My heart thumps wildly. I turn away as quickly as I can, hoping he can’t see whatever emotion might be playing across my face. I’ve lost track of how many pitches have been thrown to Woody.
I try to keep my voice light. “You and your cousin don’t have anything better to talk about?”
Woody swings and misses.
As I jog back to touch the base, Raymond says, “We are looking for traitors. I suggested he keep an eye on you and your friend.”
I swivel my head toward him. Is that some kind of joke? The line of his mouth and the clench of his jaw tell me no, but how can he possibly think that?
“You’re serious?”
Raymond’s only response is a flat look.
There’s a loud crack as the bat connects with the ball, and I turn to run—Coach would have my head for having my back to the batter—but Woody had just fouled it off.
As a young boy from the stands throws the ball back in, I return to the base, feeling hot from the embarrassment of running. From the accusation.
“I’m not a traitor.” I take a breath and try to smooth the indignation out of my voice. “I sure didn’t think I’d have to say that to anyone in here.”
I can almost understand Caucasians being suspicious of Japanese—almost—but to be suspected that I’m not 100-percent loyal to my country by a fellow Japanese American?
Raymond’s laugh scrapes out, as if rusty. “You think I mean you are a traitor to the United States? Of course not. I mean to the empire.”
My chest goes cold as I look at him. As my brain churns away at the implications of his statement. Raymond Yamishi is close to my age and is likely an American citizen. His stiff use of English makes me think he is a Kibei—born here but sent to Japan for his education—but even still. It hadn’t occurred to me that there might be people here who considered themselves more Japanese than American. Certainly not of my generation.
There’s the distinct, perfect crack of when the ball hits the sweet spot of the bat, and I scramble into action, taking off as it arches well over the infield. Some applaud and some groan as I cross home plate.
James is off the bench, jumping and pointing and waving. “Back to third! Back to third!”
I turn to see the right fielder throwing the ball in to the cut-off man. Still reeling from Raymond’s words, I didn’t even think to check if the outfielder caught Woody’s hit. I hustle back toward third, but Raymond catches the ball cleanly. He grins as he plants his glove into my chest.
Leaning closer, he says, “The Black Dragons are watching you.”
The Black Dragons are watching me? What does that even mean?
I try to laugh, but instead it comes out as a pathetic squeak. I watch as he drops the glove onto third base for one of us to use, and then jogs off the field.
The Black Dragons. Is it a club here in Manzanar? Every day it seems like there are more clubs being formed. Would the administration really allow a club for those who side with Japan?
“At our next practice, do we need to review the basic rules of baseball?” James asks as I jog past him on my way to first base. He smiles at me, but I can tell he’s miffed about my error ending the inning.
I tip my baseball cap. “Just a little out of practice is all. Sorry about that.”
I glance at the bench of boys from Los Angeles. Raymond chats with a fellow in his early twenties, who’s short and thick. Is that his cousin? How many of those guys are “Black Dragons”? Or did Raymond just say that to mess with me?
From the pitcher’s mound, James tosses me the ball. “You okay, Taichi?”
“Of course.” I throw the ball down the line to second, and I try to imagine throwing away Raymond’s words with it. This is the last inning, and no good can come from dwelling on what he said.
But that doesn’t keep my eyes from drifting over to Raymond during the next ten minutes. Or nearly dropping a routine catch because I had been trying to figure out if Raymond knowing about Evalina could mean my parents would soon know. Or from following Raymond’s retreating figure after the game and keeping an eye on which fellows walk with him.
James rests his bat over his shoulder and makes a show of turning to follow my eyeline. “Are you scoping the crowd for options for tonight?”
“Tonight?”
James laughs, and then realizes I’m not joking. “The dance. Didn’t you say you were coming tonight? Because I know last time when you didn’t come, there were quite a few ladies who were disappointed.”
I shake my head and try to make a scoffing kind of laugh. “I’m working in the mess hall now, remember? I have the dinner shift tonight.”
“The dance is after dinner.”
“Even so. Dances aren’t really my scene.”
Should I suggest to Evalina that she just put her initials on her return address? Not her full, very Italian name? Though if I did that, she would want to know why . . .
“I know you don’t have anything else going on tonight,” James says. And my mind is so preoccupied that at first, I can’t remember what he’s talking about. “You don’t have to dance to have fun, you know. Lots of squares come and just watch.”
Woody joins us, and thankfully the conversation shifts to organizing a baseball game tomorrow too. My gaze finds Raymond as he heads away with his teammates. Or, possibly, fellow Black Dragons.
I think of cheerful Mr. Kamei who showed us to our block that first day and who is always happy to answer questions. He seems to be involved in a bit of everything here in Manzanar; would he knows anything about a group that goes by that name? If there’s anti-American activity in the camps, the administration should know.
Yet another piece of camp life that I won’t be sharing with Evalina.
Mr. Kamei is the last person to come through the line for dinner that evening, arriving as I’m putting food away. He merely flicks a distracted smile my way instead of his usual friendly greeting and passes me his tin plate. “Just rice and fruit tonight.”
“The stew is actually pretty good,” I say. “George made it.”
“Okay, then. Some of that too.”
I scoop a helping onto his plate, then offer it back to him. Mr. Kamei is staring off, lost in thought. “Here, Mr. Kamei.”
He blinks rapidly and puts on a smile. “Thank you, Taichi.”
I watch him walk to an empty table, set down his plate, and then pull out several folders. I hastily put away leftover food and wipe a few tables that have already cleared. As I draw closer to Mr. Kamei, I see he’s going through notes from some kind of meeting.
When I approach, he looks up and smiles. “You were right about the stew. Thank you.”
“Sure.” I linger a moment. “Something happened to me today that I’d like to talk to you about. Is now an okay time?”
“Of course. I certainly don’t mind taking a break from this.” Mr. Kamei punctuates this with a slow and heavy sigh.
“You seem upset.”
He shuffles the papers together in a methodical way. “I’m disappointed. It was one thing to face discrimination when I lived and worked among Caucasians. It’s another to feel it from one’s own people.”
I take a seat. “That’s oddly what I wanted to talk to you about.”
His eyes narrow on me. “What’s happening, Taichi?”
“Well, Mr. Kamei—”
“You can call me Ted.”
“Ted.” I flinch at the sound of an adult’s first name on my lips. “I had a strange conversation today.”
I recount for him what I can remember of my conversations with Raymond Yamishi, beginning with James chatting him up in the chow line, to today at the baseball game and his talk about the Black Dragons.
“Have you heard of a group that calls itself that?”
A swell of wind pushes dust through the cracks of the nearby window. Ted watches for a moment and then says, “Given the conversations I’ve been having this afternoon, I wouldn’t be surprised if a group of young Kibei have offic
ially or unofficially banded together and started calling themselves something that sounds threatening.”
Ted seems to be thinking something through, and I try to wait patiently. My knee bounces beneath the table, and I can hear the creak, creak, creak of the floorboard my foot is on.
“I think I can ask some of the Isseis about this.” Ted speaks this sentence slow and measured. “After today’s meeting . . . Well, I’ll just be frank with you about what I’ve seen going on.”
Ted gives me an evaluating look, and I nod.
“Many are very hurt and bitter over the evacuation. I suppose I don’t need to tell you that. Some believe the best thing we can do is follow the government’s orders and prove our loyalty that way. Specifically, those like Fred Tayama, and others involved in the Japanese American Citizens League. They feel our government has made a mistake, but we can show our loyalty by being good citizens.” Ted evaluates me a moment longer.
“Not everyone feels that way,” I prompt.
“Some feel that by doing this we are making ourselves doormats. They fought for the United States during the Great War and now are being imprisoned like they’ve done something wrong. If I were a veteran, perhaps I would feel the same way as Joe and Harry.” Ted digs trenches in his hair with his fingers. “I don’t know. I just don’t know. I’m a Nisei, and they sometimes seem suspicious of me. Like I’m going to report them to the FBI.”
“Who are Joe and Harry?”
“Harry Ueno is a cook in block twenty-two. A great cook, actually. He deep fries rice and rolls it in sugar for the kids.” Ted’s smile is tinged with sadness. “I like Harry, even if we disagree politically. Joe is fine too, really. He’ll have somewhat reasonable conversations.”
“I don’t think I know either of them.”
“There’s no reason you would. Joe is a veteran, and he feels deeply betrayed. He’s from Terminal Island, and the evacuation was particularly bad there. Joe has been very vocal about how he wants to be sent back to Japan if this is how America is going to treat war veterans, that he’s not going to disgrace himself by holding a job here in Manzanar. That it only helps the government holding us as prisoners.”
Ted makes a rolling motion with his hand, indicating that he could go on for a while about Joe’s philosophies.
“Anyway, Joe made a comment in our meeting about how he’s had conversations with many of the young Kibei from Los Angeles and Terminal Island. He says they all think we need to take more action against the administration if we want change and respect. When you mentioned the ‘Black Dragons’ it just sounded like something Joe would know about, that’s all. I’ll see what I can learn. In the meantime, try not to worry.”
“Okay. Thanks, Ted.”
“Taichi . . .” Ted looks at his hands for a moment as he debates. “You said Raymond brought up that you exchange letters with a Caucasian girl. It’s none of my business, and you’ve a right to correspond with whomever you wish, but if the correspondence continues, Raymond and his friends might only antagonize you further.”
For a moment, I consider telling Ted about Evalina. Several times I’ve seen him talking to Karl Yoneda and his wife. Once I even saw him playing with their son.
But while I don’t think he would be too scandalized, he’s also on friendly terms with my parents. What if he doesn’t feel comfortable keeping secrets from them?
“I’m going to keep corresponding with her,” I say to my hands. “Regardless of what Raymond said.”
When I look up, Ted’s gaze moves about my face, as if he’s searching for more information. “I felt the same way about a Caucasian girl once,” he says quietly. “Long ago, before Lillian. So I understand.”
My mind pulses with questions, but his wife approaches the table before I can ask any of them.
“Ah, here she is. Lillian, have you met Taichi Hamasaki? He’s in barrack eleven.”
I stand and offer my hand. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Kamei.”
Even by Japanese standards, Lillian is short. Her hair is straighter than most of the girls, and she’s thinner than most as well. I feel like a giant next to her.
“It’s nice to meet you too.” Her voice is surprisingly low for how tiny she is in every other sense. “You can call me Lillian.”
I take a step back toward the kitchen. “I need to finish cleaning up. Thank you for the talk, Ted. And nice to meet you, Lillian.”
As I finish putting away food, I can’t help glancing at the Kameis several times. Lillian is angled toward Ted, attentive as he speaks in a private voice. When they leave, he has the folder grasped in one hand, and his other hand holds Lillian’s.
Their contentment with each other should be a pleasant sight, but I can’t get my mind off the Caucasian girl he alluded to. A girl he’d once cared deeply about, it sounds like. Instead, his happiness with Lillian only causes my chest to tighten with questions and confusion.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Evalina
Saturday, May 30, 1942
When I come out the front door, Daddy chuckles. “Are you trying to scare everyone away? You look more like you’re going to a funeral than a Memorial Day picnic.”
I glance down at my gray sweater and black skirt. “I’m not going to parade around in red, white, and blue as if I’m so proud.”
“You’re not proud of our country?” Daddy’s tone is light, inviting conversation. He shifts the weight of the picnic basket he’s holding, and hands me a bag with a jug of lemonade.
“I’m not proud of everything our country does, no.”
“Countries are run by men. Men are fallible.”
“Currently, I find the men who run our country extremely fallible.”
Daddy chuckles as Mama comes out the door at last. She struggles under the weight of three bags full of food we’ve been preparing all week for the picnic. Even though everyone contributes, each family brings so much, you would think they’re solely responsible for feeding the neighborhood.
“Alessandro, did you get the picnic basket, because . . .” Mama’s words trail off as she takes in my less-than-festive ensemble. I can almost hear the debate going on in her mind as she tries to figure out what to say to me. “Evalina . . .”
I square my shoulders.
“This is some sort of political statement, I gather?”
“Yes, it is.”
Mama looks to Daddy. Daddy shrugs.
She looks back to me and hesitates a moment before saying, “Would you carry one of these bags, please?”
We join other Italian families heading to the park for our annual Memorial Day picnic. Many families look different than they did this time last year, with sons or fathers or both gone to war or away at training. Several wear black bands of mourning around their sleeves.
Mrs. Esposito arranges her food on the table as my family approaches. “Hello, Cassano family.” She gives my outfit a once-over but makes no remarks. “I had to bring extra food this year because we’ve brought a guest. Evalina, have you met Tony’s new girlfriend?”
“We had P.E. class together last year, just after she moved here. She’s very nice.”
To my parents, she says, “She’s the one over there with the beautiful blonde curls. They’re getting a game of volleyball going, if you’d like to join them, Evalina. Mary is wonderfully athletic.” Mrs. Esposito takes a knife and drags the blade down her pan of lasagna, drawing precise lines. “I’ve never seen Tony so excited about a girl. It’s wonderful.”
She possibly intends the words to slice me, considering I’m the one who ended things with Tony. And they do, a bit. A papercut to my ego. A sharp sting, but one that fades quickly. “I’ll go join them. Excuse me.”
I set off toward the volleyball net. In the sea of dark haired and olive skinned Italian Americans, Mary is easy to spot. Her blonde curls are held out of her face with a red headband that sports a navy bow. Her skirt is red plaid, her blouse white, and her sweater navy blue. She looks like an advertisement for th
e American way, all the way down to her navy-blue saddle shoes.
About halfway to them, my pace slows. I feel suddenly ridiculous in my statement outfit and one red thumbnail. Just as I’m about to veer away, Tony spots me. He waves enthusiastically and gestures me closer to them. I wave, smile, and—what else can I do?—resume my walk to them. I can see his mouth moving, and Mary’s eyes find me in the crowd.
“I hoped you would be here,” Tony says. “Mary, do you know Evalina, my oldest and dearest friend?”
Mary offers her slim hand. All her fingernails gleam patriotic red. “Yes, I think we’ve had a couple classes together. And now I feel like I know you because it seems every childhood story of Tony’s stars you.”
Mary doesn’t have a face of stunning beauty, but there’s an endearing sweetness there. Especially when she beams up at Tony.
“Yes, I was always trying to keep Tony out of trouble.”
Tony shakes his head. “A complete lie. Both of us were always trying to keep Gia out of trouble. Where is she, by the way?”
I scan the crowd and wince when I see Gia talking to Lorenzo. Why hasn’t he shipped out yet? Isn’t he needed for the war effort?
Tony follows my gaze. “They looked like they were fighting at prom. I thought maybe they had called it quits.”
“She told me she thinks they should either break up or get married.”
Tony grunts his disapproval. His dislike of Lorenzo has always made me feel better about my own. Tony usually likes everybody.
I make small talk with Mary—where she lived before here, what her plans are for next fall—until the lunch buffet opens. We load up our plates, and Tony steers us to a sunny patch of grass.
Mary has just said to me, “Tony says you plan to study political science at U.C. Berkeley,” when Gia arrives, Lorenzo in tow.
“Hello, all.” She plops beside me. Gia is also dressed like the American flag threw up on her, and Lorenzo has on his uniform. “Lorenzo, you know Tony and Evalina, of course. This is Tony’s friend, Mary.”
Within These Lines Page 13