he'd been told. But if that were so, why were their guns pointed inside the camp?

  It didn't matter. Henry felt better knowing he'd made it this far. There was still a chance he'd find her. Among the sad, shocked faces, maybe he'd find her smile again. But it was getting dark. Maybe it was too late.

  Visiting Hours

  (1942)

  After seven restless days had passed, Henry repeated the process--starting with the same hopes. He met Mrs. Beatty on the back step of the school, and together they drove south to Puyallup and through the barbed-wire gates of Camp Harmony--this time into the third and fourth areas, which were even bigger. The last one included the livestock pavilions that had been converted into housing, one family to each stall, or so he'd been told.

  Back at home, his parents were so proud of him. "You keep saving, you be able to pay your own way back to China," his father praised him in Cantonese. His mother simply nodded and smiled every time she saw him deposit the money he earned in a jelly jar on his nightstand. Henry didn't know what else to do with so much spending money in a time when sugar and shoe leather were being rationed. To spend it on penny candy and more comic books just seemed wasteful, especially at Camp Harmony, where there was so little of everything.

  "More of the same today," Mrs. Beatty grunted, as she began unloading the Japanese sundries from the back of the truck. During the week Henry realized where they were coming from. She was ordering extra supplies from the school, then bringing them down to the camps, discreetly passing them out to the prisoners and their families. She was trading them for cigarettes that had been provisioned to each household. Whether she sold them or smoked them all herself, Henry never knew.

  What Henry did know was that the fourth area held the most evacuees. This quadrant of the fairgrounds was the largest, with an enormous trophy barn that had been converted into a mess hall.

  "Your parents okay with you working a few extra days when school lets out for vacation?" Mrs. Beatty asked, picking what was left of her breakfast from her teeth with a matchbook cover from the Ubangi Club.

  "Yes, ma'am." Henry nodded eagerly. That was the one benefit of not being able to communicate with his parents. They would assume he had summer school, or extra work at Rainier Elementary--paying work. They asked all sorts of wild questions. Was he taking extra classes? Was he tutoring other kids? Imagine, their son, a tutor of white kids!

  Henry just smiled and nodded and let them assume what they wanted.

  Another language barrier Henry ran into was within Camp Harmony. Just seeing a Chinese kid standing on an apple crate behind the serving counter was strange enough.

  But the more he questioned those who came through his chow line about the Okabes, the more frustrated he became. Few cared, and those who did never seemed to understand.

  Still, like a lost ship occasionally sending out an SOS, Henry kept peppering those he served with questions.

  "Okabes? Does anyone know the Okabes?" To Henry it was a unique name, but really, there could be hundreds of people at the camp with that name. It might be like the name Smith or Lee.

  "Why are you looking for the Okabes?" A voice came from somewhere in the crowded line. A man stepped up, tray in hand, sheepishly peering ahead. He was wearing a buttoned-up shirt that had once been white but now was the same color as the overcast sky. His trousers were wrinkled and muddy about the ankles. His messy hair was countered only by his close-cropped beard and mustache--the black yielding to a sprinkling of gray that made him look collegiate and dignified, despite his condition.

  As Henry dished up the man's lunch, a stew of corn and boiled eggs, he recognized him. It was Keiko's father.

  "Henry?" the older man said.

  Henry nodded. "Would you like some stew?" Henry couldn't believe that was all he could think of to say. He felt ashamed for Mr. Okabe's circumstances, like walking into someone's home and seeing him in a state of undress. "How are you? How is your family--how is Keiko?"

  Mr. Okabe ran his fingers through his hair, straightening it. He rubbed his beard, then broke into an enormous smile. "Henry! What are you doing here?" It was as if a layer of suffering that had hardened around him these past two weeks cracked and fell to dust. He reached across the serving counter and held Henry's arms, eyes sparkling with life. "I can't believe ... I mean ... how did you get here?"

  Henry looked at the line forming behind Mr. Okabe. "Mrs. Beatty the cafeteria lady at school, asked me to work with her for a while. In her own way, I think she's trying to help. I've been working my way through all the areas--trying to find you and Keiko.

  How is she, how have you all been?"

  "Fine. Fine." Mr. Okabe smiled, seeming to forget all about the meager lunch Henry loaded on his plate, with extra bread. "This is the first vacation I've had in years. I just wish it were someplace sunny."

  Henry knew that Mr. Okabe might get his wish. He'd heard the army was building permanent camps in Texas and Arizona. Hot, miserable places.

  Mr. Okabe stepped out of the way to let the others inch forward in the chow line.

  Henry kept serving as they talked. "Where is Keiko, is she eating?"

  "She's back with her mom and little brother, she's okay. Half of us in this area fell ill from food poisoning of some kind yesterday, including most of our family. But Keiko and I are doing fine now. She stayed back to help out, and I was going to give her my portion." Mr. Okabe warily looked at his food before regarding Henry again. "She misses you."

  Now it was Henry's turn to light up. He didn't do backflips or cartwheels, but never in his entire life had he felt this good about anything.

  "Do you know where the visitors' station is?" Mr. Okabe asked. The words rang like a pitch-perfect note on a beautifully tuned instrument. Visitors? He'd never even considered the possibility.

  "There's a visiting area? Where?" The next man in line had to clear his throat, politely, to get Henry to keep serving.

  "
Out this door and left, toward the main gate on the west side of Area Four. It's a fenced-off area just inside the gate. You can probably get to the visitors' side if you go out the back of the building. When are you done here?"

  Henry looked at the old army-surplus clock that hung on the wall above the front door. "In one hour ..."

  "I'll ask Keiko to meet you there." Mr. Okabe headed for the door. "I need to get back. Thank you, Henry."

  "For

  what?"

  "I'm just thanking you, in case I don't see you for a while."

  Henry exhaled as he watched Mr. Okabe leave, waving as he slipped out the door holding his tray of food. The other people in line now viewed Henry as some sort of celebrity, or perhaps a confidant, smiling and saying hello in Japanese and English.

  After lunch had been served and all the trays rounded up, cleaned, and put away, Henry found Mrs. Beatty, who was in a meeting with a young mess officer. As she had the previous week, she was planning out menus and arguing over whether to cook potatoes (which there were in abundance) or rice, which Mrs. Beatty insisted they order, even though it wasn't on their list. Henry figured they would be there awhile, and Mrs.