by Dean Hughes
“But there’s no need for this, sir. Isn’t there someone I can talk to?”
“Yeah. Talk to Mr. Hirohito, the emperor of Japan. See what he can do for you. Now, get out of my way.”
Yuki’s anger suddenly fired. “You can’t treat us like this!” he yelled into Aldo’s face.
Aldo slammed both hands into Yuki’s chest, sent him stumbling backward. In his rage, Yuki was about to charge the man, but he heard his father’s voice, not loud, but firm. “No!”
Yuki stopped at the command, but mostly because he knew that he was only making things worse.
“Shikata ga nai,” Father said.
Yuki hated that idea, “it can’t be helped.” It was something his father believed and often said. It was the Japanese way of thinking—the old way. Yuki was too American for such acceptance. And yet, there really was nothing he could do. He stepped aside.
Carson grabbed Father’s boots, and the two men pushed past Yuki, then opened the car door and forced Father into the backseat. Aldo stayed outside by the car, apparently to make sure that Father didn’t try to make a run for it. Carson returned to the house, and he systematically worked his way through the five rooms while Yuki sat with his mother, his arm around her shoulders. All that strength she had tried to show was gone now and she was weeping, her hands over her face.
“I knew this was coming,” Yuki said. “All Father thinks about is Japan. I told him to burn all the Japanese stuff he has around the house, but he wouldn’t do it.”
“How could he do that?”
“The same way a lot of people have been doing.”
Yuki had talked to his friend Shigeo Omura about the things happening in California these last few days, since Japan had bombed Pearl Harbor and war had been declared. At lunch on Tuesday, Shig had whispered to him, “They’re rounding up anyone who’s considered a community leader. Your dad’s known—because of his newspaper. He’s got to throw out that Buddhist shrine he keeps in your house. My parents have gotten rid of everything in our house that looks Japanese.”
Yuki had told his father what he needed to do, but Father had said nothing, done nothing. It was always his way. A son didn’t tell a father what to do.
“My father’s not like yours,” Yuki had told Shig. But he decided not to explain what he meant by that. Instead, he asked, “How are kids treating you?”
Yuki and Shig had carried their lunches to school in paper bags. When Yuki was younger, his mother had prepared him a Japanese bento box, with rice and fish, but kids had turned up their noses at the smell. In high school, he and Shig had switched to bologna sandwiches and apples, like everyone else. But this week, since the attack on Pearl Harbor, they had sat in a corner of the lunchroom, at the end of a table, away from others.
“They stare at me,” Shig said. “No one’s ever paid any attention to me before, and they’re not saying anything to me now, but all week, I’ve seen them looking at me—like I’m not the guy I was before.”
Yuki nodded. “It’s been the same for me,” he said. “Some boy I don’t even know said I should ‘go back to Japan’—like I’ve ever been there. But he didn’t say it to my face. He whispered it behind me in the hallway and then he slipped into the crowd so he didn’t have to look me in the eye.”
Two girls approached the table with their lunches, but they stopped short and turned away, leaving the table mostly empty in the crowded lunchroom. Yuki thought of welcoming them, but he knew that although it would have been all right the week before, it wasn’t now.
“People like you, Yuki,” Shig said. “You’re popular. They’ll get over the shock before long, and they’ll know you haven’t changed. But me, I’m just the little shrimp I’ve always been. The war only makes things worse.”
“Hey, you’re the best second baseman this school’s ever had. The guys who play with us know that.”
“That doesn’t matter anymore.”
Yuki and Shig had played baseball together for many years. Yuki had always played shortstop and Shig second base, and they had become a great double-play combination. It was true that Shig was really small—only about five feet tall—and he was quiet, so maybe that was why people didn’t notice him around the school. The ballplayers had always teased him about having no strike zone and about wearing glasses. But Shig was smart, and when he let loose a little, he was funny. He let Yuki get all the attention and do most of the talking, but when Yuki was struggling, especially with his stern father, Shig would always listen.
What Yuki also knew was that he was going to need Shig more than ever now that the white kids were turning away from them. He had always considered himself friends with people of all races. He had played sports, gone to dances, hung out at soda fountains, and girls had liked to dance with him because he did the jitterbug so well. He had bought himself an old jalopy of a car and had taken girlfriends to the movies, worn the latest styles, been a regular guy. Now—overnight—he was “the enemy.”
The lunchroom was full of noise, the same as ever. Maybe a war had started, but kids were talking and laughing the way they always had. But now Yuki could see three Japanese American girls he knew headed for the table where he and Shig were sitting. This was becoming an island for the Japanese students, and yet, that was the last thing any of them wanted.
“Will you stick with me, Yuki?” Shig asked.
Yuki was taking a drink from his Coke bottle. He put it down. “What do you mean, Shig? Of course I’ll—”
“It’s going to be tougher now. This war might last a long time. If people are going to stare at me all day, every day, I’m going to go crazy. I need someone I can be ‘normal’ around.”
“Hey, I need the same thing. We’ll look out for each other.”
But now, at home, with the arrest of Yuki’s father, things had taken a new turn. It struck Yuki that he was going to have to provide for his family. Maybe he would have to drop out of school. He glanced at his mother, saw how devastated she was. “Don’t worry,” he told her. “We’ll be all right. I’ll keep the farm going.” But Yuki knew the truth: Everything had changed, and nothing was going to be easy.
Agent Carson carried out a lot of stuff: copies of the newspaper Father published, a ceremonial sword that Father had brought with him from Japan, some paper lanterns, a set of binoculars and a flashlight, some letters written in Japanese, and even the Buddha statue from Father’s shrine. Then, for some reason, Carson came back and got the tabletop radio that sat on a kitchen shelf. “Why take our radio?” Mother asked, but Carson didn’t answer.
“I didn’t find any guns. Are there any on your property? Maybe out in that shed?”
“We don’t own guns,” Mrs. Nakahara said. “We have no need for them.”
“I’ll just say this: You better not be lying. If you’re caught with weapons at any time, your husband won’t be the only one locked up.” He touched the brim of his hat. “We’ll be going now. Be sure to follow the new curfew laws—don’t go out after eight o’clock in the evening. I’m sure you’ll hear from your husband at some point. Thank you for your cooperation.” With the radio under his arm, he walked out to the car.
Yuki got up and watched. He could see his father hunched in the backseat, staring ahead. The agents drove away, the car once again raising a plume of dust. Mother stood up, came to Yuki. He took her in his arms and she sobbed against his shoulder. “There must be someone I can talk to,” Yuki said. “We have to get this straightened out.”
“No one will listen to us, Yuki. You know that.”
But Yuki didn’t want to believe it. He was an American, a citizen, and his family was loyal to the United States. They were farmers, churchgoers; they operated a produce business and paid their taxes. Father may have kept his shrine and he may have retained his love for Japan, but he was grateful for all he had been able to achieve here. And Mother was a “church lady,” a Methodist, who spoke English more correctly than most, with no Japanese accent at all. What more could people expec
t of them?
CHAPTER 2
April 1943
Yuki held Keiko’s hand as they walked from the dance floor. The dining hall where the teen dances were held on Friday nights was much too warm, and Yuki had been trying out all his jitterbug steps, so sweat was beading up on his forehead and his shirt was sticking to his back. But Keiko looked pleased with herself, and Yuki had the feeling that she was pleased with him, too. She was two years younger than he was, and she had always been “Shig’s little sister” to him—but she had grown up a lot in the last year, and recently it had struck him that she was probably the cutest girl in the whole camp.
Yuki spotted Shig standing by the wall. There was a big crowd tonight, and there were plenty of girls to dance with, but so far Shig hadn’t asked any of them. That was nothing new. Shig just wasn’t confident in his dancing, and especially in his ability to talk with girls. In spite of all the changes in their lives—the roundup of Japanese Americans on the coast, and the transport to this desert camp in Utah—Shig was pretty much the same kid he had always been.
“Hey,” Shig said, “you two can swing it. I didn’t know you had it in you, Keiko.”
Keiko smiled, showing her dimples—which Yuki loved to look at. She had an innocent, round face and quick eyes. And her skin, flushed a little now, was delicate, perfect. “I’ve been practicing with my girlfriends,” she said, “but Yuki knows more tricks. Did you see him throw me in the air?” She raised her arms to imitate the way he had lifted her.
“Hey, everyone saw him do that,” Shig said. “You better be careful, little girl—and keep your dress down.”
That obviously embarrassed Keiko. She slapped Shig across his shoulder and walked away.
“Don’t give her a hard time,” Yuki told Shig.
“I’m not. I was just teasing her. But what’s going on with you two? Do you like my little sister?”
“Hey, she’s cute as a bug’s ear. What’s not to like?” The truth was, Yuki liked her a lot more than he wanted to admit. He had flirted with her at lunch one day, and the joking had evolved into a long conversation. Since then, they had talked almost every day. What he had realized was that she was not only cute, but smart, and surprisingly thoughtful about life. A lot of Japanese girls thought they had to be quiet and deferential around men—the way their mothers were—but Keiko wasn’t afraid to express her opinions and even disagree with Yuki at times.
“Yuki, she’s only sixteen.”
“I know. But you know what? When I get back from the war, she’s going to be all grown up. And who knows, maybe I’ll grow up myself.” He put his hands on Shig’s shoulders and pretended to be serious. “The way I see it, your family would be greatly honored if I married her. By then, I’ll be better looking than ever—if that’s even possible—and I’ll have about fifty medals on my chest.”
“Or maybe a bullet hole between your eyes.”
“Not me. I’m quick as a jackrabbit. No one’s going to shoot me.” He made a little sideways jump and ducked his head.
The music had started again—the Mills Brothers singing “Glow Worm.” It was just a record in a jukebox, but it was loud in the low-ceilinged building. The dancers were all Japanese American, but the “American” part was the obvious part. Most of the girls were wearing bobby socks and saddle oxfords or penny loafers, and cute cotton print dresses or stylish skirts and blouses. The guys had arrived in sports jackets and ties, but most had set their coats aside by now.
“Come here a second, Yuki,” Shig said. He walked to the nearby entrance and stepped out into the night air. It was April, and lately the days had been warm in the high-elevation Utah desert, but nights were still cold. That cool air felt good to Yuki as he stepped outside. “Have you made up your mind for sure?” Shig asked. “Are you really going to enlist?”
“You know I am. And so are you.”
“Maybe. I’m still not sure.”
“You’ve got to go with me, Shig. You can’t break up the ol’ double-play combination.”
But Yuki had sounded a little too serious, even to himself. He looked up at the stars in the darkening sky. As much as he tried to hide it, he had a hard time fighting back his fear of leaving his mother, going off to war. Japanese Americans were not being drafted into the military like everyone else, but they were now being recruited, and some were choosing to sign up. For most of the guys in camp, it was not an easy decision.
• • •
Yuki and Shig now lived in the Central Utah Relocation Center, known as Topaz. After Yuki’s father had been arrested during those final days of 1941, the Nakaharas had received no word from him for quite some time. He finally wrote that he had been hauled off to a prison in Montana. He still hadn’t been charged with a crime, but he offered no hope that he would return before the end of the war. From then on, Yuki had felt the full weight of responsibility for his family, of making sure that they at least had food on their table.
Then, in March 1942, Yuki had seen a man pasting a sheet of paper on a telephone pole in downtown Berkeley. He had an idea what the sign might say, but he still felt a stab of pain when he read the words. Executive Order 9066 had been passed by Congress and signed into law by President Roosevelt. All Japanese who lived in the West Coast states—whether citizens or not—were required to register with the government. What followed in April was worse. With only a few days’ warning, more than 110,000 AJA—Americans of Japanese ancestry—were commanded to assemble at various sites for “relocation.” The order stated that they should bring only what they could carry, which meant one or two suitcases and the clothes they were wearing.
Mother, and especially Yuki’s sisters, May and Kay, had been devastated. His brother, Mick, had been silent but clearly resentful. Lots of rumors were going around by then, but no one knew where this relocation would take them. All Yuki knew was that he had to hold things together, act confident whether he was or not, and offer his family what consolation he could think of.
The Nakaharas’ farm was only leased, since Issei—first-generation Japanese immigrants—were not allowed to own land. Still, the tractor, truck, and equipment couldn’t just sit on a farm that the family would no longer occupy. Everything had to be sold immediately. Father had left a little money in a bank, but Japanese accounts had been frozen by the government and Mother couldn’t access any of her own money. Yuki was baffled that such a thing could happen in the “land of the free.”
The morning after seeing the posted order, Yuki had picked up the Oakland Tribune and read the headline JAPS GIVEN EVACUATION ORDERS HERE. The term “Jap” was not new, but it had always been considered disrespectful. Now it was being printed in the newspapers.
Throughout the spring, Yuki had tried to manage the farm and still go to school every day. His mother wouldn’t hear of him dropping out. He had to be the one to accept forty dollars for a tractor that was worth three hundred, and courteously thank the man who had started out by offering thirty. A lot of their other things—furniture, kitchen items, books—had to be stacked in a barn loft, and there was no telling what would happen to any of it. Mrs. Nakahara was furious, but she told her children as they prepared to leave their house, “Dress in your Sunday clothes, and hold your heads up. The government is shaming itself, but we never will.”
Yuki lived with a barely controlled anger, but he kept thinking ahead. When the war was over, he had to be ready to make a life for himself and for his family. It was obvious to him that he had to avoid all appearance of being anything but a loyal American.
At first, Yuki’s family, along with Shig’s, had been housed in stinking, fly-infested horse stables at the Tanforan Racetrack in San Bruno, south of San Francisco. Then, after a few months of that humiliation, they had been transported by train to Utah, where barracks covered only in tar paper had been quickly thrown together. Each barracks was divided into six small rooms. The Nakaharas had to squeeze into primitive quarters, twelve feet wide and twenty feet long, with no partitions. Mo
st mortifying were the public toilets. In each was a long board with holes cut in it, and no dividers in between. Yuki’s sisters would sometimes wait most of the day to find a moment when they could sneak into the women’s side alone.
The desert of central Utah was fiercely hot in the summer, and then the “internees”—just a nice word for “prisoners,” as far as Yuki was concerned—survived suffocating dust storms in the fall. The constant wind blew right through the loosely constructed walls and floors. Winter on the high plateau was brutal, with no insulation in the walls and only a small coal stove for heat—and coal in short supply. Yuki and his family tried to make the best of their situation by building furniture from boxes and waste lumber and by planting a garden in the alkaline soil, but nothing felt normal. Most everyone housed in the camp had lived all their lives in the lush San Francisco Bay area. Now they were stuck in this remote place, on ugly, arid land. The nearest town, Delta, was fifteen miles away, and around the camp was nothing but sagebrush and greasewood. To Yuki, it looked like a broad stretch of nothingness.
Schools had been established in the camp by fall, and now, in the spring of 1943, Yuki was about to complete his senior year of high school. Teachers had been recruited from the area, and a few had been excellent, but others had hardly known their subjects. What discouraged Yuki most, however, was knowing that going on to college would have little or no value, since most AJA would not be able to get jobs in the careers they chose. Who was going to hire a Japanese teacher or engineer?
And yet, in spite of all that, the young men were now being recruited to enlist as soldiers—to fight for America. During the winter, Yuki and Shig had both turned eighteen, so they knew they would have to make a choice. For many of the men in the camp, the idea of defending the same country that had taken away their freedom was unthinkable. Nisei—second-generation Japanese Americans—supposedly possessed full citizenship, but they found themselves surrounded by tall barbed-wire fences and guard towers. Everyone in camp knew the story of the older man who had wandered out toward the fence one day and been shot and killed by a guard. The guard claimed that the man had been trying to crawl under the fence—but the bullet had struck him in the chest. He had obviously been standing up, facing the guard. And the question was, where could he have gone anyway? Out into the desert? Government spokesmen liked to say that the AJA were being kept in camps for their own safety, but if that were the case, the people asked, why were the machine guns in the guard towers pointed inward, not outward?
