Under the Silk Hibiscus

by Alice J. Wisler

  “At least . . .”

  I wanted to curse, to yell, to scream. To use all those words that Mama and Papa had said I must never utter.

  Instead, I told my aunt to go back to our barracks and take care of Emi. Emi was innocent, too. And she deserved a chance at life.

  “You could say you are sorry.”

  “Sorry?” The word sounds like a number of Japanese words I was unfamiliar with. “What should I be sorry for?”

  She snorted. “Apologize any way you can. Apology means you will go free.”

  I wondered if she realized what she was asking me to do. “The watch belongs to us. Somebody stole it from us, from our barracks. What exactly am I supposed to apologize for?”

  She just looked at me and shook her head. “You are too much like your father. And you know where he is.”

  Certainly she didn’t believe that her brother-in-law was a spy as the FBI accused him of being? How could she?

  Charles came to see me, and I thought he’d be angry since he had lost his job because of me. But he smiled and said, while he felt sorry for me, he wasn’t mad.

  “I know Mekley took the watch or got it somehow. I know you only wanted to take it back because it is yours.”

  Charles’ visit boosted my spirits, even though he did bring me homework from my classes. If he believed me, then perhaps others would.

  Since no one had bothered to bring me anything of interest to do during my lock up, I began to daydream. Along with thinking about Lucy and wishing I could hear her songs in the night, I thought of the war ending. Certainly, it would. And when it did, we would go back to San Jose, meet up with Papa, and open another fish market. I thought of how much work it had been to help out in the shop with Papa and yet, how rewarding it had been. I wished that I had a notebook that I could write my plans in. Next time someone came to see me, I’d ask for one.

  Along with my homework, Charles had brought me two pencils. I was using one of them to write an essay for English when Mr. Kubo came by.

  “How much longer do I have to be here?” I asked, as he sat on a chair facing me.

  He sighed and then let a stream of air escape from his lips. “The council said we have to show the community that we can’t tolerate this kind of behavior. We also have to show the local towns that we believe in reprimanding those who do wrong.”

  “I think I’ve served enough time. Can’t you do something?”

  “I have been an advocate for you, Nathan. I’ve known you since you were born. Of course, I understand how this all happened. But I think you are stuck here for a few more days.”

  “A few more days?” My throat felt congested; I coughed. Thinking of Mama’s last breath, I thought of lungs filled with congestion, lungs swimming in an ocean of fluid, short raspy breaths and then lungs no longer able to fight, lungs at rest. As I took a deep breath, I became aware of the very act of breathing that I so often neglected to view as a gift.

  “Perhaps only a day or more.” Mr. Kubo offered me a weak smile.

  This wasn’t fair. My anger turned from Mama’s death to anger at Mekley. Mekley deserved to be in a cell, not me.

  “Sometimes we just have to forgive. We can’t keep bitterness as our companion for long or we then turn into the very beasts that have taken from us.”

  I wanted to complain some more, but he stood from the chair and said he had to go. “Oh,” he said as he raised his hand to knock on the door to be let out. “The watch . . .”

  “Yes?”

  I thought he was going to face me and continue talking, but instead he kept his face to the door. As the attending guard opened it from the outside and a cloud of dust blew, Mr. Kubo said, “It was returned to Mekley.”

  “What?”

  “I am afraid that members of the council went to your block leader and asked that the watch be taken from your barracks and handed back to the soldier.” He stepped down from my confined room and without looking back, walked away.

  I felt my stomach sour. I raised my hand to punch the wall. But, instead, I just sat on the chair as defeat consumed me.

  The guard closed the door, and I suppose he locked it. I was too frustrated to hear anything but my own anger.

  I lay on my bed and stared at the ceiling, and then I thought, I will just have to do the best I can.

  I wasn’t sure what that meant or how that looked.

  I dreamed of Mama that night. I dreamed of her reading to me a book she and I both loved. A book about a courageous lion who saved all the animals in the jungle. Then I recalled the story of Shadrack, Meshak, and Abednego in the fiery furnace. God protected them, He even came to stand among them.

  I scanned the stark walls and shivered in the cold. Would God protect me here in my furnace, which was more like an ice box?

  Forgiveness was not as easy as it sounded. My heart was like a huge boulder, like a jagged rock on the coast of California, hammered by waves, refusing to budge.

  “Patience,” Mr. Kubo had said. Perhaps that applied to forgiveness as well.

  Chapter Nineteen

  They let me out of jail on the first day of summer. I had been a prisoner for nine long days and eight nights.

  As the door to the jail shut behind me, I stood on the stoop with a tomato crate that contained my belongings. Over the days, the items brought to me—the books, the clothes, a notebook, pencils, the stories from Tom—had increased and could not fit into the bag my aunt had first brought. Mr. Kubo realized that, and had provided the crate.

  I blinked as the June sun caressed my skin. When you’ve been set free, the sun feels like it’s a gift to you, as though it’s celebrating with you in your freedom. Even though the dust blew in my face and made me sneeze, I walked with my chin up toward our barracks. When I looked over my shoulder, the guard who had told me to go was no longer there. No more being guarded in a cell! The thought was invigorating. Laughing, I waltzed into the washroom, set the crate on the floor, and splashed water onto my face.

  Continuing to our barracks, several eight by eleven posters taped to the street posts greeted me. One listed the movie schedule for the week. Orson Wells’ Citizen Kane was showing at the camp theater. Another poster announced that there was a dance that night. I didn’t feel up to dancing to Glenn Miller, Count Basie and Bing Crosby or seeing Ken snuggle with Lucy and all the other girls. I was ready for something to celebrate being out of the jail cell, but not a dance. Besides, I had written off girls. I would get close to no one. No one could be trusted. I vowed to live differently now. First I’d find another job. In seven weeks I’d be sixteen and, along with that, my work experience on the farm should make me a good candidate. While no one in Cody or Powell would want to hire me, surely there was work for an experienced worker inside this camp.

  I stopped by the rugged fence and breathed in the fresh air. Heart Mountain was clear, just a few wispy clouds draped over her. Had she been a woman, those clouds would have been at her neck, resembling a scarf. She would have smiled at me, shaded her eyes from the sun, and in a soprano voice called out to me, “Nathan, welcome back.”

  The mountain, a woman? And a talking one at that? Really, Nathan, your stint in solitary confinement has made you loopy. Even so, I laughed again. The sound of laughter out in the open sounded much different than it sounded inside closed quarters. Yet the dismal barracks and barbed wire reminded me that I was not really free. This camp still had me as its prisoner.

  My steps were not as energetic as I continued toward my block.

  “I see that they let you out at last.” The voice came from Mrs. Busybody. She held a pitcher and poured water from it onto a cluster of yellow flowers that were secluded in a bed near her front door. “Do you know that families have left us to go off to live with their relatives in Chicago?”

  I was about to respond, but the woman was quick to continue talking. “Just think of the joy it would be to get out of this place once and for all! Do you have any relatives in other parts of the country?”<
br />
  “No,” I said. “We are all still in California.”

  “You mean you were all in California. You won’t get to live there again.”

  Never live in San Jose again? Surely, she was mistaken. I gave her a slight nod and made my way down the road as a truck rumbled by, dispensing dust over us.

  “You need to think about some place to live once this war ends, you know,” she called out after me. “We can’t live here in this horrible place forever. One day they will pay for this! One day they will be punished for this atrocity!”

  Inside our unit, Aunt Kazuko stood by Emi’s crib, a cookie to her lips. “Well, look who is here!” she said, placing the rest of the cookie into her apron pocket. “It’s about time! I have been suffering here doing everything.”

  Emi gurgled when she saw me and reached her chubby arms toward me.

  I dropped the crate onto my cot and bent down over her crib to scoop her up. “Did you miss me?”

  She stuck a sticky finger in my neck. She smelled of talcum powder and milk and softness—if softness could ever be bottled.

  “Put her on the quilt,” said my aunt, motioning toward the floor where a patchwork quilt we’d gotten from someone was spread out. “Look what she can do.”

  No sooner had I sat her down than she scooted over the quilt on her bottom and then clapped her hands. Then she reached out, held onto my arm and, using it to brace herself, pulled up. Her hands were in my hair, pressing down as she steadied herself on her chunky legs. Suddenly, she let go. She was standing in front of me. All by herself.

  “Look at her,” my aunt said, and laughed. “Just look at her. No worries.” She took Emi’s hand and coaxed her to take a step. Emi took two steps and then plopped down on her bottom.

  The door swung open and Ken entered. “Little bro!” he cried and, as I stood, he embraced me in a bear hug. “You made it back!” From his back pocket he pulled out a bottle of Coca Cola. “Here, drink up!”

  I wondered if this was his way of offering the olive branch. I gripped the bottle; it was cold. Where did he get the Coke? A soldier probably bought it for him. Thinking of soldiers made me think of what I had just been through over the past weeks. I shoved the bottle back into his hand. “You can drink it.” Turning from them all, I rushed out of our unit.

  He called out to me. “I’ll be gone soon!”

  What did he mean?

  “Me and some of the others from San Jose, we’re going to fight.”

  I stopped on the road to hear him add, “We’ve enlisted. We leave next week for Fort Douglas in Utah.”

  “Utah?”

  A small voice came from behind me. “Wanna see my pet, Nathan?”

  In my anger, I’d not seen Tom seated on his rock.

  He had a wooden crate, one used to haul vegetables in, and when I stepped toward it, a brown horned toad jumped over the edge.

  Tom laughed. “He likes you.”

  Next to Mekley, the toad was about the ugliest creature I had ever seen. “He’s your pet?”

  “Yeah. He’s Bogart.”

  “Bogart?” For a kid who liked space stories, I didn’t think he would be one to name a toad after an actor.

  “Yep. Isn’t he cute?”

  I shrugged.

  “He’s fast, too. He jumps around. I even watched him catch a fly. Do you want to pet him? He doesn’t bite.”

  “No, not now.” I moved away from Tom and Bogart. Emotions raced through me. I was home, well, back with my family. I was all ready to be different, to live better, to be the best I could. In the cell, I thought it would be easy. But I hadn’t expected to be faced with Ken’s decision to leave us. Aimlessly, I walked. How could Ken really leave us to fight? How come no one had told me when they’d come to visit me in jail? What else had I missed while locked away?

  Look at her, no worries. As I walked across the camp, my aunt’s words about Emi came to mind.

  And no bitterness in her heart either, I thought. She was still so unspoiled by what the human heart could be—angry, despising, jealous, and worse. Her heart was tender, sweet. Pure, like snow before being trampled on by heavy boots.

  I watched people enter the mess hall for dinner. I was going to be able to dine with people instead of having to eat alone, and yet, I didn’t care. I wasn’t hungry.

  Mr. Kubo said he’d found a position for me. I could work in the mess hall preparing our meals.

  “Help is needed in the mess hall where our block eats,” he said. “You can chop vegetables and wash dishes.”

  Those in the camp who had had orchards and farms before being evacuated were masters at making the dry wasteland into productive fields. By summer we had our own cucumbers, tomatoes, and squash. On the walk to the mess hall, I often stopped to watch the men and women picking the ripe crops and loading them into truck beds.

  Preparing meals kept me indoors, but it also gave me time to think. In my confinement I’d spent hours thinking of what it could be like to be rid of Heart Mountain and return to San Jose to open a shop. Now, as I chopped onions and potatoes, I continued my daydreams. I wanted to make money. My fish shop could be the best in San Jose. I’d find some trusty fishermen and buy fresh fish from them. Papa would help me and, together, father and son, we’d be a team. These thoughts kept me going and kept my mind off of the watch situation, my anger toward Mekley and Ken, and almost kept me from thoughts of Lucy. Almost.

  One evening, after cleaning up the kitchen with the other mess hall workers, I headed back to our barracks. The moon was a sliver over Heart Mountain, and the air was as crisp as a newly picked cucumber.

  Under the beam of a street light, I saw a figure. As I drew closer to it, I knew exactly who this person was. My stomach knotted; my pulse quickened. I braced myself for the worst.

  “Mori!” Mekley, dressed in his uniform, leaned against the side of a warehouse. “How are you, Mori? Glad to be back with us? We missed you.” The grin that stretched across his face resembled a look I’d seen from Tom’s toad. “Ask me the time, Mori!” With a large gesture, he put his hand into his pocket and pulled out a watch.

  I recognized it immediately. I lunged toward him, desperate to take what belonged to me.

  He batted at my hand. “Not yours!” As he laughed, I smelled the familiar aroma I associated with this soldier—beer. Dangling the watch by its chain, he said, “Ask me the time, Mori! Go on, ask me.”

  I was no different from Mrs. Busybody, complaining about injustice and unable to do anything about it

  Ken, along with six of his gang from San Jose, did leave us for Fort Douglas. They were talking loudly about how eager they were to serve their county in the army. At first, some of them had protested. Why had they been classified as aliens with a 4C Enemy Alien on their draft cards just a year ago after Pearl Harbor, and were now being recruited to protect our country? Ken protested just because he liked a good fight. But, really, he didn’t care about the principle of the matter; he was ready to get out of Heart Mountain and see some action.

  Lucy didn’t hide her tears.

  I refused to cry.

  As the weeks passed, Lucy talked of Ken often, wondering aloud what he was doing and when she’d hear from him.

  She also talked about her aunt and uncle in Manhattan. I’d never heard her mention these people before, but she was adamant that they wanted her to live with them and that they were wonderful. Her uncle knew a record producer, and he had asked her for a demo tape. She was nervous, but wanted to record herself singing. She thought she’d go to the rec hall some night when the camp was quiet and sing into a tape recorder. “My dad said that the admin office would let me borrow a tape recorder.”

  When she knocked on our door two days later, she had a letter in her hand. Of course I knew by her smile who it was from. “He’s in training at Camp Shelby,” she said. She knew my geography stunk, so for my benefit added, “That’s in Mississippi.”

  She laughed as she read a line to me. “He says don’t si
t under the apple tree with anyone else but me.”

  Glenn Miller, yeah, leave it up to my brother to borrow a line from a songwriter.

  I asked if the letter was censored or opened before she’d picked it up at our camp post office. All of mine from Papa had been opened.

  She said, “No, not censored, but sealed. With a kiss.”

  I felt like throwing up.

  The next day, she knocked on our door to ask if I’d listen to a recording of her singing. I went with her to her living quarters where a reel to reel tape player sat on a table. She punched a knob and, after a little static, I heard her recorded voice singing a song about freedom and love and hearts of sadness.

  “Do you like it?”

  “Did you write it?”

  She lowered her head and nodded.

  “What’s it called?”

  “‘My Soldier and Me.’”

  I supposed she had been thinking about Ken as she wrote it. “Yeah, it’s good.”

  “Really? Do you think I could make a record?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thanks.” She smiled and, with a graceful gesture, smoothed back her long hair. “That means a lot coming from you, Nathan.”

  “Why should it mean a lot coming from me?”

  “Ken told me that you not only play the piano but have won several competitions. You never told me that.”

  “There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” I wanted to say. If you’d quit focusing on your soldier and you, you would be surprised what a swell guy I am. But I would never say that. That would then mean that I had become my older brother.

  She continued to talk about her aunt and uncle and what she’d heard about New York.

  “How do your parents feel about your leaving them?” I asked.

  “They’re fine with it. I mean, I am eighteen. I think I’m old enough to make my own decisions, don’t you?”

  There was a dance that night. The music seemed louder than usual, the air electrified with romance, as boys and girls danced closely to the slow songs. I looked over all the girls and wondered why I only wished to dance with one.