by Dean Hughes
• • •
Standing outside now, Yuki lowered his gaze from the stars to the distant mountains—just a hint of a purple silhouette against an almost dark sky. Lately he had felt as though he were hanging over a cliff, his fingerhold slipping away. “Shig, we have to join up,” he said. “It’s the only way we’ll ever be respected in this country.”
“I’m not sure it will make any difference.”
“You’ve listened to too many of those ‘no, no’ guys. But look what’s happened to them.”
Earlier in the year, a controversy had broken out at Topaz and the other camps. The War Relocation Authority had made an attempt to discover how many of the interned people were willing to proclaim their loyalty to America. Imprisoning people based only on their race was not easy to justify, and government officials were looking for a way to release some of the internees and avoid the expense of housing and feeding them. The questionnaire, however, asked two questions that bothered many AJA. Question 27 asked those of draft age whether they would be willing to serve in the military, and question 28 asked whether they were willing to swear allegiance to the United States and forswear allegiance to Japan. Yuki was shocked when he read the second question. He was an American citizen. Why should he have to swear off allegiance to a foreign country? All the same, he wrote “yes” to both questions, knowing that a “no” would give the wrong impression.
As it turned out, those who had written “no” to the two questions were labeled “disloyals” and transferred to a camp in the California desert where they would be carefully watched and segregated from “loyals.” This way of handling things had created bitterness even in those who had answered “yes” or who had left the questions blank, and Yuki knew that Shig had struggled when one of their good friends—who certainly was no danger to anyone—had been hauled away.
“I know how you feel about Kenji,” Yuki continued. “I feel the same way. But—”
“It’s not just that. And I’m not a chicken. But I’m not sure I want to die for people who hate my guts.”
“We won’t die. We’ll come home war heroes, and those same people will be thanking us.”
“I doubt that. You know what people called us when we worked in the beet fields.”
Yuki and Shig and a lot of others had been allowed to go off camp to help harvest sugar beets—and they had worked hard. But several times, people had driven past the farm and yelled, “Filthy Japs!” And when Yuki and Shig had tried to go to a movie, the manager—a pudgy young guy who looked about the right age to be serving in the army himself—had stood at the door and said, “We don’t allow Japs in here, so move on.”
Yuki had laughed and said, “Listen, friend, we’re from California. We’re Americans, just like you. I’m a Methodist, for crying out loud. A Boy Scout.”
The young fellow had looked surprised for a moment, as though he hadn’t expected Yuki to sound like other teenagers. “Well, people still don’t want to sit next to you in a dark theater,” he said, but he sounded less adamant than he had at first.
“What do they think? That we’re going to sneak up and cut their throats?” Yuki bent over and pretended to draw a knife across someone’s neck. “Hey, we’re out there digging sugar beets—for the war effort—and we love America, the same as you. I’m going to join the army as soon as they’ll let me.”
The guy seemed disarmed by that. He stared at Yuki for a time, and then he merely said, “Well, anyway, I can’t let you in. That’s what the owner told me.”
“That’s all right. We understand. We’re not troublemakers.”
The man had nodded, actually seemed halfway friendly, and Yuki had felt good about the conversation. It was what he had been doing for years. When he had worked at his father’s produce stand, he had always been able to tell when shoppers were hesitant to deal with a Japanese clerk, so Yuki had learned to go out of his way to be helpful, to chat with people about the weather, or about sports—which he knew as well as anyone—and he almost always felt that he broke through with people. Some became steady customers and would laugh and talk with him whenever they came in.
But Shig had never possessed Yuki’s ease with people. When he had played baseball, the chatter started when he came to bat. Players on opposing teams called him “shrimp,” and “four eyes,” and sometimes, behind his back, “that little Jap.” Yuki had always taken any abuse or teasing he had faced and had been able to toss it back at the white guys, but Shig had never been able to do that.
“I’ll tell you what else makes me mad,” Shig continued. “They’re making up a whole regiment of Nisei soldiers. White guys refuse to fight alongside us.”
“I know. But it’s not so strange if guys like to be around their own people. I hate this camp, but it’s kind of nice to be on our own, where we all understand each other. The trouble is, sooner or later we have to get past all that stuff—and just not think about what race we are. For now, though, the way I look at it, if we’re the best regiment in the whole army, we’ll demand respect—and we’ll get it.”
“And what makes you so sure we’re going to be that good?”
Yuki had to think about that. He tucked his hands in his pockets. He didn’t like the desert, but he did love the amazing smear of stars across the night sky, and that’s what he looked at now.
“Shig,” he said, after a time, “I’ll tell you how I feel about giving my all to this war.” But he hesitated, still a little unsure he could say the words. “I keep saying that the government had no right to put my father in prison. And that’s true. He’s not a spy, and he’s not a traitor. But there’s something I’ve always known about him. He’s not an American the way my mother is, and he never will be. His heart has always stayed with Japan. I don’t want to be like that. If I want to be respected, I have to give over my loyalty to this country, entirely. The white guys are signing up and going out to risk their lives to protect America. If I don’t enlist, I’m the same as my father—Japanese at heart.”
Shig didn’t speak for a while. Yuki knew that Shig’s father was much more American in his thinking. He was a farmer, but he raised flowers and marketed them as a wholesaler. He dealt with businesses all through the West. He had no thoughts of returning to Japan. Shig didn’t have to feel ashamed of him.
Finally Shig said, “I know what you’re saying. I’m an American and I want to do my part. But would we be ‘protecting’ America? The Japanese navy is already retreating. They’ll never drop bombs on the mainland, and how’s Hitler supposed to attack us over here?”
“Shig, the Nazis could still take over all of Europe, and then what happens to our world? Hitler is rounding up Jews and—”
“And putting them in camps. How’s that worse than what our country is doing to us?”
It was the question a lot of young Japanese American men were asking.
“I just like to believe that Americans will think this all over sooner or later, and finally get it right. But that will never happen under a dictator like Hitler. He’ll never stop until someone stops him, and he thinks that anyone who isn’t blond and blue-eyed is worthless. If Germany controls the world, what kind of world will it be?”
Shig nodded but didn’t say anything.
“Am I right?”
“Yeah. I think so. But I still have to make up my own mind.”
Yuki had been too serious for too long. He didn’t want to argue with Shig. “I’ll tell you why I am going to be a great soldier,” he said. “I’ll fight the way I dance—smooth but snappy.” Yuki grinned and gave Shig a little punch in the shoulder, and then he began his jitterbug steps, even pretended to swing a girl under his arm. “You’re sure going to be embarrassed if I’m your brother-in-law and a big-shot war hero and you have to admit that you spent the war sitting here in this dumpy camp.”
“Hey, stay away from Keiko. I don’t want to be related to you.” But Shig was finally laughing.
“You have to enlist, Shig. We’re a team. Quit
thinking so much. Let’s go see what the world looks like—and shoot a few Nazis while we’re at it.”
“Papa says I need to graduate from high school first.”
“Don’t worry about that. I talked to the camp director. He said we’re close enough. He’ll let us have our diplomas right now. So what other excuses do you have?”
Shig hesitated, and then he said, “I want to go, Yuki. But I do need to talk to my parents one more time.”
“Okay. But you’re eighteen. You don’t need their permission.”
“I know. But I want it.”
Yuki nodded. That was something he did understand. But he was enlisting—in spite of what his mother had been telling him.
Yuki pointed to the door. “For now, let’s give some girls the chance to dance with us. It’s what they’re dreaming about in there, and we can’t let them down.”
Yuki was still laughing when he reached for the door handle, but then he stopped. He joked too much sometimes and he knew it. There was something Shig needed to know. He turned back and said, “I need you, buddy. We promised to stick together forever. I feel like I’ve got to enlist, but I just can’t do it without you.”
Shig nodded. “I know,” he said. “I feel the same way.”
CHAPTER 3
Yuki needed to talk to his mother. Still, it took him another couple of days to build up his courage and to find a few minutes with her alone. He and his mother and siblings all slept in the same room on army cots. At night, Mother would hang blankets on ropes strung across the room to separate the boys from herself and her daughters, and then, after everyone made their way back from the bathhouse in the morning and got dressed, the blankets came down, just so the room would seem more open. But that left few opportunities for Yuki to be alone with his mother. What was worse, with the walls between rooms not rising all the way to the ceiling, anything said could be heard at least in the next room, and loud talk—angry talk—would fill the entire barracks.
On Sunday morning, Yuki and his family wore their best clothes and walked to the building where the Protestant church services were held—just another tar paper structure, like all the barracks. Yuki had never been terribly enthusiastic about sermons, and this was a day when he paid little attention to the minister. His mind was on the things he would have to tell Mother and what she was likely to say in response.
Yuki never knew whether he was religious or not. Sometimes his mother asked him to pray for the family, and he used the same Christian words he had heard her use, but he never prayed on his own, and he wasn’t sure he knew what he expected from prayer. He didn’t know much about Buddhism, and his father’s willingness to accept his fate so easily bothered Yuki at times, but Father never asked much for himself and made the most of his situation in life. That was something Yuki admired.
After church, the Nakaharas walked back to their barracks. They stayed on the gravel path to keep out of the alkaline dust, which floated up with every step and then settled on pant legs and skirts. Yuki’s brother, Mick—whose actual name was Mikeo—was sixteen now, and he was even less tolerant of sermons than Yuki was. He had walked quickly ahead, probably to get his necktie off as soon as possible. Yuki’s sisters, May and Kay, who were fourteen and twelve, walked ahead too. Yuki’s father had wanted Japanese names for his children, and Mother had agreed to name their daughters Amaya and Kayo, but Father was the only one who called them that.
Now seemed the time, walking alone with Mother, for Yuki to tell her that he had made his decision. “I know this will not be a surprise to you,” he started. “We’ve talked about this before. But I need to tell you, tomorrow morning I’m going to enlist in the army. I don’t know how soon I’ll be leaving, but it won’t be long.”
Mrs. Nakahara stopped. Yuki took one more step and then stopped too, and he looked back. They were standing in the gravel path between a row of barracks, and his mother’s face looked as stark as the colorless ground around them. She had strong emotions, and she could be intense at times, but more commonly, she was formal and correct. Yuki always believed that he must be respectful, even careful, in the way he spoke to her.
“You must receive your father’s permission first,” Mother said.
“I’ve written twice now and told him what I want to do. He only writes back to you and tells you that I shouldn’t do it.”
“And you will defy him?”
“Mother, I don’t need his signature. I’m eighteen. I can enlist on my own.”
She stared into his eyes. She was wearing her purple dress, her pretty church dress, and a little black pillbox hat. Her white-gloved hands moved to her hips now, and she stood before him, firm. “You have not been raised to say such things, Yukus. You know better. Your father may be away, but he is still your father.”
“This is something I must do, Mother, not just something I want to do. Father will be called a criminal all his life if I don’t change people’s minds about us. I can bring back honor to our family.”
“You think I’m not so Japanese as your father, Yukus, and it’s true, I’m not. But a child should honor his father. That is Japanese, but it’s Christian, too.”
Mother began to walk again, and Yuki walked alongside her, their shoes crunching in the gravel. He wasn’t sure what he could say next, but he knew how his mother thought. She was eleven years younger than her husband. She had married him when she was nineteen. He had come to America earlier to earn enough money to return to Japan and buy land there. Mother’s parents had considered Father a good prospect, a farmer who was well established. Like so many of the Issei, Mother’s parents had thought of returning to Japan themselves. But Mother had been only four when she came to America, and she remembered nothing about Japan. All the same, as she had admitted to Yuki, she never felt fully accepted by people in California. Maybe it was that isolation, Yuki thought, that had caused her to keep to the ways of her family. She had complied with her parents’ wishes and agreed to marry Hasakao Nakahara.
Mother had told Yuki that as a little girl she hadn’t known she was different. The white children had been kind to her for the most part, and some of the little boys had thought she was pretty. But when she reached her teen years, she realized that she was always kept at a distance. It seemed to Yuki that she held back her own instincts—her American way of thinking—when it came to dealing with Father. He treated her like a daughter in many ways. He probably let her have her freedom in the home more than his own father would have done, but when it came to decisions about the children, about most anything significant, he spoke with authority and expected his wife to obey. And he expected the same of his children.
When Yuki and his mother arrived at the barracks, Mother asked Yuki to put up a blanket and then she slipped behind it to change her clothes. Yuki took his suit off and hung it up. There was no closet, only pegs to hang things on. Still, he was careful to hang the trousers correctly, as he had been taught, so as not to ruin the crease Mother had ironed into them.
The other children had dressed in their play clothes already and run off to dinner. The dining hall setting had made it possible for young people to eat with friends, and that’s what they chose to do. A family dinner simply didn’t happen now. There was always a long line on Sundays, and Mick and the girls liked to get there as early as possible. Much of the food served at the dining hall was detestable to Japanese tastes, but the cooks had to do with what they had, so all too often they served liver or tripe, and more often than not, they served mashed potatoes. Yuki and his family much preferred rice and fresh vegetables, but neither was available most of the time. Lately, however, and especially on Sundays, the cooks sometimes served fried chicken, and most of the people in camp liked that.
“Mother, listen, I want you to know—”
“Don’t say it. If you plan to defy me and your father, simply do it. But don’t make me listen to any more of your noble talk about serving your country.”
“How can you say that, Mom? I—”
“Don’t call me ‘Mom.’ Your father hates that.”
“The last I checked, he’s not around to hear what I say.”
“And that is the point, isn’t it?” Mother was standing with her head high. Yuki admired that, and he loved his mother more than anyone in the world. He didn’t want to hurt her, or defy her, but he doubted, really, that she felt the same as Father did. She was taking his side because she felt she had to. Surely she already knew what Yuki was going to do.
“I have to do this, Mother.”
“And what am I to do?”
Her voice had risen, and Yuki knew what she feared: that others in the building would hear the two of them arguing. She motioned for Yuki to move outside, and then she stepped ahead of him out the door. She walked well away from the building, out into the alkaline dust, and then she turned and looked at him. “I don’t know what to do about May. She eats with children her own age in the dining room, stays away from me most of the time, and spends her days with those same children—boys and girls together.”
“They’re not children, Mother. They’re growing up.”
“They are children. And they have taught her to talk back to me. When I ask her where she’s been and what she’s been doing, she won’t answer. She told me last week that she didn’t have to report everything she does to me. What would your father say to that?”
