by Kirby Larson
He’s so upset. I even heard him on the phone with our state senator and congressman!
We took a vote in Civics class. Most of the kids think that what the president is doing is necessary to keep the country safe. Bud thinks so, too.
I didn’t raise my hand either way. I sure don’t want Japan to drop bombs on Seattle, but I don’t want any more of my Japanese friends to be taken away.
Monday, March 23, 1942
DeeDee —
It’s really happening. General DeWitt has ordered all “alien and non-alien persons of Japanese ancestry” to leave Bainbridge Island, just across the sound. I know that alien means the Issei, who were born in Japan. But what does “non-alien” mean? Someone who wasn’t born somewhere else, right? So that would mean someone born here, in America.
An American citizen.
I don’t believe President Roosevelt intended it to turn out this way.
Tuesday, March 24, 1942
DeeDee —
Trixie’s dad says the sooner the better, but I don’t understand the rush to move the Japanese. It’s not like there’s been any espionage or sabotage or anything like that since Pearl Harbor. Sure, there have been battles, but they’ve been in the Pacific Ocean, not on the Pacific Coast.
The people on Bainbridge have to be off the island by next Monday. That gives them only a week to figure out what to do with their cars, their houses, their farms. All in one week. When it’s time to leave, they can only take what they can carry.
What would I take, if it were me? What would I choose?
How would I choose?
Monday, March 30, 1942
DeeDee —
They were taken away in trucks today. Over two hundred Japanese, mostly strawberry farmers and mill workers, Pop says, boarded the ferry Kehloken at the Bainbridge Island dock. High school kids skipped school to see them off; lots of neighbors came down, too. Pop said everybody—no matter their race—was crying. After crossing Eagle Harbor, the Japanese landed in Seattle, for a ride by bus or truck south to Puyallup. The fairgrounds there have been converted into some kind of camp where they’re staying for now. Camp Harmony, it’s called.
Pop and a couple of other ministers are going to visit them tomorrow.
Wednesday, April 1, 1942
DeeDee —
Someone with a bad sense of humor named Camp Harmony. There are families living in horse stalls — that still smell of horses! They had to stuff mattresses with straw to have something to sleep on.
After he got home, Pop went into his den and kept the door closed for a long, long time.
Sunday, April 5, 1942 — Easter
DeeDee —
Like always on Easter, the little girls were dressed up in their new bonnets and patent leather Mary Janes rubbed with Vaseline so they’d be extra shiny, and the little boys still ran around with their pockets stuffed with jelly beans, but I think they were the only ones who were truly joyful today.
Our little congregation generally makes a joyful noise unto the Lord, especially on Easter. But I think we were all still in shock about what happened on Bainbridge Island. I was sitting next to Mrs. Harada, and even she was kind of mouthing the hymns.
The few people who stayed around after church gathered in small groups, talking in low, worried voices.
I didn’t see Betty or any of her family. I don’t blame them. It’d be hard to feel like praising the Lord when your father’s in jail.
Monday April 6, 1942
DeeDee —
John called around suppertime. He’s been cleared to leave the hospital! Cleared to go home! Part of me was as excited as he was. He misses his family and it’s only natural he’d want to be back with them. But part of me was sad. Having John nearby helped Hank feel closer.
His train leaves on Friday, while I’m at school, so Pop’s taking me over Thursday night to say good-bye.
Wednesday, April 8, 1942
DeeDee —
Mr. Afton showed slides of his trip to Washington, D.C., today in History and I fell sound asleep. The slides were boring, but I didn’t get much sleep last night. Trixie poked me with a pencil to wake me up when the lights went back on. She’s a pal.
The reason I didn’t get much sleep is that right after Pop left for another one of his meetings, we got one of those phone calls. Once I heard the man’s voice say, “You Jap lovers,” I hung right up. Margie was working at the plant so I was alone. I double-checked all the doors, but still couldn’t go to sleep. Finally, about 2 A.M., I went into Hank’s room and crawled under the quilt.
Thursday, April 9, 1942
DeeDee —
I promised myself I wouldn’t blubber, but I did. Saying good-bye to John was even harder than I thought it’d be. He promised to write, and I did, too.
I don’t know where he got it, but he gave me a brand-new, blank photo album. He said it was for me to keep an album of my very own, not to give away to someone else. That way I’d have a nice collection to show Life when I was ready. What a dreamer! It is a beautiful album, though. The cover is edged with gold and the pages are heavy black paper. On the inside front cover, he wrote: “To Piper, Keep that shutter clicking. Your pal, John.”
I felt as proud as Margaret Bourke-White must’ve when she got her first assignment. Now, I have to make sure I take pictures that are good enough for this album.
Friday, April 17, 1942
DeeDee —
I turned in my Margaret Bourke-White biography. At the last minute, I decided to include some of my own photos. Showing what I learned from her.
I told Miss Wyatt what I’d done, and she smiled and said she couldn’t wait to read my report. That was a first for me! I don’t think a teacher’s ever been excited to read one of my assignments before.
When the bell rang to dismiss us, I noticed that Miss Wyatt slipped my report on top of the pile. That was better than getting an A! I was feeling so good that I was even pleasant to Debbie Sue Wilkins at lunch.
Saturday, April 18, 1942
DeeDee —
Margie’s been moping around because she hasn’t heard from Stan in a while. So Pop and I decided to go to Higo, the Japanese five-and-ten-cent store, to get some of those special rice candies she loves. We thought that might give her a lift.
When we drove up, we could see a big chain looped through the front door handles, fastened with a padlock as big as my math book. I peered in through the front window. Some paper fans, a couple of ladies’ hats, and a box of Sweetheart straws lay scattered on the counter. A wooden tricycle painted to look like a duck was tipped on its side on the floor. Otherwise the store was bare. Pop and I drove around the rest of Japantown. Every store on Jackson Street was boarded up. Posters advertising The Amazing Dante Magic Show were pasted all along the boards. A rumpled brown paper sack skittered along the sidewalk. The entry to the Maynard Hotel was strewn with garbage. Mrs. Ito would’ve died if she’d seen it. She kept the front of that hotel spic-and-span.
It was like we were driving through a ghost town. All those businesses, all those people, gone.
My insides felt as empty as Higo’s shelves.
Tuesday, April 21, 1942
DeeDee —
Betty and I were walking home from school, sharing a Sky Bar, when we saw a soldier posting a flyer on a telephone pole. When he finished and drove away, we hurried over to see what it said.
It was a notice, signed by Lieutenant General DeWitt. INSTRUCTIONS TO ALL PERSONS OF JAPANESE ANCESTRY LIVING IN THE FOLLOWING AREA. In small print, the area was described in detail. Basically, it was everything south of Yesler Way. All of Nihonmachi, Japantown.
Betty’s hand dropped to her side. The rest of the Sky Bar fell to the ground. “Now it’s us,” she said in a voice flattened by disbelief and pain. She started running so fast, I couldn’t catch her, even though I tried. I don’t think she wanted me to, anyway. After a couple of blocks, I stood there, not sure what to do.
I ran back to read the
rest of notice. It was in English, all right, but it could’ve been Greek. I recognized the words but they didn’t add up. Didn’t make sense.
All of our neighbors had to leave.
They had until noon, Friday, May 1, 1942.
By order of Lieutenant General DeWitt.
I tore the notice off the telephone pole and ran home, too. I had to show Pop. He would know what to do.
Saturday, April 25, 1942
DeeDee —
Bud and I had our first fight. He says our country should do everything possible to protect against spies and saboteurs. It’s hard to disagree with that but what gets me mixed up is that I know that people like Mrs. Harada and Mrs. Tokita are not spies. They just happened to be born in Japan. And what about Betty and Jim? They were born here, just like me and Bud.
Bud says it doesn’t matter. And besides, real Americans should be proud to do anything to help the war effort. “My dad tore up our whole front yard to put in a Victory garden,” he said. “And that was like his baby.”
Giving up a patch of grass is nowhere near the same thing as being sent to a relocation camp, leaving your own home. I tried to explain that to Bud but he wouldn’t listen. “They’re Japanese,” he said. “Our enemies.”
I stopped on the sidewalk and stared at him. “Mrs. Harada is not anybody’s enemy.” I could hardly talk straight. Mad feelings shot around inside me like marbles.
“Come on, Piper. Don’t be unreasonable.” Bud tried to take my hand but I jerked it away.
We walked home the whole rest of the way without saying another word.
Sunday, April 26, 1942
DeeDee —
A few years ago, the Nazis started making the Jews wear yellow stars whenever they went out. I’d never really thought about what it meant until today.
All of our friends from church have been issued tags. The government won’t even use their names, just a number. They have to wear them when they leave on Friday for the assembly center.
The Satos are family number 10715. We found out when we visited them after church. Their five tags sat, tangled together, on the kitchen table. Everyone ignored them like they were a plate of cold, leftover fried liver. Tried to pretend they weren’t there. Tried to pretend they didn’t mean leaving. And worse.
I had my camera along because I was taking as many pictures as I could of the people from church in front of their houses. So they’d have a bit of home to take with them. Betty said I should take a picture of the tags, too. I wanted to make something nice, keepsakes. Those tags may only be made of cream-colored cardboard but they were ugly, like a barbed wire fence between neighbors. They stood for something ugly, too. But then Betty said, “Margaret Bourke-White would do it.” And I realized that if I wanted to be a real photographer, I was going to have to take pictures I didn’t want to. Take them because they were important for others to see. Like those photos Margaret Bourke-White took after that big flood in Kentucky a few years back. Those pictures helped the people who weren’t in the floods understand what it was like. And understanding was sure something we could use right now.
Monday, April 27, 1942
DeeDee —
I went to the church straight after school to help Pop. We’re marking the gym floor in the basement off in squares. Because the Japanese can only take what they can carry, people are already starting to bring their belongings to store here, even people who don’t go to our church. I took pictures to send to Hank, but also to help us remember which containers were where.
By suppertime, half the squares were filled with cardboard boxes and old suitcases. It looks like we’re having a church jumble sale.
If only that were the case.
Wednesday, April 29, 1942
DeeDee —
I met up with Betty again on the way to school. It looked like she’d been crying. I asked her if she was okay. Had she heard something from her dad? After about two blocks, she finally told me what was wrong. It’s their piano. She’s cleaned the white keys with milk every week since she was five. It’s in perfect condition. But it’s too big to take with them. Last night, her mom sold it to some lady who bought it for her granddaughter. Sold it for $25. That beautiful piano. There was a rock on the sidewalk by Betty’s foot and she kicked it, really hard. It clattered into the gutter. “Twenty-five crummy dollars,” she said.
She’s right. It’s crummy. So many things are crummy. Betty shoved her hands in her pockets and we walked the rest of the way to school, our steps heavy and dull as a flat, low note on a piano.
Friday, May 1, 1942
DeeDee —
I have the wet hair and coat to prove it was real, but today seems like a bad dream. It rained from the minute we picked up Mrs. Harada until the last of the Japanese were loaded onto the buses. Pop and I got soaked, trying to fit in all of our good-byes.
Betty was dry-eyed when I caught up with her. “Mom keeps saying, ‘Shikata ga nai.’ It cannot be helped.” She shrugged. Maybe the evacuation couldn’t be helped, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t cry about it. Betty is like Margie—tougher than I ever could be.
There were some rough-looking men hanging around the pick-up point. One big guy with a scraggly beard and a belly that bulged over his belt stood, arms crossed, glaring as people walked by them to the trucks and buses. He started shouting, “Get outta here, you Japs.” Only he didn’t just say “you Japs.”
When it was Mrs. Harada’s turn to get on the bus, she hugged me so hard, I could hardly breathe. But I didn’t want her to let go. I breathed in her lemony smell, remembering all the times I had smelled it while she read me stories and pushed me on the swings at the park. “Be a good girl,” she told me.
“Pop’s getting us passes. We’ll come see you as soon as we can.” I gave her one last hug, only letting go when a soldier pried us apart. Right before she stepped onto the bus, a photographer called out to her. “I’m going to take your picture. Let’s have a smile.” She smiled that warm, kind smile of hers, the flashbulb went off, and she was on the bus and out of sight.
The next day, her photo made the front page of the paper. The caption read: JAPS HAPPY TO GO.
I tore it up and threw it in the garbage.
Tuesday, May 5, 1942
DeeDee —
Two letters today. One from John, writing to let us know he’d arrived home safe and sound and that his mother was single-handedly trying to turn him into the fattest ex-sailor on the planet.
The other was from Hank. The censor had gone to town on this one and it was marked up pretty good. He said they’d seen lots of birds, especially red-breasted jays, which threw Pop for a loop. He didn’t think jays could fly way out over the Pacific, which is where we were pretty sure Hank’s ship was. Then it dawned on me: Zeros have big red balls painted on their wings and sides—“red breasts.” Hank was telling us they’d seen some Japanese planes.
I was proud of myself for puzzling that out when Pop couldn’t, but it’s one message I could’ve done without.
Friday, May 8, 1942
DeeDee —
There are posters up all over the place that say EVERY CITIZEN’S A SOLDIER. What they mean is that we’ve all got to pitch in. There are rubber drives and scrap metal drives — Pop donated the front bumper from the Blue Box — and newspaper drives. Lots of the older girls are “Knitting for Victory,” knitting socks and hats and even stretch bandages. Margie knits on her way to and from work, but says she is sick to death of using olive drab yarn. And everyone with even the smallest backyard is planting some kind of Victory garden, growing vegetables to be patriotic.
Pitching in means giving up, too, so the soldiers have plenty. Now sugar’s being rationed. Pop’s got to go to the school on Monday to get our sugar ration book. Trixie’s mom picked their family’s up yesterday and said it didn’t do her much good. Sure, she had the coupon but none of the nearby groceries had sugar to sell.
Asking people to use less gasoline didn’t work out very wel
l, so now that’s being rationed, too. Pop got a red “C” sticker for the Blue Box because he’s a minister. Trixie said her dad had a conniption fit when he couldn’t talk his way out of one of the green “A” stickers. That means he can only get four gallons of gas a week. Pop’s sticker lets him get eight gallons but he’s still scratching his head to figure out ways to make it go farther. He’s already put a lot of miles on the Blue Box going back and forth to Puyallup.
An ad in the Seattle Times showed a housewife with a ration book, saying, “I’m in this fight, too.” I guess we are all in the fight, now.
Saturday, May 9, 1942
DeeDee —
This is the Satos’ new address: Area A — Section 4 — Apartment 101, Camp Harmony, Puyallup, Wash. Pop went to see them yesterday and brought me a letter from Betty. She wrote that Jim named their room “Knot Inn,” because there are so many knotholes in the boards. They sleep on mattresses stuffed with hay, which has made Mikey’s hay fever act up. Between his sneezing all night, the lumpy, hard bed, and what she calls the “stranger noises,” Betty isn’t sleeping much. There are lines for everything, from the bathrooms and showers to the mess halls. The camp food is awful — lots of Vienna sausages and sauerkraut — so they feasted on the grapes Pop took.
