Within These Lines

by Stephanie Morrill

  Ted waves me over, and as I approach, James is saying, “I had to go every Saturday, but I hated it and never did very well. I couldn’t figure out why I would need to know Japanese. Now I wish I had been a better pupil.”

  Ted smiles at James. “There will be other opportunities for you to serve. Your turn is coming, I’m sure.”

  James’s smile is rueful. “I wish it would hurry up.”

  “Soon they’ll realize that there are thousands and thousands of able-bodied men in these camps, and they’ll change their minds,” Ted says. “You’ll see. There’ll be a place for men like you, even if you don’t speak fluent Japanese.”

  James nods to the MPs. “Why do you have bodyguards?”

  Ted glances at the MPs with a grimace. “Not everyone at Manzanar thinks us helping the government that locked us up is such a great idea. I finally got Campbell to realize the threat is strong enough, that he needed to give us all police protection overnight.”

  I pitch my voice low. “What about when you’re gone? What about Lillian and the baby?”

  Ted hesitates. “I couldn’t get Campbell to agree to anything as far as that goes, but he pointed out that my wife and parents are probably safer when I’m away from camp—”

  “He said that?”

  “He is likely right.” If the assistant camp director’s comment hurt Ted’s feelings, he’s not letting it show. “Though I still don’t think anything will come of this death list business. While Joe and I differ on how to best go about creating change for our people, I don’t think he would hurt Lillian. And young pups like Raymond Yamishi will follow his lead.”

  I hope he’s right.

  “Besides,” James says through a yawn. “Me and Taichi will keep an eye on them.”

  “I know you will. And Fred and the others will be back from the JACL meeting before too long; they’ll watch out for Lillian too.”

  James snorts. “The JACL are like lightning rods for Joe and the Dragons. Nobody is going to be thinking about Lillian if they’re back.”

  Ted flinches. “I’ve made Campbell aware of the trouble, and the rumors going around about lists. He’s a smart enough guy, I think. He’ll keep the place in check.” Ted sounds as though he’s giving himself a pep talk. “The Manzanar Police too. Right, James?”

  “Definitely. We’ll keep this place buttoned down.”

  Lillian and Ted’s parents come out of the apartment then. Lillian is shined up for the occasion, with her hair curled and her dress fresh, but her eyes are swollen.

  Ted swallows as he watches her. “Sometimes I feel like me doing what I think is best only lands my family in more trouble.”

  They join us, and after a few pleasantries, it’s time for them to meet the others at the entrance.

  Ted picks up his suitcase, and then rests a hand on my shoulder. “Keep your chin up, Taichi. I know you’re disappointed, but I’m comforted to think there’s a good man like you inside the fence.”

  I didn’t realize I needed the encouragement, but something inside me lightens with his words. James and I wave goodbye. We watch them join the Yoneda family and walk as a group to the entrance, the MPs trailing them.

  “I’m dog-tired.” James removes his hat, rubs at his rumpled hair, and puts it back on his head. “I think I’ll skip breakfast and just go right to bed.”

  “I work lunch today,” I say. “I’ll be sure to set aside extra for you.”

  “Especially if George is making that stew again.” James frowns and shields his eyes from the bite of the dusty wind. “I’ve never seen them building anything before.”

  I follow his gaze to a group of young men, including Raymond Yamishi, walking by with armloads of mangled two-by-fours. Wayward nails glint in the sunlight.

  “I can’t imagine they’re building anything great with boards like that.”

  “They’re odd ducks, aren’t they?” James rubs at an eye. “I’ve got to get some sleep. I’ll see you at lunch.”

  I watch Raymond Yamishi and his friends until they can’t be seen from our block. When I get back to our apartment, my hand instinctively reaches to bar the door.

  Evalina

  December 2, 1942

  The library has always been the place I concentrate the best, but today my brain is intent on wandering. Despite my efforts to focus on my notes from American Literature in preparation for my final exam, my mind instead wants to stay fixed on my article that was published in Monday’s newspaper.

  In yesterday’s issue, there were multiple letters to the editor about it. One praising my point of view, and the other three protesting. One of them pointed out that I’m “obviously Italian” and should be grateful for the country I live in. As if having grandparents that were born in another country somehow strips away my right to question the decisions my government is making.

  I have to stop dwelling on it. I redirect my focus to the textbook in front of me, but I struggle to really care about the symbolism in The Scarlet Letter.

  Can’t it be both? Can’t I feel grateful for the freedoms of my country, as well as voice my opinion about errors in judgment that I see? Isn’t my right to do so part of what makes our country great?

  Focus, Evalina.

  I bend deeper over my notebook and clasp both hands on top of my head, as if this will keep my focus on my scribblings from the semester.

  Grace drops into the seat across from me and slings her bag onto the table with a thump. “You look like you’re afraid your brain is going to explode.”

  “I am, though unfortunately not because of all the information I’m retaining about Nathaniel Hawthorne.” My sigh is gusty, but it doesn’t leave me feeling any lighter. “I’m really struggling to care right now.”

  Grace gives me a frank look. “This is about the angry letters to the editor, isn’t it?”

  I tap my pencil against my notebook. “Maybe.”

  A noise of frustration uncurls from Grace’s throat. “What you wrote moved people, Evalina. That’s amazing.”

  “But not really in the way I hoped people would be moved.”

  “We don’t know that. Not everyone who’s changed will write in. Some people may not even realize that you affected their view of the issue. And those who are deeply offended? They still stopped what they were doing to consider your viewpoint and respond. That’s incredible.”

  “I don’t know, Grace.” I flip the page of my notebook. Hopefully the macabre Edgar Allen Poe will hold my interest better. “Maybe it’s unrealistic, but I was really hoping that at least one student would read it, and then understand the evacuation in a completely different way. That I would overthrow their old way of thinking.”

  “We all hope for that when we write, but how often are you completely persuaded to a new way of thought within a six-hundred-word article? Change is a gradual thing. We have to chip away at the hard-heartedness of others and ourselves. We have to gradually open eyes, not just grab eyelids and yank them open.”

  I giggle at the imagery. “Okay.”

  Grace sets about spreading notes across the table. “I think Monday’s vigil is going to be swell, don’t you? Jack had some really great ideas for how to best organize everything.”

  On Monday, it will have been one year since the attack on Pearl Harbor. It feels more like centuries ago with everything that’s happened. At our last few meetings, the Future Leaders club has been planning a schoolwide vigil to honor those who died.

  Grace taps her pencil against the library table with a quick rap, rap, rap. “Jack isn’t very political. But I suppose that’s okay. He doesn’t need to be, right?”

  “Right.” I stare at my textbook, but my thoughts have drifted to a small ranch house on a farm in Alameda, like they often have as the anniversary of Pearl Harbor has drawn closer. But I’m not going to say anything now, because I need to study.

  I turn the page. Okay, yes, I am. “I think on Sunday, I’m going to go to Taichi’s house. He’s not there, of course. But just
. . . to see it. Like my own private kind of vigil.”

  Grace blinks at me a moment, looking stunned. “Evalina, I’m so stupid. I completely forgot to tell you. Over Thanksgiving, my father said he’d been in touch with Manzanar War Relocation Center about Taichi’s family and he wanted me to tell you. How did I possibly not bring that up the moment I saw you?”

  I didn’t know my heart could go from normal to racing in such a short amount of time. “What did he say? Are they out?”

  “He said it took him several weeks to get in touch with the director at Manzanar. I guess they’re getting a new one or something. He finally got all the paperwork, and now he’s waiting for the man in charge of transfers to get the work release in order. There’s a lot of red tape, it sounds like.” Grace smacks her palm against her forehead. “That was the very first thing I was going to tell you when I saw you at the FLOA meeting last night, but then we were talking about the vigil, and I got so excited . . . I’m so sorry.”

  “Stop apologizing, it’s fine.” I close my textbook. Studying is out of the question now. “Did your father say how quickly he thought it might happen?”

  Grace shakes her head. “That’s everything he said, I swear. Has Taichi said anything to you in his letters?”

  The question lands like a kick in the stomach. I haven’t wanted to admit to Grace how one-sided my relationship with Taichi is these days.

  Or maybe I haven’t wanted to admit it to myself.

  If his family gets released on a work permit, will Taichi even write to tell me the news? It’s been just short of six months since he sent me a letter. Why should I think that he’ll give me his new address?

  “No,” I say. “He hasn’t said a thing.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Taichi

  Saturday, December 5, 1942

  The mess hall is decorated festively with garlands and red ribbons and other items that look wonderfully out of place here in Manzanar. The band plays Christmas music that’s upbeat enough for dancing, and those who are inclined cut up the dance floor, including James and Margaret, and Aiko and Ichiro.

  Aiko is usually glowing when Ichiro shows up for these events, but tonight she seems a bit more sluggish out there. A bit more grim. Maybe they’ve been fighting?

  “Hi, Taichi.”

  I turn to find Rose standing beside me. “Oh, hi . . .”

  I instinctively look toward the door, as if I could somehow hide. But this is Manzanar. There’s nowhere to hide.

  “How are you?” There’s a softness in the words that wasn’t there the last time we spoke.

  “I’m fine.” I put on a polite smile. “And you?”

  “Honestly, I feel really stupid.” She blows out a puff of air. “I was downright awful to you the last time we spoke, and I’m really sorry about that. I don’t know if you heard, but my father was released to Manzanar earlier this week.”

  “James told me. I was really glad to hear it.”

  Rose is no longer looking at me, but rather her hands, which she twists together in front of her. “Thank you. I’m so sorry for the awful accusations I made about your uncle—”

  “It’s fine.”

  “It’s not. I was stupid for listening to gossip. My father . . .” Rose’s eyes grow watery, and I look away. “He’s not himself. Not yet.”

  I reach into my pocket and shove my handkerchief into her hand. “My uncle gets better with each week that passes. I hope the same will be true for your father.”

  Rose wipes at her eyes. “He used to be embarrassingly patriotic about America. He was so reverent about the flag, the National Anthem, everything. If the government ever opened up doors for Japanese nationals to be citizens, he would have camped outside the office for a week just to be first in line.” Rose’s wistful smile dies on her lips. “But last night I heard him and my mother talking about how there’s no life for us here. How we should just go back to Japan when we get the chance.”

  It’s strange to stand so close to her when she’s crying, yet to keep my arms crossed over my chest. Any kind of affection seems awkward, though. Especially considering what Aiko told me. “He’s been hurt and betrayed. Don’t we all feel that way, if we’re being honest? And the majority of us weren’t sent to North Dakota.”

  “I suppose.” Rose sniffles. Her tears glitter when the light catches them. “Taichi, I think Aiko needs you.”

  The change of her tone—watery to urgent—makes my heartbeat kick up a notch. I follow her eyeline to see Aiko shuffling off the dance floor with her arms crossed over her stomach. Her face is blank, but I’ve seen my sister mask pain enough times to recognize it for what it is.

  “I’ll see you later, Rose.” I skirt around the dancers to where Aiko is easing into a chair. “Aiko, what’s going on?”

  “Probably nothing. Maybe just really bad”—her face twists briefly before she can slide the mask back over it—“cramps? I don’t know.”

  “Where’s Ichiro?”

  “Getting me a drink. It’s been so dry. I might be dehydrated.” She winces again, and her breathing becomes even more labored. “Or maybe it’s my monthly cycle.”

  “But I’ve never seen you in this much pain.”

  Aiko groans and leans forward. “Food poisoning?”

  Ichiro materializes with a cup of water and a deep frown. “She’s worse.”

  “I think she needs to go to the hospital.”

  “I don’t need to go”—she gasps for air—“to the hospital.”

  Ichiro is as inclined to ignore her as I am. He takes one side, and I take the other. Despite Aiko’s initial protest, she does nothing to prevent us from helping her out of the room. Ichiro thinks to grab coats from the pile, which is good because the temperature has plummeted to the thirties with the setting sun, and the hospital is several blocks away.

  When Aiko cries out in pain and her legs collapse beneath her, Ichiro scoops her up and carries her the final block to the hospital. I jog alongside him to keep up, and then hold the door open so he can run through.

  “Ichiro!” A nurse rises from behind a desk. “Aiko! What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know for sure,” Ichiro pants. “But I think Aiko’s appendix is about to burst.”

  Dr. Goto briefly examines feverish, vomiting, and moaning Aiko before agreeing with Ichiro.

  “Prepare her for surgery,” he says to the nurses.

  Horror rises up in me as the nurses spring into action, as I think of my sister being sliced open and possibly losing her life here.

  Dr. Goto turns to Ichiro and then me. “Are you family?”

  I try to speak, but can’t seem to find my voice.

  “Taichi is her brother, doctor. Should I go get her parents, or do you need me in surgery?”

  “I have Peggy. Please go get her parents.” To me, Dr. Goto adds, “Do you know where they’ll be, son?”

  “Playing Go with the Kanitos and Kameis, I think. Maybe in the rec room on block four?”

  Ichiro races off, and Dr. Goto and I both watch as Aiko retches into a pail one of the nurses holds for her.

  “Hopefully we’ve caught this early enough that her appendix isn’t leaking or ruptured. When that happens, there’s a high risk of infect—”

  “Help me!” A yell from outside the room cuts into our conversation. The desperation infused in that voice makes my blood freeze in my veins. “Someone, please help me!”

  “Get Aiko moved and the room prepped,” Dr. Goto orders the nurses over his shoulder as he jogs out of the room. “I’ll meet you in surgery.”

  “Help me!” The voice calls again from the direction of the front doors. “Is anyone here?”

  I stand in the doorway, useless to everyone. I should’ve run for Mother and Father since Ichiro could at least do something.

  “What’s happened?” Dr. Goto’s question reaches me back here in Aiko’s room.

  “They beat him!” The voice is male, but high and hysterical. “There were six of th
em. I couldn’t make out any faces because it was dark, and they ran off when they saw me. I thought he was dead at first, because he was just lying there.”

  “Peggy!” Dr. Goto barks down the hallway.

  One of the nurses caring for my sister brushes past me. “Yes, doctor?”

  “Get Mr. Tayama to a room and get him stabilized. I’ll be in as soon as I’m done with the appendix.”

  The name is like a magnet, and I’m drawn the few steps down the hall to where I can see the hospital entrance. I don’t recognize the hysterical man, and I wouldn’t recognize the beaten man either if Dr. Goto hadn’t used his name. But yes, it’s Fred Tayama.

  Number one on the death list.

  It’s beginning.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Taichi

  Sunday, December 6, 1942

  News of Fred Tayama flies through the camp with the same speed and tenacity as the wind that whips down the Sierras. As I serve food and wipe tables at breakfast the following morning, it’s all everyone is talking about.

  That Fred was practically dead when he was found. That surely he would have died if he hadn’t been discovered so soon.

  Yet, oddly, Fred is more like a footnote to the story. Everyone seems much more interested in the fact that the only assailant Fred named to the police was Harry Ueno. And that Harry was taken from his home last night with no explanation to his wife or children, and sent to a jail outside of Manzanar.

  “They’re just looking for a way to get rid of Harry,” one man says to another as he holds his plate out to me for toast. “The administration just wants Harry out of here because he accused them of stealing sugar. Fred probably didn’t even say it was Harry.”

  Their voices drift away as they leave the line to find a table, and another conversation takes its place.

  “I’ve no sympathy for Fred,” one woman says to another. “He’s the one who got us into this mess.”

  “Him and the JACL,” the other agrees. “If they’d stuck up for us instead of kowtowing to the government, we would all be home now. Including Harry.”