by Jay Rubin
Suddenly there was a metallic thud, and something bounced from the sign onto the street.
“Aw c’mon!” yelled the same shrill female voice she had heard before. “You can do better than that!”
“Yeah!” a number of voices responded in unison, and the throwing began in earnest. A brick. A few stones. More bricks. Half the time, the green neon tubes escaped unscathed, but when a missile connected, there was a shower of sparks and the sound of shattering glass. On the far edge of the crowd, someone turned a trash bin upside down, spreading a fresh supply of bottles and tin cans on the pavement. These began to pepper the sign relentlessly, and soon there was nothing left of the green lettering. The mob cheered when the last bit was extinguished.
“Hey, Ernie, look!” said the man on Mitsuko’s right. They turned in the direction of an illuminated clock half a block away. The three men ran toward it, dragging her along. The one called Ernie picked up a rock and hurled it at the red neon lettering, “Weisfield & Goldberg’s Fine Jewelry,” crushing two letters with a single blow. Others in the mob joined in, but the sign remained stubbornly lit. Finally, Ernie himself climbed up the clock standard and, to the accompaniment of cheers, smashed the rest of the neon tubes with his fist.
From behind, Mitsuko heard a police whistle and a voice yelling, “Come on, make way! Get back!” Instead of parting for the policeman, the crowd pressed in to form a protective barrier around Ernie, and as Mitsuko’s two captors moved to join them, she wrenched free. Fighting her way through the crowd, she slipped into the anonymous darkness.
Hurrying down Fifth, she returned to Madison and began retracing the route the cab had taken. She walked as quickly as she dared through the darkened streets, which were rendered darker still by the thick overcast that had blanketed the city all day. She had experienced such darkness in the countryside before, but never in the city. Childhood stories of bewitching foxes and badgers flashed through her mind each time some black shape loomed out of the night. More than once, her shin crashed into a fire hydrant hidden in the shadows, and as she rounded the curve at the top of the hill, a car without lights nearly ran her down. A few blocks further, another darkened car sped by, and a moment later she heard a sickening crunch of steel and glass, then silence. She wanted to help, but she was afraid.
By the time she neared Olive Street, a fine mist was filtering through the night air, cooling her cheeks.
“Mit-chan, what happened?” Yoshiko cried when she stumbled into the house.
“I’m okay. Where’s Billy?”
“I put him to bed in my room. Where have you been? What happened to you?”
Begging Yoshiko to hold off her questions until morning, she dropped onto the living room couch and sank immediately into a deep sleep.
15
“MIT-CHAN, WAKE UP! Listen to this: ‘Enemy Planes Off Coast.’ So it’s true!”
Mitsuko found herself under a quilt, still wearing her overcoat. Her body ached and her shins were throbbing, and the smell of perspiration lingered about her. When she sat up and her bruised legs slipped out from under the quilt, Yoshiko gasped.
Mitsuko told her about the cab driver and the three men and the riot.
“You were in this?” Yoshiko said, showing her the headline: “Mobs Smash Windows in Riot: Crowd Irate Where Lights Still Show.”
As Yoshiko read to her, Mitsuko felt as if she were hearing an account of someone’s bad dream. “But what about the planes?” she asked when Yoshiko finished.
“Listen to this one: ‘Seattle, which was the first major American city to stage a practice blackout in the current war last March, repeated the performance last night. But this time it was no mere rehearsal. It was in grim and deadly earnest, and the blackout extended all the way from the Canadian border to Roseburg, Oregon, along the strip west of the Cascades. The blackout extended at intervals for the entire length of the Coast. It was the result of persistent—though completely unconfirmed—rumors that a Japanese aircraft carrier was loose somewhere in the North Pacific and might unleash a murderous attack anywhere on the Coast.’”
Yoshiko’s face brightened. “‘Unconfirmed rumors!’ That means it’s all a mistake. They know the Japanese planes can’t come all the way over here to attack us. They’ll let Goro out soon.”
“I hope so,” Mitsuko said. “But people believe the rumors. You should have seen that mob last night.”
“It must have been terrible,” Yoshiko said. “Are you really all right? Here, let me give you some breakfast.”
“I’m going to look in on Billy and take a bath first.”
By the time Mitsuko joined her at the breakfast table, Yoshiko’s spirits had improved. “It’s not all bad news,” she said. “There’s something here on that Council of Churches meeting that Pastor Tom went to yesterday.”
“Let me see. Does it mention Tom?”
The headline didn’t raise her spirits: “Council of Churches Asks Fairness to Jap Residents.”
“I like the fairness part, but do they have to call us Japs?”
At least the article itself used the word “Japanese.” Tom’s name did not appear.
“What is so wonderful about this?” Mitsuko said, then read aloud: “‘The council issued a statement to Japanese of the Pacific Northwest expressing sympathy and pledging cooperation with the problems which face them as American citizens.’ We are not American citizens.”
“Don’t be so pessimistic. They will treat us all the same. Look at this one—‘Racial Harmony Welded By Resourceful Teacher.’ I cried when I read it.”
The article told of Miss Ada Mahon, principal of the Bailey Gatzert School, where six hundred Japanese children were enrolled along with one hundred Chinese and one hundred white children. “Well aware how easily ill feeling and strife might become rampant among her pupils, Miss Mahon held a special assembly at the start of the school day. ‘I want to tell you a true story,’ she said to them. ‘While I was downtown yesterday, I saw three little American boys, arms around each other. They were laughing, and as happy as could be. I asked them if they were shopping, and they said they were just looking at the things in the windows. Now of these three little American boys, one had Chinese parents, and the other two Japanese parents. Yet they were Americans and they were happy together. That’s the way I want you to be. What has happened in the world outside is not the fault of any one of us here in the school, and we can’t do anything about it. So I want you to forget the things that are going on outside, and not even talk about them.’ Miss Mahon then faced the flag and gave the Pledge of Allegiance, after which all the children did the same. They then marched quietly to their classes, and everything went on just as before, with no hint of racial feeling.”
“It is very sweet,” said Mitsuko. “I only wish there were more people like Miss Mahon.”
“I have lived here much longer than you,” said Yoshiko, “and I have met many white people like her. The Americans are not bad people. As soon as they realize there is no danger of an attack, they will let Goro go.”
The FBI did not let Goro go that day, nor the following day, nor the day after that. Mitsuko brought two large suitcases full of clothing for herself and Billy to keep a vigil with her sister. The newspapers were full of reports on the fear of air raids, the establishment of medical centers where local “war wounded” could be taken for treatment, the continuing blackouts, and the deaths and injuries resulting from cars crashing into each other or into pedestrians in the dark. Two Japanese were the first to be arrested for blackout violations, and Japanese-born hotel owners were told they could not legally collect rent from their tenants owing to a prohibition against payments of money to Japanese nationals.
Money was beginning to be a problem for Yoshiko as well. On Thursday, Mitsuko went with her to the Nichi-Bei Bank, the firm for which Goro worked and where most of their money was kept. The doors were locked and a notice from the Secretary of the Treasury was posted outside prohibiting entrance under penalty of
law. At Rainier Bank, Yoshiko was told that, as an enemy alien, her account had been blocked and they would not be able to release any money to her until the government had specified the limits they were imposing on withdrawals.
Finally, on Friday, a postcard arrived from Goro in the immigration station. It said only that he was well and that he needed a change of clothes and his shaving equipment. That same day, the decapitated corpse of a Chinese longshoreman was found on the Seattle waterfront, and the police, unable to establish a motive, speculated that he had been mistaken for a Japanese. Within hours, red, white and blue buttons with “CHINESE” in large capitals across the central white stripe were appearing on the lapels of many Asians.
A week later, permission came through for the detained Japanese nationals to have visitors. Tom was out on church business, so Yoshiko and Mitsuko went with Billy to the immigration station. The building was dark and depressing, and their footsteps echoed off the bare walls as they were shown down the corridor leading to the visitors’ room.
Goro entered in his shirt sleeves, looking glum and tired. He bowed deeply to his visitors, and they to him. Then he picked Billy up and hugged him tightly.
“I am going to leave here soon,” he said when all had taken their seats around a dark oak table.
Yoshiko clapped her hands. “Yokatta!”—“How wonderful!”
But Goro did not return her smile. “They are sending us to a detention center in Montana.”
To Mitsuko that sounded like the regional “Protection and Supervision Centers” run by the Japanese thought police where “patients” with unorthodox ideas were “treated” until they realized their true Japaneseness.
Yoshiko sobbed into a handkerchief.
“There are nearly fifty of us, all Japanese nationals in important positions,” Goro said. “Before that, there will be hearings by a board of review. The immigration authorities, the district attorney and the FBI will decide if I can be released. We must get our white friends to sign letters saying that I am not a danger to the country.” He smiled wanly. “If only they had let me become a citizen, I would not be so dangerous to them.”
That evening, Tom came to eat with Mitsuko and Yoshiko at the Nomura house. He was withdrawn, and had to be reminded that today was Billy’s fourth birthday. Not even that news made him smile.
At the dinner table, Yoshiko said, “Goro has made many white friends in banking. Miss Nelson and the other white ladies who help with the Sunday school will sign, I’m sure. And with an affidavit from you, Pastor Tom, I am sure they will let him out. We’ll have him home for Christmas.”
“Santa Claus!” shouted Billy, who had been fed earlier and was playing nearby with a new truck that Mitsuko had carved for him. The women smiled at him.
“What do you want for Christmas?” called Yoshiko. “Uncle Goro will buy you anything you want.”
“Neko!” he replied without hesitation, pointing to the porcelain cat on the mantelpiece. “I want the cat. I want him to sleep with me.”
Yoshiko and Mitsuko laughed heartily at his persistence.
Tom had hardly said a word since entering the house. Now, setting down his knife and fork, he fixed a somber gaze on his sister-in-law. “Yoshiko,” he said. “I’m going to ask you something I have never asked you before, and I want you to answer me in absolute honesty.”
Yoshiko’s eyes widened, and, like Tom, she set down her silverware. “What is it, Pastor Tom? Of course I am always completely honest with you.”
Mitsuko looked from her sister to her husband, and a knot grew in her chest.
“With Christ as your witness, can you tell me with total sincerity that you had no idea that Pearl Harbor was coming?”
“Tom!” Mitsuko cried. “What are you saying?”
“Mitsuko, you keep out of this. This is between Yoshiko and me.”
Mitsuko pushed away from the table. “How can you say that?”
“Be quiet. Let her speak.”
Yoshiko had gone pale. Her head dropped forward, and she pressed her hands against the table top as if to keep from losing her balance. “As God is my witness,” she began in a whisper.
“No!” shouted Mitsuko. “Don’t answer him!—Tom! How could you?”
“Mitsuko,” he intoned, “your husband has commanded you to keep silent. Do you think this is easy for me? The FBI has arrested my wife’s brother. There must be a reason for it.”
“Are you saying he is a spy?” Mitsuko asked.
“I’m not saying anything. I’m saying I just don’t know.”
“Don’t know? It’s Goro, Tom. Goro and Yoshiko.”
“I know that, but don’t you know what people are saying?”
“Yes, I know what they are saying. Hundreds of Japanese are coming forward and pledging their loyalty to this country. The white newspapers are saying they believe them. And you—”
“I know they’re loyal. Who knows the Nisei better than I do?”
Yoshiko raised her head. “But I am not a Nisei?”
“I didn’t mean that,” Tom said. “I just want to hear it from your lips.”
“I did not know,” she said calmly.
“And Goro?”
“Tom—”
“Mitsuko, be silent!”
“It’s all right, Mit-chan. Goro is very sad, Pastor Tom. He only wishes he could have become a citizen of this country. He loves America as much as I do. He is not a spy.”
“Thank you, Yoshiko,” Tom said, offering her a comforting smile. “That’s all I wanted to hear.”
“And now, Pastor Tom,” said Yoshiko in the same tone of quiet resignation, “would you please leave this house?”
Tom’s blue eyes shone through the transparent reflections of the ceiling light on his glasses. Without speaking, he placed his napkin on the table beside his plate and stood. He looked at Mitsuko, but she folded her arms and turned away from him.
“I see,” he said. Leaving the table, he called to Billy on the floor, “Let’s go, son. Put on your coat.”
The boy had grown quiet and apprehensive. Now he stood and ran to Mitsuko, cowering behind her chair.
Tom glared at Mitsuko, then at Yoshiko. He stood before them, surveying the room as if for the last time. Then, slowly, deliberately, he walked to the front door, turned once more to look at them as he opened it, and stepped across the threshold.
16
I am for immediate removal of every Japanese on the West
Coast to a point deep in the interior. Personally, I hate the
Japanese. And that goes for all of them. Let’s quit worrying
about hurting the enemy’s feelings and start doing it.
– COLUMNIST HENRY MCLEMORE
The Japanese should be under guard to the last man
and woman and to hell with habeas corpus.
– COLUMNIST WESTBROOK PEGLER
Every Japanese alien should be removed from this community.
I am also strongly of the conviction that Japanese who
are American citizens should be subjected to a more
detailed and all-encompassing investigation.
– SAN FRANCISCO MAYOR ANGELO J. ROSSI
It seems to me that it is quite significant that in this great
state of ours we have had no fifth-column activities and no
sabotage reported. That was the history of Pearl Harbor. I think
we ought to urge the military command in this area to do the
things that are obviously essential to the security of this State.
– CALIFORNIA ATTORNEY GENERAL EARL WARREN
Once a Jap, always a Jap. You can’t anymore regenerate
a Jap than you can reverse the laws of nature.
– MISSISSIPPI CONGRESSMAN JOHN RANKIN
It makes no difference whether the Japanese is
theoretically a citizen. He is still a Japanese. Giving
him a scrap of paper won’t change him. A Jap is a Jap.
– LIE
UTENANT GENERAL JOHN L. DEWITT, WESTERN DEFENSE COMMANDER
I am determined that if they have one drop of
Japanese blood in them, they must go to camp.
– COLONEL KARL R. BENDETSEN, WARTIME CIVIL CONTROL ADMINISTRATION CHIEF
The Japs live like rats, breed like rats and act like rats. We don’t
want them buying or leasing land or becoming permanently
located in our state. I don’t want them coming into Idaho and I
don’t want them taking seats in our university vacated by our
young men who have gone to war against Japan.
– IDAHO GOVERNOR CHASE CLARK
Japanese are in America through fraud, deception and collusion.
– SEATTLE PUBLISHER MILLER FREEMAN
Being closest to the enemy and a possible point of first attack,
we have a responsibility to our own loyal citizens.
– WASHINGTON GOVERNOR ARTHUR LANGLIE
Many of the Japanese who came here thirty or forty years ago are
among our most loyal citizens, but even among American-born
Japanese, some are thoroughly disloyal. The reason there hasn’t been
sabotage here is because it has distinctly been withheld by Tokyo.
– SEATTLE MAYOR EARL MILLIKIN
EXECUTIVE ORDER NO. 9066
Whereas the successful prosecution of the war requires every possible protection against espionage and against sabotage, by virtue of the authority vested in me as President of the United States, and Commander in Chief of the Army and Navy, I hereby direct the Secretary of War to prescribe military areas from which any or all persons may be excluded. The Secretary of War is hereby authorized to provide for residents of any such area who are excluded therefrom, such transportation, food, shelter, and other accommodations as may be necessary.
FRANKLIN D. ROOSEVELT THE WHITE HOUSE, FEBRUARY 19, 1942
“TOM, I NEED TO see you right away.”
“Out of money again?”
“Haven’t you heard the news? Please come to Yoshiko’s.”