How can they stand to talk about sightseeing at a time like this?
“What will happen to all your belongings?” I ask.
“Much of it is still at our house. You’ve met Diego Medina at the market, I believe? They will look out for our home and continue to provide the same great produce and service your family has always received.”
Taichi’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes, and he looks away from me as he takes a noiseless sip of his tea.
Mama glances at me and then back at Taichi. “My husband speaks so highly of your family. And Evalina is very picky about her produce, as I’m sure you know. She always wants to be first at the market so she’ll have the best selection.” Mama forces a strange sort of chuckle at my expense. “Thank you for the kindness of telling us about the changes in person. We’re . . . we’re very sorry for the evacuation. It seems like an unnecessary step to us.”
Air huffs out my nose. “Unnecessary and cruel.”
“Yes.” Mama nods. “And cruel.”
“And blatantly racist. I don’t see Germans or Italians being forced out of their homes and businesses.”
Mama’s hand lands on my shoulder. “Evalina, we should let Mr. Hamasaki get on with his day. I imagine you have many more customers to visit.”
Taichi stands. “Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs. Cassano.” He nods to me. “Miss Cassano.”
“I’ll walk you to the door.” In my haste, I stumble over my chair.
Mama catches me by the elbow. “Are you okay, Evalina?”
“I’m fine.” My laugh rings high. Too high. “Just clumsy.”
I don’t look at Taichi, just pivot toward the door.
Mama says, “Thank you, again. We’ll be praying for your family during this difficult time.”
To my great relief, she stays in the kitchen. Does she realize we’re the only customers Taichi is visiting? That Taichi isn’t merely a boy from whom I buy produce? What will she say to me when it’s just the two of us?
The worries clip at my heels as I guide Taichi the short distance to the front door. I step outside with him, even though there isn’t much more privacy out here where anyone in my nosy, Italian neighborhood can notice Taichi.
“I’m sorry for the surprise,” Taichi murmurs. “I thought you were home alone on Friday afternoons.”
“I usually am. But it sounds like you handled it well. If Mama suspects anything, it’s because I couldn’t keep my blasted emotions in check.”
A smile plays with the corners of Taichi’s mouth. “I like your emotions.”
He has on a red plaid shirt beneath his brown work coat, and one of the points of his collar is flipped funny. My fingers itch to adjust it. I push them deep into my trench coat pockets.
“What time do you leave on Tuesday?”
His smile vanishes. “We’re supposed to be there by noon.”
“Be where?”
“The civic control station is what they called it. I don’t know when the buses leave.”
“Where is it? What’s the address?”
Taichi gives me a look of caution. “You have school, Evalina.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to hold back the tears that press against my eyelids. In a matter of days, Taichi is going to load onto a bus and be taken to an unknown location until the end of the war. How can he think I care about school?
“I already have my scholarship and acceptance to Berkeley. What’s the address?”
“Evalina, you can’t.”
I open my eyes and take in his handsome face. The angle of his brown eyes. The sharpness of his cheekbones. His thick black hair. Near his right eyebrow, there’s a small scar I’ve never noticed before. His face is one I’ve spent more time with in my thoughts and hopes than in actual reality. “I’m not asking you, Taichi. I’m informing you I will be there. We’ll tell your family . . . I don’t know. Something. But I’m going to be there.”
I glare up at him, anticipating how he’ll argue.
But instead he releases a breath, and that faint smile returns. “2020 Van Ness,” he whispers. “You should get back inside.”
My toes wriggle in my shoes, longing to push up closer to Taichi. “I’ll see you Tuesday.”
“See you Tuesday.”
Taichi’s fingertips brush over my arm, and then he turns and strolls down the hill, back toward his borrowed corner of our city.
I linger until I lose sight of him, and then I turn back toward my front door. Is Mama on the other side, fists on her hips, waiting to badger me about the true nature of my friendship with Taichi? She realized before I did that Tony liked me, and I only figured it out because of the way she tried to hide her smile as she asked about why he had walked me home from school or stopped by the house. I don’t think she’ll be smiling about Taichi.
But Mama isn’t waiting for me just inside the door. Instead, I hear her at the kitchen sink. My feet want to carry me up to my room, where I can throw myself on my bed and weep, but I know if I do that, I might as well flat out tell her who Taichi is to me.
Instead, I go to the kitchen and refill my teacup. “I’m so sad for them.”
Mama turns to me, and her eyes are red. She’s been crying. “I’m sad for all of us. This is a bad path for our country to travel down.” She places the teacup she had washed on a towel to dry. “He seems like a really nice boy.”
My throat is dry, and I take a gulp of tea. “He is.”
“You have become friends this last year.” Mama looks at me as she says this, and her expression is so open and kind, a piece of me longs to confess it all. Every last ounce of my feelings for Taichi.
I just nod.
“You have seemed so distraught since the attack on Pearl Harbor. More so than I might expect. I couldn’t figure out why. I hadn’t put together that you had built a friendship with a family that is personally impacted.”
Again, I nod.
Mama crosses our tiny kitchen and hugs me. “I love your tender heart, my Evalina. If we could all feel the empathy that you do, our world would be a much more beautiful place.”
“Thank you,” I say into her shoulder. All other words are choked out by guilt over not telling my mother the truth.
Mama smiles at me and cups my face, tears glistening in her own eyes. Then she releases me, and I turn back to my tea. “I’m glad I had a chance to meet your friend before he left. He’s very kind and respectful. And quite handsome, don’t you think?”
I feel myself stiffen and can only hope that she didn’t notice. “Yes.” I sip at my tea. “I suppose he is.”
Mama finishes wiping off the counter, and then leaves me alone in the kitchen, wondering if I only imagined the pointed nature of her questions.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Taichi
Tuesday, April 7, 1942
Father turns the alarm clock off within several seconds of it sounding. We have all been staring up at the ceiling for hours, even Aiko, who normally doesn’t allow her sleep to be disrupted for anything.
Even though I’m not tired, I stay under the blanket and continue to stare at the old water stain that no one ever got around to painting over. When I wake up tomorrow morning, what will I see when I open my eyes?
Mother rises first. I hear the sounds of her wrapping her bathrobe over her nightgown and slipping out of the room. Minutes later, water runs in the kitchen sink, and Father’s feet hit the floor too. Aiko and I wordlessly rise as well, tidying our makeshift bed before going to the kitchen.
Aunt Chiyu is there, wiping already-clean counters with a damp cloth, her mouth set in a grim line. Mother has the tea steeping as she lays out mochi on a plate for our breakfast. We sit around the small table, silent except for our chewing and drinking. Even though the sun is up, the fog outside keeps Aunt Chiyu’s apartment dark and silent.
How many other families in the neighborhood are eating silently and warily? We’re to be at the civic center at noon, which feels both far too soon and far too far awa
y. Other than packing my toothbrush, there’s nothing left to do except sit and wait. Our suitcases are crowded around the door, two for each of us. I had wanted to bring my letters from Evalina, but instead I made myself burn them before we even left Alameda. The only memento I allowed myself to keep was her senior portrait, which I have buttoned into my breast pocket.
I glance at the clock. Seven a.m. Just a few miles away, Evalina might be eating breakfast too and getting ready for school. How is she planning to sneak away to come see us off? What am I going to tell my family when she arrives?
A soft rain patters against the window, and we all watch.
“It’s like heaven is crying for us,” Mother murmurs in the quiet, gray kitchen.
Aiko speaks the very words I think: “At least someone is.”
At 11:30, after a morning of fidgeting and tidying, we pick up our suitcases and walk out of the apartment. Aunt Chiyu locks the door, and then stares at the key in her hand. “I suppose I bring it with me?”
Father nods. “Let’s put it somewhere secure.”
Aunt Chiyu zips the key into her pocketbook, and then bends to pick up her suitcase once more. Around us, other families are leaving their apartments as well. The adults exchange murmured greetings and pleasantries as we all descend the stairs.
The walk is not much more than a mile, but that feels very far when you’re carrying everything you think you’ll need for the foreseeable future. When you keep passing Caucasian men and women, many of whom turn away from you, but some who openly glare.
We’re not far from the civic center when I hear clapping. I look up from my shoes for the first time in a while to see a man about the age of my parents, standing in the open door of a doughnut shop. His eyes are narrowed at the group of us, and his smile is triumphant as he claps enthusiastically.
“The neighborhood is looking better already,” he shouts above his own clapping. “That’s right, keep walking!”
Father and I immediately move Mother, Aunt Chiyu, and Aiko to the other side of us, and the same shift happens in the other families.
The man’s voice is loud in my ears as I walk by. “Get outta here, you Japs!”
I try not to look, but my gaze catches on the poster he’s hung in his store window. The text reads JAPANESE HUNTING LICENSE: OPEN SEASON, NO LIMIT! above a buck-toothed, slanteyed caricature of what I can only assume is supposed to be a Japanese man.
I quickly avert my eyes to Father’s shoulders and try to keep my own as squared and strong as his. My underarms are suddenly damp with sweat, my heart racing in my chest, and my mouth full of bitterness, the taste of shame.
Our silence continues the rest of the way to the civic center, where we join the line of Japanese American families that stretches along the sidewalk. I rest my suitcases on the cement and bend my aching arms. My gaze is still cast down, my mind still ringing with the man’s clapping.
How can I be sweaty and cold all at once?
I look to Mother and Father, hoping for some kind of comfort from them. I find they are already looking at Aiko and me. We stare at each other for a moment, and then Father speaks.
“It is good that the rain stopped.”
Mother nods. “Yes. The weather is quite beautiful today.”
We are not going to talk about the man. We are just going to carry on. Shikata ga nai.
I swallow away the words I want to speak—why does he hate us so much?—and they scrape down my throat. “The breeze is nice.”
Aiko flexes her fingers several times, and I imagine they’re just as sore and stiff as mine. “I will go see how long the line is.”
And then she’s disappearing along the sidewalk, into the sea of black-haired heads. Never in my life have I seen so many Japanese in one location. The men all have freshly clipped hair beneath their hats, and all the women took the time to curl theirs. The faces around me shine from the exertion of the day so far, and we haven’t even begun our trip.
The line shuffles forward, and we heave our suitcases several steps.
“We should have left the house sooner.” Aunt Chiyu pushes up on her toes, as if there is anything to see up ahead, other than a line that curls around the corner. “What a line!”
“But how eager are we to get to where we are going?” Mother asks.
Aunt Chiyu considers this. “I am at least eager to be done with the unknown.”
Yes. About that, I agree.
Aiko returns, her eyes wide and her face pale.
“How long is the line?” Aunt Chiyu greets her.
“There are guards,” Aiko says on a trembling exhale. “When we get around this corner, you’ll see them.” She swallows hard and fusses with a curl on her shoulder. “And they have these long guns with bayonets fixed to the ends.”
Aiko has now attracted the attention of the families on either side of us, one of which has a girl of about eight. She’s watching Aiko with round eyes.
“What are the guards doing?” I ask.
Aiko shakes her head. “Standing and watching. There’s nothing else for them to do. Everyone is just in line waiting, talking quietly.”
Aiko helps to push our luggage forward as the line shuffles again.
“How long is the line?” Aunt Chiyu asks again as Mother says, “Did you learn where we are going?”
“No. The line is very long. There are Caucasian women who are taking down everybody’s names and making us wear a tag with a number. As if we’re cattle.”
Aiko’s voice has risen, and Mother shoots a nervous look at those around us. “There are so many families. I’m sure the tags are just to keep everything organized.”
Aiko presses on. “And then after you get your tag, you stand around waiting for a bus, while the guards stare at you. Some people said these buses were going to Fresno, but others said Arizona. Nobody knows a thing.”
Several families behind us, a baby lets out a shrill cry. The mother is trying to hastily change the baby’s diaper on top of one of the suitcases. An older child holds the soiled diaper with a look of disgust.
“What do I do with this, Mama?” she asks.
But the mother is holding a diaper pin with her teeth and cannot yet respond. I realize I’m staring, waiting for the answer as well. What will she do with the used diapers?
Aiko tugs on my sleeve so I’ll help with pushing our luggage up again.
“At least we don’t have any children,” Aiko says through gritted teeth as we push our suitcases forward again. “That mother’s suitcase is probably full of baby clothes and diapers. She probably has no room for her own things.”
Surely Aiko’s thoughts go to where mine are. That if she hadn’t lost the baby, we would have a three-year-old child in tow.
We shuffle forward in line for another ten minutes before turning the corner and spotting the guards of whom Aiko had warned us. Even knowing about them, the sight of their long weapons, the bayonets glinting in the sunlight, make me feel as though I swallowed a block of ice. Their uniforms are a drab olive color, but I can’t tell what branch of the military they are. I try to not look at them overly long.
Instead, I look toward the crowd near a bus. Most are Japanese, but I’m surprised by the number of Caucasian faces I see. Some appear to be journalists, taking notes on the scene with a photographer trailing behind them, but others are speaking with familiarity to the families. They seem to be here for the same reason as Evalina will be. Just to say goodbye.
“Would you like a sandwich?”
I blink at a middle-aged woman wearing bright yellow and holding out a tray of sandwiches like we’re at a party. She could have been a severe looking woman, with her long face and sharp nose, but the yellow of her dress and her bright, dimpled smile prevent that.
When we seem hesitant, she adds, “The women of the First Congregational Church made these for you folks. Waiting in line is bad enough. No need to do so on an empty stomach. This side of the tray is chicken salad, and this side is egg salad.”
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She beams a delighted smile as the adults take the sandwiches, and then she offers them to Aiko and me. “My daughter, Grace, will be here soon with water. We ran out of cups.”
“Do you know how much longer until we reach the desk?” Aiko asks after we thank her.
“I hope not much longer. I know you’ve been waiting a long time already.” She turns a smile to the next family in line. “Yes, please take a sandwich. These are chicken salad and these are egg salad.” She looks back to Aiko. “Maybe twenty or so minutes? We are trying to make the process as smooth as we possibly can.”
She moves on down the line, and Aiko and I exchange confused looks.
“When she said ‘we,’ do you think she meant it’s the church that’s handling the registration?”
“That’s sure what it sounded like,” Aiko says as she sinks her teeth into her sandwich.
The sandwich is dry and tastes hastily made, but I make myself eat all of it. There’s no sign of anyone bringing water, and the sun is hot on my neck. I almost hope Evalina doesn’t come. I must smell terrible.
Thirty more minutes pass before we are next in line at the desk, and as we approach, I think the sandwich woman really did mean that her church is handling the registration. There are three Caucasian women sitting there, all in bright dresses, without any kind of badge or anything to give them an air of officiality.
A girl about my age rushes up to the desk with a tower of paper cups in one hand and a water pitcher in the other. There’s a sheen of sweat on her forehead as she plops it all down at a folding table and begins to pour.
“Sir? I can help you.”
The woman speaking to my father has a friendly but frayed smile. She takes down our information, verifies our evacuation orders, and begins to write 2413 on a stack of tags like those I’ve seen dangling from the coats and luggage of others.
“Do you know where we’re being sent?” Aiko asks, as I’m sure everyone has.
The woman gives a regretful shake of her head. “No, I’m not with the War Relocation Authority. Many of us are just volunteers from a church around the corner.” She gestures to the other women, as well as a group of Caucasian men who are moving and sorting luggage.
Within These Lines Page 6