“It’s a fuss about nothing,” Tamura apologizes to Dr. Harper, making light, in her shyness, of her cough, the pain in her chest. “Satomi worries about me, but there are worse here. I can manage.”
Dr. Harper is a little shy himself, taken aback by the feelings that the sight of Tamura has stirred in him. She is ill, that much is obvious, but it is more than a doctor’s concern he is feeling. No sound has ever touched him quite as viscerally as Tamura’s voice touches him. She is, he thinks, a woman of delightful beauty. Despite her pallor, he sees the rosy girl in her, the sweetness Satomi spoke of. The heat in him rises to match that of the day. It has been a long time since he has felt such a tugging, fluttering thing, such a soft explosion inside. He feels foolish. It is unseemly for a married man who won’t see sixty again, a doctor, to feel so arrested by a patient.
“She won’t complain, but this place is killing her,” Satomi says, breaking into his thoughts.
“I can see you are not well, Mrs. Baker,” he says, listening through his stethoscope to the thick thud of Tamura’s chest as she responds to his direction to cough. “Perhaps a few days’ rest will help.”
“I have tried that, Dr. Harper. It only makes me more restless. I like to keep occupied. It is better to work, don’t you think?”
He prescribes a tonic to build her strength, knowing it might as well be sugar water. He has no medicine to cure what she has, no magic. He is overcome with a profound sadness.
“I’ve seen that stuff before,” Eriko says. “It’s nothing more than treacle laced with cheap alcohol. Hot tea would do more good.”
“I’ll take it back and ask for something better,” Satomi says, knowing that Dr. Harper will indulge her. He is a man with a conscience and likes to find answers to her challenges.
She longs for Tamura to be returned to her old self, wants her Angelina mother back. She has a picture in her head of Tamura sitting on their porch shelling peas, the glossy loop of her hair shining, her profile silhouetted in the soft light; she pictures her straining rice, stirring clothes in the copper boiler at the back of the house. There are no chores that can diminish Tamura’s dignity. Her every movement has a refinement about it.
At night just before sleep she summons up a picture of the old Tamura in her head, hoping to dream of her in better times, of Aaron, of the farm.
Sleep, though, is a hard thing to sustain in the camp. Something is always on the boil with one or another of Manzanar’s ten thousand inhabitants. Women give birth at all hours, and the ill and the old die, not always quietly, even though some of them welcome death. Crying babies and the moans of nightmares are the order of the confined nights. Worst of all for Satomi, though, are the noises that come from closer to home.
“I can’t bear it,” she whispers to Tamura through their silk partition, despairing at the embarrassing sounds of lovemaking that nightly beat through the half-inch division wall from Mr. and Mrs. Sano’s room. Their enthusiasm seems quite horrible, considering they share their quarters with their daughter-in-law and their two grandchildren. Their son is confined to a citizens’ isolation center in Catalina, for making too many complaints of a political nature.
“My son is a fine man,” Mrs. Sano says. “He takes after his father.”
Hardly a sound emanates from the Okihiros’ side, but the Sanos live their life regardless and have no consideration at all.
Mr. Sano at sixty-five is a bent man, his back stooped from years of picking strawberries for a living, his skin like buffalo hide, but he is surprisingly energetic when he wants to be.
“He looks like a wrinkled old turtle.” Satomi shudders. “More like eighty-five than sixty-five—ninety, even.”
“It gives them comfort,” Tamura says, mortified herself at Mr. Sano’s grunts, his wife’s high-pitched mews. “It’s worse for their daughter-in-law, poor girl. She has a lot to put up with.”
“But they are so old, Mother. It’s disgusting.”
“It is better not to whisper,” Tamura advises, coughing out her words. “Whispering only makes our neighbors more interested in our conversation. I wouldn’t like them to hear us talking about them.”
Satomi is surprised at the strength Tamura has found to cope with everything that has been thrown at her since she lost husband and home. Her mother has a knack for friendship. People may still be suspicious of her strange daughter, a girl who thinks herself equal to her superiors, but their hearts are open to Tamura. They like her honest approach, her modesty.
“ ‘Honor’ is the word for Tamura,” Eriko says. “There’s nothing false about her.”
“Your mother is the sweetest lady,” Ralph teases her. “Guess you must take after your father, huh?”
Tamura, the woman now that she would never have become if Aaron had lived, goes to work cheerfully and sings “God Bless America” every morning alongside the Stars and Stripes with her fellow workers in the breakfast line. When all they get is canned wieners and spinach cooked to slime, her complaints are merely for form. Yet there are times when she longs to hold one perfect just-laid egg in her hand, to touch it to her lips and feel its gentle warmth, times when she remembers the pleasure in being a wife, the joy of a good harvest. Recalling those things, it is a small embarrassment to her that she is happy at Manzanar.
“How can you sing, Mother? What is there to sing about here? And ‘God Bless America,’ of all songs!”
“You should try it yourself, Satomi. You can’t be unhappy while you are singing.”
However hard it is for Satomi to understand, the truth is that Tamura isn’t afraid of anything anymore. Even the idea of death, close as she suspects it is, has found its place and settled. She has found friendship and laughter at Manzanar, and in the companionship of the Okihiros she has been returned to the camaraderie of family, albeit not one of blood.
Her love of country, of America, is strong in her. She caught that germ from her parents long ago and will never be cured of it. Japan for her is simply a place in her imagination, a legendary land where the fables of her mother’s childhood are set. It is not to be confused with the Japan that drops bombs on America, the Japan that killed Aaron. She trusts in an American future.
“You have to let your anger go,” she tells Satomi. “The only person it is having an effect on is you.”
When Tamura gets food poisoning from a mess hall stew that had been reheated once too often, the residents of Sewer Alley are surprised to see Dr. Harper come calling twice daily until she is recovered.
“White men seem to like her,” they gossip without spite.
Few in the camp escape the infections that stalk the place. Dirty water brings dysentery, proximity spreads whooping cough and the pitiless episodes of measles that are rife among the children.
“It seems the orphanage is always quarantined,” Satomi observes to Dr. Harper.
“Yes, from fleas to flu,” he agrees. “There’s no end to it.”
“Poor little things, without mothers to comfort them.”
“I’ve noticed you talking to the children, Satomi. I’ve seen them run to you. They like you. You should help out there. Too many of your fellows speak of being an orphan as something shameful.”
“Some do, I know. The Japanese word for it is burakamin, it means untouchable. But it’s not a common view, Dr. Harper, we are not savages, you know?”
Apart from the diseases, people die of other natural causes too, of heart attacks and old age. Some, it’s said, of shame and broken hearts, and there have been suicides. One man was so distressed at being separated from his family that he attempted to bite off his tongue; when that didn’t work, he climbed the camp fence and was shot by a guard. Murder or suicide, it was hard to tell.
“Murder, of course,” Satomi said.
“Perhaps,” Haru dithered.
The hastily cleared ground of the once-tiny cemetery is constantly having its boundaries widened. The dead are quickly laid to rest, their families marking their graves with a simple
ring of rocks. A small obelisk fashioned from stone has been placed in the heart of the graveyard as a monument to the dead.
“A consoling tower,” Naomi says.
Tamura weeps for the dead whether she knew them or not. “They died wondering what it has all been for,” she says. “They never found their way home.”
One afternoon in the camouflage shed, suffering from lack of breath and cutting pains in her chest, she is carted off to the hospital barrack, where, serving as a ward, three iron beds are arranged in the open air alongside the hospital’s latrines. There are two more beds inside and the part-time nurse tells Tamura to sit on one while she waits for Dr. Harper.
“It’s written on your notes that Dr. Harper wishes to deal with you himself,” she says, giving Tamura a suspicious look. “You’ll have to wait while we find him.”
Eriko, fearing for Tamura’s life, rushes to find Satomi, who is in the showers, where she goes at quiet times to wash her hair with the scented soap that Lawson gives her. When she can’t be found in her usual hangouts it’s a fair bet that Satomi will be in the showers, lost in the sweet reward of floral foam.
“Your mother is stable,” Dr. Harper says. “She has a weak constitution, of course, and the food poisoning didn’t help, but …”
“How can she be stable? Look how she fights for breath.”
“Don’t pester Dr. Harper, Satomi.” Tamura pants, struggling for air. “He is doing his best. It is not his fault. There is nothing to be done.”
“Is that true, Dr. Harper? There is nothing to be done?”
“There are things you can do to help, Satomi. Keep your mother warm, see that she eats regularly. I would suggest that she gives up work on the camouflage nets, but I guess she’ll fight you on that one. The dust there is full of fibers. It’s a problem there’s no answer to.”
“Letting her go home would keep her from the dust, Dr. Harper.”
“If it was up to me, Satomi, then … of course …”
If he had the power to order it, he would free all of Manzanar’s inmates. He wishes with all his heart that he could save Tamura. It hurts him that he can’t cure her. The thought that, like his wife, she might be disappointed in him too, adds to his feelings of impotence. Without reason he has taken on himself the blame for him and his wife being childless, it is the least he can do for the wife he had long ago lost interest in.
“Isn’t there proper medicine for her cough, at least?”
“Well, nothing that will do much good. I’ll see that she gets an extra blanket, though, that should help.”
How can he tell Satomi what Tamura knows and has chosen not to tell her? The girl is bright enough to see others in the camp with the same condition. She just isn’t ready to see it in her mother.
The tuberculosis has advanced beyond medicine. Tamura is already coughing up blood, having to sit upright through the night just to keep breathing. One foot in front of the other is the only way to go now. And Satomi looks scared enough already, no point in telling her there is worse to come.
“Have you thought about helping at the Children’s Village, Satomi?” he says, to distract her. “I have spoken to them about you. They can do with all the help they can get, you know.”
“If they’ll have me, I will. Mother wants me to, and I guess that I do too.”
“Good, it will suit you, I think.”
“Just the thought of you helping there makes me feel better.” Tamura smiles. “You are a good girl at heart.”
“And there’s other good news,” Dr. Harper says. “You’ll be pleased to hear that work starts on the new hospital this week. There will be more doctors coming to join us, Japanese ones among them. Things here are looking up.”
“We won’t be holding our breath,” Satomi says under hers, but loud enough to be heard.
“No, no, it’s for real. And there are to be more latrines too. We’re gonna get on top of these infections for sure. You can count on it.” He hopes that he is right. It seems to him that one way or another the whole camp is diseased.
“I’ll keep my fingers crossed for new latrines, at least, Dr. Harper. Guess you’ve never had to wait in line for them yourself?”
“Well—” he manages before she interrupts him.
“We try not to notice the sour air, or see the sewage bubbling up through our feet. We put up with the paper always running out and the flies everywhere.”
“I’m sorry they are so bad. It will help when there are more, I’m sure.”
“You can’t imagine how humiliating it is for the women in those lines, or how vulgar the men can be.”
“No, I can’t say that …”
Tamura joins in to help him out. “They only joke to ease their embarrassment,” she says, frowning at Satomi.
“I will mention it to the superintendent in charge,” Dr. Harper says. “You are right, something must be done.”
Later, as Tamura sits chatting to Eriko, she protests Satomi’s behavior. “I felt sorry for Dr. Harper, Eriko. Honestly, Satomi gives him such a hard time. They seem to be friends, yet still I am shocked at her lack of respect.”
“She is too outspoken,” Eriko agrees. “But there is nothing to be done about it, she is already made. In any case, I think that Dr. Harper likes her enough to forgive her. Did he give you anything for your cough?”
“Yes, a blanket.” Tamura giggles. “What else can he do? Oh, and good news. He says that new latrines are to be built soon.”
“Really? My mother will be pleased, if that’s true. It’s the old who suffer most. Mother will only go at the quietest time of day, and even then it’s torture for her. It’s the same for all the old women. They have to go in pairs, one always on guard for the other.”
“Mmm, they were formed in Japan’s clay. They are modest. We have become used to it, but they never will.”
“Well, neither will I,” Satomi’s voice comes rudely through their dividing wall, against which she is propped with Wuthering Heights in hand. “I can’t bear those filthy latrines.”
“Oh, Satomi, it’s not the same thing at all. And I notice you have no such inhibitions when it comes to the showers.”
“It’s no wonder people take against you,” Eriko joins in crossly. “You never know when to be still, when to stay quiet. You are forever in the line for the showers, keeping people waiting.”
If there is one thing that makes Eriko irritable, it’s talking through the wall, it seems to her to be the height of bad manners. But she instantly regrets her irritation, even though she is only speaking the truth.
Sometimes Satomi will finish one shower and straight off join the end of the line to take another. Her reputation suffers and people find relief in grumbling about her.
“Her manners are bad.”
“It’s to be expected, I suppose.”
“But Tamura is so kind, so polite.”
“She is a cuckoo in Tamura’s nest.”
“I hear she takes soap from the guards.”
Tamura is gently critical too. “You must learn to manage. I do not like you taking things from Lawson, it will make you unpopular.”
“Oh, Mama, I’ve never been popular here, now, have I?”
“Well, it’s your own fault, you never try to please. And what does he want in return for the soap that only you receive?”
She doesn’t like the question. It is her business, after all.
“He never asks me for anything. Ralph says that Lawson is kind to everyone, that he’s a people person and likes to talk.”
“Well, you won’t have time to talk when you are working at the orphanage. You’ll be too busy with the little ones.”
“I’m looking forward to it, Mama. Don’t be cross.”
“And you are good with children,” Tamura says, softening. “People will see that and like you better for it.”
Remedies
The orphanage barracks have their own running water and a small block of toilets for their own use. That in it
self is enough to recommend them to Satomi, without the warmth that opened her heart to the children on her first day there.
“They’re sweet and naughty,” she tells Haru. “And they smell like kittens.”
The babies, in their ignorance of desertion, cry as babies will, but they are more easily comforted than the older ones—a clean diaper, a bottle of warm milk soothes quickly enough. The others, though, suffer the feral instinct of wariness and hold themselves back from consolation.
“Oh, Mama, you should see them. So frightened of everything that they wet the bed and think they will be beaten for it. Some are like me, of mixed blood, you know. There’s a red-haired child, and two or three with golden hair. There’s a little boy who says he’s Mexican. He speaks Spanish and only knows a word or two of English.”
“Perhaps you will find who you are among them,” Tamura says mysteriously.
Arriving at Manzanar with their tiny carrying cases, the children have everything taken off them. Clothes are sorted into piles by age rather than ownership. There are dungarees, little felt jackets, knitted hats and shoes set in a line by size. It’s easier to store their possessions together, to jumble them up, so that no one knows who came with what. Some came with nothing anyway, not even identity papers. Too young to speak their names, not knowing where they came from, no information can be coaxed from them. Satomi gives them names, guesses at their ages.
The few who have toys are made to share them, to watch, heartbroken, as a loved grubby doll, a tin car, is taken off by another child. One little boy has started a collection of empty bean cans, no one but him wants them, they are his alone. Another holds on tight to a small handkerchief, sniffing at it, rubbing it against his cheeks.
“It’s not right,” Satomi tells Dr. Harper. “They need families, people of their own.” She is thinking of Mrs. Hamada’s brood, their easy smiles, their confident fights, the love that bolsters them.
There are days in the orphanage when, despite the strict rules, chaos takes over, when it is hard to make yourself heard above the children’s howling. The naughtier boys who misbehave have to run the “swat line.” They dodge and dive between the legs of the children who need no encouragement to whack their fellows’ hides. Whackers and whacked make a game of it, minding more the cross word than any physical punishment.
A Girl Like You Page 15
