Within These Lines

by Stephanie Morrill

  Mother waves me forward, and I realize my family is being assisted. I step out of line to join them.

  After providing our names and former addresses to a woman at the desk, she counts out a stack of ten thin, green blankets and plops them on the table, disturbing the coating of dust that had gathered there. “You’re in block four, barrack eleven, apartment one. Step over here to get your inoculations, and they’ll show you where to stuff your mattresses.” She leans out over the table. “Next in line!”

  “Stuff our mattresses?” Father says, but the next family is already edging us out of the way.

  Mother’s face turns pale as we stand in line watching others receive their shots. One nurse in particular really jabs the needle in, and Mother looks away as if she’ll be sick. She happens to be the nurse who barks, “Next!” when it’s Mother’s turn.

  I step around Mother, taking her place.

  The nurse doesn’t even glance at me as she reaches for a set of shots. “Take your sweater off.”

  Aiko, who’s only a few feet away, asks, “What kind of shots are these?”

  “Just standard shots.”

  “Next!” calls another nurse, and this time I cannot protect Mother. Thankfully this is one of the two gentler nurses. Even still, my mother looks like she might faint before she gets to the table.

  “Standard shots?” Aiko echoes. I don’t need to look at my sister to know she’s scowling. “And what are ‘standard shots’ for prisoners?”

  The nurse flicks Aiko an annoyed look. “Standard inoculations.” She speaks in a slow, loud, insulting voice. “Typhoid, diphtheria, tetanus, and small pox.”

  “Are you sterilizing those needles that you’re about to poke in my brother’s arm?”

  “Next!” another nurse calls.

  My nurse arches her eyebrows at Aiko. “That’s you. And of course we’re sterilizing them. Cleanliness is very important to us here in America.”

  By the time I understand the implications of her statement, the nurse holds my arm steady with a hand that feels as though it’s made of steel. I clamp my mouth shut so I won’t cry out from the burn of the first shot.

  I take a deep breath as she reaches for the next. “Should I expect any side effects from these?’

  “No.”

  As we exit through the door the nurses pointed us to, a hot, dusty wind tries to slap us back into the building. Aunt Chiyu supports some of Mother’s weight and murmurs comfort to her in Japanese.

  Aiko’s facial expression makes me think of a hornet that’s been poked with a stick. “We’re all going to be sick as dogs from those stinking shots.”

  I rub at my arm, which is more sore from the nurse’s grasp than the shots themselves. “She said we wouldn’t.”

  Aiko makes a scoffing noise. Before dropping out of school, Aiko was on track to become a nurse. She learned just enough to scare us all with horror stories.

  We enter the doorway of the next building and wait for our eyes to adjust. Inside, there are two piles. One of hay and one of large, empty sacks. Japanese Americans of all ages hold a sack in one hand and use the other to shovel in straw.

  “What are they . . . ?” Aiko’s voice curls with disbelief as she realizes what’s going on. She looks at me, and the indignation on her face reminds me of when she crushed her paper crane in her hands. “They don’t even have beds for us.”

  Her sentence is like a suitcase stuffed with thousands of corresponding thoughts to be unpacked. That the pamphlet about what we would have at camp was wrong. That the government can’t even be bothered to give us something as basic as a bed. And if they can’t provide us with beds, what else have they not provided for us? Should we expect a roof? Food? Toilets?

  I pick up one of the sacks and hand it to her. “I don’t think Manzanar is any more ready for us than we are for it.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Taichi

  We step outside the building, juggling our mattresses and suitcases. I stare out at the bleak valley, the soaring peaks, and my mind is curiously blank.

  “Hi.”

  I jump at the greeting.

  The man—in his mid-twenties, maybe?—sticks out his hand to my father. “I’m Ted Kamei. I’m going to show you where your apartment is.”

  “Thank you.” Father sets down his suitcase and, while balancing his stuffed mattress over his shoulder, fumbles in his trouser pocket for the paper we were given with our new address.

  Mr. Kamei smiles when he sees it. “How funny! We’ll be neighbors. I thought our block was full. I’m in 4-7-2 with my wife and parents. I’m not your official block leader—that’s Karl—but I’ve been here since the beginning, so I can usually help if you have questions. Oh, excuse me a moment.” He waves to another family who’s gazing about the barracks with dazed expressions and luggage puddled around their feet. “Hi, I’m Ted. I’m going to show you to your apartment. I’m just waiting for a few more to join us.”

  I shield my eyes from a gritty blast of wind and watch a group of men work together to hang the black paper on a newly constructed house. We all watch them silently for a few minutes.

  Then Aunt Chiyu turns her back to the construction. “The mountains make me think of Fujiyama.”

  Mother nods and turns her back as well. “Yes. They are very majestic.”

  After a moment, Father, Aiko, and I follow their lead and fix our focus on the dramatic snow-topped range of the Sierras.

  “I look forward to telling Fuji in my next letter. He has missed living near great mountains.” Aunt Chiyu looks back toward the entrance and scans the few buildings. “I did not see a post office, did you?”

  I had been looking as well. “No.”

  Without realizing, my hand has found its way to my breast pocket, where Evalina’s photograph is still secure. How long will it be before I can get a letter sent to her?

  Mr. Kamei has greeted several other families, and now calls for us to follow him. He walks backward as though a docent in a museum. “As you can see, there is much still to be done here at Manzanar. Your help will be critical to getting our community up and running. Each of the blocks are numbered, but it’s easy to get lost. Don’t be embarrassed when it happens to you; we’re all finding our way around. Those of us who have been here the longest arrived three weeks ago.” He chuckles, but the sound holds an edge of anger to it. “That first number on your card is your block number, the second is your barrack number, and the third is which entrance to the barrack is yours. Unfortunately, none of the barracks have interior walls yet, but Mr. Campbell, the assistant camp manager, told us partitions are coming.”

  They have no interior walls? I stare at the ugly black barracks. They’re maybe one hundred feet long and twenty feet deep, with a door on either end, and small windows. Are we really expected to share one of these with complete strangers without so much as a wall between us? Heat rises up the back of my neck. How could they ask that of us?

  At block two, the first block we come to, Mr. Kamei stands in the middle of our group. He points down the far row of barracks and says, “Each block is arranged the same. These buildings down the center are men’s and women’s latrines and showers, the laundry room, and then the mess hall and the recreation hall on either side at the end. Meals are served three times a day. You’ll hear the bells.”

  “There are no bathrooms in the houses?”

  I don’t know if Aiko intended her question to be directed to Mr. Kamei, but he gives her a soft, “No,” all the same.

  She does something she hasn’t done since we were little kids: she reaches out and takes my hand. I want to tell her it’ll be fine, but the words stick in my throat. Instead, I squeeze her fingers and attempt a reassuring smile.

  As Mr. Kamei shows several men to their apartments, I try to catch a glimpse of the interior. It’s too dark for me to make out much, though. A wave of homesickness hits me for the bright sunshine that filled our home in Alameda, and I clench my teeth to ward off the overwhelm
ing desire to cry.

  I don’t have to wait much longer to satisfy my curiosity, however, because block four is next. As we pass by his barrack, Mr. Kamei points out his door to us. “My wife, Lillian, and I live here, and you’re always welcome—”

  The wind swirls, and a stench hits us like a punch. Even Mr. Kamei covers his nose and mouth. “Sorry, the latrines in four have been down all day. We have men working on it.”

  As we draw closer to the building, I see men wearing masks as they work in an open trench. The brown muck is up to their knees.

  “Where do we go, then, if we need to . . .” Aiko swallows, “use the facilities?”

  “The toilets in block ten should be working again. That’s just one block west. And I know the pipes have just been repaired in block twelve.” Mr. Kamei points toward the mountain range. “That’s about two city blocks south.”

  Aiko’s grip on my arm has grown increasingly tighter, and I put one of my hands over hers.

  Mr. Kamei surveys us all. “I know. Believe me, I know. When I arrived, we didn’t even have toilets. And with new residents showing up every day, we need help with everything. The more we all pitch in, the better this experience will be. Job openings are posted at the administration building. Please help us by signing up.” Mr. Kamei has a wide-eyed, expectant look on his face, perhaps waiting for us to grab a shovel and hop into the trench. I get the feeling that’s what he would do, fatigued or not. “Once you’ve settled in, of course. Now, Hamasaki family, this one is yours.”

  Mother, Aunt Chiyu, and Aiko are all still staring at the open trench. Father nods to Mr. Kamei. “Thank you for your assistance.”

  Mr. Kamei takes hold of the lever and pushes open the door. He casts us a sympathetic smile as we cross the threshold.

  Once I’m inside and my eyes have adjusted from the bright sunlight, I see why.

  Just like in the room where we registered, the floors are bare planks, coated in a layer of sand that’s blown up and in. The only thing separating us from the other families already living in the barrack are the olive-colored blankets like those we’re holding in our hands draped from the roof beams. One bare lightbulb dangles over each apartment, which I can see because of the open rafters.

  All five of us stand there, looking at our designated space—twenty-five feet by ten feet—that is to house the five of us for an undetermined amount of time.

  My heart feels like a fist as it pounds in my chest. This is too much. Too much to take in. Too much to be asked of us. Too much dignity to lose all in twenty-four hours. How can this be real?

  One of the blankets is yanked aside, and a young boy grins and yelps, “Hi!”

  We all stare at him. After a few seconds, the blanket falls to the ground, revealing his family’s apartment in one dramatic swoop. Their crudely stuffed mattresses are piled on one army cot, and their luggage on another. The boy’s parents are nailing tin can lids over knotholes.

  “Norman.” His mother’s reprimand makes even me jump. “I told you not to touch the blanket.” She glares at us, and I get it. Because I senselessly find myself wanting to glare back. Shame has given birth to anger inside my chest, and there are precious few safe places for us to show our anger. To one another is the only one we have left.

  I expect Aiko to growl fiery words at the boy, but instead she turns away. Turns against me, her shoulders shaking as she sobs silently.

  When I awake in the night, the wind whistles through the gaps and knotholes of the pine boards. Even in my sweater, socks, and flannel pants, I shiver and grasp for the edge of the army blanket to be sure it’s secured around me.

  My bladder aches.

  I open my eyes. The apartment is still illuminated intermittently by searchlights, which had given me an uneasy feeling as I dozed off hours ago. Do they keep those on all night? I suppose that’s a good thing, considering I’m about to have to wander out onto the block to use the restroom, and I’d rather not do it in the black night of the Owens Valley.

  Beside me on the floor, Aiko grinds her teeth in her sleep. In another apartment, a man snores. I hope I can get out of here without waking anyone.

  I step gingerly through the apartment, conscious of every creak and pop of the hastily constructed floors. Everyone is so exhausted from our journey, they sleep right through my sneaking out the door.

  I stand in the doorway a moment to get my bearings. The men’s latrine is the building right outside our barrack . . . but have those been repaired? Or should I try to find block ten in the—

  I’m blinded by a sharp light. I clap my hands over my eyes to shield them from the searchlight that’s fixed upon me. I wait for it to pass over, but it doesn’t.

  I stumble down the steps to get out of its accusing glare, only for it to follow me. My heart pounds as I attempt to make my way toward the men’s latrine, but it’s hard with the burn of the light in my eyes. Even when I manage to find the door and get inside the bathroom, my vision is clouded from when the searchlight hit my eyes directly.

  I’m not sure my heart has ever beaten so fast. After a few minutes, I can make out the two rows of toilets and the urinal trough. There are no partitions, but I’m alone anyway. And I no longer care if the plumbing is operational; there’s no way I’m wandering over to another block with a searchlight tracking me the whole way.

  Even with the sharp ache of my too-full bladder, I stand at the trough for minutes before I’m able to pee. The sink doesn’t work, but I forgot my bar of soap anyway.

  I open the door and find the light fixed on the staircase. Waiting.

  The light follows me back to my door before resuming its oscillating scan of the camp. I lie on my lumpy mattress, hot with shame as the cold Manzanar wind continues through the night.

  When I awaken the next time, it’s because a piece of straw tickles my ear.

  The morning light that filters into the apartment is gray and dusty. Aiko is still beside me. Everything from her nose below is tucked beneath her blanket, like a turtle snug in its shell. What I can see of her face and hair looks as though she’s powdered herself. Her eyelashes are like miniature ash-gray fans on her cheeks.

  When I stir, a cloud of fine dust billows into the air.

  Without opening her eyes, Aiko says, “I’ve never been so cold in all my life.”

  “It’ll be better once we get cots. I’ll ask Mr. Kamei about them today.”

  “The brochure said the cots would be here when we arrived.” Even muffled by her blanket, Aiko’s raw sarcasm comes through loud and clear. “I’m starting to believe the government isn’t 100 percent prepared for us.”

  Mother, Father, and Aunt Chiyu stand in the middle of the barrack as a middle-aged man demonstrates how to light the fire in the oil-burning stove. “You will get the hang of it quickly. The hardest part is venting without letting sparks escape. I won’t be surprised if half these barracks have burned down by Christmas.”

  “That’s comforting,” I murmur to Aiko.

  Her eyes crinkle, hinting at her hidden smile.

  I sit up, cringing against the cold and tightening the blanket around me. Dust clouds form with every movement. The only thing around me not covered in dust is where I slept. There’s an outline of my body on the mattress. By the time I get back from the latrines, that will probably be covered too.

  My face flushes as I recall the glare of the searchlight during my last bathroom trip.

  “I hope the toilets are fixed.” Aiko sits up and finger-combs the dust from her hair. “The latrines you went to the next block over, did they . . . ? I mean, were they . . . ? Was there any privacy?”

  My heart plummets at Aiko’s expression. Even in block ten where the toilets supposedly worked, two of them had been bubbling, spewing sticky brown waste over their rims and making the bathroom floor slick, and there had been no dividers of any kind. I had hoped more care had been taken with the women’s bathrooms.

  I shake my head at Aiko.

  She blinks away
tears. “That’s what I assumed. A few of the women had boxes that they use to shield themselves, but . . .”

  She stands, presses a hand to her abdomen, and winces.

  “Good morning,” Mother greets us. “This is Mr. Abe. These are our children, Aiko and Taichi.”

  We offer slight bows in response to his. Mr. Abe continues his demonstration, and Mother adds, “The facilities in our block are still broken. Do not forget your paper,” before turning back to watch.

  Aiko pats her coat pocket where a small roll of toilet paper is wedged.

  When I undo the latch on the door, the wind grabs hold and slaps it against the barrack. Aiko stretches her coat to shield her face from the blast, which feels as though it’s made of the mountaintop snow.

  We trudge between the barracks, toward block ten. Aiko now clutches at her stomach with both arms.

  “Are you okay?”

  “No, I . . .” Her face is grim, and tears glint in the corners of her eyes. “I need the latrine.”

  She remains bent for the rest of our walk, and we find a line stretching out the door. I count twelve women ahead of Aiko, and I know there must be more inside. Aiko stands with her legs crossed, and she stoops further. I can’t just leave her here.

  “Of course there’s a line, right?” My chuckle is wooden. “What else do we do these days but stand in line?”

  She doesn’t answer. Her face scrunches, and her legs twist tighter together. I long for Mother or Aunt Chiyu, but it’s just me and a long line of strange women. Several others have lined up behind us, their faces resigned and stoic.

  Aiko emits a low groan and bends deeper at the waist.

  I tap the shoulder of the woman in front of us. “I’m sorry, but my sister really needs to use the facilities. Can she—”

  “We all need to use the facilities.” Her no-nonsense tone matches the no-nonsense bun on the back of her head.

  “But she—”

  “Taichi.” My name is a strangled sound on Aiko’s lips, and her nails bite into my arm. She leans against me, hides her face in my sleeve, and sobs.