Toward Night's End

by M. H. Sargent

  Johnstone nodded. He glanced at her left hand, wrapped around the coffee cup. No ring on her finger. He wanted to ask when she might return to Redmond. Instead, he said, “I met the boy and his mother a few days before their evacuation. On a different matter. I’m sorry he saw me. I wish him no harm, of course.”

  Betty frowned. “No, not you.” She turned to Merrick. “He was looking at you, Commander. He was staring at you the entire time. You’re the one that upset him.”

  Johnstone looked to Merrick. That didn’t make sense. Merrick had not been with him when he questioned the woman and her son. It didn’t make any sense at all.

  ***

  For Kumiko the latrines were the most humiliating aspect of the entire camp. For some reason, before they had left the island, she had pictured such accommodations as having a private bathroom, much like that found in any house across the nation, although shared by perhaps half a dozen people or so. But one where she could close the door and ensure some privacy. She would have never been able to imagine this – quite simply, she didn’t have the imagination to envision such a large, open and very public, room. A long stainless steel sink was attached to one wall, with several spigots for running water. At least there were spigots for hot water. That had been considerate of the U.S. Army.

  But when it came to the toilets, there was no consideration whatsoever. The center of the room held a dozen toilets, six to a row, very, very close together, back to back with another six toilets. There was no door, of course. No curtain to pull for privacy. Nothing of the kind. Instead, when you sat on the commode you were all but touching the person using the one next to you, and you could be back-to-back with another woman. Their very private business and routine exposed to everyone else. It didn’t help that the ventilation system was quite poor. Or perhaps, there wasn’t one. Or one that worked.

  Under normal circumstances, using a toilet this way was quite demeaning in and of itself. But now Kumiko was experiencing what many called “The Manzanar Runs.” Diarrhea. She had no idea if the cause was due to the terrible food, so few fresh fruits and vegetables, no rice whatsoever, or if it was some illness going around the camp.

  One comfort was that no one talked while using the commode. Each woman averted her eyes, which usually meant staring at the floor in front of you. The only time there was some talk was if you didn’t have any paper to clean with. Then you would politely ask and usually someone handed you some paper.

  Kumiko wondered if she went to the first aid center at the hospital if they might have medicine for her ailment. Of course, that would be humiliating too. Go to a stranger, explain your problem, and then what? She was thankful for one thing. So far, Ido did not have the curse. She couldn’t even picture him hurrying to find his latrine and getting there in time. How did he even find the toilets, she wondered? Then she remembered that Daniel usually went with him. But now Daniel was in the hospital.

  Kumiko glanced around. As usual, no one was even looking in her direction. It was time. She carefully removed the shredded paper from her jacket pocket, concealing it in her fist. Part of her had wanted to keep Julia’s crude drawing. Back in their barracks after dark, Ido had asked Julia to draw what Matthew had drawn. Under their single, dim light bulb, she had done her best. Then Kumiko took the drawing and sat next to Ido on his cot. She described the four wheels. The poles connecting the wheels, which Ido said were axles. Then the other spokes. She described each segment, its size compared to the wheels or the axles.

  “No seat?” Ido asked.

  “No, Papa. No seat.”

  “Nothing in the front? A blade or scoop?”

  “No, Papa.”

  Ido had mulled this over for some time. She asked, “Is it a tractor?”

  “No.”

  “Then what is it?” Kumiko asked, very perplexed.

  “I don’t know,” he finally whispered. A moment later, he said, “Be done with it.”

  “Papa?”

  “I have it here,” he said, tapping his head. “Be done with it. No one should see it.”

  Then she understood. In the privacy of their section, she had ripped the paper, in half, in half again, and again. Until only tiny, tiny fragments remained. Then she placed them in the pocket of her light jacket. And she left for the latrine. Only, on the way there, as if her bowels knew exactly where she was going, she was struck with an unexpected, dire urgency. The diarrhea that first struck that morning had come upon her again.

  Very carefully now, she spread her legs a bit, put her hand between her legs, and let go of the tiny pieces of paper. A few minutes later, satisfied she was finally finished, she cleaned herself and flushed the toilet. All evidence of the drawing, along with her foul waste, was now gone.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Manzanar War Relocation Center, Owens Valley, California. April 8, 1942

  The three Americans walked along a row of barracks, catching the eyes of many interned Japanese. If nothing else, Commander Merrick’s service dress blue uniform stood out. Johnstone looked equally out of place in his suit, hat and carrying his sole file.

  “The name of the injured woman is Hikoshi Yasui.”

  Johnstone glanced at Merrick who was reading out loud from some papers he held in his hand. “Yasui?”

  Merrick shrugged. “I think, anyway. Son is Christopher. Nine years old.”

  “And the others?”

  “Her name is Hikoshi Nakashima. Sixty-three years old. She’s Issei.”

  “She’s what?” he asked.

  “Issei means she was born in Japan,” explained Private Russo who had been assigned to assist Commander Merrick and Detective Johnstone and kept just a step ahead of them. The young private seemed to know the layout of the camp like the back of his hand, and Johnstone was grateful to have the help. He and Merrick knew the administrative offices, the hospital, their own quarters and the staff mess hall. Not much else. Without the private’s guidance, he knew he and the commander would’ve never been able to find their way among the hundreds of barracks lined up one after another for as far as the eye could see.

  “Her husband is a Nisei,” continued Merrick.

  “Means he was born here.” Johnstone offered.

  “Right,” Merrick confirmed. “Name’s James. James Nakashima. Doctor.”

  Johnstone nodded. They started walking again, passing a group of boisterous kids playing soccer with a large empty tomato can.

  Merrick continued to read. “The Japanese doctor said his wife often assists him in his practice and they volunteered to work in the hospital.”

  “Let me guess,” Johnstone scoffed. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

  “No, they can. But he’s old. So I think they were encouraged to work in the farming areas, the chickens, the mess halls, cleaning the latrines, that sort of thing.”

  “How incredibly stupid,” Johnstone replied with scorn. He abruptly stopped in his tracks, putting a hand on Merrick’s arm. “Just a minute.” Merrick and Russo stopped walking and followed his look.

  The woman and her boy were approaching a nearby barracks. The first thing Johnstone noticed was that the boy’s left hand was covered in a thick, tan cloth. His guess was that once they had left the hospital, they had bandaged the finger themselves with a cut shirt. Perhaps Dr. Nakashima did it, using whatever was at hand since he didn’t have the items he would have in his surgery. The mother’s hand had a white bandage which looked much better than her son’s.

  The mother held her son’s bandaged hand in her right hand. Looking down at him with a soft smile, she said something, then playfully raised his injured hand to her mouth. She kissed the bandages. Then she lowered his hand down by his side, still holding on. Again, she said something they couldn’t hear, then raising his hand, she kissed his dressed fingers again. This time he giggled happily.

  Then she looked up, as if sensing that people were watching her. Seeing Johnstone and Commander Merrick, her sweet smile instantly vanished. She stared at both of them for
a moment, then she lowered her head and quickly headed toward the barracks entrance where numerous pairs of shoes were neatly lined up.

  “Aw, dammit to hell,” Johnstone remarked bitterly.

  “I’ll get her,” Private Russo offered, a bit too eagerly. Johnstone looked at the young man, who continued, “If you need to talk to her, I can make her come out. The rules clearly state that if—”

  Johnstone waved him off. “No, no. Let them be. I think I’ve caused them enough sorrow.”

  Private Russo glanced at Merrick, who said, “Just take us to Dr. Nakashima.”

  The private shrugged. “Same barracks.”

  “Ask the doctor to come outside,” Johnstone said. The private nodded and hurried off. The detective gave Merrick a shrug. “No point ruining everyone’s day.”

  A few minutes later the elderly Nakashima stepped outside, accompanied by his wife. Johnstone thought the doctor looked older than he had when they first met. He walked a bit stooped over, as if the burden of camp life was already taking its toll. His wife wore a knee-length skirt, simple blouse, and the red scarf over her right shoulder. Like the other barracks residents, they had left their shoes outside the door and probably due to their age, it took them a few minutes to put them on. Only then did Private Russo direct them to Johnstone and Merrick.

  Johnstone gave them a respectful half bow. “Dr. and Mrs. Nakashima.”

  Ever polite, they did the same in return. Then Johnstone motioned to Merrick and said, “This is Commander Merrick, United States Navy. He is helping me investigate the murder of Sean Kanagawa.”

  Merrick nodded his head with a tight smile. He noticed the woman’s unease and glanced at Johnstone. The detective had seen it too.

  Johnstone turned his attention to the doctor’s wife. “Mrs. Nakashima, the day that Mrs. Yasui, if I’m saying that right? Yasui?”

  The doctor nodded. “Yasui, yes.”

  He surmised that Mrs. Nakashima didn’t speak English very well, but he continued to direct his questions to her. “The day she and her son were injured, I understand a Navy officer like Commander Merrick was there.” Of course, this was simply a guess based on the nurse’s description of what happened in the hospital and that Merrick had worn his service dress blue uniform the entire time he had been at the camp. However, his question once translated by her husband obviously resonated as the woman suddenly looked frightened, glancing at her husband for support. He spoke to her in their native tongue and there was some discussion. Johnstone patiently waited.

  When there was a lull in their exchange, Johnstone injected, “Ma’am, if this had anything to do with a Navy officer, or an enlisted man, we need to know. We will arrest the man and he will go to jail.”

  More discussion. Finally, the doctor said, “My wife and Mrs. Yasui are close. We were neighbors for years, then she moved, but my wife and Mrs. Yasui they are friends, yes?”

  “I understand.”

  Another round of Japanese. Again, the doctor spoke. “She was going to visit Mrs. Yasui. See how she was doing in preparing for the evacuation.” Johnstone nodded. “When she went to their home, Mrs. Yasui and her son, she found both in the kitchen. They had been hurt. Their fingers cut.”

  “I know.”

  “She help clean the fingers, put towels on them, before coming to see me.” The doctor glanced briefly at the commander, then turned back to Johnstone. “She say, then a man…” He nodded to Merrick. “Dressed in Navy uniform, he knock on door. Mrs. Yasui very, very frightened. She and son, they hide in the back. My wife, she answer the door.

  “Navy man, he say he needs to see….My wife, her English not so good, yes?”

  Johnstone nodded.

  The doctor glanced at his wife, then said, “He just walk in. He see the blood. Lots of blood and he upset.”

  “Angry?” Johnstone asked in surprise.

  The doctor conferred with his wife. Then he said, “Yes. Most upset. He find the cut finger tops. He put them in small paper bag, he leave.” The wife spoke and the doctor nodded, adding, “He was only there a minute or two. Then gone.”

  Merrick now looked at Mrs. Nakashima. He pointed to his own name plate above his breast pocket. “He had a name. Written right here.”

  After translating, the doctor asked, “You have paper and pencil, she will write it.”

  Surprised, Johnstone quickly found a pen in his inside breast pocket and simply handed her both the pen and his file. “Write it on there. Doesn’t matter.”

  The husband explained, and the wife carefully started to write, but the file was too thin, too flimsy.

  “Here,” offered Private Russo. “Use my back.” He then stood with his back stooped over a bit in front of the older woman, and her husband explained how she was to use the young man’s back for support. Very tentative, she put the file on Russo’s back. And very precisely, very slowly, she began to write.

  The husband smiled proudly. “She can’t speak English so well, but she could always write it quite nicely.”

  Antsy, Johnstone leaned forward to peek at what she was writing. It was some sort of drawing. He forced himself to not crowd her. Finally, she handed him both the file and pen with a slight bow.

  Merrick and Johnstone looked at the file. Very clearly she had written the word Preston and then there was some sort of symbol.

  “Petty Officer Preston,” Merrick announced. He saw Johnstone’s puzzled look, and pointed to the drawing showing an eagle, the wings spread and two chevrons underneath. “He’s a petty officer, second class.”

  Johnstone then turned back to the Nakashimas. “Thank you. I promise you, this man will be arrested. Thank you.” He started to leave, then turned back. “Mrs. Yasui’s son has an infection. Where the finger was cut. It is safe to go to the hospital. He needs to get it properly looked after and get on some antibiotics.”

  If Dr. Nakashima was surprised by his knowledge, he didn’t show it. He and his wife simply watched as the private, the commander and the detective walked away.

  Wilmington, Los Angeles, California. April 8, 1942

  Dear Mr. Porter,

  As you must know, I never got on the ferry with my family on March 30th. On that day, I was also unable to return your truck to you, and I can only hope that it has been returned by now. I write the following with a heavy heart and the hope that you will forgive me for not returning your truck as promised, and that you will help right a most terrible wrong.

  It all started last January. As you may recall, I had been using your truck to transport my catch from the island to various markets in Seattle since the previous November. Although, truthfully, I never enjoyed my occupation, it provided a fair income, and I attempted to undertake my duties with due diligence.

  However, last November my life greatly changed when I met a fellow Japanese-American named Sean Kanagawa...

  A loud clap of thunder startled Matthew. He stopped writing and looked out the window, which was streaked with rain. Sitting behind the desk that faced the large picture window, he watched the activity across the street. There were scores of Navy seaman and a few civilians scurrying for cover. In the distance he could still see the huge Navy destroyer, the USS North Carolina that was berthed at the pier. On the other side was the Ancient Mariner, still being unloaded. He tried to see Kite, but knew he wouldn’t be able to make out the men’s faces from this distance.

  Matthew stood up and instantly felt weak and dizzy. His lack of stamina frustrated him greatly, but Kite insisted he was making good progress considering how ill he had been. Before dawn, the Ancient Mariner had docked, and Kite had helped him to the one-room apartment that he had rented for the week. Matthew insisted that he would leave when Kite departed on the Ancient Mariner in three days’ time, but the old man had insisted that Matthew keep the apartment and regain his strength.

  Kite had explained that they were in Wilmington – a part of Los Angeles. The tiny apartment provided an ideal location since Matthew wanted to be on the Navy ship
when she embarked, which Kite had learned would be in four days. Kite had also discovered that a Navy recruitment office was just a block away. That gave Matthew two goals: one, explain to Mr. Porter everything that had happened, including his role in Carsteen’s death, with the hope that Mr. Porter could finish what Matthew and Tom could not; two, make it to the recruitment office and sign up.

  He read the letter he had started to Porter. He wanted to finish it while Kite was out, but whatever strength he had mustered was now gone. He carefully folded it and tucked it inside his shirt. Then he stretched out on the wobbly bed. The pouring rain actually sounded good to him. He promised himself he would finish the letter in an hour or two. Right now, he just needed to rest.

  Manzanar War Relocation Center, Owens Valley, California. April 8, 1942

  Detective Johnstone prided himself in having nerves of steel. A few years back, a co-worker had dubbed him “Mr. Calm,” since he rarely showed any signs of anxiety, even in dire situations. But right now, he was extremely nervous, pacing outside the hospital’s entrance, twisting the brim of his fedora in his hands. The door opened and he quickly looked in that direction. It was an older Japanese-American man exiting. Johnstone turned away and resumed pacing. He was lost in his own world when he heard, “Mr. Johnstone.”

  He turned. Betty Clanton was approaching with a slight smile. In the sunlight, he noticed that her auburn hair shone more brilliantly than inside the mess hall, her face more delicate and to him, very beautiful. “I’m sorry to bother you,” he immediately stammered.

  Betty smiled. “It’s fine.” She glanced back at the hospital. “Quiet today. Just the usual with the Manzanar runs.” Noticing his puzzled expression, she said, “Quite a number of people with loose bowels. Change in diet, I suspect, although if it continues, the doctors will have to re-think their treatment.”