by Vincent Yee
Mr. Tanaka came back into the room and in his hand, he had something wrapped in what looked like a clear plastic Ziploc bag that had turned somewhat opaque with age. He carefully sat down and held it in front of him. Aiko looked on, enthralled. Inside the bag was a wrinkled envelope with a yellowish tinge left by the passing of time. The entire envelope was covered in dark brown splotches, which were more heavily concentrated on the right side. In the center was writing in faded blue ink. As Aiko looked closer, she could see that it read, “To my dear Minami Satoh.”
Mr. Tanaka handed the letter over to Aiko. She took it gently in her hands, treasuring it as if it were a priceless artifact. She was holding in her hands the last letter her grandfather had written to his true love–the contents of which had been sealed away since that fateful day when her grandfather sacrificed his life for America.
“This all happened so fast,” said Mr. Tanaka. “I’ve had this letter for so long I just didn’t see the connection between it and you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Tanaka,” said Aiko as she continued to look down at it.
“I’m sorry I never delivered it. I didn’t even get a chance to finish my story, and what had happened to me after the war that prevented me from sending the letter. But now that you have it, you can deliver it to your father, Ichiro.”
Aiko gently ran her index finger along the top edge of the envelope as she felt the plastic rub along the fibers of the envelope underneath. Aiko then looked up.
“I think my grandmother would appreciate this more,” said Aiko.
There was silence and Aiko saw that Mr. Tanaka’s expression went from somber to shock. “Your grandmother is alive?”
Aiko looked at him and at first thought how silly he was to ask such a question. Then she realized to her disbelief that she had forgotten to mention that her own grandmother was alive. She was so caught up in hearing about her grandfather and letting Mr. Tanaka do all the talking, she didn’t tell him anything about her own family.
“She’s very much alive, Mr. Tanaka,” said Aiko cheerfully.
Another look washed over Mr. Tanaka’s gentle face and it one was one of elation but there was also some sense of shame.
“Minami… she’s truly alive?”
“Yes, my grandmother is alive,” said Aiko.
“I wish I could be there to give this letter to her. It would heal one of the greatest open wounds I’ve held since the war.”
Aiko then reflected again on her absentmindedness, but she knew she couldn’t have anticipated this sudden turn of events. She smiled at Mr. Tanaka and then handed the letter back to him.
“I don’t understand,” said a confused Mr. Tanaka.
Aiko looked into Mr. Tanaka’s eyes. There was a hint of joy in her voice as she spoke. “Mr. Tanaka, you can give it to her yourself–she lives in Santa Monica.”
T W E N T Y S I X
It was a cool evening as the breezes from the coast gently drifted their way into the house from the screened patio door. Minami was gently dusting her living room as she spoke to one of her friends on the phone. A smile always seemed to cling to her face. She had let her platinum hair down that day, and it flowed lightly whenever the wind caught it. Though it wasn’t black anymore, it was still full, strong and surprisingly silky to the touch.
“It sounds like your great-grandchildren are growing up so quickly,” said Minami. “No, I’m not as fortunate, I don’t have any great-grandchildren just yet. No. None of the grandchildren are married. The oldest just graduated recently and started her first job. She called me this past Saturday and I had a wonderful conversation with her. Yes. We talked for six hours. Hmm? About what? Odd that you should ask, she wanted to know about Hiroshi. Yes, odd isn’t it? But I’m glad she called, you know those young ones, so busy nowadays. They can’t spare the time to see their grandmothers anymore.”
Minami suddenly became alert to the sound of the doorbell, which was followed by a quick tapping on the wooden door.
“Oh hold on, someone’s at the door,” Minami said as she approached the door. She took the phone into her hand and tucked the duster underneath her arm. The doorbell rang once more just as she grasped the doorknob and swung the door open. Minami stood there motionless as her granddaughter stood in front of her with a grin and then noticed the older Japanese couple behind her.
“Hi Grandma,” said Aiko sheepishly.
“Hello? Who is it, Minami?” asked the loud almost nagging voice coming from the cordless phone.
Aiko’s grandmother slowly raised the phone to her ear and said, “You won’t believe it, but my granddaughter is standing right in front of me. I’ll call you back.”
Aiko stepped up to her stunned grandmother and gave her a hug. Aiko’s grandmother was caught off guard but hugged her granddaughter back as she tried to decide if this situation was real. Aiko hugged her grandmother a little longer. She felt she had a stronger connection to her from the last few days.
Aiko stepped back and then looked at Mr. and Mrs. Tanaka. Her grandmother’s stare fell onto the two strangers behind Aiko, who cleared her throat.
“Grandma, I want you to meet Mr. Peter Tanaka and his wife Noriko,” said Aiko.
Aiko’s grandmother nodded politely as did the Tanakas. For Mr. Tanaka, the butterflies in his stomach were engaged in a fierce aerial dogfight. Not a word was spoken between the strangers. Aiko’s grandmother knew she was getting older herself, and her memory wasn’t what it used to be, but she usually never forgot people. Aiko signaled to Mr. Tanaka to tell her grandmother who he was.
Mr. Tanaka cleared his throat, straightened his shoulders and stood tall. “Mrs. Minami Satoh, I’m Private Peter Tanaka. I served under your husband in the 442nd.”
Suddenly Aiko’s grandmother’s face went ghostly white. The statement hit her with such surprise that she had to take a step back. Aiko quickly came to her side and offered her arm as support, but Aiko’s grandmother quickly regained her composure.
“Oh my. Please excuse me,” said Aiko’s grandmother apologetically. “Why don’t you come on in while I let this sink in.”
Mr. and Mrs. Tanaka were soon in the living room and sitting on one couch. Across from it was another couch with a wooden coffee table between them. Mr. Tanaka was still feeling nervous. He wasn’t sure where to begin. When Aiko had delivered the news that Hiroshi’s wife was alive and that she lived in Santa Monica, he quickly ushered Aiko and his wife into his reliable Honda and to the horror of his wife, floored it to sixty miles per hour. A sudden sense of duty rose up from within him. He had to deliver that last letter to the wife of the man who had saved his life. But at that moment, finding himself in the home of Hiroshi’s wife, he felt out of place. It had been many decades since he had ever done something so rash.
Aiko’s grandmother had recovered and was in the kitchen making tea while Aiko explored the living room. Her grandmother was right. Aiko hadn’t visited in years. Along the shelves behind the Tanakas were pictures of the past that suddenly meant more. However, there weren’t too many pictures from the dreaded wartime past. Most of the pictures were from after the war and featured her father. There were several baby pictures of Aiko, along with her two sisters and younger brother. Then there were pictures of her grandmother’s two younger sisters along with her brother.
Aiko’s eyes suddenly moved away from the pictures and settled on a baseball glove that was sitting on the top shelf. She almost didn’t believe it. She reached into the glove and her heart jumped as her hand wrapped around what only her imagination envisioned for her. She slowly removed her hand to reveal an old baseball. Could it be the actual home run baseball that her grandmother spoke about? Aiko slowly turned the baseball around, admiring the red threading and the leather when her eyes became fixated on the blue cursive writing. It simply said “Hiroshi.” Aiko was in silent awe as she held the home run ball with her grandfather’s autograph.
“I have tea ready for everyone,” said Aiko’s grandmother in a welcom
ing tone.
With the help of Mr. Tanaka, she gently lowered the serving tray onto the table as the ceramic cups clinked lightly against one another. Aiko’s grandmother thanked Mr. Tanaka, who sat back onto the couch. She then poured hot tea into the four green colored glazed cups with Japanese characters running along its sides. She had just placed the teapot back onto the tray when Aiko sat down next to her and brought the baseball into view.
“Is this the famous home run ball?” asked Aiko.
Her grandmother looked down at the baseball, then at the baseball glove on the top shelf and back at Aiko’s curious eyes. She smiled. “Yes Aiko, it is.”
Aiko’s grandmother gently took the ball into her hand as Mr. Tanaka looked on. She turned it over to look at Hiroshi’s autograph and smiled.
“Is that the ball that gave Hiroshi his nickname?” asked Mr. Tanaka.
“Yes, it is,” said Aiko’s grandmother proudly. Talking about the ball brought back so many memories.
“May I see it?” Mr. Tanaka asked as he extended his open hand over the four teacups.
“Certainly,” Aiko’s grandmother replied with a smile.
As she extended the ball toward him with Hiroshi’s autograph facing upward, she said, “This ball saved my life.”
Mr. Tanaka could read Hiroshi’s name on top of the ball. His fingertips came in contact with the ball and for a moment, those of Aiko’s grandmother as well when he said, “Hiroshi saved my life.” The steam from the four cups below then suddenly enveloped the baseball.
* * *
“Fuck! Get down! Get down!” shouted Peter through the low, drifting fog as he cowered against the muddy ridge, which was the only thing between him and the fortified machine gun nest that was about twenty yards away. The bullets ate at the top of edge of the ridgeline that he and Akira had thrown themselves up against as they marched their way into the dark forest. Hiroshi was alongside them to their left with two other soldiers. Their steady ascent into the dense forest of the Vosges Mountains in France was laden with danger, behind every tree and beyond every faint ridgeline. It was evening, but the thick forest had blocked out so much light, it was difficult to tell if it was night or day.
Hiroshi pressed his back up against the ridge as the darkness was lit up with bullets that sliced through the air like fireflies whizzing by. The enemy mortars ignited above them in the thick treetops, raining down fiery splinters of shrapnel. The screams of the men who were caught underneath the falling masses of burning hell were horrific, but their cries of pain were soon eaten away by the fire that gorged on their wrecked bodies.
Hiroshi’s face was splattered with darkened ash and dirt. When he inhaled, the singed air scorched his very nostrils, and sometimes he wasn’t sure if he smelled burnt wood or the flesh of his fallen troops. Hiroshi was one of the few commanders still alive and in charge. Reluctantly, Hiroshi took command of the decimated company. If merciless bullets weren’t appearing out of nowhere or fiery tree bursts falling onto and killing soldiers, then there were the enemy mines. The Nazis had laid thousands of them, and they anxiously waited for the chance to blow a man apart. Some men had their legs blown off as they lay helplessly on the ground yelling in agony, reaching down and feeling bloody stumps that ended in shredded flesh and jagged bone.
It was a mine that had given away Hiroshi’s and his men’s silent approach. They had made it up about thirty yards, probably from sheer luck alone when a soldier to the right of Peter stepped on a mine. Ueno looked down with a horrified face as the well-known and dreaded sound of that single mechanical click snapped through the air. Peter looked over in horror as Ueno looked at him and before he could even take a step forward, the reddish and smoky explosion enveloped him and he was no longer there. The machine guns opened up immediately. What was left of Hiroshi’s company threw itself into the muddy ground along a ridge. This afforded them limited protection.
Hiroshi breathed hard, his heart pounding within him. He drew his legs inward in an effort to make himself smaller. His clothes were wet from days of freezing rain that had trickled their way down through the forest branches and drenched everything in the forest. But the Nazis were dug in and had time to prepare for the elements. They had ample ammunition and supplies. But the men of the 442nd only had what they could carry.
Hiroshi yelled out, “Ammunition check!” He had already ordered one earlier, but it was the only thing he could do at the time. They were down to their last bullets, grenades, and one bazooka.
Hiroshi pulled out his own rifle magazine. It was half spent and he had one more full magazine left. He had two grenades left, and he was certain that the remaining men were in the same dire situation. A soldier to his left had the last bazooka. They had used many successfully against the enemy machine gun bunkers but with only one left, he had to save it as a last resort. He looked to his men and they yelled out their ammunition count as small fiery debris danced off their helmets. Hiroshi then looked to Peter and Akira and they did the same. Hiroshi popped his magazine back in and let out a breath.
“Fuck! What the fuck do we do now!” shouted Akira as he crouched low and stared at Hiroshi.
Hiroshi met Akira’s gaze. Up until that moment, Hiroshi always had an answer. Hiroshi turned to look down the forest from where they came as it was ablaze in fiery debris that had rained down from the treetops. The muddied terrain was also laden with deadly mines and the remains of the 442nd. Backtracking down the forest slope wasn’t a great option either, as the men in the machine gun bunkers would be able to pick them off easily. The Nazi position had them where they wanted: Trapped. Bullets bore down on their position once more, and Hiroshi lowered his head and then peered out from underneath the rim of his helmet into Akira’s glaring eyes. Akira’s burning stare reflected the explosions and the bleakness of the situation. Hiroshi then simply said, “I don’t know.”
* * *
Back at the prison camp, Minami was finishing up dinner with little Ichiro, who was a little more than a year old. He sat in Minami’s lap with a bib tied around his neck and he was being quietly defiant about what was being fed to him. Minami’s mother sat to her left, offering advice, while her father was chatting up a storm about his fishing adventures to Hiroshi’s parents, who were sitting across from them. Miho sat next to Minami as she chatted with Yuka and Yoshi, who were sitting across from her. It was another regular night for Minami: Eating dinner with her family. But now, she was a mother herself.
Little Ichiro protested by bouncing his arms up and down. He seemed more interested in grabbing the eating utensils in front of him than eating. As his eyes fixated on the cup’s handle, Minami gently pulled his hand back and gently admonished him. But he would look up with a wide-eyed, bewildered look, and then attempt to reach for the cup again. Minami’s mother turned to her and offered some advice when Minami said, “I think I’m going to take Ichiro home, Mom. I think he needs to be changed.”
“Okay, why don’t you do that. We’ll be there soon after your father finishes telling the Satohs his fishing tale,” said Mrs. Ito. “For the fifth time.”
Minami chucked silently and bid everyone goodbye. Minami’s mother gave her little grandson a doting look as she wiped the spittle from the ends of his mouth while Minami bounced him gently up and down. He was still reaching for the cup’s handle that now teased him from the table. Minami held Ichiro over her shoulder and walked away. As if he knew he wasn’t going to succeed in getting the cup, he began to look around at all the faces of the people still eating. She walked out of the chattering mess hall and into a cool but cloudy night.
When she arrived at the barrack with Ichiro, she gently opened the door and walked quietly back to her family’s unit. Half of the unit’s original dwellers had moved out to pursue other opportunities afforded to them by the United States Army, such as harvesting sugar beets. It left her family more than ample room to spread out, and Minami took the right corner of the barrack with her parents across from her. The entire barr
ack had undergone a transformation: More building supplies had been shipped in, which allowed the families to decorate their units to resemble something livable.
It was quiet in the barrack as she pulled back the curtain to her unit. She fumbled for the string for the light overhead when Ichiro, who had wanted to grab onto something all night, found it first and yanked on it. The string snapped and its frayed end gracefully twirled downward toward a giggling Ichiro. But the violent yank also made the light bulb flicker and suddenly burn out.
“Oh Ichiro! Not again,” Minami said as she lifted Ichiro out in front of her. The string covered his head and he giggled mischievously as he firmly held onto the end of it. Minami laughed at her little boy. He was more naughty than nice sometimes. She tried to take the string from him, but little Ichiro playfully resisted. She then gave up and laid Ichiro in his crib. He was still the cutest thing ever. His hair was starting to grow out. He looked down at his new toy, that length of string, and Minami wondered how fun it would be to be distracted by the most mundane things all over again. She checked his cloth diaper and found that it was slightly wet.
Minami fumbled in the darkness for a new diaper and changed Ichiro, who was too distracted by the string to resist. After she pulled up his little pants, she admired him again. He had her nose and mouth but his father’s eyes and chin. He was the perfect blend of Hiroshi and herself, she thought. Ichiro then yawned as his eyes blinked a few times. His baby eyes looked up with aloofness at his mother. A small baby’s yelp escaped from his mouth, and he tossed the tangled string to the side. Ichiro looked up again with his wide eyes that reflected the soft moonlight that seeped in through the upper windowpanes. There were a few more blinks as his eyes finally closed. Minami watched Ichiro quietly fall asleep, as all his energy dissipated away from him. Minami smiled, gently pulled up the blanket over him, and collected the string.
Then unexpectedly, low thunder from afar rumbled, which caught Minami’s attention. How odd, she thought, as the night sky didn’t give any indication of an impending thunderstorm. She made sure once more that Ichiro was warmly tucked in. Stepping a bit to the left of the crib, Minami sat down on the far end of the bed where the small night table was. On it was Hiroshi’s baseball glove with the home run ball tucked inside of it. The baseball bat was leaning up against the left side. A candle that had burned down more than a third of the way sat on the windowsill. Minami slid open the drawer, took out a book of matches, and lit a match. The flame emerged and danced in the still night air, bulging outward to its full bulbous form. She lit the candle’s blackened wick, which slowly came to life. The candle watched its flaming dance reflected in the window. As she did every night, Minami would light the candle for Hiroshi as a way to light his way home. She had kept Hiroshi’s most personal items on the table and every beautiful letter that he wrote was kept in the drawer. It was peaceful how the gentle candlelight cast itself over the baseball glove and the butt end of the bat. Minami let out a quick sigh and watched the flame perform its solitary dance.