PRAISE FOR
Within These Lines
“A frightening portrait of how suspicion and fear of Japanese Americans during World War II led to the incarceration of thousands at Manzanar and other camps. Precise in its history, intimate in detail, Stephanie Morrill’s sensitively written novel brings to life a shameful era of American injustice, one that echoes events in the present day.”
—Janet Taylor Lisle, ALA notable author of Scott O’Dell Award winner The Art of Keeping Cool and Newbery Honor book Afternoon of the Elves
“A thoughtful and moving story of forbidden love under the dual pressures of wartime and of intolerance, Within These Lines grabs you with its mix of fascinating historical fact and heart-melting fiction. Stephanie Morrill keeps you hoping against hope right up to the very last page.”
—Caroline Leech, author of Wait for Me and In Another Time
“Within These Lines will steal your breath, your heart, and your thoughts for days after you’ve finished. An always-timely look at prejudice and the importance of taking action combines with a tale of deepest love and self-sacrifice. Flawless and beautiful.”
—Roseanna M. White, bestselling author of the Ladies of the Manor and Shadows Over England series
“Poignant and evocatively relevant, Within These Lines is a tale of star-crossed love and heartrending discrimination with characters that leap off the page and challenge us to stand against the injustice in our own time. A gripping read!”
—Lorie Langdon, author of Olivia Twist and the Doon series.
“Within These Lines will both break your heart and awaken it. Evalina and Taichi’s story not only navigates a precarious romance, but it challenges racism, injustice, and the temptation to stay silent. Their boldness and call to action will stick with you long after you turn the last page. I applaud Morrill’s storytelling and cannot recommend this book enough—a must-read for all historical fiction fans!”
—Nadine Brandes, author of Fawkes
“Within These Lines is a moving story of love, hope, and family set against the dark history of Japanese internment in America. This book had me captivated!”
—Maureen McQuerry, YALSA award-winning author of The Peculiars and the upcoming Between Before and After
“Thought provoking and timely, Within These Lines highlights a dark period in history. Through compelling characters, we see the injustice and feel the fears and doubts and dilemmas. But mostly, we see the shimmering ribbon of hope through Evalina and Taichi’s unrelenting love. Stephanie Morrill has written a novel to ponder, a novel to cherish.”
—Sarah Sundin, bestselling and award-winning author of The Sea Before Us and The Sky Above Us
“Heartrending and timely, Evalina and Taichi’s story leaps off the page. Morrill deftly weaves history and fiction together, shining a light on the realities of America’s World War II-era home front through the eyes of her fiery and steadfast protagonists. From start to satisfying finish, historical fiction readers won’t want to miss Morrill’s latest.”
—Hillary Manton Lodge, author of A Table by the Window
“In fiercely beautiful prose, Stephanie Morrill delivers a timely new novel that sheds much-needed light on racial conflict and trauma experienced on the home front during World War II. An evocative, impeccably researched story of love, loss, longing, and the necessary hard work of reconciliation, Within These Lines offers characters who will inspire readers long into the future. Historical fiction fans, this is a must-read for 2019.”
—Karen Halvorsen Schreck, author of Broken Ground
ALSO BY STEPHANIE MORRILL
The Lost Girl of Astor Street
BLINK
Within These Lines
Copyright © 2019 by Stephanie Morrill
Requests for information should be addressed to:
Blink, 3900 Sparks Dr. SE, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49546
Hardcover ISBN 978-0-310-76523-3
Audio ISBN 978-0-310-76863-0
Ebook ISBN 978-0-310-76526-4
Epub Edition January 2019 9780310765264
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
Any internet addresses (websites, blogs, etc.) and telephone numbers in this book are offered as a resource. They are not intended in any way to be or imply an endorsement by Blink, nor does Blink vouch for the content of these sites and numbers for the life of this book.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Blink is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Focus LLC.
Interior design: Denise Froehlich
Printed in the United States of America
* * *
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To McKenna, Connor, and Eli.
May you always be brave enough
to care and bold enough to act.
CONTENTS
Praise for Within These Lines
Also by Stephanie Morrill
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Epilogue
About the History
CHAPTER ONE
Evalina
Saturday, March 21, 1942
3 months after the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor
San Francisco, California
When I jolt awake, the familiar fear smothers my early morning thoughts and thrums through my veins. I gasp for breath, as if there’s a shortage of oxygen, until I convince my rhythm to slow.
No light comes into my room—too early—but I draw back a panel of my gingham curtains and peek outside anyway, just to reassure myself that it’s all still there—my narrow street, my neighbors’ houses, my entire world.
And there it is, the sound that roused me from my fearful slumber. The faint squeak of bicycle pedals as the paperboy pushes himself up our steep hill. When I look closely at the front door of the house across the street, I spot the newspaper lying across the front step like a welcome mat.
The planks of my wooden floor creak as I slip out my door, past Mama and Daddy’s quiet bedroom, down the narrow, steep staircase, and out the front door. Even in the dim lighting of the streetlamp, the bold head
line of the San Francisco News reaches up and grabs at my heart:
First Japanese Ready to Leave Coast
No, no, no. My heart pounds as I reach for the newspaper.
How can you know something is coming, spend every waking moment with it gnawing at you, and still feel a jab of shock when you see it begin?
I devour the article that details how over sixty Japanese Americans living in Los Angeles have voluntarily gone to Manzanar—a place in southern California I had never heard of until earlier this month.
“Evalina?”
I jump at Mama’s groggy voice. “Hi. I didn’t mean to wake you. I just couldn’t sleep.”
With her puffy eyes, Mama looks at the newspaper in my hand. Her mouth is set in a grim line. “This obsession is not healthy, Evalina. I know you’re worried, but we have nothing to fear. I don’t know what it will take for you to believe that.”
“Mama, they’re going to make all the Japanese go.” My voice cracks. “Even the ones who were born here like the Hamasakis’ children.”
“Who?”
I swallow. I shouldn’t have mentioned them by name. “One of our produce suppliers at Alessandro’s.”
“Oh. Yes, of course.” Mama stifles a yawn, seeming unaware of how far I tipped my cards. “You’re safe, honey. I know sometimes those articles make it sound like Italians are going to be rounded up too, but we’re not.”
“If the government was being fair, we’d be forced to go too. Especially a family like ours.”
“But we’re not. Stop seeking trouble. Come inside before somebody sees you looking indecent.”
I’m wearing my favorite pajamas, which have long pants and long sleeves, but Mama hates that I bought them in the men’s department. I shuffle back inside the house, and Mama soundlessly closes the door.
She scowls at me in the gray light of the entryway. “I’m going back to bed. I’m tired of these conversations, Evalina. I’m tired of waking up to you crying. Or hearing from your friends that you’re distracted and preoccupied by the news. This is not normal behavior for a girl your age.”
“Our country is at war.” I force my voice to be soft. “How am I supposed to act?”
Mama’s mouth opens. I’m wearing away the thread of patience she woke up with—I can see it in her eyes—but I don’t know how to lie about this. Why, I’m not sure, because I’m certainly lying about plenty of other things.
“Evalina . . .” Mama takes several thoughtful breaths before saying, “I’m going back to bed. You do the same.”
I follow her up the stairs, the newspaper still grasped in my fist behind my back, and I go into my bedroom. But instead of crawling beneath the covers, I ease open my closet door and pull out my green pleated skirt, the one I was wearing when Taichi and I first met.
The words from this morning’s article run through my head as I undo the rags in my hair and brush out the curls. “I don’t understand how this can be happening.”
I clamp my teeth over my bottom lip. I know that’s the kind of thing Gia and Tony have been telling Mama, that I’m muttering to myself all the time—that I’m distracted, snappy, and crying easily. Gia should at least understand why, but maybe her “Carpe Diem!” kind of personality can’t foresee what’s going to happen to the Japanese Americans.
I read the entire San Francisco News twice before the clock ticks to 6:30 and I can justify leaving. In the last year, Mama and Daddy have grown accustomed to my leaving the house early on Saturday mornings, but since the attack on Pearl Harbor they’ve requested that I leave notes about where I’ll be and what time I’ll be home.
I scribble half-truths on a scrap of paper in the kitchen, grab my handbag and a grocery sack, and let myself out the back door where my bicycle is chained in the alley. After tucking my belongings in the front basket and securing the tie on my wool trench coat, I coast downhill toward the bay.
The early morning fog envelops me, and I can feel the dampness soaking into my hair and tightening my curls. The fog is so thick this morning that I can’t see the waters of the bay until I’m on the waterfront. I bike along to the soothing slap, slap, slap of the water chopping against the docks.
At the park, I find the first of the farm trucks there and unloading, but I don’t see the familiar green Chevy of the Hamasakis. Suspicions roar in my head, but I silence them with a look at my watch and common sense. It’s not even 7:00 yet. Sometimes they’re here by 7:00, but not always. This is nothing to panic about.
My watch ticks to 7:05. Which is barely after seven, and the market doesn’t open until eight. Farm truck after farm truck come to a stop, and now it’s 7:15. They are always here by 7:15. But maybe there was traffic on the bridge. Plenty of obstacles could cause a delay between their farm in Alameda and the waterfront. Just because they have always been here by now doesn’t mean that something bad has happened.
I stare at the gap the Hamasakis’ table usually occupies. Mr. and Mrs. Ling, who are always in the spot beside them, are nearly done setting up, as are the Carricks on the other side.
I glance at my watch again—7:30—as movement catches my eye. Two Caucasian men carry a folding table and wedge it into the Hamasakis’ spot.
Mrs. Ling watches them and then goes back to placing her display signs on the table. Mrs. Carrick notices, and her jaw sets. I’m too far away to hear anything, but she says something to the newcomers. They respond with a shrug and continue with their setup. Mrs. Carrick looks at her own watch and then she looks across the street to where I’m sitting.
Before I can tell my legs they should do otherwise, I push my bicycle across the street to the park. Mrs. Carrick and I have not talked a lot, just warm chatter when I’ve purchased olives from her or her husband. Even though they’re only at the market once a month or so, she’s always seemed to know the real reason I come.
“Good morning, Evalina,” she says when I draw near to the table. “Where is your friend?”
“I don’t know. I hoped you would.”
The men are unpacking crates of strawberries and lettuce. One of them sees me watching and offers a polite smile.
Mrs. Carrick shakes her head. “No, but as we set up this morning, I heard some of the other families talking about last week. They said some of the Japanese families were treated poorly. The Akiyamas’ little girl was even spat on.”
I was here last week, and I didn’t see anything like that . . . but I wasn’t here as long as usual. Instead of Taichi working their stand with his mother, it had been Taichi with his best friend. Diego had agreed to watch the stand while we took a walk along the shore. He hadn’t seemed particularly happy to do it—which is common for Diego—but Taichi and I have so little time alone that I didn’t question it.
“I just saw Taichi on Thursday and he didn’t say anything about being treated poorly.”
Though even as I say it, I know that if Taichi had been threatened or spit upon, he wouldn’t have said a word to me. He wouldn’t want me getting riled.
Mrs. Carrick’s mouth curves downward. “I’m sorry to say, I think this is only the beginning.”
I purchase olives, and I can’t help glancing at the Caucasian farmers while Mrs. Carrick counts out my change. One of them is arranging bundles of asparagus that are annoyingly beautiful—better looking than the asparagus Taichi brought to the restaurant on Thursday.
“If you see them this week,” Mrs. Carrick breaks into my thoughts, “tell them they were missed, won’t you?”
“Of course. Thank you.”
Despite the temptation of the asparagus, I push my bicycle past to head home. I stop when I see that in addition to her normal signs of prices for produce, Mrs. Ling has hung a new banner from the table that reads WE ARE CHINESE.
As I stare at it, Mrs. Ling notices me and smiles. “Some white people get confused. They think we are the enemy.”
“The Hamasakis aren’t our enemies.”
“Of course not. But I don’t know how long that will matter.”
Mrs. Ling holds out a beautiful navel orange, round and bold. “Share this with your friend. May it bring you both good luck.”
The market doesn’t officially open for a few more minutes, but San Franciscans already mill about the rows of tables, haggling over prices of the first spring vegetables. The men who stole the Hamasakis’ spot chat with customers and the sight makes my chest burn.
I put the orange in my basket and pedal along the street. The fog has thinned, but my thoughts are hazy with anger.
At the ferry ticket booth, I pull coins from my handbag and place them on the counter. “When does the boat leave for Alameda?”
CHAPTER TWO
Taichi
Alameda, California
When the door closes behind the two FBI agents, I take my first full breath in the last thirty minutes. So many Issei men have been whisked away to prison camps, including Uncle Fuji, but my father is still here. All four of us stand here huddled by the front door, blinking at one another.
Their engine kicks to life, and I’m lightheaded from relief. We are still all together. We are still in our home.
“They’re spineless men.” Aiko’s hands clench and her voice is steel. “I detest them.”
Mother doesn’t even admonish Aiko for speaking hatefully. She doesn’t say anything, just keeps looking at my father as though, like me, she can’t believe he’s still here with us.
“You were right about burning our belongings,” Mother says, her words thick.
Father doesn’t answer, but his eyes hold tenderness.
The day of the attack on Pearl Harbor, Father had told us we must gather everything in our home that tied us to Japan. Letters, family photographs, kimonos, books in Japanese, records of Japanese music. Mother hadn’t argued with him in front of us, until she realized that he intended for her to burn her Japanese dolls too. Even Aiko had cried when Mother fed her childhood treasures to the flames.
All these months it had seemed like we’d burned family heirlooms in vain, but when the agents surprised us with a knock on the door this morning, there had been sweet relief to know they would find nothing worthy of suspicion. They had certainly been thorough in their search of our small home.
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