The Diplomat’s Daughter

by Karin Tanabe

  She knew that the high school children, especially the Niseis in the Federal School, did many things together, trying their best to pretend they were still out in the real world. She just didn’t have the heart to join them.

  As Emi put her head down to avoid saying good evening to two older women walking past, she heard a voice very near her call out her name.

  “I was wondering who lived there,” the man continued, his West Coast accent noticeable. Emi looked up and saw that it was her neighbor, a middle-aged man always dressed in ill-fitting clothes. She’d seen him sitting in front of the little house he shared with his wife and daughter many times. “I live right here. Right next to you,” he pointed out. “So close you can probably hear me snoring. I’m John Sasaki.”

  “I’ve seen you before,” said Emi, offering him a tiny smile.

  “And I’ve seen you before,” he said as he approached her, “but you’ve never stood still long enough to say hello, always running through the front door avoiding everyone. I didn’t want to be the one to interrupt your misery. But here you are, sitting happily tonight, so I dared to say hello.”

  “Do you think I’m miserable?” Emi asked, looking up at him. She wondered if she should stand out of politeness. She started to and he motioned for her to stay where she was.

  “Yes, I do think you are rather miserable. Am I wrong?” he said in a fatherly voice.

  “Not exactly,” Emi said. She was looking at his hair, which was short and streaked white in the front. The streak was so even that it looked painted on. “I have been pretty miserable. I was supposed to be on the boat back to Japan in June last year with my father. But I came down with tuberculosis and my mother and I had to stay behind. We weren’t supposed to be interned.”

  “None of us are supposed to be interned. We just are interned,” said John, tucking in the hem of his short-sleeved button-down shirt, which was sticking out on one side.

  “Of course. It’s just that if I hadn’t contracted tuberculosis, I wouldn’t be here. Looking at all that.” Emi pointed out to the fence. She knew that none of them merited being locked away like they were, but she had felt like she and her mother’s circumstances were more unjust than most. It was a selfish way to think, she knew, but it was a thought that had looped around her brain since they arrived and no one had been able to stop it yet.

  “No one likes that,” said her neighbor, pointing to the fence in turn. “But I don’t think you should be too desperate to sail off to a country at war, either.”

  “Do you think it will be that bad in Japan? That dangerous?” she asked, leaning back on the stair above her.

  “Yes, I do,” said John. “I think it will be worse than anyone can imagine. So don’t let that terrify you too much,” he said, nodding to the fence again. “My son is fighting right now,” he added. “Training to fight, anyway. He’s in Mississippi with the 442nd. That’s the all-Japanese-American combat team that was just formed.”

  “All Japanese-American?” said Emi surprised. “Why would they want to fight against Japan?”

  Both Emi and John stayed quiet for a moment as two guards walked past them, not bothering to greet any of the internees.

  “Because they’re American,” said John when they’d passed. “Physical features do not ally you to one country or the other. It’s where you were raised, what you were taught to believe, don’t you think? And he, and I, think Japan is wrong in this war.”

  Emi shrugged, not in the mood to get into a political discussion.

  “It sounds very brave of your son,” she said tactfully. “Especially since the Americans put his family here. Does he speak Japanese?”

  “A little,” said John. “But it won’t make too much of a difference. I’ve been told that they’ll head to Europe eventually.”

  “Then I hope the war ends before your son is shipped over there,” she said, her voice quieting. “I was in Austria just before the war broke out. I would not want any of my loved ones to go there or anywhere else in Europe right now.”

  “I have faith,” said John, and Emi noticed the small cross around his neck. Many of the Issei and Nisei, she noticed, were Christian. Some very devout.

  “So tell me, Emiko Kato,” said John, sitting down next to her. “Why are you in such a good mood today when you’ve been so discomposed since you arrived here?”

  Emi thought back to the way Christian had stared at her when they’d reached the swimming pool. As if he’d found something he’d been looking for for a long time.

  “I don’t know. Something terrible happened today, actually. I shouldn’t be happy at all. I feel a little guilty that I am.” She looked up at John’s pleasant round face and said, “A pregnant woman on the German side was hit by one of the guards’ trucks and lost her baby. I was working at the hospital when it happened. The poor woman. She was screaming and screaming in pain.”

  “I heard about that,” said John. “Another death in the camp when it should have been new life.” He looked at Emi and said, “That can’t be it then. So what happened after the baby died?”

  “I suppose . . .” said Emi, her voice lingering as she thought about Christian’s glowing face when they’d spoken German together. “I suppose I helped cheer someone up after the baby died.”

  “Sometimes the sullen are the best at cheering others up,” said John. “With the frown you’ve been carrying, I’m sure you were excellent at empathizing with his grief.”

  “Did I say it was a him?” said Emi.

  “Just a guess,” said John, taking a step back toward his house. “A word of advice: if you don’t try to make the best of a bad situation, you’ll never survive.”

  “Fence sickness?”

  “No. Just regret. Trust me. It’s worse.”

  CHAPTER 9

  CHRISTIAN LANGE

  MARCH–APRIL 1943

  When Christian walked into the family’s shared house, his father was sitting alone, looking as if he had just been punched in the ribs and was trying to remember how to exhale. At the creak of the cheap plywood floor under Christian’s feet, Franz looked up at his son with red-rimmed eyes and gestured for him to sit in the room’s other wooden chair. Neither chair stood without wobbling.

  “Your poor mother,” said Franz, his voice hoarse. “You shouldn’t have come into the room. Seen your sister—”

  “I can’t talk about that right now,” said Christian, interrupting him. “I need to clear the air before I can talk about that.”

  “Someone just died and you need to clear the air?” asked Franz. “What is wrong with the air?”

  “Germany,” said Christian, doggedly. “Why didn’t you tell me about Germany before I got on the train to Texas? You knew where I was. You could have written to me. Asked me what I wanted to do, asked me about repatriating—”

  “Excuse me?” said Franz, standing up. “That is what you expect me to talk about? Now?”

  “I know it’s not the right time, but why didn’t you tell me that we’re all going to Germany?” Christian pleaded. “That we—that you—agreed to be repatriated to Germany? In the middle of the war? Can you imagine what you’re sending us to?”

  “Your sister just died!” Franz shouted angrily. “How did I raise such a disrespectful son? You should not be speaking to me about such a petty thing at a time like this. You should be at the hospital apologizing to your mother for barging into her room while she was in the midst of her tragedy, then try your best to prove that she can one day be happy again with just one child. With you.”

  “I’ll do that,” said Christian. “And I’ve already spent time with her today. But first please tell me about Germany. Please.”

  “What would you like to know?” said Franz, sitting back down, exasperated. He put his hands in his graying blond hair and grew even more frustrated when several strands came out in his hands.

  “How about what will happen to Lange Steel?” said Christian, his blue eyes locked with his father’s. “You al
ways said it would be my business one day. That I would run it with you and then without you. Is that possible if we go to Germany? And what about college?”

  “All that will still happen,” said Franz, shaking his head. He sat straight and rigid in his chair even though he was only in the company of his son. Christian hated how his father maintained his pompous air, as if they were sitting in his study in the River Hills house instead of a shack. He looked at him with visible annoyance but his father just sat up taller and prouder as he spoke.

  “We did write to you while you were at the Home but our letters obviously never made it up to Wisconsin. They must have been thrown away by the censors,” he said. “Both your mother and I did write.”

  “Did you explain about Germany in those letters?”

  “No,” Franz admitted. “We worried you wouldn’t come to Texas if we did and we were desperate to have you here. Your mother, especially. You know that. You are her world. Now, more than ever, she needs you. Aren’t you glad you came? To be here for her after something so devastating happened?”

  “I am, but that doesn’t mean I want to go to Germany.”

  “Is it not better than being here? At least we will be together and not behind barbed-wire fences, falsely accused of crimes against this country. My parents have been notified about our arrival—they have their house waiting for us in Pforzheim. We will be living with war, yes, but not in the way you’re afraid of. We’ll be shielded from the worst of it. This, what happened here, will be the worst of it. That INS man, that murderer, is the reason the baby died. That Lora died,” he said, using the name he and Helene had chosen when the baby still had a heartbeat. “And he’s not going to be arrested,” Franz said, his anger rising with the color in his face. “O’Rourke came to explain,” he said of the head of the camp. “There will be no trial, nothing. O’Rourke said that they’ve already concluded that it was an accident. So that’s all. The guard keeps his job driving that truck that hit her and killed Lora, and your mother has to see him all over camp.”

  “There must be someone else you can appeal to?” said Christian, picturing the guard’s pinched, sun-weathered face.

  “Me? A prisoner?” said Franz. “I can’t yet. For now we can only control so much.”

  “Like going to Germany.”

  “Yes, like going to Germany,” Franz replied angrily. “We won’t be there for long, just until the war is over. And that will be soon. Very soon.”

  “You know that how, Dad? Do you have some inside line to Roosevelt?” Christian said, tense with anger. “You have no idea. The war could go on for five more years. And just because Oma and Opa are wealthy and plan to put us up in some vacation house doesn’t mean we’ll be safe in Germany. Bombs don’t discriminate based on bank accounts.”

  “The war will not go on for five more years. That’s a childish thing to think. The end is near, Christian, I am sure of it. The night before we left Wisconsin, there was news that the Red Army was still swelling by millions. I know that means the war is coming to an end. Russia is changing the course of the war.”

  “Even if that’s true, then what?” asked Christian. “We go to Germany for the remainder of the war and try to survive. What about Lange Steel? You’re just going to leave it? Do you even know what’s happening there?”

  “I’ve now had a letter from Martin and he’s assured me that he is running it as it should be and is acting president. He will relinquish that title as soon as I am back. I still own Lange Steel, Christian. The government may have frozen our bank accounts but they can’t shut down our businesses forever. Not when there are other people to run them in the interim. Martin just sent me the recent figures and they were heavily blacked out, but if Martin is sending them to me, it means they are good. Lange will be waiting for me—and thriving—when I return.”

  “You’re so sure the Americans will let us all back in,” said Christian. “Even you and Mom, who are not citizens. They imprison us here and then after the war they will just let us sail right back over. Let me enroll in college just like nothing ever happened. Why would they spend all the money repatriating us if that were the case?”

  “They say there’s a chance we won’t be allowed back in. They have to say that,” Franz said. “But it will all be different after the war. These ideas that have emerged during the war years will feel antiquated. You’ll see.”

  “You don’t know anything for certain,” said Christian, watching his father cringe at his disrespectful tone. “Lange could go under. Martin could run it into the ground or find a way to take it from you forever. The war could rage on for five more years. Or we could all go to Germany and die as soon as we’re on land.”

  “Let’s assume I know a little more than you,” said Franz. “And I know this: Your mother said she couldn’t live without her only son and that she would do anything to have you with her. Would you have wanted her to rot in Oklahoma? This was the only way to have us all together. Maybe you don’t understand, but you will when you have a family.”

  “I understand,” said Christian, flatly. He had managed to push his anger down to a level that his father might tolerate, but he was still livid at his parents for mishandling the news. It was just another way of theirs to protect him; he who they believed still couldn’t handle the realities of the world at seventeen.

  Franz nodded and offered no apology, instead saying, “This conversation should have happened after your mother was healthy again.”

  A siren interrupted their argument. It was the signal for the count, which happened three times a day—morning, noon, and night—with every internee in the camp rushing to their houses to have their names checked off by guards. Christian and his father went outside, Franz explaining to the guard assigned to their row that Helene was in the hospital.

  “We’ll check your story,” the guard replied without sympathy, moving on to their neighbors.

  After the count, Christian left his father and tried to shake off some of the pain of the day. The baby was dead. He was going to have to move to Germany until the Americans decided to let him back in. And he knew that was an if, not a guarantee. He would have to experience the war firsthand. But for now, he had the very fresh memories of the hour he’d spent with Emi. That would have to be enough to carry him till tomorrow.

  He took a roundabout way to the hospital, past the camp’s orchard of orange trees, letting the sweet aroma fill his lungs. A few Japanese men were back tending to the trees, finishing their shifts for the night, and Christian watched them prune the small branches for a few minutes. Quietly he observed the precision with which they worked. None of them wore gloves, instead letting their bare hands move the clippers slowly, diligently. Christian was surprised with their carefulness, their effort and apparent pride of work. They were essentially grooming their prison and Christian doubted he would have done the same. Already on his first day of dishwashing, he had barely scrubbed the bottles, just soaped and rinsed as fast as he could. Good enough to not get yelled at, said Kurt. He stayed a minute more, listening to the older men speaking Japanese and the younger men his age speaking English, and decided that the next day, he would put a little more care into washing milk bottles.

  When he arrived at the hospital, a sympathetic nurse brought him to his mother’s room—unfortunately, still the same room Helene had been in when the baby died.

  “Christian. You came back,” his mother said when he walked in, holding her arms out to him as if he were much younger. Her face was ashen, with a blue tint around her nose. She gave him a weak, closed-mouth smile and told him not to look so worried.

  He sat on the floor next to the bed, reaching up to hold her hand. “I’m sorry,” he said, squeezing her cold fingers. “I’m so sorry.”

  She held on to his hand and cried. “You’re my only blood relative in our little family now,” she said. “I chose your father, but you are made from me. Flesh to flesh.”

  Christian nodded as she started crying so loudly that a
nurse came in to administer what Christian assumed was a sedative. He rested his head against her shoulder, bending backward until his spine hurt.

  He hated seeing his mother’s face so lifeless. When he was younger, Christian used to sit quietly in his parents’ bedroom and watch his mother play the violin, her eyebrows moving up like a sunrise, every part of her full of life, animated. He had once overheard a conversation between his parents, his mother telling his father how much their little boy enjoyed her violin music, how musical he could be. She could tell by the way he would keep time with his little foot, banging it against the leg of the chair he sat in. She suggested that they buy him a violin and that she could teach him. That she’d enjoy it. But Franz wouldn’t hear of it.

  “Too feminine,” he’d said. “This is America. He has to only do the things American boys do. Football and baseball and driving cars.”

  “He’s eight,” Helene had replied, disappointment apparent in her voice.

  Christian had still never played a note on the violin, but after the conversation, he had played football and baseball with more effort than ever before, and never missed a day of his mother’s violin practice, his foot keeping the beat even louder as he grew into a teenager.

  After the quiet had gone on so long that it seemed to interfere, Helene looked down at Christian and asked, “Do you want to go to Germany with me? I know we didn’t talk about it when you came, but I assume you know all about it now. Maybe not telling you was a mistake. But you can’t fault me too much. I just wanted my son with me. But you do want to go, don’t you? Our family, together, no matter where or how?”

  “Of course I do,” Christian answered, standing to kiss his mother’s cheek. “Together, no matter where or how.”

  CHAPTER 10