“Does anyone know how much longer you have?”
“The rumor is it won’t be long, maybe a week or two, before we receive orders.” I try to ignore how Evalina’s eyes grow wide and watery. “But they’re just rumors. We don’t know anything for sure.”
“Right.” Her voice is solid and her chin raised. “It could also be months.”
“Right.”
But neither of us believes it. She reaches over and squeezes my fingers. “Still no idea where you’ll go?”
“We’ve heard everything from Northern California to Arkansas. And that maybe we would be in some temporary housing first. No one seems to know.” I shrug, as if these details are unimportant. “Lots of questions. No answers yet.”
Evalina reaches into her handbag and withdraws a pen and her address book. She uncaps the pen. “This is my home address,” she says as she writes. “You have to write to me when you know where you’re going. And when you get there.”
She rips the paper out of the book and hands it to me. I know I’m gaping, but I don’t know how to hide my surprise. “But what will you tell your parents?”
“I don’t know. I’m almost always the one who gets the mail. I don’t think I’ll have to tell them anything.”
“But if you do,” I press her. “What will you say?”
Her attempt at a laugh is hoarse. “Maybe the truth? If you’re not here, what do I care if they lock me in my room?”
I search her face for clues that she’s teasing, and I find none. “You would really tell them?”
“If it came to that, yes. I can’t handle not hearing from you, Taichi. Not when we don’t know how long this—” She gestures vaguely toward the telephone pole “—will go on.”
“What do you think they would say if you told them?” I can’t bear to look her in the eyes when I ask. I look instead at her pretty fingers threaded through mine, at her nails painted the same shade of red as her lips.
“Daddy likes your family, and they disagree with the evacuation. They’re not racist.”
I swallow the acidic coating of shame that seems to have filled my mouth. “That’s different than learning a Jap has fallen in love with your only daughter.” I get brave enough to look up and find that Evalina has lost her battle with her tears. They’re rolling down her cheeks one after the other.
“Sorry.” She takes in a breath and squeezes my hand. “It’s just that when you tell someone for the first time that you love them, it’s not supposed to be like this. And don’t call yourself that. You’re American.”
“I’ve told you before that I love you.”
“In letters. Not actual words.” She withdraws a hand to wipe her eyes, and I wish I had taken the time to put a handkerchief in my pocket. “I’m supposed to get to feel completely happy.”
I squeeze her fingers. “Of course, it’s not how it’s supposed to be. Because we were never supposed to be. Even before the war started we knew this was going to be a hard sell with both our families. But in all this uncertainty, you’re still the one thing I’m sure about.”
A smile flickers on her face, and she straightens her shoulders. “I’m sure about you too. So we’ll just . . . We’ll just find a way. I’m a Cassano, after all.” Her smile reappears, this time lasting longer. “We don’t really talk about it anymore, but both sides of my family have a long, ethically-questionable history of not letting the government push us around.”
I grin. “You know, I thought you were making that up the first time you told me.”
“Maybe I am.”
The combination of her wink, her bright smile, and her hand in mine makes my heart do a somersault in my chest.
The nearby church bells, clanging briefly to usher in 10:30, make Evalina grimace. “I have to go.”
“Me too. Aiko is covering for me, and I don’t want to wear out her charity.”
“Tell her thank you for me.”
“I will. And I’m sure . . .” It hits me that maybe this is the last time I’ll ever see her. That if the rumors are true—that we’re just days away from an evacuation—I don’t know that I’ll be able to get word to her in time. “I’m sure I’ll see you again before I go.”
She nods brusquely. “Yes, of course you will. But just in case.”
Evalina leans forward for a painfully swift kiss. It’s over practically as soon as I realize it’s happening. We glance around, but nobody seems to have seen us.
She squeezes my hand, and then she rushes away. Back to her part of town, where her life will go on like normal regardless of what happens in the coming weeks. I feel a throb in my heart as the unbidden thought comes: It would have been better for her if we’d never met.
Friday, April 3, 1942
“Evacuees must carry with them on departure for the reception center bedding and linens, no mattress—”
Aiko snorts. “And how do they think we would carry a mattress on our person?”
“They’re just being thorough,” Mother says. “Read the rest, Katsumi.”
Father angles the pamphlet toward the gray light coming in through the window. The side that faces me reads:
Questions and Answers for Evacuees Information Regarding the Relocation Program Issued by
THE WAR RELOCATION AUTHORITY
Regional Office
San Francisco, California
Father continues, “Question four. What kind of clothes should I take with me when I am evacuated? Answer. Be prepared for the Relocation Center, which is a pioneer community. So bring clothes suited to pioneer life—”
Aiko snorts from her place on the couch, where she’s folding a piece of paper into some shape I can’t yet make out. Father ignores her.
“—and in keeping with the climate or climates likely to be involved. Bring work clothes, boots, slacks, and work shirts rather than business suits or street dresses. Bring warm clothes even if you are going to a southern area, because the temperatures may range from freezing in winter to 115 degrees during some periods of the summer. Although you won’t want to take many extra clothes to the Assembly Center—”
“Would they make up their minds? Is it a Relocation Center or an Assembly Center?” Another outburst from Aiko. “They don’t know what they’re doing, do they?”
“Aiko,” Mother says wearily.
Father frowns and flips to the back of the pamphlet. “Here it explains the terms. An Assembly Center is ‘a convenient gathering point within the military area where evacuees live temporarily while awaiting the opportunity for orderly, planned movement to a Relocation Center outside of the military area.’ And then a Relocation Center is ‘a pioneer community with basic housing and protective services provided by the Federal Government, for occupancy by evacuees’. So, I suppose there will be some temporary places where we live and some permanent places.”
“I wish they would speak straight,” Aiko says darkly as she continues folding. “We will be prisoners, not evacuees. And these pioneer communities are concentration camps.”
The phrase falls heavy in the room. I glance at Mother and Father, expecting one of them to reprimand Aiko, but instead Mother says, “The newspaper this morning said the first group would be sent to Manzanar, California.”
“When I went to register us, nobody there knew where we would go,” Father says. “Or if they did, they would not say where.”
“Tuesday.” Aunt Chiyu speaks the word for at least the tenth time in the last hour, and probably the hundredth since we saw the new notices posted on telephone poles yesterday afternoon. The notices declared that Tuesday was our official departure day. “It is nice to finally know when and to be able to make plans. Katsumi, did you post my letter to Fuji?”
Father nods and says, “Yes, I did,” without any hints of irritation that he has already answered this three times.
Aiko stands and wordlessly leaves the room. As the adults lapse into Japanese while discussing what else to pack, I go after her.
She’s sitting in
the bedroom we currently share with our parents. In the palm of her hand, she holds up what she had been folding. A crane, a Japanese symbol of hope.
She closes her hand around the paper, crushing it.
“What do you think would happen if we just didn’t go?” she asks without turning around. “What would they do? Shoot us?”
I settle onto the floor beside her. “I don’t know.”
“Everybody acts like we don’t have a choice, but what if we do?” Aiko’s face is set in a fierce expression, calling to mind Father’s childhood stories about our samurai ancestors. “What if we could fight this somehow? This is America, Taichi. This kind of stuff isn’t supposed to happen.”
“I know. You’re right. It’s not how things are supposed to be—”
“The constitution is supposed to protect us from violations like this.” Aiko’s voice turns sharp. “Why isn’t anybody saying that? Why isn’t anyone saying that it’s wrong for the FBI to just take our uncle away? To freeze our bank accounts? To give only us a curfew?”
She throws the balled-up crane against the wall and it flutters to the floor.
“It is wrong.” Just speaking that sentence somehow feels dishonoring of America. “I’ve had the same thoughts, but I keep thinking that if we really did fight the evacuation they would only point to it as proof that we’re disloyal. What they are asking us to do is unfair, but ultimately it’s the fastest route to regaining our freedom.”
“Of course you think that,” Aiko snaps, hardly allowing me to finish my sentence. “You always think that if you just do what you’re told, everything will work out fine.”
She means to insult me, but I shrug. “I find it’s generally true.”
Aiko slowly releases a breath, like a steam engine releasing the pressure. “And you’re probably right about what they would think if we fought back. Even though it’s completely racist. But I guess that’s why there’s that cliché about life not being fair, right?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
We sit side-by-side in silence for a while, and then Aiko leans her head against mine. “You should go to Evalina and tell her. She should hear it from you, not the newspaper, that we’ll be gone by Tuesday.”
I shake my head. The streets of Japantown have been full of stories about unchecked violence against Japanese Americans. Even against some Chinese, who white people mistook for Japanese.
“Mother and Father won’t let me out of their sight long enough.”
“Tell them why you need to go.”
I give her a pointed look. “I can’t just tell them.”
Aiko blinks at me as though I’m stupid. “Why not? What are they going to do? Lock you up?” She snorts humorlessly. “They don’t have to because the President of the United States is doing it for them.”
I laugh too, even though the sentence turns my stomach. “They’re stressed. Telling them about Evalina will only add stress, and I don’t want that.”
I tap my foot absently as I think. She should be almost out of school, and she doesn’t go to the restaurant on Fridays until dinner. She’s said a few times that she’s usually home alone after school on Fridays because her mother has some kind of club. Knitting or books or something like that. “Could you cover me for an hour?”
“Fine.” Aiko picks up her crane and attempts to uncrumple it. “But you know, Taichi. Sometimes you have to be honest with people, even if you know it’s going to hurt them.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Evalina
Gia reverently runs her fingertips along the spines of the books lining the shelves at Cavalli Bookstore as we stroll out the door. “If you’re this depressed now—when you saw him less than a week ago—what will you do when he’s actually gone?”
“I don’t know.” I reach into my paper bag from the grocer and withdraw a tangerine. “I suppose the same thing you do when Lorenzo is gone.”
“You probably don’t even want to go to prom, do you?”
I wrinkle my nose.
Gia smirks. “I figured. That’s what I told Tony. He asked me if he should ask you, and I said, ‘I would have thought you wanted to have a good time at the dance, Tony.’”
The barb stings more than I would have expected. I brush it away—even I know I’m not particularly fun these days—and pop a wedge of tangerine in my mouth.
“That must have been a few weeks ago.” I take care to infuse my voice with a careless tone. “He told me on Friday he’s seeing Mary Green.”
“Really?” Gia’s eyes grow comically wide. “When did he tell you that?”
“After you’d left for your date.”
“Before or after you yelled at my mother?” When Gia sees I’m embarrassed, she snorts a laugh. “You know my mother can handle it. I’m honestly surprised she didn’t yell right back at you.”
We pause our conversation as we skirt around two women walking their dogs.
“Will Lorenzo be in town for prom?” I ask.
“Who knows?” Gia shrugs. “We would probably just fight all the time anyway.”
“You’re a LaRocca. That’s normal.”
She giggles and then her smile turns downcast. “I used to feel so proud to be a LaRocca—to be Italian. That’s harder these days.”
I offer her a wedge of tangerine as stories of Mussolini march through my mind, the invasions, the violence, the palling around with Adolf Hitler.
“I know what you mean. Though I’ve never felt particularly proud of my family history.”
Gia casts a sympathetic look my way. “You can’t help who your family is,” she says simply, and then pushes open her front door. “See you tomorrow.”
I wave and continue the few houses down to my own. I think about the grim line of my mother’s face every time we get a phone call from relatives in Chicago, or when she visits one of her older brothers in prison. How as a kid, I would sometimes hear Daddy weeping in the confessional at church. Of the way Mama and Daddy refuse to discuss their lives before we moved to San Francisco. While they’ve been careful to keep details of our family’s mafia roots vague, I know enough to be grateful that they chose something different for me.
The house is usually empty when I get home on Friday afternoons, but I’ve barely cracked open the door when Mama calls for me. “Evalina?”
“What?”
“In the kitchen, please.”
Mama sounds stern. I sigh, slip my shoes off, and trudge toward the kitchen. Did one of my teachers call her again to tell her that I don’t seem like myself these days? Or did—
“Taichi!” His name emerges as a squeak, and I clear my throat before speaking again. “This is a surprise.”
Mama sits at our small kitchen table, and Taichi sits across from her. What in heaven’s name is he doing here? Something terrible must have happened—my throat cinches closed—or he never would’ve risked coming.
His face is arranged in the polite expression he dons for deliveries and market days. “Hello, Miss Cassano. Nice to see you.” He nods to Mama. “I was just telling your mother how sorry I am to drop by unannounced, but it isn’t something that could wait. We’re letting all our loyal customers, like yourselves, know that we are being evacuated.”
The word lands like a punch in my gut, and all the air seems to force itself out of my body. “Evacuated.”
From the kitchen stove, the teapot rattles and whistles its high-pitched call. Mama’s chair scrapes against the linoleum as she scoots away from the table.
“Have a seat, Evalina. I’ll pour us all some tea.”
Taichi offers a respectful bow of his head. “Thank you, Mrs. Cassano.”
Mama turns her back to us as she strides purposefully to the stovetop. This is the one time of day that sunrays slant through the window at the sink, and they illuminate the steam rising from a pan of cooling lemon bars. Those must be Mama’s dessert of choice for our usual Friday night dinner with the Espositos and LaRoccas. In so many ways, this is just an ordinary Friday scen
e in our kitchen.
I turn my gaze to Taichi as I collapse into the chair Mama vacated. His eyes are fastened on mine, and for a moment we just stare at each other.
“When?” The word wobbles off my tongue. “When will you leave?”
“Tuesday.” He says the word quietly, as if that will lessen its blow.
“Tuesday.” The word has never tasted so bitter. “That’s . . . very quick.”
Taichi holds my gaze. “Yes, it is.”
“Where will your family be evacuated to?” Mama asks as she carries over three teacups.
“That’s still somewhat unclear.” Taichi leans back as Mama places a cup in front of him. “Thank you, Mrs. Cassano.”
“Do you take sugar or milk?”
“Neither, thank you.”
All the polite chatter makes me want to scream, “How can you not yet know where you’ll be sent? How can your family be expected to prepare if you’re not being told where you’ll go?”
I feel Mama’s eyes on me, but I can’t drag my focus off Taichi, even though it would be wise to do so.
Taichi’s gaze flicks to her before returning to me. “When my father registered us, he was given a pamphlet of instructions. We’ll be fine.” He pauses before adding, “We’ve heard rumors that the first group will be sent to Manzanar, which is on the other side of the Sierras from Los Angeles. But the pamphlet said most will go somewhere temporary before our permanent homes. Or not permanent, but our homes for the duration of the war.”
I’m afraid to speak. Afraid that if I open my mouth, I’ll be like a volcano, spewing destructive fire. And Mama will be able to see plain on my face that I’m not just heartbroken over losing my favorite supplier of blackberries, or about the injustice of what’s being done to Japanese Americans. She’ll see I’m heartbroken over losing Taichi.
“The Sierras are quite beautiful down there, I hear.” Mama’s words curl with doubt, as if even she distrusts her response. “We plan to see Yosemite this summer, though I suppose that’s not exactly where you’ll be, is it?”
“No, ma’am. But on a map, it looks as though we would be near several other great peaks.”
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