“Poor Harry.”
George arrives behind me with a freshly cooked batch of scrambled eggs. “Crazy about Harry, huh?”
I step back so he can pour them into the bowl I’m scooping from. “The whole situation is crazy.”
“Harry would never do something like beat up Fred. Don’t you agree?”
I can’t get the image of Fred’s unconscious face out of my mind. Apparently he’d woken up at some point, if he had named one of his attackers. “But why would Fred have said it if it wasn’t true?”
“Dunno. To get Harry out of camp? Harry has been pretty vocal about his dislike of the JACL. That’s like insulting Fred’s wife, you know?”
If Fred was going to lie about who his attacker was, it seems like he would have picked Joe Kurihara, the author of the death list. Joe had followers, sure. But he wasn’t popular like Harry, who was a man of the people. Generous with sugar when he still had it, and willing to risk his neck by putting together a case against the administration. Though I also agree with George; Harry has never seemed prone to violence.
But while I’m thinking all this, the cook heads back to the kitchen.
“. . . keeping my wife and kids at the apartment,” one man is telling two others. “It’s too dangerous out there today.”
“I kept mine in yesterday too. I keep seeing young fellows making clubs. Have you seen that?”
That’s what James and I saw the Black Dragons doing. They weren’t building furniture, they were making clubs.
“I have,” I blurt before I can think better of it.
The man who brought up the clubs nods at me, and then says to all of us, “I have a friend who lives on nine. You know, where most of Terminal Island lives? He says his neighbor is this really strong pro-Axis guy. He’s given speeches and stuff at some of these rallies. Anyway, he and Harry are buddies, and this guy was ranting and raving all over the block this morning about how it’s time to take a stand. That we should unite and fight. That if we were to all descend on the police station, they wouldn’t be able to hold us back. Crazy stuff like that. Everyone should stay inside today, or at least off block nine. It sounds like it could get real dangerous out there.”
My heart has never beat so loudly before. “What was the guy’s name? Was it Joe Kurihara? Or Raymond Yamishi?”
“I don’t know. That sounds right.”
Before he can say anything else, I fly out of the kitchen, pulling my apron off over my head just before I burst out the mess hall door. All this crazy death list stuff is starting and no one is here to persuade the Caucasian staff to take action.
My heart ricochets around my chest as I sprint to the administration building.
When I throw open the door, the secretary who dismissed me just weeks ago jumps up from her chair. “Boy, what are you doing?”
I charge past her desk, but halt in the hallway when I realize Mr. Campbell’s office is dark. I fix my eyes on the next door, the office that very recently was changed from Roy Nash to RALPH MERRITT, CAMP DIRECTOR.
“You can’t go back there! You have to have an appointment to see Mr. Merritt. Boy!”
Mr. Merritt is doing something that involves a folder full of typewritten papers, but he closes it when I barge into his office. Behind his round glasses, his eyes widen, and he leaps to his feet. “What’s the meaning of this?”
“Pardon my intrusion, sir, but this can’t wait. Are you aware that you are losing control of this camp?”
“Boy, you cannot be in Mr. Merritt’s office.” The secretary puts her fists on her hips and glares at me as if this will be enough to make me tuck tail and run. As if, being Japanese, I’m not used to being glared at by Caucasians wherever I go. “We will call the police to come remove you, if necessary.”
Mr. Merritt holds up a hand to calm his secretary. “Ms. Hatfield, let’s allow the young man a few minutes to explain his statement. What’s your name, son?”
“My name is Taichi Hamasaki. I’m an American citizen, and those in the camp who support Japan have taken matters into their own hands, and nobody seems willing to stop them.”
Mr. Merritt adjusts his glasses. “If you’re referring to the assault of Mr. Tayama, we’ve taken the perpetrator into custody. He was transported to the closest town jail overnight.”
“Sir, I saw Mr. Tayama, and that’s not the work of one man. The man who intervened said six men ran off—”
“Mr. Tayama only named one, so that’s all I’ve been able to arrest. Mr. Hamasaki, I understand your concerns, and I promise you we’re doing everything—”
“Mr. Merritt, sir, I know you’re new to Manzanar. Harry Ueno is beloved, and people are angry about his arrest. They’re . . . organizing.”
Organizing sounds like a lame word. I should have picked something stronger.
“We are dealing with the assault of Mr. Tayama in a swift and orderly fashion. Justice will be served. You can trust that.”
Why would I trust that? I haven’t experienced an ounce of justice in the last year.
“The rumor is that they’re getting a mob together. That they’re making weapons. Some residents are staying in their barracks today because they’re so afraid.”
Mr. Merritt fixes me with a patronizing smile. “Manzanar is just like every other small town in America. There’s always rumors flying about. If we chased every rumor we heard, we’d never—”
“These aren’t common rumors. There’s a death list. I’m on it. My uncle is on it.”
“Son, you have my word that I’m doing everything in my power to calm the situation. I assure you that you’re perfectly safe within camp.”
“You assure me.” My tone comes out twisted with sarcasm. “What exactly is being done to keep families like mine safe?”
The patronizing smile hardens into a grimace. “The most helpful thing you can do for the community is to remain calm as we investigate this situation. Now, Mr. Hamasaki, I need you to leave so I can get back to work. As you’ve said, there’s a lot going on today.”
I stalk out of his office. I tried to follow due process—something our government seems to have conveniently forgotten about—and it got me nowhere. Maybe Aiko is right. Maybe I’ve often confused doing what I’m told as doing the right thing.
Because I don’t care what Mr. Merritt says—Manzanar is not a safe place today.
“I can’t believe how many people are here.” James cranes his neck to survey the size of the crowd. “How many do you think there are? Fifteen hundred? Two thousand?”
“Quiet, I’m listening.”
Raymond Yamishi is the current speaker up on the oil tank in block twenty-two. He’s yelling into a loudspeaker that they’ve somehow obtained, but it’s still hard to hear him with how far back we are. There are ten others up there, but the only two I recognize are Raymond and Joe.
Cheers go up around the stage as my head still works through the Japanese.
“What’d he say?” James yells in my ear.
“I didn’t completely understand the first thing. It sounds like they’ve picked five men to try and negotiate for Harry’s release. And I think he said the Mess Hall Workers Union has resolved to go on strike if Harry isn’t released today.”
James rolls his eyes. “How will that work? Don’t they want to eat too?”
“Shh.”
“Nobody can hear me. And everyone back here is just a curious passerby. We’re safely away from the frenzy.”
“I don’t think my mother would agree with that.” Guilt bites at me as I look around. My mother doesn’t want to leave Aiko—who’s mostly sleeping, and should make a full recovery as her appendix thankfully had not yet burst—but she made it clear that I was expected to go nowhere except the barrack and to work. That I shouldn’t leave block four today, not even for the post office.
She would be furious if she saw that I had not only ventured away from our block, but I was at one of the meetings led by the death list author.
Chee
rs go up again, along with a few cries in Japanese of, “Down with that dog!”
James looks to me again for the translation. “I caught hospital and Fred.”
I swallow. “If Harry isn’t released, they plan to storm the hospital and finish Fred off.” My heart races as I think of Aiko, who’s stuck there. Of my family who’s coming and going all the time. “I’ll have to warn everyone.”
Raymond Yamishi’s focus now swings to a spot in the crowd, and Joe yanks the loudspeaker from his hand. “No, stop!”
“I’m no rat!” The cry carries through the crowd, high and desperate. “I’m for Japan!”
“He’s Tokie Slocum!” Another man yells. “He’s spying for the FBI!”
Tokie Slocum. Number two on the death list. I push up on my toes, but we’re too far back for me to see anything.
“What’s going on?” James asks, trying to see too. “Why did he just say FBI?”
“I’m not Tokie!” The high and desperate cry again. “I swear I’m not! My name is Ronald Tatsuno, and I’m for Japan! I promise!”
“Leave him alone.” Joe’s voice booms over the loudspeaker again, and the crowd takes steps backward. “He’s a friend.”
“Taichi.” James tugs at my sleeve. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“Some are saying he’s Tokie Slocum. He’s saying he’s not.”
“That’s not Tokie,” Joe yells from the stage, sounding panicked. “Stop beating him at once. I said”—he pitches his voice louder—“stop beating him! He’s no rat! He’s a friend!”
The scuffle halts, but the crowd has grown too restless to be content listening to speeches, and Joe seems to sense it. “Let us not lose track of who our enemy is. We, your elected Negotiating Committee, will go demand the return of Harry Ueno to this camp. Let us fight and fight to the finish!”
Many near the front hoist the crude clubs built of two-by-fours and jagged nails. The men leading the charge begin to climb down from the oil tank cover, and the crowd around us dissolves. James and I slip away to a spot where we can see how the mob progresses without chance of Raymond recognizing me. Fear screams through me when I think of those clubs and what nearly happened to the man they thought was Tokie Slocum.
James glances at his watch. “Somehow I have to get some sleep. I work tonight.”
I grimace. “I don’t think you’ll be bored.”
“No, I don’t think so either.” He chuckles drily. “But, you know me. I like to be in the middle of the action.”
“Not this kind of action, though.” I gesture to where the men are gathered around Joe, who appears to be doling out instructions.
“I still can’t believe you barged in on the new camp director this morning. I would have loved to have seen his face.”
I groan. “It was stupid of me. If I’d acted more rationally, maybe he would have paid attention to what I was saying.”
“I think the only way he would have paid attention is if your face was white.”
The group of men follow Joe in the direction of the police station, cheering in a way that makes me feel like I was just struck with an icy blast.
“They could go to the hospital next. I’m going to tell my family and Dr. Goto. Want to come?”
James shakes his head. “I’m going to follow these guys and see what happens.”
I give James a horrified look. “No. Not alone.”
“They don’t care about me. A nd I’ll stay out of the fray, I promise. I just want to see how it goes at the police office, and then I’ll go home to sleep. I’ll check on Lillian. The Yonedas too.”
I close my eyes. Ted would be a wreck if he knew what was going on today. “Good idea. Mrs. Yoneda might be at the net factory, if you can’t find her at home.”
All that remains of the mob is the extra dust in the air. They wouldn’t attack the factory, would they? It’s all women who work there. Sure, Raymond and his group might throw rocks sometimes, but they wouldn’t do anything else now that their focus is on getting Harry back . . . Right?
“Knock on my door when you get back to the block, okay?” James says, and he heads in the direction that the mob departed. Slow enough that he won’t catch up to them.
I turn and run toward the hospital. As I do, I notice children peeking out at me from the windows of their barracks. Children who have been confined inside today so they won’t get caught in the crossfire.
Dr. Goto is appreciative of the information and commends my bravery for delivering it.
My mother does not. I’ve never seen her glare with such intensity. “Did I not tell you to stay on our block?”
“You did. And I’m sorry, but—”
“You’ve always been my good boy, Taichi. You should not be putting yourself at risk.”
“Based on what I heard, anyone sitting here at the hospital is at risk. Where are the others?”
“They’re at the barrack.” Mother pauses, then asks in a voice of stiff resignation, “Do you think that’s the safest place for them to be?”
I think of the energy of the crowd, and the effort it took for even Joe to convince the attackers to leave not-Tokie alone. “No. I think the safest place would be a different barrack. If they want to find Uncle Fuji or me, that’s the first place they’ll try.”
“Yes.” Mother rubs at her knuckles. “Yes, that’s true. Though if we go elsewhere, we could endanger that family too.”
Aiko groans and shifts in the bed. Her eyes flutter open. “Hey.” Her voice sounds like sandpaper on rough wood. She coughs, and then winces.
“Here, Aiko.” Mother helps her to take a sip of water.
“Nice to see you awake,” I say. “How do you feel?”
“Groggy.” Aiko’s gaze slips to me again. “Thank you for getting me to the hospital so fast.”
Her words are a little slurred, and her eyes are already closed again.
“That was Ichiro. He carried you most of the way.”
“Did he see me throwing up?”
I smile. It’s so nice to hear her sound like herself. “No,” I lie.
“Okay, good.” Aiko is quiet for a moment. “Have I missed any big news?”
Mother and I look at each other.
“No,” Mother finally says, but it doesn’t matter. Aiko is asleep again.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Evalina
As I pedal away from the train station, I have a niggling uncertainty that I’ll be able to find the Hamasakis’ house. I saw it when I was here for Diego’s farewell, but that was months ago.
I push away the doubts and pedal on. Tomorrow I’ll join others in lighting candles and stilling myself to remember what we lost as a country, but this evening is just for me. For me to remember what I personally lost a year ago when the bombs fell.
I pedal past the restaurant that once had a sign saying WE DON’T SERVE JAPS! They’ve removed it. Probably because there are no Japanese patrons to dine there anyway. Still, I think of the look on Taichi’s face that time we drove by. The clenched jaw. The resigned face. His, “It’s fine, Evalina.”
My vision blurs. Always trying to reassure me, even when he was the one under attack. Especially when he was the one under attack.
My uncertainties, it turns out, are unmerited. I steer to Taichi’s house with no trouble. As though all those times I have visited in my heart have stamped a map in my head.
The ranch house looks small with all the fields stretching around it. Down the road, I can see the Medinas’ home, and I think about the worry happening behind their walls. I close my eyes, draw up Diego’s smiling face in my mind, and pray for his strength and safety.
I push my bicycle behind the toolshed and climb up an oak tree that Taichi and Aiko might’ve climbed as children. My bobby socks snag on a branch, but otherwise I climb proficiently considering my pleated skirt.
I settle onto a branch, rest my back against the trunk, and stare at the house. My heart is heavy, but my eyes remain dry for some reason. If Pear
l Harbor and the evacuation had never happened, would Taichi be here, or would he have been at school with me? Would we have told our parents by now?
What are they doing in the camps tomorrow to recognize the anniversary of Pearl Harbor? I had asked Taichi in one of my letters, but of course he never responded. Now tears build in my eyes. I thought I would feel closer to Taichi here, but I don’t. Really, being at the house just makes it that much more obvious how far away he is. And it’s getting cold.
I wipe my eyes and swing a leg down only to hear the crunching gravel beneath the tires of an approaching vehicle.
I tuck my leg back up and peer through the leaves as a black car pulls up alongside the house. Even with the doors closed, I can hear the raucous laughter distinct to a group of teenage boys.
My heartbeat thunders in my ears as the doors swing out and five boys emerge. One of them drains the contents of a bottle, considers it a moment, and then throws it at the house. I jump when it shatters but manage to not yelp.
The boys laugh and send up a chorus of, “Nice one, Danny.”
Another boy finishes his and throws it too. More laughter follows. My stomach is as tight as a fist, and I’m not sure my heart has ever beaten so loudly.
The one called Danny opens up the trunk of the car. I can’t make out the contents in the graying light, but I’m still pierced with dread when he says, “All right, boys. Let’s have some fun.”
Taichi
Again a handful of men clamber on top of the oil tank cover in block twenty-two, including Joe and Raymond, and several others who I saw this afternoon but don’t know by name. The ever-growing crowd members speak amongst themselves in hushed, excited tones. At this afternoon’s meeting, the energy had felt like a rally or an upbeat assembly back at school. But this feels more like the tense moments before a big game, when you’re about to take the field with your team.
I look at my wristwatch. It’s nearly six.
When I met up with James earlier this afternoon, he’d still been at Lillian’s.
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