by Kirby Larson
He’s going to take me with him next weekend. I’m spending my whole allowance on Sky Bars for Betty.
Sunday, May 10, 1942
DeeDee —
When I got up, Pop was in his “preaching” suit and tie. I looked over at Margie, who raised her eyebrows. After breakfast, Pop said that we didn’t have to come if we didn’t want to. “Come where?” I asked. When he turned his sad brown eyes on me, I knew what he meant: church.
Before I could say anything, Margie said of course we were coming with. Then she gave me a look that I knew meant business. We were both in our church clothes and ready to go at the usual time. As we were heading for the car, Pop asked me to grab my camera, so I did. Margie chattered the whole way but I didn’t know what to say.
Like he has a million times before, Pop unlocked the door to the church. It’s practically my second home, but it felt so strange. Mrs. Harada was usually right there, waiting for Pop, ready to go in and fix the altar flowers or set up the coffee for Fellowship Hour after church.
Pop got up behind the pulpit, like there were people there. Like church was really happening. Margie waved me into a pew and we sat there while Pop looked out over the “congregation.”
I kept my coat on; Pop hadn’t turned the switch for the heat. The buttons on my coat sleeve clunked loudly against the wooden pew. There weren’t any other noises to cover up the sound. The sanctuary had always felt cozy and warm to me, filled with familiar faces. Sitting there on the pew, I felt like one of those blown eggs Mrs. Harada used to decorate for Easter, all hollowed out and easy to crack.
I needed to do something so I took some photos of Pop. I didn’t think he noticed.
But he must’ve heard the shutter click because he asked me to come up and stand next to him. “Take a picture looking out there,” he said. “Not that I’ll ever forget this day. But it’s important to remember it. That we all remember it.”
I took the photo. Then he said the benediction, like he does at the end of every service.
On the drive home, it sunk in: With everyone in Camp Harmony, Pop doesn’t have a church. And nobody knows when they’ll be back.
I wonder what he’s going to do.
Friday, May 15, 1942
DeeDee —
The headline in the Seattle Times today: LAST OF COUNTY JAPS GOING SOON.
I hate that word. It even sounds awful.
The newspaper didn’t get it quite right, anyway. Maybe there’s a few Japanese families somewhere in the county, but not around here. Japantown is as still as a cemetery. Our church is lonelier than the birdhouse in our backyard after the last chickadee has fledged. And all the empty houses in our neighborhood stare glumly at me as I walk to school.
My classmates carry on as if everything is normal, as if a quarter of our student population wasn’t missing. We still have pep assemblies for the baseball team. The drama club is still going to put on As You Like It. The ASB is still selling tickets for the eighth-grade graduation ball.
I can’t look at the posters without thinking of all the eighth graders who won’t be going to the dance. Without thinking about Betty, who had already started making her dress and who won’t even be here for the graduation ceremony.
I know this relocation plan is because of the war and it’s meant to help us feel safe. But when I look around, I don’t feel safe; I feel sad.
Saturday, May 16, 1942
DeeDee —
Trixie was peeved at me for not going to the show with her. “Bud and Eddy might be there,” she said. But I had promised Betty I’d come see her.
The person who named it “Camp Harmony” has a warped sense of humor. There is nothing “harmonic” about that place. It’s a converted fairgrounds, for crying out loud. My stomach got all nervous when we drove up because there is barbed wire all around the camp. Pop had to show his pass to a guard with a gun at the gate. I’ve never seen a gun up close before. After we got inside, I asked Pop if the guns were to protect the Japanese, but he didn’t answer.
I followed Pop through the camp on wobbly legs. The buildings are arranged by blocks, with bathrooms in each block. People were in lines everywhere — at the mess halls, at the post office, at the bathrooms. I didn’t feel right taking pictures of people, so I concentrated on the buildings. I saw why Jim called their place “Knot Inn.” Even I could tell the barracks had been thrown together in a hurry. In a couple of places you could see from the outside right into the apartments. They’re just big rooms, with no inside walls, so people have hung up blankets to get a little privacy. A little girl peeked her head around a blanket as I was snapping a shot. She was smiling but I didn’t see many other smiles today.
Mrs. Tokita isn’t very lucky. Her “apartment” is a horse stall—truly! It’s dark and smelly, even though she’s carted away all the old hay and scrubbed until her knuckles are bleeding. We ate lunch in the mess hall that Betty’s family is assigned to. She’s right. The food is wretched. It was Vienna sausages and sauerkraut. Betty said that’s the third time this week. I’m going to bring a sackful of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to share next time I come.
I needed to use the facilities while I was there but when I saw the long lines for the latrines — outhouses, really, without any partitions between the wooden seats — I decided to hold it until I got home to our nice, clean bathroom.
But Betty doesn’t have that choice.
Wednesday, May 20, 1942
DeeDee —
I wrote Hank about visiting Camp Harmony. I told him about trying to figure out whether the Japanese being sent away for the war was any different than his being sent away for the war, like Bud said. Is it really like rationing, just one more thing we all have to pitch in and do for the war effort?
The thing is, I wonder if Bud would feel that way if he were the one in an assembly center. I couldn’t stop thinking about that as I got ready for bed tonight, having a nice, clean bathroom — with a flush toilet! — all to myself and sleeping on a real mattress rather than a cotton sack filled with straw.
Thursday, May 28, 1942
DeeDee —
It’s after dinner and my heart is still pounding. I thought we were goners when the air raid siren went off today. One minute I was sitting in Math class and the next minute, I was stumbling out the door, with no time to grab my coat or pocketbook. “Quietly, children, quietly,” our teacher told us. “But quickly.”
I found Trixie in the hall. We grabbed hands and kept moving. The hall was crammed with kids on the verge of running and teachers yelling, “Don’t run. Don’t run.”
Miss Mahon’s voice on the public address system carried over all the commotion. “This is not a drill. This is a code yellow alert.”
Trixie’s face turned the same shade of white as her blouse. Code yellow meant we had thirty minutes until the enemy planes showed up. All I could think was, are we the next Pearl Harbor?
“Come on!” I pulled her forward, ignoring our teachers. We ran out of the building, down the steps, and to the street. I looked up at the sky. No planes yet. “My house is closer. Come on!”
“I can’t. I can’t.” Fear glued Trixie to the sidewalk. She was sobbing in great huge gulps. I couldn’t waste any more time.
“You have to,” I yelled. “Move!” I jerked her so hard she practically fell over. That got her moving, though. I would not let go of her hand, dragging her all those blocks to my front door. I pushed it open and we went flying inside.
Pop came out of the den. The minute I saw him, I burst into tears, too, gasping out the words I’d been carrying in my head all the way home, “It’s an air raid.”
He ran to the radio and turned it on. Some soap opera was playing. We listened for a few seconds — Trixie and I clinging to each other — and then Pop turned the knob to another station. And another. No emergency announcements. No “We interrupt this program to bring you a special bulletin.” It didn’t make any sense.
Pop went to the phone. “I’m goi
ng to call the school. Piper, why don’t you make some hot Ovaltine?”
By the time the milk was warmed, Pop was back in the kitchen with news. “I just got off the phone with the school secretary. It was a drill, girls. Just a drill.” He gave Trixie a quick hug then held his arms out to me.
“But they said it was a code yellow.” I was shaking again, but I was mad this time.
Trixie started sniff ling again. “I thought we were goners.”
Pop shook his head. “I don’t agree, but the civil defense folks thought it was a good idea to make everyone think it was the real thing.” He gave me a squeeze, then stepped away to turn off the flame under the saucepan of milk. He poured it with steady hands into two mugs. I got the Ovaltine out of the cupboard.
“Drink up, you two.” He rested his hands on our heads, like he was giving us a blessing. “Trixie, I’ll call your mother and let her know you’re here.”
We drank our Ovaltine and then Mrs. Burke came for Trixie. Pop canceled his church meeting and stayed home with me. I told him he didn’t have to.
But I was oh so glad he did.
I never want to go through another day like this again. Ever.
Saturday, May 30, 1942
DeeDee —
Pop got six cases of plums from someone at the farmer’s market to take to the camp. Fresh fruit is more precious than gold there. I helped him load the crates into the Blue Box with the latest issue of Modern Screen from me and a copy of The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson from Miss Wyatt, both for Betty. I’m betting she’ll read the movie magazine first!
No one answered at the Satos’ apartment so I left the magazine and book with their neighbor.
Pop and I walked different “avenues” of Area A to hand out fruit. I met an old man and his wife in Section 14, the Matsuis. They didn’t go to our church, but I gave them some plums anyway. The man insisted I come in for tea. That’s the old Japanese way. If someone gives you a present, you need to give something in return.
The tea tasted like the kind Mrs. Harada always makes. It was nice to have something familiar in this mixed-up place. Mrs. Matsui was in bed, but maybe it was because they only had one chair. A painting of Mt. Rainier hung above the bed. It wasn’t picture-perfect, like some art, but there was something about it that made you feel like you were right there, about ready to hike up into the meadows.
I told them how much I liked the painting and Mr. Matsui’s face lit up. He started to say something but his wife launched into a coughing fit and couldn’t stop. “You’ll excuse us, please,” he said. He hurried to get her a drink of water. I promised to come back another time and slipped out the door.
Outside, I looked up, over the barbed wire fences, past the guard towers with their machine guns, and beyond the Ferris wheel — left over from the last county fair—and there was Mt. Rainier looming in the distance, etched in white wonder against the blue sky. It doesn’t come out from behind the cloud cover very often. I took a picture of it to send to Hank. Though I was looking at the real thing through my viewfinder, I couldn’t help thinking about the painting I’d just seen.
And how nobody knew when the people in the camp would be able to see this mountain again from outside that jagged barbed wire fence.
Saturday, June 6, 1942
DeeDee —
When we drove up to Camp Harmony this morning, the guard wouldn’t let us through the A gate into Area D. He said Pop’s “permanent pass” had expired. Pop asked him how something permanent could expire but the guard wouldn’t answer him. All he would say is, “Please remove your vehicle from the premises, sir.”
I was scared spitless but not Pop. In his deep, sermon voice, he asked to see the camp commander. The guard pretended he didn’t hear him and said, “Please remove your vehicle from the premises, sir.” Pop asked again to see the commander, and kept asking. It was like a badminton game, with the shuttlecock being batted back and forth across the net. Only this wasn’t a game.
I kept my eyes straight ahead, frozen to the car seat. I was afraid if I looked at the guard, it’d make him even madder. And if I looked at Pop, I might burst into tears. So I studied every detail of the scene through the windshield: the red fence, the tar paper peeling off the roof of the guardhouse, a pair of posters on the side of the small building, one in English and one in Japanese.
Pop and the soldier both stopped talking, each staring the other down. I was hardly able to breathe, because I was sure we were going to get put in jail or worse. Pop didn’t blink. It worked! The guard went inside finally and came out with an officer who told Pop he’d have a new pass for him by Tuesday. I never thought of Pop as brave before, but now I see where Hank gets it. Not me. I was still shaking two hours later when we pulled into our own driveway.
Sunday, June 7, 1942
DeeDee —
It’s kind of weird not going to our own church. Today we all played hooky again and sat around reading the Sunday papers, which were full of news about a big battle at Midway Island. The papers called it a “great naval-air clash,” which ended up being bad for Japan. I found Midway on our globe — it took a magnifying glass to see it way out there in the ocean. I know planes can’t fly that far on their own. They’re being launched from “bird boats.” Like the Enterprise.
I read every single word of every single article about the battle and didn’t see one mention of which carriers were at Midway.
And it’s been weeks since we’ve heard from Hank.
Monday, June 8, 1942
DeeDee —
Four more days until it’s “no more pencils, no more books, no more teachers’ dirty looks.” Trixie’s having a barbecue at her house on Friday night to celebrate the end of seventh grade. Her parents let her invite boys. Eddy will be there, of course. And Bud, too.
He and I made up. He said he was sorry and that he didn’t want us to argue anymore. I don’t want us to argue, either. But shouldn’t I be able to say what I think?
Having a boyfriend is complicated.
Tuesday, June 9, 1942
DeeDee —
At lunch, Eddy said so many of our ships were destroyed at Pearl Harbor that it’s a sure bet the Enterprise was at Midway. Trixie started chattering about how her party is going. And Bud offered me his last French fry. I know they were trying to distract Eddy and make me feel better. And it worked. For a second. Until Debbie Sue opened her mouth and said her father heard the Japanese were living in luxury, getting all the sugar they wanted, while the rest of us had to make real sacrifices. I got up and walked away from the table. Trixie told me later that I take everything too seriously. That if I didn’t try to take the Japanese side all the time, everything would be fine. “You can’t change anything about the camps,” she said. Which is true. I can’t change anything.
But I wish I could.
Wednesday, June 10, 1942
DeeDee —
Pop tried to hide it from me but I saw anyway. Right there on the front page was a report from Tokyo that two U.S. aircraft carriers of the “Enterprise and Hornet types” had been sunk at Midway.
Maybe Tokyo’s lying … but maybe they’re not.
Thursday, June 11, 1942
DeeDee —
Margie heard some scuttlebutt at work about Midway. But nothing about which ships were involved in the battle.
Friday, June 12, 1942 — The Last Day of Seventh Grade!
DeeDee —
The teachers gave us an hour at the end of the day so we could sign yearbooks. Trixie wrote, “We’ll be best friends until Niagara Falls.” Debbie Sue wrote, “You and Bud are such a cute couple.” Because of my hobby and my report on Margaret Bourke-White, Miss Wyatt wrote, “Use your heart as the true viewfinder.” And Bud wrote, “To my favorite shutterbug.”
On the way home from school, while Bud was talking about his summer plans, I thought about the autographs that weren’t in my yearbook — like Betty’s. I wondered if any of the other kids at Washington were thinking about
our Japanese classmates. It sure didn’t seem like it.
Saturday, June 13, 1942
DeeDee —
Trixie’s party was a blast! Her mom baked cupcakes and each one had a candy 8 on top, for eighth graders, which is what we are now. We played Crazy Eights and ate Pieces of Eight (carrot coins) and we danced to all of Trixie’s 78s. Since there were more girls than boys at the party, Bud danced with lots of other girls, even Debbie Sue.
I’m only a little bit jealous.
Sunday, June 14, 1942
DeeDee —
Betty’s feeling lousy. She says it’s the food. I believe it. She wasn’t up to visiting today and Pop had business with some of the Nisei men, so I wandered over to Section 14 again. Mr. Matsui was coming back from the mess hall with some hot tea and invited me in. His wife was still in bed. Maybe the food’s getting to her, too.
