by George Takei
I wasn’t always getting into trouble like some kids. But the times I did, I remember well. In one such experience, I could have gotten into serious trouble, but ultimately it turned out wonderfully. Henry and I became friends with the boy who had told us about the dinosaurs in the woods on our first day in camp—his name was Paul, and he lived two barracks away from us. One day we bumped into him walking along the dirt road by the drainage ditch. He had a coffee can filled with yellowish water from the ditch.
“You wanna see what I caught?” Paul said boastfully. He let us peer into his can. There were little, wiggly black fishlike things swimming around.
“What are they?” I asked.
“Pollywogs,” he bragged. “They turn into little frogs.”
Paul was older than me for sure, but he really acted like a big know-it-all. I looked at him suspiciously. I knew what frogs looked like, and in no way did these wiggly fish look like little baby frogs.
“You’re lying,” I challenged.
“Yeah. You’re lying,” Henry echoed, backing me up like a good kid brother.
“You don’t believe me? Well, look at this one then,” he said, pointing to one lying still at the bottom of the can. “See? Can you see the tiny legs growing out on the sides there?” It was an amazing thing to behold—a fish with two miniature frog legs sticking out of its side. “Well,” Paul continued, “the legs get bigger, and the tail gets smaller, and finally it disappears. By that time it’s got two front legs, too, and then it becomes a frog and hops out of the water.”
With a little imagination I could see the fat, round shape of a frog in the body of the pollywog with the legs. If what Paul was saying was true, what a fascinating thing to watch happening right before one’s eyes. “Can I have some?” I asked.
“Go catch your own,” he said with a proud grin.
“We don’t know where to catch them. Will you show us where?” I pleaded.
“Well, okay,” he relented with exaggerated reluctance. And we were off on our great pollywog expedition.
Late that morning before lunch call, Henry and I came home each with our own coffee can of freshly caught wiggly pollywogs and excited tales of the magic that was about to unfold before our eyes. But before we could finish the story of our adventure, Mama burst into hysterics. “What! You playing at drainage ditch by fence? Oh, abunai.” She started repeating “abunai” uncontrollably. “Abunai. It so dangerous. Abunai, you could get hurt.” We didn’t think it “abunai” at all. Why do mothers always make such a big fuss over all the things that are fun? Just then, Daddy came home from the block manager’s office to have lunch with us. Mama immediately let loose with another flood of alarm, liberally punctuated with more “abunai,” on a startled Daddy.
Over lunch in the noisy mess hall, Daddy soberly told us about schools of venomous snakes called water moccasins that disguise themselves as floating sticks to bite poison into little boys. And in the woods, he told us, live dangerously beautiful snakes with copper-red bodies called copperheads and another family of snakes that carry rattles on the tip of their tails that they sound as a warning before they eat little boys. I didn’t want to be eaten, but it sounded fascinating—both scary and intriguing. Snakes that float like sticks on the water and snakes with rattles as dinner bells. The unknowns that lie hidden in the dark of the woods seemed spellbindingly exotic and that much more alluring. “Daddy, will you take us into the woods with you so we can see it safely?” I asked. Mama immediately launched into another chorus of “abunai.” But Daddy pondered for a moment and then said, “I’ll see what I can arrange.”
That evening after his block manager’s announcements at the mess hall, Daddy seated himself with us. Then he told us about a special treat he had arranged for us. He was able to borrow a Jeep from the motor pool and get us clearances “to go outside” for a few hours tomorrow afternoon. Daddy was going to get us outside our barbed wire confinement! It was great having a daddy who could make wishes come true.
It seemed like forever before “tomorrow afternoon” actually came. I told all the kids Henry and I knew, including Paul. They all said we were lucky, but I knew it was because our daddy was the block manager.
After lunch, Henry and I waited, sitting on our front step. With us were Paul, Eddy—the Buddhist minister’s son—and another kid named Tadao, with his little brother Akira. Suddenly, in a cloud of yellow dust and rubber tires crunching gravel and dirt, Daddy drove up from the road behind the mess hall. He looked great driving that Jeep. Uniformed guards were the only ones we ever saw driving Jeeps—never Japanese. But this time, Daddy was the driver. He was wearing his white short-sleeved shirt and Panama hat and was driving like he owned that Jeep. In an enormous billow of dust, the Jeep came to a crunching stop. He honked the horn twice, stood up, and waved us over.
“Mama! Mama! Daddy’s here. Hurry up,” we yelled and ran over to Daddy. Henry and I clambered onto the backseat and began chanting, “Mama, Mama, hurry up. Mama, Mama, hurry up.” It seemed a full eternity before the barrack door opened and Mama stepped out leading Reiko by her hand. Mama had on her usual white cotton blouse, but she was wearing a new skirt made of some tan-colored Army surplus cloth and a scarf made from the same material on her head tied under the chin. And Reiko was outfitted in a matching scarf and overall pants made from the same fabric. It was mother and daughter in coordinated Army surplus. So that’s what she was sewing in such a frenzy all last night and this morning, I thought. I guess Mama knew this was a special occasion, too. “Hurry up, Mama. Hurry up,” Henry and I chanted, losing our patience. We asked Daddy to give another beep on the horn. They came running and climbed on beside Daddy.
We waved good-bye to the envious faces of Paul, Eddy, Tadao, and Akira and drove through the camp to the main gate. Daddy stopped and handed the guard a form sheet he had filled out earlier and signed his name on a clipboard—and we were out. The guard towers and barbed wire fence were behind us for the first time since our arrival many months earlier. Once Daddy picked up some speed on Arkansas State Highway Number 1, the dust was behind us, too, and it was only clean, fresh wind that caressed our faces. The rush of air made Daddy take off his Panama hat. His hair was starting to thin, and Mama didn’t want him bareheaded in the Arkansas sun. She was prepared with his old baseball cap, which she placed on his head with the brim in the back like a catcher.
Daddy drove through open fields and over bumpy bridges spanning murky swamps. He drove through lush, shaded forests and along placid pools. And he took us to visit a farm in the depths of the woods.
There I saw something I will never forget. At the time, I thought it had to be the dinosaur in the woods that Paul had told us about. It was colossal in size and awesomely ugly in appearance—more than twenty times the size of Henry and me both put together. But the sounds it made were strangely not the cawing we had heard on that first day. This massive creature made obscene grunts and snorts, and an occasional, frighteningly loud bellow. And it was not running wild in the woods as Paul had suggested dinosaurs were, but was cooped up in the muckiest, smelliest, foulest pen I had ever come across. But, without a doubt, it was the most terrifying monstrosity in the world. I thought surely this had to be the creature Paul told us was a dinosaur. But Daddy and the farmer called it a hog. Daddy said that the Spam that was occasionally served for dinner in the mess hall was made from this huge animal. If Daddy said so, then it must be, I thought, but undoubtedly, anything this awesome had to belong to some family of monsters.
Mama and Reiko wanted to stay on the Jeep, so Daddy, Henry, and I wandered around the place with the farmer. We saw chickens—lots of them—some in cages and others strutting around loose. Animals were everywhere—dogs sleeping and mangy cats stalking about. I didn’t know people lived like this, surrounded by so many wonderful animals. I envied the farmer.
On the drive back, Daddy pointed out likely places where snakes lived. Sunny, open areas like dirt patches and warm rocks for rattlers and copperhea
ds; calm, quiet pools for water moccasins. Daddy wanted us to learn about snakes so that we’d know how to avoid getting bitten by them. But we saw no water moccasins, no copperheads, and no rattlesnakes—only the most monstrous creature I had ever come across in my life. And rather than being devoured by it, I learned instead that we ate it.
The sun was starting to set. For some reason, Daddy was driving very slowly—so slowly that an exhausted Henry fell asleep in the backseat. Mama looked back and noticed. She touched Daddy on the shoulder and pointed at my sleeping brother. They smiled and looked at me with a finger held to their lips. Then they pointed to Reiko on Mama’s lap, who also had fallen fast asleep. Daddy and Mama looked so happy. For once, the perpetual worry on their faces had been blown away by the soft evening breeze. I was getting sleepy, too, but I didn’t want to miss any of this wonderful trip. I was determined to stay awake for the whole ride all the way back. I’m glad I did because, as we neared home, the western sky turned a brilliant orange. The clouds seemed to glow with a luminous yellow halo. As our Jeep approached the guard towers, they turned into little black silhouette cutouts against the spectacularly blazing Arkansas sunset. I finally fell asleep as Daddy was checking us back in with the guards at the gate.
Childhood memories come rich with sensations—fragrances, sounds, colors, and especially temperatures. The fondly remembered memories radiate glowing warmth. That’s the way I remember that golden afternoon when Daddy took the family on that wonderful Jeep ride.
Even memories that might have frost covering them glow with that same toasty warmth—like one chilly morning that following winter when we woke to discover everything blanketed in white. From the eaves of the tar-paper barracks hung rows of glassy icicles. Overnight, the landscape was transformed into a wonderland in pristine white and tar-paper black.
Mama dressed us in our warmest clothes for our breakfast trip to the mess hall while Daddy stirred the fire in the big, black potbelly stove. As soon as we were bundled up, Henry and I dashed out into the soft white powder. It scattered before us, light and weightless like dust. But this dust was cold. It had no taste, only the smack of cold. It could be shaped into a ball, and it left our hands tingly. It had weight now and could be thrown at a person but without hurting, leaving only a sharp, icy sting. The feeling of cold—something that we had felt only in the air—was made tangible overnight in the form of this white dust covering everything. We had never experienced such chilly wonder before. It was magical.
Henry and I already were covered with snowball fragments when Daddy, Mama, and Reiko came outside. I hit Daddy with my snowball, and Henry got Mama with his, and we ran helter-skelter, yelling and laughing, for the mess hall. Just when I thought we had made it into the safety and warmth of the big building, I felt Daddy’s big snowball hit me squarely on my back. His baseball-pitching arm was still strong and accurate.
After breakfast, Daddy showed us how our little snowballs could be rolled in the snow to make great big snow boulders. These were lined up in a row to create a wall. Then medium-sized ones were placed on them, building higher with each layer. Every new row of snowballs was of diminishing size, until we had built a tall snow fortress with a strong, solid base tapering up over our heads—a sturdy building made entirely of snow. It was amazing what we could make from this cold dust. It was a great feeling of accomplishment.
We could see our excited, exhausted breaths, white and frosty each time we exhaled. Daddy and Henry both had pink cheeks and rosy nosetips. We were cold and tired outside, but inside we were filled with a happy, warm glow.
* * *
Our first Christmas in camp came not too long after the snowfall. Mama put up homemade decorations in our room. In the mess hall, volunteers strung long paper banners that read “Merry Christmas” in big red-and-green letters. The banners were hung from one beam and reached all the way across the mess hall to another beam.
The highlight of Christmas was supposed to be the visit from Santa Claus. Everybody told us he was coming to our mess hall, but nobody knew when. Well, I knew the one person who knew everything, and that was Daddy, the block manager. I asked him. He answered, “We don’t know whether he could come for Christmas Eve dinner or Christmas morning breakfast.” I asked him why Santa was so slow, when he had his sled and reindeer and all this good slippery snow. Daddy answered that Santa wanted to visit the children in all thirty-three blocks at Rohwer, not just the ones in Block 2. “Why can’t he visit all the children on Christmas Eve?” I asked. Daddy answered that Santa liked to spend some time with each boy and girl. To me, it was an unsatisfying answer.
Christmas Eve dinner finally came. It was a special menu—roast chicken, sweet potatoes, rice, and chocolate pan cake. The families with young children were seated near the door. I had a feeling deep inside that Santa Claus might come to Block 2 tonight. We finished dinner, but no Santa. We sat waiting. Some people killed time by having a second helping of chocolate cake. Then a group of grownups got up and sang Christmas carols. I couldn’t understand why they were singing “I’m dreaming of a white Christmas” when everything outside was already completely white with snow. All this time was being wasted when Santa Claus could be here with us right now. I had almost given up on his making a Christmas Eve appearance when, without any warning, the mess hall doors banged open, and a gust of cold wind rushed in. We heard the jingling of bells, a loud “Ho, ho, ho,” and in waddled a short, puffed-up, over-jolly Santa Claus in a wrinkled red suit.
Henry and Reiko sat wide-eyed with surprise and wonder. This Santa “ho-ho-hoed” an awful lot and then started to move from kid to kid asking them their names and whether they had been good or bad. Some were dumbstruck. Those that spoke up said they had been good. Nobody confessed to doing anything bad. Not even Ford and Chevy Nakayama. Most kids just stared in awe or puzzlement, but they got presents anyway from the gigantic sack he carried. A few burst out crying, so their presents were given to their embarrassed mothers. Henry and Reiko, staring transfixed at Santa, nodded when asked if they had been good, and they received their presents.
But when he asked me, I nodded and shouted, “Yes.” And I looked at his face good and hard. At the same time I pressed my hand firmly on his stomach. Just as I thought! The suspicions I’d had since his blustery entrance were confirmed. I felt newspapers crinkle under that red suit where his stomach should be. And his beard looked like ratty cotton layers taken from some quilt. But the final, unassailable evidence was in the face of this Santa Claus. He was Japanese! This Santa was a fake. I knew what Santa looked like. Mama had taken me to visit him the previous Christmas at May Company department store in downtown Los Angeles. I met him. I sat on his lap. I talked to him. And he wasn’t Japanese! This “ho-ho-hoing” Santa in front of me was a fraud! But, just to be polite, I accepted my present from him anyway. I saw that Henry and Reiko believed in this one, and Mama and Daddy also acted as if they had been fooled. In fact, everybody seemed tricked into believing in his overjolly “ho, ho, ho.” I didn’t have the heart to break it to them.
I guessed that the real Santa probably couldn’t get past the barbed wire fence. So somebody here in camp dressed up as this fake Santa to make everybody’s Christmas a little bit merrier. They all seemed so happy. I decided to keep my discovery my own private secret.
These are the memories that glow in my heart. Even over the years, they radiate a pleasant warmth. But I also have recollections of Rohwer that are sharp—chilly to the core. And I remember them with a shiver.
* * *
The most terrifying camp memory I have is of an Arkansas spring thunderstorm. It was after dinner, and we were back in our barrack room, except for Daddy, who was out at another block meeting. Mama was quietly mending some clothes, and we were playing with our toys. Suddenly, there was a bright, soundless flash, and everything in the room turned electric white: the walls, the floor, the bed, everything. Even Mama’s startled face was lit in ghost white. Then it was gone. It was there just long en
ough to shock us, and it was gone. But even before we could say, “What was that?” the terror began. With a colossal bang, the sky began to tear apart. The room shook, the beds rattled, and my little toy truck went skittering away. Reiko shrieked in fright, and Henry screamed as if he had touched the hot potbelly stove. Just as Mama came rushing over, an even more violent explosion ripped the sky. Mama’s tin sewing box on the shelf high above came crashing down, scattering scissors, thimbles, rulers, and spools of thread all over the floor. She gathered us up on Daddy’s bed in the center of our room and huddled over us.
But the thunderclaps were unrelenting, one after another. Just when one seemed to settle down to a deep, rolling grumble, another gigantic clap would shatter the heavens like a horrific explosion. It was as if the world was going to end.
And Daddy wasn’t with us. That was when I began to cry. Our family had always been together in crisis. Daddy and Mama said nothing could ever break us apart. And now with the world ending, Daddy was somewhere out there in that dark, hellish night. I couldn’t stop crying. Even when the thunderclaps stopped and the rain started, I couldn’t stop. Mama kept stroking us gently, but I could feel the fear in her, too. We’ll never see Daddy again. It rained long into the night.
Then, I heard stamping on the front steps. The door rattled, and in walked a thoroughly drenched Daddy with a soggy Life magazine held over his head. The shock, the joy, the relief and love I felt at the sight of him I will never forget. He took his wet jacket off and gave us all a warm, damp hug. The sky threatened with another ominous grumble, but I wasn’t afraid anymore. Daddy was with us, and we were together again in our big family hug.