Clark and Division

by Naomi Hirahara

Most impressive to me was Chicago’s big powerful river, nothing like the Los Angeles River, a faint trickle in the middle of the concrete bank. The Chicago River, in contrast, asserted its dominance by cutting through the most elegant and expensive parts of the city. No one was going to control its waters, and I respected the river for that.

  Chicago was divided into ethnic neighborhoods that weren’t necessarily identified on my Triple A map. There was West Town—the Polish neighborhood where Nancy lived—and then the Greek, German and Italian districts. The blacks and the Irish both lived in the South Side but in different sections. Chicago even had a Chinatown; the restaurant Roy had promised to take me to was known for its pakkai and chow mein. My mouth was watering thinking about eating sweet-and-sour pork with noodles right now.

  I told Mom to rest while I cleaned up. She had lost quite a bit of weight since we arrived in Chicago. Pop had, too. I hadn’t, although I could probably stand to lose five pounds.

  After washing our one pot and the dishes, I cleaned every spot of grime and dirt from our kitchenette. Mom had purchased a big carton of baking soda, which was more for cleansing than baking. Our icebox was a Coolerator, almost four feet tall, with a rectangular top compartment for a block of ice that needed to be replaced once a week. Our Coolerator was an old one that unfortunately leaked melting water into the main compartment, so we had to make sure to securely wrap our vegetables and meat in wax paper.

  When the kitchen was clean, there was nothing left to do. No radio to listen to, nobody else to talk to. I wasn’t much into knitting and sewing. Instead, I went to the closet and took out Rose’s suitcase. Whenever I was alone in the apartment, I would do this, removing her clothing and refolding them. I was most curious about a dress with white cranes on a teal-green background. It was gorgeous but too gaudy for Rose’s taste. I sniffed the collar; it smelled musky, like the scent of a man’s cologne.

  Also part of my routine was to take out her journal and reread the pages for one hint about how she had gotten pregnant and where she might have gone for an abortion. I sat on the floor, using the wall by the closet as a back support. The first part of Rose’s journal was a confection, whipped cream with no dark pit. Rose didn’t reveal that hard kernel inside of her. The entries about halfway through were more sporadic and brief, sometimes only one cryptic sentence. I had also removed the contents of Rose’s purse. A round cracked mirror; her favorite lipstick, Red Majesty; her Citizen’s Indefinite Leave card featuring her black-and-white headshot; and a coin purse with a few dollars.

  I fell asleep on the floor, her dresses and slips strewn on my lap for comfort.

  I was startled awake by the sound of a chair scraping our linoleum floors. Pop had come home and was attempting to sit down. He had left our apartment door open and I rose to lock it.

  I glanced at my watch. It was close to midnight. “Where have you been?” I asked, but based on the smell of alcohol on his clothing and body, I could pretty much surmise what he had been doing.

  “I got shigoto.” His speech was rough, like the way the produce workers sometimes spoke to each other when they were in a hurry.

  “You did?” I didn’t mean to sound so incredulous, but I must have, because Pop practically sneered at me.

  “Don’t believe?”

  “Where, then?”

  Pop didn’t answer right away. “At Aloha.”

  “Aloha. It sounds like a bar.”

  “Wassamatter with bar? Chicago’s full of ’em. And look. I got okane.” He took out a wad of dollar bills from his pocket.

  “Pop, are you sure that you should be working at a place like that? I mean, at Manzanar, you did get into some trouble.”

  “Damare!” Pop shouted. Shut up! He had never said such a harsh word to me. By the look on his face, he was shocked by his own fury, which wasn’t yet spent. He grabbed the closest thing to him—the strawberry jam jar that Rose had used to gargle with—and tossed it toward the other side of the room as if it were a grenade. It shattered, the broken pieces scattering on the linoleum floor. A shard glittered near my bare feet.

  My mother emerged from the bedroom, her hair bundled close to her head. “What happened?”

  I was too stunned to speak; I’m sure that Pop would have run out of the apartment if he wasn’t so drunk. For a while, the three of us stood frozen in place, my sister’s belongings lying in a pile by the closet. We were afraid to step on broken glass and didn’t know where to go from here.

  Chapter 9

  I don’t know why, but I’ve always had problems becoming close friends with girls. So many of them want me to play by their rules, but I never agreed to follow along in the first place. I hate when they demand something of me or say that I’m not being considerate. I mean, I can’t read people’s minds. The girls’ club in Manzanar was all right because I needed something to while away the time. Doing the craft projects and planning dances was fun. It’s not like we had to tell our deep dark secrets.

  Ever since Pop’s blowup, my parents seemed to be unified against me. My mother blamed Pop’s anger on me—how could I question the legitimacy of his job when employment was so hard to find for Issei men? He cleaned a bar, while she cleaned a barbershop. Souji, or cleaning up, was perfectly respectable, and perhaps I needed to do some soul cleaning myself.

  I wasn’t sure what they wanted from me. When I was in the apartment, I felt that I was walking on eggshells when either one of them was there. One evening when I was alone, I went to retrieve Rose’s suitcase from the closet, only to discover that it was missing. I knew that confronting my mother about it would only start an argument. At least I had hidden away Rose’s journal between my mattress and the box spring. The bloody dress that I had received from the police turned out not to be her favorite polka-dotted one, but a tan one with miniature butterflies I had never seen before. It was starting to smell, so I threw it out. It was not missed.

  I used the business card the funeral director had given me to contact Mr. Yoshizaki, a representative of the Japanese Mutual Aid Society. We made arrangements to meet at a coffeehouse by the Lawrence el station on a Saturday afternoon.

  I was still a bit confused by native Chicagoans’ use of the term el. It referred to Chicago’s famous elevated train that rumbled over different parts of the city. But even the train that stopped at a new subway station like Clark and Division was called the el.

  When it departed the underground station the ride was smooth, but as soon as the train car reached the elevated track, the journey became loud and bumpy. I could feel practically every rail tie as we moved forward. There were times when the train car sped a few feet away from tenement windows. I had a close-up view of clothing hanging from balconies and sometimes could spy on people sitting down for breakfast. We had complained about the cramped housing around Clark and Division, but seeing how other people were living, we didn’t have that much to monku about.

  As Mr. Yoshizaki had explained over the phone, the coffeehouse was right next to the stairs from the station. The neighborhood, which I later learned was called Uptown, held signs of a lively nightlife—theaters and bars adorned with neon. Right next to the platform was a beautiful Spanish-inspired ballroom.

  I didn’t have time to wander because I noticed an elderly Asian man waiting outside the coffeehouse. I assumed this was the Mutual Aid representative and quickened my gait.

  “Are you Mr. Yoshizaki? I’m sorry to keep you waiting.”

  “Ah, Ito-san,” he said and bowed. His voice had a familiar gentle lilt, reminding me of the Issei bookkeeper at the produce market. Mr. Yoshizaki had hardly any hair on his head. His heavy eyebrows and even eyelashes were all white.

  We sat at the only open table, surrounded by hakujin customers. He told me that I could order anything I wanted, but only asked the waitress for a cup of coffee with cream for himself.

  He spoke mostly in Japanese. “I’m beyond
sorrowful that this awful incident has befallen your family.”

  His earnestness touched me deeply. To have an elder on my side meant the world to me. He didn’t ask many prying questions but wanted to make sure that all our needs were met.

  “I have a good job,” I told him. “We’re all working, in fact.” I didn’t reveal the embarrassing details of my parents’ blue-collar situations.

  “Ah, yokatta.”

  We slurped our respective coffees. The waitress returned to check on us and Mr. Yoshizaki waved that we were fine.

  I cleared my throat to broach the reason I had asked for this meeting. “It’s my sister, Rose. We have no place—”

  Mr. Yoshizaki motioned for me to stop talking. “Your older sister’s ashes can be stored in the mausoleum at Montrose Cemetery. And don’t worry about the cost. The Mutual Aid Society will take care of everything. I will contact the mortuary today and have the urn transferred by tomorrow.”

  “Thank you so much.” I grasped hold of his calloused hand without thinking. We Nisei never did that to our elders, even the ones who we were related to.

  “The Mutual Aid Society was started for those Japanese who were in America all by themselves. No relatives,” he explained. “Our mission is to help. You can keep her ashes there as long as you want.”

  I was relieved that Rose’s urn would have a sacred place to rest, even though it would be next to the remains of Japanese immigrants who had no one else in their lives.

  As I climbed the stairs to the station on my way home, I was overcome with a great sadness. Mom, whenever she remembered her life in Kagoshima, spoke about kurou, which could be translated to “suffering.” But the English word seemed to skim the surface, whereas kurou went deeper. It referred to a guttural moaning, a piercing pain throughout your bones. Even though Mr. Yoshizaki had said nothing about his life, either in Japan or America, I sensed that he knew kurou.

  We had now been in Chicago for three weeks and the heat was becoming more oppressive. Although I was committed to finding out what had happened to my sister, the intense weather squelched my zeal. Sometimes I felt that I couldn’t breathe, with the hotness pressing on all sides of me. My only refuge was work in the air-conditioned, protected tomb of the Newberry Library.

  This particular Friday Roy came by our desk. He had the graveyard shift that evening but had the weekend off. I saw Nancy and Phillis exchange glances. He’s just a friend, I wanted to immediately tell them, to dispel any notions they might have had.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked. Even though he had a degree from USC, I knew that Roy wasn’t much into books.

  “The Californians are going to have a dance tomorrow night at the Aragon.”

  That was that fine building I had seen when I was on my way to visit Mr. Yoshizaki at the coffee shop near Lawrence station. “I thought we weren’t supposed to gather in numbers more than three.”

  Roy rolled his eyes. The activity around Clark and Division was proof that the rules communicated in camp were out the window.

  “It would be a good chance for you to check out the social scene in Chicago. I tried to call the pay phone in your hallway, but no one picked up.”

  I didn’t know who the Californians were (later I learned that they spelled their name with a K). But if it meant time away from our apartment, I was all for it.

  “This is not a date, Roy.” That much I had to make clear.

  “Are you kidding me? You’re like my kid sister. I know Rose would want me to watch out for you.”

  We made arrangements to meet in front of the Mark Twain Hotel at seven on Saturday evening. Our meeting time was late enough that I could still carry out my plans for earlier that day: to go to the mausoleum where Rose’s ashes were stored.

  On Saturday morning I bought some flowers from a shop not far from the station. I knew that Rose would want something brilliant and red, roses, of course, but I found some yellow chrysanthemums that would weather the humidity better. Hearing what it was for, the florist wrapped the bouquet in white butcher paper. With my flowers, I went down the escalator of the Clark and Division station.

  I had gotten used to going to the station where Rose had been killed. One day I didn’t even think about her. The realization surprised me, and then I felt guilty. My mother said Rose would want us to go forward with our lives, but I sincerely doubted that. It had been so important for Rose to be center stage, the hub that united us all. She would never want to be forgotten.

  According to the Triple A map, Montrose Cemetery was actually not that close to Evanston, but at least it was in the general direction. North. I was determined to meet Tomi today.

  I would have to take both the train and a couple of buses. And also do a lot of walking. A taxi was too expensive and I wasn’t about to ask Roy to borrow a car to drive me, especially to talk to Tomi. He obviously wasn’t that keen on her and would have probably tried to convince me not to see her.

  I disembarked at the Lawrence station and circled until I found the bus that traveled about three and a half miles to a boulevard called Pulaski. Then it was a straight shot but a very long walk to my destination. In the humidity, my mums seemed to be shrinking and wilting. Sweat ran down my forehead and stung my eyes. I was starting to think that this was not a good idea.

  Once I reached the sign for Montrose Cemetery, my outlook completely changed. The grounds were so green, helped by the summer storm a couple of days before. Flowers that people had left behind for loved ones seemed to be flourishing in the moisture and the sun.

  My feet were killing me, and I checked the soles of my shoes. My right one was so thin that I was concerned a hole would appear, like on my father’s shoes. I tore some of the butcher paper from the bouquet of chrysanthemums, folded it into a square and stuffed it under my foot. Voilà!

  I then searched for someone to direct me to the Japanese Mausoleum. I saw workmen in the distance shoveling a new gravesite. I didn’t relish walking through the wet grass to approach them, so I wandered around, glancing at the headstones and obelisks. A tall young Asian man washing the face of a concrete monument caught my eye. The monument had a pitched Japanese-style roof featuring a Rising Sun image. Underneath the roof it read, japanese mausoleum.

  I stood there, my bouquet of flowers in my hands, and watched him for a minute or two. He was wearing khaki work pants and a white sleeveless T-shirt. He must have felt my gaze because he stopped work and looked at me. “Oh, hello.”

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Are you here for the Japanese Mausoleum?”

  I nodded.

  “I’m pretty much done. I’ll give you some time to yourself.” He took his bucket and rag and walked toward a pickup truck parked nearby. He held his shoulders erect, as if he wasn’t ashamed to be washing headstones in a graveyard. A part of me hoped that he didn’t drive off without talking more to me.

  There wasn’t any kind of container to hold the chrysanthemums so I scattered the blooms across the front of the mausoleum. Rose’s ashes were supposed to be inside, and I had to trust that Mr. Yoshizaki had placed her urn on a shelf like he said he would.

  Visiting gravesites was a big deal for us Issei and Nisei. Our only blood relatives were in Spokane, Washington, but Pop still stopped at a bunch of cemeteries throughout California to pay respects to former employees and colleagues who had passed away.

  I pressed my hands together and lowered my head. Sadly, I didn’t feel that Rose was anywhere near this mausoleum, but I nonetheless prayed for her and all the others whose ashes were stored inside.

  I opened my eyes and took in the structure again. I wanted to know how to describe it to my parents—that is, if we were still talking.

  When I turned around, the clean-up man was still there, leaning against his truck, his gloves off. He had put on a plaid short-sleeve shirt over his undershirt.

  “My
father’s with the society,” he explained, and I imagined that he was referring to the Mutual Aid Society. “He usually organizes clean-up crews, but he can’t walk that well anymore. Besides, the government officially banned us from gathering together.”

  No more than three Japanese in one place—Rose had been right, it was plain impossible. Obviously the government authorities had never been to Clark and Division, or at least had turned a blind eye to our growing Japanese community and our Nisei dances. Who knows which rules were enforced and which were not?

  I asked him about the man whom I had met, Mr. Yoshizaki.

  “Oh, Yoshizaki-san. He’s like an uncle to me.”

  “Are you from Chicago?” I was curious. There was something different about him. With his high cheekbones and wide jaw, he looked like he was ready to face any obstacle in front of him.

  “Born and raised. We’re on the South Side.”

  “South Side? I thought that the Negroes and Irish live there.”

  “They do. The Japanese are sprinkled in. There used to be only a few hundred of us over here. At that time, I knew all the Japanese in Chicago.” His eyes didn’t leave my face and for some reason, I felt embarrassed. “I take it you’re not from here.”

  “Los Angeles. Via Manzanar. My family lives around Clark and Division now.”

  “Oh, the Near North. The Mutual Aid Society has a hostel there, although it hasn’t been open to the public for a while. Have you been here long?”

  I shook my head. “Only about a month.”

  We were both silent for a while and I figured that he wanted to know why I was there at the Japanese Mausoleum. I gave him credit for not asking me.

  “Well, I guess I should be going.” I had written down the instructions for getting to Tomi’s employers’ house in Evanston and took them out of my pocketbook. It required more walking and transfers to different lines of transportation.

  “Where are you heading?”

  “Evanston.”