by Karin Tanabe
Deciding to take the letter anyway, he put it back in the envelope and walked outside. John Sasaki was still there, watching him. “Done already?” he said, eyeing Christian suspiciously.
Christian shrugged and tried to hide the letter, but John spotted it. “Stealing something on your way out?”
“It’s just a letter I found on the floor,” said Christian, wishing he had hidden it.
“And I’m sure you opened it,” said John, walking over. He took the letter from Christian and scanned it. “Would you like to know what it says?”
“Of course,” said Christian, looking over John’s shoulder at the inscrutable text.
John smiled and said, “You’re going to be happy.”
Christian took the letter back and looked at it as if all of a sudden it might translate itself. “What does it say?” he asked.
John pointed at the last character. “In Japanese you read from right to left.” He traced the vertical text with his hand and said, “Beginning here it says, ‘You sounded very much in love in your last letter, Emiko-chan. And I will never be the one to criticize you falling for an American. I am, after all, the one who brought you there. Despite the geography of Japan, the world is not an island.
“ ‘Since you asked in your last letter, I’m still doing just fine, though the house is silent without you. It misses you very much, just like I do. I will write more soon, but I just wanted you to know that even the architecture is longing to see you.’ ”
John looked at Christian and smiled even more broadly. “It’s from her father, of course,” he said, pointing at the name at the bottom of the letter. “This says ‘father.’ Or more like ‘papa.’ That’s a better translation.” John put the envelope on top of the letter and pointed to the sender’s information. “Norio Kato. That is her father. And it looks like he’s sent the letter from the Foreign Ministry in Tokyo. Probably increased its chances of arrival here. Though certainly of being read by censors, too. Looks like they were humane with this one. Didn’t black out a thing.”
“Does it really say that?” said Christian, grabbing the letter back, barely hearing John’s last words. “It says that? Love? About me. Are you sure? To her father? Can you check again?”
“It does,” said John, keeping his grip on the envelope. “Looks like you made a bigger impression on Emiko than you’re aware of. But that’s how it is with women like her, a reserved Japanese woman from a certain echelon of society. She probably kept her feelings closer to the heart than you did.”
“Could you write down the translation?” said Christian, holding the letter more carefully, afraid to crease it, the words on the page starting to float under his gaze. “I don’t want to forget what it says.”
John went inside to fetch a pen, then jotted down his translation of the contents on the back of the white envelope. On the front he translated the address of the Ministry and Emi’s father’s name.
Christian read what John had written. “Very much in love.” He knew he would think about the letter every day until he saw Emi again.
“What will you do with it?” John asked.
“I don’t know,” said Christian, smoothing it. “Keep it, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course. Stealing a letter about oneself is not really stealing.”
Christian put the piece of paper back in the envelope and said, “Maybe one day I’ll get to Japan. When the war is over and the world is normal again.”
“Who knows if that will ever happen?” said John. “And what if the world is even harder to travel around in after the war? If I were young and in love like you, I’d try to do something now.”
“I have to repatriate with my parents to Germany,” said Christian. “And even that’s not happening anytime soon. They keep saying end of ’44. Maybe ’45.”
“There is a way you don’t have to go to Germany,” said John, gazing at the Katos’ former house.
“Which is?” said Christian surprised. His heart started to beat faster as he watched John, still poker-faced.
“It’s simple,” said John, turning his attention back to Christian. “Enlist.”
CHAPTER 14
EMI KATO
SEPTEMBER 1943
Emi looked out the window of the train that was humming along from San Antonio to New York. Four hours into the journey and she had already grown tired of looking at desolate landscapes and the run-down houses that lined the tracks. She thought about what she used to see from the train windows when she lived in Austria: the artfully constructed buildings, picturesque villages, the imposing mountain range near Vienna. She hoped that at the end of the war, some of that beauty would remain.
After two nearly sleepless nights, kept up by crying, snoring, and other people’s motion sickness, Emi finally saw hints of New York in front of her and felt the sting of longing for her former life. What a way to come into the city, she thought. She had made the trip many times from Washington with her parents before the Pearl Harbor attack, as there was a Japanese consulate there. She had always worn new clothes for the trip, and they traveled in first class. Now that lifestyle was gone. Emi and her mother were arriving in New York as part of a trainload of people the Americans hated—even though many were American themselves—ready to be traded for 1,340 people the country deemed far more important.
In Japan and Germany there were Americans that the government cared for, that they wanted returned safely: Missionaries, teachers, journalists, POWs. Japanese-Americans and German-Americans would go in their places, even though many had never lived in their so-called mother countries. The government found their heritage suspicious, and that was enough to send them into war-torn nations to get the more valuable Americans back.
It was September 2. The ship they would soon board—the MS Gripsholm, the same Swedish vessel her father had traveled on—was not expected to reach Japan until November. The Japanese passengers, including 169 from Crystal City, would be traded in the port city of Goa in Portuguese India, switching ships in the process. They would transfer to a smaller Japanese ship, the Teia Maru, and the Americans coming from Japan would board the Gripsholm. But before the Gripsholm reached Goa, it would travel to Brazil and Uruguay to pick up more Japanese who had not been interned in America but were still being traded. After the trade in Goa, they would make stops in Singapore and the Philippines before finally reaching Yokohama.
As New York City came into focus, Keiko passed Emi a bowl of rice with pickles on top that she’d packed for the journey. She handed her two chopsticks, which were wrapped with a few other utensils in a white towel, and told her to eat. She was no longer wearing the homemade dresses she wore in the camp or on the first days of the train journey, but one that she’d worn to embassy lunches in Washington. Emi eyed the pretty scalloped neckline and Keiko said, “I couldn’t bring myself to wear rags for our arrival in New York City. I haven’t lost myself just yet.” She ran her left hand across the stomach of her dress and pushed the food toward Emi again.
“All we’ve eaten the whole year is rice,” said Emi, reluctantly accepting the bowl. “My body feels like it’s made of small white grains.”
“You should be thankful,” said Keiko. “The people in Japan are starving, some to death, and that’s where we’re headed. The boat, the Gripsholm, it won’t be the way you’re used to traveling. Who knows what kind of food we will have? It could all be spoiled. So eat the small white grains while you can.”
“I’ll try,” said Emi. She put the bowl down on her lap and turned away from her mother, listening to the conversations around her instead. Two women appeared to agree that they weren’t nervous to return to Japan since the country was winning the war.
“What do they know?” said Emi, rolling her eyes at her mother. “Our access to the news is severely restricted. No one really knows how well or badly Japan is doing. If you listen to the Americans gossip, the Japanese are losing, and fast.”
“Don’t think of speaking like that around yo
ur father,” said Keiko, looking disapprovingly at Emi. “The government is sure that Japan won’t lose.”
“Everyone loses sometimes.”
“Not this time.” Keiko took Emi’s bowl and said quietly, “Since you’re already so combative, maybe this is the right time to finally talk about that American boy. Christian.”
“What?” said Emi, trying to look shocked.
“Oh, Emiko. Let’s just speak plainly, please,” said Keiko leaning tiredly against the window. “You know that I was aware of your relationship with him since the night it started. I was just polite enough to let you do as you wished. You’re twenty-one years old; too old to be policed. Besides, when he came to Crystal City, you were finally happy and I was sick of having such a sad child. I should have thanked him before I left.”
“I appreciate you not saying anything all these months,” said Emi. “Not intervening.”
“I know you do,” said Keiko, gently. “But you do realize it was the talk of the camp, don’t you? At least on our side. I tried to silence the rumors, even if they were true. Mostly, I just didn’t want it all to get back to you and ruin your joy.”
“You think it was true? What people were saying about us?” said Emi, wondering why she had waited for so long to confide in her mother. She forgot that when her father wasn’t around, her mother could be decidedly more modern.
“I know it was true,” Keiko replied, gesturing to Emi’s food again. “I’ve seen you in love before.”
“That was a long time ago,” said Emi.
Keiko moved seats and sat next to her daughter. “Was it? Only for someone so young would that seem like a long time ago.” She smiled and readjusted one of the hairpins struggling to hold her hair in place.
“Christian, he was nothing like Leo,” said Emi. “He was really just a pleasant distraction.”
“I don’t think so, Emiko,” said her mother, still looking out the window and away from her daughter. “I think you’re lying to yourself if you really believe that.”
“Perhaps,” said Emi, leaning against her mother, bending her neck to an uncomfortable angle. “I didn’t think I had the capacity to feel anything for anyone but Leo. Ever. Maybe I was wrong.”
“Our hearts aren’t built like that,” said Keiko. “It’s a romantic notion to think so, but for the most part, they have a large capacity to love.” She reached over and fed her daughter a bite of rice, as Emi still hadn’t touched her food. “Many of our neighbors, they suggested I interfere. And if he had just been a distraction, a nothing much, I might have. But I could tell he meant something to you. That he was bringing you a joy that no one else had been capable of since Leo. I couldn’t bring myself to rob you of that.”
“I did finally feel happy,” Emi admitted. “He was different.” She looked at her mother and smiled. “Christian, he managed to pull me out of my—what did you call it?”
“Ungrateful haze,” said Keiko laughing.
“Yes, that’s it. He pulled me out of my ungrateful haze. The one I’ve been in—according to you—since we left Europe. But Christian doesn’t matter now. We are going back to Japan, he will go to Germany in a few months—”
“No. They say the German repatriation voyage won’t be for another year,” her mother corrected. “He’ll be in Crystal City much longer than we were. Well into 1944.”
“Well, I am not convinced that we’re headed anywhere better. At least bombs didn’t fall from the sky in Texas.”
“Tokyo will be safe for us,” said Keiko. “Your father said we shouldn’t be afraid. Like I said, people are starving, but we won’t be. The government will take care of us.”
“He would say that if there were corpses falling from the sky. He knows how you are. He doesn’t want to scare you and he wants us home.”
“Emi, your father has a high position in Prime Minister Tōjō’s government. That will give us preferential treatment. Haven’t we always had preferential treatment?”
“Yes. We will get to eat the day-old rats instead of the week-old rats. How wonderful. And I don’t know why you think father is so loyal to the government. I don’t think he even believes we should be fighting.”
“Watch what you say!” Keiko hissed at her. “You’re not in an internment camp anymore. You’re on your way back to Japan, a country you will be loyal to when you arrive.”
“Of course I’m loyal,” said Emi. “But that doesn’t mean I think we are right. Any country that aligns itself with the German Reich can’t be right.”
“Emiko, we’ve gone over this,” said Keiko, exasperated. “You are Japanese and you will act like it starting right now. You will be as loyal a patriot as the soldiers fighting the war as soon as your toe is on that boat.”
When the train finally chugged to a labored stop in New York and disgorged its passengers, Emi and Keiko took a walk along the platform to stretch their legs and revel for a moment in the absence of barbed wire.
“It’s a strange feeling, isn’t it?” said Keiko. “To be almost free.”
“I don’t feel free,” said Emi, looking out at the New York skyline. One of the armed guards helping to herd them to the port pushed her shoulder and told her to move up and join the line. They had to be questioned and searched before boarding the massive ship.
They all piled into a row of buses that blew gray smoke and seemed to have only a few miles left in them. “This is a prison bus,” she heard a man say, pointing to the words “Correctional Facility” painted inside. Emi gave them a quick glance but the bus turned a corner, jostling the passengers, and there it was, the boat that would transport them to a country at war.
When they had lined up again on the dock, Emi stared up at the enormous freighter with the words GRIPSHOLM SVERIGE printed on the side and DIPLOMAT written above that, all in bold block letters. This boat, it was clear, was not to be blown up. Sweden was a neutral country and the boat was to sail fully illuminated at night, a Christmas tree of the sea. O’Rourke had told them not to fear for their safety on board, that as long as they took care of their health, they would arrive back in Japan in good shape.
“Only to be killed there,” one of the Japanese-American teenagers had said, loudly, but O’Rourke had ignored him. What happened to them once they were on Japanese soil was not his concern.
Finally, after they had all passed the questioning process and had their belongings pawed through, they were led on board the ship. At the train station, Emi and her mother were told they would have to share a cabin on the Gripsholm with another mother and daughter coming from Crystal City. All four would sleep on bunk beds, the younger women on top. Emi and Keiko knew of the other women from the camp, but they weren’t friendly with them. They certainly would be by the time they disembarked, thought Emi, when she saw the size of their cabin.
She and her mother started to unpack as best they could in the tight quarters and when their cabin mates walked in—Chiyo Kuriyama and her daughter, Naoko—they exchanged pleasantries before Emi’s mother excused herself to the deck. Naoko, who was as petite as Keiko, followed her out, saying she too was feeling claustrophobic. Emi hoped that Naoko’s mother would follow and that she could be alone in the room for just a few minutes. But Chiyo sat down on her bunk, her trousers wet at the bottom, and watched Emi unpack more of her things. They made small talk, much to Emi’s annoyance, and then Chiyo, apparently unable to resist, brought up Christian Lange.
“I heard about you and that foreign boy,” she said, as Emi folded and refolded the same dress.
“What do you mean you ‘heard about me and that foreign boy’?” Emi said defensively, not turning around to look at her. Her mother had said that she and Christian were the talk of the camp, but even if that was true, it was so impertinent to relay the gossip back to its subject. Japanese women may have gossiped behind closed doors, but they always took pains to hide their rudeness. This Chiyo, thought Emi, must have been in America too long.
“You two weren’t very subtle,
were you?” Chiyo said, pushing her hair out of her eyes. It was cut to the chin in a blunt, practical style. “He was just a baby, too. I understand you were bored in that place, we all were, but I doubt your relationship with that child is something your father would be happy to hear about.”
“On what occasion would my father hear about my friendship with an American boy?” Emi said with a cold stare. “Are you planning on speaking to him? Because I’m sure he doesn’t have the time to speak to you. He’s working right under the foreign minister now. He’s extremely busy.”
“I’m well aware, Emiko-san,” Chiyo said haughtily. “You and your mother did such a good job advertising your so-called high position all through the camp for the last few months. But circumstances change during war. The rich aren’t so rich anymore. The important not so important. You’ll see when we get back. Your life won’t be the way it was.”
“Of course it won’t,” said Emi, although she was starting to feel she might be as naïve about the state of Japan as her mother was. “None of our lives will be.”
“I would be more careful if I were you,” Chiyo warned. “An unmarried woman of twenty-one. Keep acting as you are and you will remain unmarried. Or worse. You know what I’m speaking about. Now that would bring such shame on your honorable family.”
“You’re not me,” Emi said. “And I certainly am not seeking your advice. Thank you. I’m going to join my mother now.”
She didn’t bother to bow goodbye, instead reaching for the door and pulling it shut loudly behind her.
Despite what women like Chiyo expected of her, what her parents sometimes expected of her, Emi knew she would never become a subservient married woman. She was going to be as interesting as the world would let her, even if it meant dealing with the scorn of women like Chiyo.
Being interesting to Emi used to mean excelling at everything in her grasp—school, languages, love, the piano. She knew she would never play in sold-out concert halls—Japanese women never did—but she was good enough to play somewhere, elsewhere. For so many years, the world had felt open to her. But with the war, all of that had changed. There weren’t pianos to play, or languages to learn, but she still knew she wanted to be more than just another submissive woman supporting the empire. Even in wartime Tokyo, there must be some way that she could do things differently.