There were only a few cod licences granted to Japanese men. It was the cod that took Yosuke out to sea from February through to May, to fish around Pender Island. He’d have no rest and his family would miss him desperately—his talks, his warmth, his calm. But they did not want for anything. Though they didn’t have a lot, they always had what they needed.
Yosuke had two boats: one for salmon and one for cod. The salmon boat was smaller because he used it just for the day, but the cod boat was much bigger. Cod fishing was especially tough. The weather was cold and the days were long. When Yosuke docked for the evening, he would read all night. He always took the Bible out to sea with him, and the Buddhist teachings.
Mitsue loved the summer because the salmon fishing was good. From May until September, Yosuke would fish the Fraser River. In those days, the salmon was close, so Yosuke would be home every night. He’d catch all kinds of salmon: sockeye, coho, pink, white springs, and chum. Sockeye was the best, and made him the most money, but Mitsue loved it when her dad caught chum because they salted it and made ochazuke. She loved how the salted fish tasted in the hot rice. Tomi would add a plum umeboshi to make it a little sweet and sour. Tomi, Mitsue, and Mary would bone, salt, and dry mountains of chum. On those summer nights, the Celtic families would throw potluck feasts and all the women would bring their sushi and chow mein. The men would bring their fishing tales.
The commercial success that paid for the life Mitsue was living had ramifications. There was no matter of greater contention than the success of the Japanese in the B.C. fishing industry. The Japanese had come to Canada ready to fish. They had generations’ worth of experience and were exceptionally skilled. By 1925, Japanese were bringing in the biggest hauls in the country. They were prospering in their new home. This did not go unnoticed.
Toru was a fine brother to Mitsue. Her eyes danced when she reflected on him. She sat on the edge of her seat when he spoke.
In Celtic, Toru’s position as the eldest son was more than symbolic. It transcended the Japanese way of life. The Pacific’s winter waters would take Yosuke away for months at a time. This left Toru responsible for his mother and siblings. Every day, Toru would take Mitsue to school on his bike. This was an onerous task. Mitsue had three friends that lived in the same bank of Celtic cannery row houses: Miyoko, Sumiko, and Haruko. Mitsue and Miyoko, in particular, were inseparable. Toru would deliver them all to school, shuttling each girl individually a distance up the road, only to double back and scoop up another until they had all been dropped off at school. The four girls giggled the entire two-mile trek.
At Kerrisdale Elementary School, Mitsue and Miyoko were the only Japanese kids in their grade. Sumiko and Haruko were the only other Japanese children in the school, which went up to Grade 6.
Mitsue lived in two worlds. There was the Japanese world, her community in Celtic. Her family, her friends, the food she loved, and the Japanese Centre were all there. That was the world of the familiar, filled with love. But tomorrow was not there. Mitsue knew from a very early age that her future was in the English world, the world of education, modern lifestyle, modern fads. It had movies and fashion and it spoke English. She wanted to be a part of that world. Her parents wanted her to be a part of that world too. She tried to fit in. She was taught to play by the rules, follow the instructions, and not cause any trouble. If she did well, she thought, she would be accepted.
As the eldest sister, Mitsue bore a lot of responsibility at home. Her mother depended on her. Tomi was a smart, feisty woman. She had had lots of schooling. She loved to study. When she finished grade school in Japan, she had planned to go to college to become a teacher. But her mother told her if she had too much education no man would marry her, so she didn’t go. That had always saddened Mitsue.
There were a lot of chores that needed to be done to keep the family going—especially when Yosuke was out fishing. Mary was just a few years younger than Mitsue; Susanne was seven years younger. Mitsue loved to help her mother with the ironing. She would iron all of her sisters’ dresses and her brothers’ shirts and slacks. Everything was washed by hand and all the ironing was done on the stove.
Once a week, a truck from one of the Powell Street stores would come to Celtic. It sold all kinds of Japanese food: nasubi, bok choy, tofu, rice, shoyu, and mirin. There was never a shortage of Japanese food.
Yosuke and several of his friends rallied to try to make working conditions and pay more equitable for the Japanese fishermen. When on land, Yosuke would go door-to-door trying to convince his fellow fishermen to sell their catch at market rates. If they stuck together, he’d argue, they’d get a fair shake. Some listened, but most didn’t. The concept of fairness seemed out of their grasp.
Yosuke tried to make life easier for his community and Mitsue tried to make life easier for him. The focus of family life was to assist and to be obedient, to make their parents proud. The sense of duty was constant.
On the weekends, all the siblings would go to Celtic’s community park, three blocks down Brennan Street. It had an open grass field, and those old enough would play soccer or baseball. Mitsue liked soccer best because she had longer legs than most of the girls and could run faster. The Japanese kids would stick together on the weekends, rarely playing with the white children. Mitsue and Miyoko would play with the hakujin kids at school, but once they were on our own, they would usually stick together. There were no signs to make it official, no physical barriers; it was just the way it was.
Celtic had a Japanese centre right around the corner from the row houses, a one-storey building with two rooms that the cannery had helped build. This small building was the centre of the Japanese community’s world. It was their Japanese school, their church, and the place they’d all gather for events and festivals. The parents pooled their money to pay a teacher to come every weekday from four until five to teach the children Japanese reading and writing.
After Japanese school, Mitsue, Mary, and their brothers would walk back home and have dinner with the family. Tomi was an exceptional cook. She loved to make Kamaboko from the fish that Yosuke brought home. Mitsue would help her bone the fish and pound it in a bowl to make the fishcake. She would taste the fish to make sure it was seasoned just so, never using a recipe. She learned from her mother that every dish was a work in progress.
On the weekend they had more school. They were Japanese, after all. They would spend all day Saturday at the Japanese centre and then be back in the same building for church on Sunday morning. Mitsue was baptized there when she was sixteen, along with Miyoko, Sumiko, and Haruko. They had a Baptist minister, a wonderful man named Mr. Harry who drove in with his wife and three children from Kerrisdale. Mr. Harry and his family were the only white people in the entire congregation.
Mitsue and Miyoko graduated to Point Grey Junior High School in the fall of 1932. They were still the only Japanese girls in their grade. They both excelled. By Grade 9, their families had a decision to make: should the girls go on to high school? Yosuke and Tomi had never doubted this. Mitsue and Miyoko went on to Magee Secondary School.
All the other Celtic parents decided against further education for their daughters. Eight years seemed plenty for a Japanese girl in 1932. So while Magee was a much larger school than Mitsue and Miyoko had ever attended, they encountered even fewer Japanese students than before. Gone were the days of hitching a ride on Toru’s bicycle. Her brother had graduated with honours. Mitsue wished he were there. She felt she was about to need him.
She was right.
One morning in November, for the first time, Miyoko was not waiting out front of Mitsue’s door to go to school. Nor the next morning. Nor the next. A family meeting was called. Mitsue walked into the living room, her belly in knots.
“Miyoko is getting the test,” Tomi announced, her eyes squarely on Mitsue. Everyone knew what the test was. No further explanation was needed. Tuberculosis was everywhere. If you got it, you were in peril.
Mitsue was frightened
. What if she had TB? Could she have passed it on to her family? Tomi took Mitsue for the same test.
Miyoko’s test results came back. She had TB. She was immediately taken to the sanatorium, where nobody could visit. Everyone just waited and hoped—and prayed—for the best. Mitsue knew her timid friend was scared in that big, cold building without relatives or friends. But Mitsue didn’t fret for long; Miyoko died within the week.
Mitsue could not go to her best friend’s funeral. She was waiting for her own test results. She never got to say goodbye. Her test results came back and she was fine. The next day she returned to school—now the only Japanese girl in her grade.
Mitsue felt her loneliness every morning as she opened her front door. It walked with her to the train. It sat beside her in class. Only Toru made her smile.
Toru was eighteen and had graduated from Magee. Yosuke wanted Toru to go on to college straightaway, but Toru didn’t know what to study. So Yosuke took his eldest son out cod fishing for the season so he could earn some money. They could discuss his future on those long nights on the boat.
Only four weeks into the season, Yosuke arrived back home. He sat on the small porch for hours. He was physically unable to go into the house with the news he had. When Tomi opened the door and saw her husband sitting there, she fell to her knees. She knew something was terribly wrong. Yosuke had never come home early before.
Another family meeting was called. Mitsue had never before seen her father shed a tear. He could only utter a few words. Toru was in the hospital. He had fallen ill on the open waters.
The family visited Toru in the hospital. He was pale and drenched in sweat. The relatives lingered, unable to help. Toru died two days later. Nobody knew what had caused his death. He was buried in Mountain View Cemetery on Fraser Street. Nobody spoke at his funeral. There was nothing they could say.
Mitsue tried to be strong. She was the ne-san. She cried when she was alone, washing the dishes or getting ready for bed. She cried on the train to school. She cried on the walk home.
No one in the family got over Toru. Time does not heal all.
In the spring of that year, Mitsue started teaching Sunday school at the Celtic centre. This was a godsend for her. It delivered her from her constant sadness. The children and the bible stories soothed her and brought peace into her heart. Every Sunday, she would teach five little girls and one boy. They would begin at 9 a.m., when the preacher was with the adults in the room next door. They’d have singalongs and then read from the Bible. Mitsue came to love those children, and they her. Those six children were like candles that illuminated Mitsue through the darkness cast by Toru’s death.
Mitsue emerged from her pain at that certain age when boys were starting to come around. Pat was her eldest brother now, and he ran around with a crew of Celtic boys. He and Mitsue would go out driving in his Model T Ford. Mitsue would bring Sumiko and Haruko, wishing Miyoko were there too. Pat kept that old car going against all odds. He was as good a mechanic as he was a fisherman. They’d drive to the beach and spend the day by the water. Mitsue would swim if the weather was warm. She loved the way the water felt, always cool and refreshing. Looking out into the distance, she’d think of her father and always whisper a prayer for his safety. Fishing was such a dangerous way to make a living.
After high school, Mitsue attended dressmaking school. When she was twenty, she finished her classes and started looking for a job. Since she wasn’t married, she would give some money to her parents and have some spending money too. She looked around Little Tokyo for dressmaking work, and at first she didn’t have much luck. But there was one storefront that had a Help Wanted sign in Japanese and English, so she went in. The store was right in the shadow of Granville Bridge. The woman who owned it was very nice and not much older than Mitsue. Her name was Mrs. Yamamoto. Mitsue showed her some of the work she had done in school and Mrs. Yamamoto hired her on the spot. Mitsue was to start every morning at eight-thirty and work until a little after five.
Mrs. Yamamoto was very kind to Mitsue, almost like a sister. She missed her own family in Japan. She had an older brother in British Columbia but he was off logging on Vancouver Island and they hardly ever saw each other. Mrs. Yamamoto had been educated in Japan and English was still difficult for her, making it hard to help the hakujin customers. She liked that Mitsue enjoyed all aspects of her work. She loved to sew. She could make patterns quickly and had fun with the wide selection of cloth and prints that Mrs. Yamamoto stocked. Unlike in dressmaking school, which had offered limited fabrics, here Mitsue could make dresses of all sorts, and when there was extra material Mrs. Yamamoto would let her take it home to sew something for herself. Mitsue made all her own clothes, as well as clothes for her sisters and mother. It was a labour of love.
Every night when she got off the streetcar at Brennan Street, one of Pat’s friends would be waiting for her. She and her escort would walk the two miles home. With each trip, her escort would build up the confidence to propose marriage. The first man to do so was Takatsugi, whom everyone just called Tak, a nice-looking man and a very close friend of Pat’s. Tak had been Mitsue’s neighbour for most of her life. Of all Pat’s friends, he was the one she was the most fond of.
One night Mitsue worked late at the dress shop. She didn’t arrive at Brennan Street until well after 8. Tak had been waiting there for over two hours. As soon as he saw Mitsue, he approached her and blurted out that he wanted to marry her. Mitsue did not hesitate; she turned him down. They kept walking. Tak was quiet at first and then he started to cry. They walked six blocks with him in tears.
He said over and over, “Why, why, why? Why not?”
Mitsue tried to comfort him. “It’s just strange for me, Tak. You’re like a brother. I’m sorry, but I have to say no.”
One down. Three to go.
Next Motoharu proposed. Then Minoru. Finally Ichiro. That was every one of Pat’s close friends. They all asked her the exact same way—walking home on Brennan Street, just a little after six o’clock.
After each proposal, Mitsue would go home and tell Pat. He would always shake his head and say the same thing: he was sorry and he would speak to them all again.
But it didn’t matter what Pat said to them. He could not deter his friends. Almost weekly, Mitsue would receive a renewed proposal. The boys would not give up. They asked over and over.
Everyone has that “one that got away.” Mitsue had four. The men in her life were attracted to her beauty, to be sure. It was a particular kind of beauty. You could see your whole life in it.
Then, on a sunny spring morning, a clean-cut, well-dressed man stepped into the dress shop. His name was Hideo Sakamoto. Mitsue was expecting him. Earlier that day, Mrs. Yamamoto had told her that a schoolmate from Kumamoto prefecture in Japan would be coming by for a visit.
When the man walked into the shop, he bowed and spoke warmly to Mrs. Yamamoto. It was clear they were good friends. He was a nice-looking man with an easy, honest smile. He was polite and well-mannered, even though he was in the lumber industry. The men in that field gambled and smoked and lived away from women, so most were too rough for Mitsue’s liking. Hideo was different—he was almost gentle. He was also well educated. Mitsue could tell that right away. He even came in with a book under his arm. Mitsue liked that.
Hideo worked in a paper mill, so he wasn’t around Vancouver much. He had to take a boat to get to the mill and it took some time, so he would only come in to Vancouver when he had a day off, and he didn’t get too many. Hideo’s parents operated a rooming house in Japantown, so he would stay with them as much as he could. His visits became more frequent after he met Mitsue.
The next time Hideo came to town, after cleaning himself up at his parents’ he went straight to the store. He had asked Mrs. Yamamoto beforehand if he could take Mitsue for a walk. She had agreed, even though there was lots of work to be done.
Hideo and Mitsue went for a walk around the Granville Island Bridge. They didn’t go fa
r—Mitsue was thinking about the work that was waiting—but it was long enough. They walked a little closer than two strangers might. Mitsue could see that Hideo’s hands were clean and his hair was recently cut. He wore a suit and a new white shirt, a blue-striped tie, and suspenders. His clothes were freshly pressed. But it was his warm, honest smile that she liked the best. As they rounded the corner to the dress shop, Hideo told Mitsue that he would be back in a few weeks and would like to see her again. Mitsue said that would be nice.
Mitsue Oseki and Hideo Sakamoto on Hastings Street, Vancouver, July 12, 1941
She spent the next two weeks hoping time would go a little faster. The days finally passed. Hideo came into the store around closing time. They walked around Hastings Street. It was a busy summer day and all the shops and restaurants were open. A photographer took a picture of them walking side by side and Hideo bought it. They stopped for a soda on Hastings Street. It was July 12, 1941: their first date.
It is clear in every picture of the two of them why my grandma was drawn to my grandpa: he simply adored her. He put her on a pedestal the height of Mount Fuji. He absolutely beamed walking down the street with her.
Hideo’s easy smile did not betray Vancouver’s political climate. The deep-seated racism that led to the 1907 riots had not dissipated. On the contrary; as Japanese fishermen continued to prosper, the resentment only grew. The perpetrators of hate had altered their tactics. The pen was proving mightier than the sword.
The news in the paper was all bad—but it seemed far away from Mitsue and her life. She was just working and waiting for Hideo to visit. She longed for their walks. When he was in town, he’d take the train home with her to Celtic—much to the dismay of Tak, Minoru, Motoharu, and Ichiro.
Hideo had been born in Canada, but his parents sent him to Japan in 1920, when he was six. He grew up on the family farm in Kumamoto prefecture. He knew his grandparents better than his parents. He didn’t get to know his father until he came back to Canada when he was seventeen. His father was always working in the lumber mill. His mother would travel to Japan every other year to see how her son was progressing.
Forgiveness Page 5