As Douglas’s comrades landed and were getting out of their planes, they saw his screaming into a hillside cliff, a thick trail of black smoke behind it. An emergency crew recovered his plane and he was found in the cockpit, still strapped in. He hadn’t ejected. He had never given up on getting his buddies home safely. Douglas Stevens was buried in Uxbridge, England.
Ralph promised Mr. Stevens that he would have Mabel call him as soon as she was able. He hung up the phone, went to his sister, and picked up her limp body. She was long beyond being hysterical. She was beyond anything. Ralph took her back up to the bed where he’d found her a mere hour ago—a lifetime ago.
He returned downstairs and kneeled beside Alayne’s bassinet and listened to her coo. This little soul would never know the pain of the moment—there would be no scars. She would only come to know this day by the emptiness it would leave in its wake. She would never feel the warm, deep hug that only a father can provide. Ralph cried for Alayne that afternoon. He cried for her, and he cried for Mabel. He cried for himself.
The next morning Mabel emerged from her room seared by loss. It would never leave her eyes. She never really got up from the landing. She went somewhere for those few hours. The experience pierced her and took something from her. Some things you just can’t ever get back.
As Ralph had promised, Mabel called Douglas’s family. She sat at the table and he stood beside her, his hand on her shoulder, as she picked up the phone and dialled the number. “It’s Mabel … yes … well, I’m doing better now … the baby? … She’s fine … sleeping now … I can … okay … I will. Mr. Stevens, thank you. I’ll see you soon.” With that, Mabel hung up the phone and bowed her head.
Ralph gave her time. She blew her nose, wiped her eyes, and looked up at her brother.
“Mr. Stevens said, ‘Mabel, you come to us,’” she reported, crying tears of gratefulness.
Two days later, Ralph bundled up Alayne and saw her and his sister off on the train. Mabel was taking up the Stevens’ invitation. She would stay with them for three years. Alayne’s father would never hold her, but her grandfather was there for her. At the Stevens’s, Mabel and Alayne recovered. There, Alayne grew.
On his own now, Ralph struck out for Halifax, where he would be staying with his sister Greta, who worked at the harbour magazine depot. Walking down Front Street with his suitcase to catch the train, he got it in his mind to follow Douglas’s footsteps into battle. Revenge was in his heart. The war had hit his family and he was never one to back down from a fight: not from the Downroaders, not from his dad, and certainly not from the Nazis. As with most of life’s major decisions, there was no fanfare, no fireworks. There was just Ralph MacLean walking down Front Street. He took the train and got off at the Pier 21 exit, then he hiked up Water Street and went to the docks. He walked into the naval recruitment station.
There, Ralph was told the damnedest thing he’d ever heard.
“Sorry, son,” said the naval official, “we are just taking boys from the Prairies.”
The Prairies?
Ralph looked around the room. He didn’t see a single fellow who looked like he was from the Prairies.
He pleaded his case: “I’m fit to serve, sir. I know my way around a boat.”
He made sure to make eye contact with the official.
“I want to fight.” Not much more could be said.
“I don’t doubt any of that, son. But I got my orders. We’re only taking men from the Prairies. I’m sorry. Come back in a few months,” the official said, making it clear the conversation was over.
With nothing more to do, Ralph nodded, picked up his suitcase, and left the building. Shoulders slumped, he trudged along the boardwalk.
“Prairie boys,” he mumbled to himself, still shocked.
After visiting with Greta for a few days, he decided to go home to Grindstone. He didn’t really want to, but he didn’t seem to have much choice. He was flat broke and, not being from the Prairies, was of no use to the Navy. He wired his buddy Deighton Aitken, who came to pick him up at the island dock.
The two friends spent a few weeks celebrating. Deighton had spent much of the last summer out at sea and had had several good hauls of mackerel and lobster. Unlike Ralph, he had money in his pocket. They spent the next few weeks in and out of various rum bottles.
Life went on like that for some time. They’d pick up odd jobs, make enough to run around with, find another job when they ran out of money. As the spring turned to summer, both grew tired of this routine. They were restless. They could feel the grass growing under their feet on that tiny island and they both sought adventures. They wanted to do something—anything—with their lives. And Ralph still had the gnawing of revenge in his heart. The summer wore on and their restlessness grew more intense. They would go from house to house, visiting friends, drinking beer, all the while growing more frustrated with their station in life.
On the night of August 25, 1940, Deighton knocked on the back door of Ralph’s house. They had a routine night of gin rummy planned with Lloyd and Ada Geddes, long-time neighbours of the MacLeans. Lloyd Geddes had a way with cards—but a terrible sense of humour. After a couple of hours of stiff drinks and crummy jokes, Deighton kicked Ralph under the table. That was the cue to leave. They finished the hand, thanked Ada for the hospitality, and made a quick exit.
They walked down the main road, hands in pockets, kicking small pebbles along the gravel road. Deighton raised his collar to shield himself from the sea breeze. Ralph didn’t seem to notice. His mind was elsewhere.
“You know, Ralphie, a team of chaps came today recruiting from Quee-bec. I hear they are looking to fill two regiments full of men: one English and one French. That’s a couple thousand men they’re looking for—just from around these parts alone. They’ve been through the Eastern Townships and they’re fixin’ to make their way straight through to Nova Scotia’s South Shore.”
Ralph tried to keep his cool. “Oh yeah, where have they set up shop on the island?”
“The hospital.”
“Well, whatdya think?” Ralph asked—knowing full well what Deighton thought.
“Might be worth heading down there and takin’ a look-see.”
“God knows, I can’t take another night of Lloyd’s jokes,” Ralph said.
“Okay then, we’ll go first thing tomorrow. I’ll pick you up after breakfast.”
Ralph spent that night dreaming of gallivanting around Europe with his buddy Deighton. They could see the world. They could see the world’s women. He’d be far away from Lloyd’s jokes, his father’s insults, and the mundane jobs he was picking up. He’d have a uniform, a gun, and a duty to discharge. He’d have purpose.
The next morning Ralph watched the sunrise from the back door step. Deighton arrived soon after, and together they went to the hospital. Neither of them had discussed this move with their families. They had decided—together—to enlist.
Walking up the hill towards the hospital they saw a group of chaps loitering around the entrance. Inside the hospital, recruitment was an orderly affair. There were two tables in the main foyer and a Canadian flag pinned up behind them on the wall. The green Royal Rifles of Canada—unfamiliar to Ralph—hung on a portable flagpole. The insignia read: Volens et valens. The Latin was lost on them both. A recruiting officer pointed to the unfamiliar words as he translated: “Willing and able.”
At the table on the left sat a man with a buzz cut and a clipboard. Ralph took his turn with the officer.
“What’s your name, son?”
Ralph examined the army badge on the officer’s shoulder, the First World War medal for something or other, the sidearm.
“Son, what’s your name?” the officer repeated.
“Ralph Augustus MacLean, sir,” he offered, standing as he guessed a soldier should stand.
“Live here in Grindstone?”
“Yes sir, just down the ways above Splendid Beach.”
“Age?” The officer’s face w
as buried in the clipboard.
“I’m eighteen, sir.”
“When were you born, son?”
“1922.”
“The date. What day were you born?”
“June 27, 1922.”
“You’ve only been eighteen for two months then, huh? Well, we’re going to have to change that.”
Ralph flashed the office a confused look.
“Son, you can’t go overseas until you are nineteen. So we need to fix your birthdate if you’re going to go overseas with your buddy here.”
Ralph and Deighton looked at each other; Deighton flashed his toothy grin. Ralph nodded.
“There, that’s better,” the officer said as a few scratches of a pencil aged Ralph ten months.
The officer waved his hand and gave them both a we’re in on it smile.
“We’re done here, gents. Go to the next table.”
The two buddies sat side by side on chairs at the next table and signed what was put in front of them. That was that. Rifleman Ralph Augustus MacLean. E30382. Headquarters Company. 4 Carrier MD5 Platoon. Over time he’d shout that combination of words and numbers to more drill officers than he could count. He’d whisper it once with a sword at his throat.
Both Ralph and Deighton were riflemen in the Royal Rifles of Canada, 1st Battalion. In two weeks, they were to be shipped to Valcartier, Quebec, for basic training.
CHAPTER 2
Cast Away
My grandma was born Mitsue Oseki. She was her family’s first-born daughter. In Japanese families, the eldest daughter is called ne-san. Her brothers and sisters called her Nenny for short. That name stuck, and to this day, the ones who are still alive call her Nenny. Their kids, and their kids’ kids, call her Aunty Nenny.
Her name, Mitsue, means Shining Branch. Her father gave her the name because her parents and those that came before them were the roots and the trunk of the tree. They grounded her and gave her life. And as the eldest, she was to support them in turn, to keep the tree alive and well, to grow. She tried her best.
Mitsue was born on June 10, 1920, in Eburne, British Columbia. She was born Canadian. She was lucky to be born into the home of Yosuke and Tomi Oseki.
Yosuke and Tomi had a special kind of relationship, ahead of their time, founded on mutual respect, rooted in love. The two of them would speak late into the night, holding hands across the kitchen table. They had a lot to discuss. Neither had anticipated living across the Pacific Ocean from their land, away from Japan and their beloved families.
Yosuke was a second son. He was not responsible for the family’s land in Chiba the way his older brother was. He wanted to venture out and see the world. Yosuke thought long and hard about what business opportunities he might be able to explore that would be of interest to his fellow countrymen. He came up with two things: beef and shoes.
In 1907, Canadian officials in Japan were taking names of men who wanted to obtain Dominion visas. Yosuke did not know much about Canada, but he did know that Canada had a lot of cows and that everyone wore shoes. That was enough for him. He signed up and was one of the first men chosen.
Yosuke left Japan in search of brighter days. He cast off from his beloved island with a heavy but hopeful heart. He was leaving as dark clouds were forming over the Land of the Rising Sun. He felt the poison in the air.
The Vancouver that Yosuke Oseki fled to in 1907 was a pioneer town—muddy, rainy, hardscrabble. The Japanese all congregated along Powell Street. The name of that part of town was as unwelcoming as the country: “Japtown.” It was so isolated from the broader Vancouver community that it may as well have been in Japan. There, the first-generation Japanese—the Issei—huddled together to shield themselves from their strange and generally hostile new surroundings. They tried their best to recreate their lives. Tastes and traditions brought them comfort. Merchants made tofu and imported rice, tea, and sake. Four square blocks of fishmongers, boarding houses, dry cleaners, grocers, and izakaya houses formed the epicentre of the Japanese experience in Canada. While almost all of the immigrants were literate, it was in the Japanese language. Most did not speak English, but the safety and security of Japantown allowed them to function with ease.
By 1907, nearly eight thousand of the Emperor’s subjects were living in Canada—and these were, almost to the last soul, in British Columbia. But the welcome mat was not out. The media portrayed these eight thousand, and their Chinese counterparts, as the “Asian invasion” and the “yellow peril.” Several high-profile politicians capitalized on the public’s resentment and fear. Hate groups such as the Asiatic Expulsion League migrated north from the United States. Ruthlessness ruled the day. National newspapers printed venom in black and white that aimed to strip Asian residents of their very humanity. They were, in large part, successful.
Unemployment was high, and blame had to fall somewhere. Idle hands so easily turned into active fists. On September 7, an angry mob took their hostility to the street in Canada’s first race riot. Close to ten thousand men gathered around City Hall. The mob was determined to spend the evening ridding Vancouver of the “Japs” and “Chinks.” Stand for a White Canada banners waved above heads as the crowd marched through Chinatown smashing every window in sight.
As the mob turned the corner onto Powell Street to do the same in Little Tokyo, the Japanese men readied themselves. They had learned about what was happening around Carrall Street. They heard the mob march like an army. Everyone turned out their lights. The women and children hid wherever they could. The men were on the roofs, waiting. There was no time to prepare, and no speeches were made, but everyone knew that they were going to defend themselves. They had families, and the mob was violent. There were some police, but they did little to stop the mob from advancing.
As the mob neared, the Japanese men began throwing stones down from their rooftops. This slowed the mob’s progress, but soon those same rocks were going through store windows and the Japanese had to charge with anything they had: sticks, knifes, more rocks.
Fierce hand-to-hand combat erupted on Powell Street. Bloodied bodies littered the street. There were gunshots. The fight went on throughout the night. Shopkeepers and miners became sentries. Fishermen became medics. The Japanese defended their neighbourhood with an intensity not anticipated by the mob. Men, five at a time, would charge at a dozen men twice their size. It should not have been much a fight, but it was. By dawn, the Japanese had successfully defended their beloved Powell Street, although not without significant casualties. Bandaged men littered the sidewalks. It looked like it had hailed shards of glass. Bodies were battered, stores and homes were damaged, but the Japanese were not defeated. They held their bloodied heads high.
In response to pressure from the Canadian government, Japan agreed to restrict the number of passports issued for Canada to a mere four hundred per year. And there it was: the first action against Japanese Canadians. The tiniest of steps. History has proven all too many times that discrimination in any form is a downward spiral.
Like most Japanese men, Yosuke fished. He was very good at it, he always seemed to find where the fish were. He would spend the evening looking at maps, tracing his finger over the rivers and inlets along the coast, tapping the map when he found his spot. He would whisper to himself at the kitchen table. He was almost praying, or maybe he was praying. His family needed him to catch fish, but they never worried. They knew he would. And he always did, until he couldn’t.
The Oseki family had moved from Eburne, a farming community between Vancouver and Richmond, to a Vancouver neighbourhood known as Celtic right after Mitsue was born because Toru, the eldest son, had just turned seven and Eburne did not have a school for him. Even at seven, Toru understood the position he held. Tradition dictated that he would be the one taking care of the family. He took his responsibilities seriously.
Eichi, the second son, had his father’s build. As a young child, he was teased a little because of his round shape. So instead of calling him fat, Toru called
him Pat. It made Eichi feel better. The name stuck and he was called Pat all his life.
Even when Pat was a young boy, it was clear he had inherited his dad’s fishing instincts. He was every bit as precise. He could always find the best place to fish, and he spent his whole life doing it. Mitsue never saw a better fisherman than her brother Pat.
In the spring of 1926, Yosuke got a job with a cannery in Celtic and moved his growing family into one of the company houses just off 49th Street, south of Brennan Street. They were row houses, eight per row. Each house had three wooden steps that led to a framed front door with a window and a flowerbox on either side. The house was small but warm and comfortable.
When Yosuke was home, he would gather the family around the front sitting room and talk. He made sure they always talked as a family and he led sessions that would go on for hours. Whenever a big decision was to be made, he would sit everyone down in that room. There was not enough space on the couch for them all, so he would bring in a kitchen chair to sit on. He would listen to his family and challenge them to consider issues in different ways. He’d then deliberate on what he had heard, and, when he was ready, tell them what he thought they should do. Yosuke’s familial behaviour was exceptional for a Japanese man. He had a mind for thinking things through. He kept things close to his heart.
There were two bedrooms off the living room. Tomi and Yosuke slept in one with the girls, and the boys slept in the other. Mitsue shared a bed with her sister Mary, while the baby, Susanne, had a small bed beside theirs. The kitchen was in the back of the house. There was an outhouse in the backyard near the garden. A few years after they moved in, Yosuke built a bathroom off the kitchen and had a Japanese soaker tub put in. A fire had to be lit under the tub to keep the water warm. Visiting friends marvelled at how prosperous Yosuke was. The house even had running water and electricity.
The secret to Yosuke’s success was his two fishing licences. He could fish for both salmon in the summer and cod in the winter. None of his friends had two licences. Most of them could fish for salmon, but not for cod. Yosuke had thought it through. He could fish year-round. But the extra income came at a price.
Forgiveness Page 4