Toward Night's End

by M. H. Sargent

  “I don’t think so,” She looked up sharply and Donald continued, saying, “They found Tom on the island. They would have found Matthew too.” Neither spoke for a few minutes, then Donald said, “But I do think someone knows where he is. Maybe another fisherman, or someone where he sells the fish.”

  Kumiko didn’t look at him again, simply focused on peeling the potato.

  “Anyone else from school that he’s friends with?”

  But she didn’t answer. The potato peeled, it was put in the bucket. Another potato was taken from the large tub, dipped in the water and peeled.

  “Maybe someone on the island is hiding him.”

  “My son not hide,” she chided him.

  “Well, something happened. And someone knows. That’s all.” When she didn’t respond, he added, “Who are his friends on the island?”

  She didn’t respond. She just peeled the potato in her hand more vigorously, if that was possible. They were momentarily interrupted by the same older man who came back out carrying an empty bucket. Donald noticed Mrs. Kobata stiffen, so he said in a loud voice, “So, we’re checking on getting rice for you, Mrs. Kobata, Instead of potatoes.”

  This got a reaction out of her, as she gave him a startled look. Even the man stopped in his tracks, looking from Mrs. Kobata to Donald and back again. Donald decided to press his luck. He stood and asked the man, “It is true, that you would prefer white rice to potatoes?”

  The man stared at Donald for a minute, then gave a half bow. “Yes, please.”

  “I’m not sure we can find it. The Army has contracts with farmers in place. But hopefully, we can do that. Get white rice instead of the potatoes. Or, if not instead of, at least as an occasional alternative.”

  The man moved forward and exchanged buckets again. Then he stood there, holding the bucket of peeled potatoes for a moment. He gave a polite nod of his head toward Donald and left.

  Donald squatted down next to her again.

  “Thank you,” Mrs. Kobata said in a quiet voice.

  “What for?”

  She looked at him with tears in her eyes. “Everyone knows. About Matthew. That he is missing. People, they think…” Emotions overcame her and she stopped talking.

  “They think he’s working for Japan. Gone against America.”

  She nodded her head, tears streaming down her face. Then she said, “We suppose to…how you say? Draw straws to do this job?”

  “Peel the potatoes?”

  She nodded again. “I know they do something. I draw the short stick yesterday, now today. No accident.”

  “They’re punishing you for Matthew,” Donald said.

  Nodding her head again, she quickly peeled yet another potato, letting the tears stream down her face unabated. Then she said, “He have one good friend at home.” Donald gave her a questioning look, waiting. She looked at him and said, “Tom. Tom is his friend. That is all. Tom.”

  Pacific Ocean 24 Miles West of Charleston, Oregon. April 2, 1942

  “No,” the captain stated firmly.

  “He could die,” the cook said. He had been a corpsman in the First World War, which was why he now served as the ad hoc doctor on board when necessary.

  “I’m not taking the chance,” the captain replied. “He’s a Jap.” He glanced down at the man who was in a feverish sleep. Then he left the sick bay.

  The old cook, who was called Kite by everyone – a nickname that started during the first war and had stuck with him – put a cold compress on the man’s forehead. He knew the captain was technically right. They had only a limited supply of penicillin, and to use it on someone who could very well be an enemy soldier or spy simply didn’t make sense.

  The young Japanese man stirred slightly. Kite wondered where the man had come from. They had found him nearly twenty miles from land, floating in a small dinghy. It was only because he had been wearing a bright yellow slicker that a seaman smoking a cigarette on deck had even spotted him.

  The 400-foot cargo ship couldn’t stop on a dime, and by the time they had lowered a rescue boat over the side, the man was nearly a half mile behind them. But four of their youngest men had rowed to the man, transferred him into their boat and rowed back to the ship. The ordeal had cost them over an hour’s time, which the captain wasn’t at all happy about. Due to the recent storm they had already lost over a day. The captain was even more upset to discover that they had rescued a Jap.

  As Kite looked at his patient, he wished the man could speak. He removed the compress and was startled to discover how hot it was. The man was burning up. Kite knew the young man would never survive without the antibiotics. But they were under lock and key in the captain’s cabin.

  And the captain had made his position clear.

  Chapter Twelve

  Seattle, Washington. April 2, 1942

  Before leaving the Kanagawa family at the apartment, Johnstone had asked them about Matthew Kobata. He had explained that Matthew was a fisherman from Bainbridge Island who often sold his catch to various markets instead of the south-end fishery. He had even described Porter’s truck, hoping that would jog their memory. But he had come up empty.

  Now, as he sat on a couch in the Nakashima’s small apartment living room, clutching his fedora, he felt self-conscious. The Nakashima family would be forced to leave their home in just a few days, yet Mrs. Nakashima, a striking older woman with gray hair and a large, red silk scarf draped over one shoulder, had welcomed him with a polite smile and half-bow. When he had explained that he wished to see her husband, she had nodded and disappeared into the back of the apartment. A few minutes later she returned carrying a tea service set. She had put it down before him and served him hot tea in a beautiful china cup. It didn’t matter that the United States was at war with Japan. He was a guest – unexpected, of course – but a guest nonetheless, and he was being treated as such.

  “Good afternoon,” said Dr. Nakashima. As he entered the room, he placed his palms flat on his thighs and bowed slightly, a smile on his lips. He too was older, with thick gray hair.

  Johnstone stood. “I’m sorry to bother you, Doctor.”

  “Please,” Dr. Nakashima said, motioning him to sit.

  Johnstone sat. As the doctor took a seat opposite him, he displayed his badge, saying, “Seattle, police. I’m investigating the death of Sean Kanagawa.”

  The doctor solemnly nodded.

  “You know about it, I take it?” Johnstone asked.

  Another nod. “I very sorry to hear.”

  “Did you know Sean Kanagawa?”

  “Some, yes.”

  “I understand that when he cut his finger, severed it actually, that you tended to him.”

  “That is correct.”

  Johnstone felt like he was pulling teeth. “What can you tell me about that?”

  The doctor shrugged. “He cut it. I put in stitches. Very painful. He cut nerve, you see? Very painful.”

  “Was there anything you could do about that? The nerve damage, I mean?”

  The doctor shook his head. “I told him, if time no help, I could do surgery. Cut out nerve area. Then become numb.”

  “Did you do that? The surgery?”

  He shook his head. “He say help him never forget.”

  “Never forget?” Johnstone asked.

  Another shrug. “I think so he don’t make mistake in kitchen again.”

  Johnstone nodded. But his guess was that Kanagawa wasn’t referring to reminders about how to properly wield a knife. More likely, he meant that he didn’t want to forget what was done to him.

  “Did he tell you about it? How the accident happened?”

  “He prepare fish, you see? Big knife. It slip.”

  Johnstone nodded. He almost hadn’t bothered to visit the doctor, knowing it was probably a waste of time. On the other hand, the man would soon be in an internment camp somewhere, and Johnstone wouldn’t be able to question him then.

  “Thank you for your time, Doctor.” Johnstone rose.<
br />
  “Finger hurt him,” Nakashima said, rising from his seat. “But he used to pain.” He lifted his foot, pointing to his ankle. “This hurt more, I think.”

  “The tattoo, you mean?” Johnstone asked in surprise.

  “Not done well. Infected. Two time, infected.”

  “And you treated it?”

  The doctor nodded. “I tell him, lady who do tattoo not professional. I tell him, don’t go back if he want another tattoo.”

  “What’d he say?”

  Nakashima smiled at the memory. “He say something funny. He say, ‘I do this for my country.’”

  “For his country?” Johnstone repeated. “Did he mean this country? Or Japan?”

  The doctor frowned. “He was born here, you see? He must mean United States, you see?” The doctor studied him for a moment, then said, “He was second patient I see with same tattoo. Same place, you see? On leg.”

  “The ankle, you mean.” Johnstone said, correcting him.

  “Yes, yes. Ankle.”

  “Who was the first?” Johnstone anxiously inquired.

  He paused for a moment, then said, “Matthew Kobata.”

  “My God,” Johnstone gasped, stunned.

  Now it was the doctor’s turn to be surprised. “You know Matthew?”

  “He missed the ferry. The evacuation ferry,” Johnstone said, covering. “His family is worried about him.”

  The doctor studied him for a moment. “He miss ferry, he have good reason. He good boy.”

  “How well do you know him?” Johnstone asked.

  “His father my friend. Good friend. He die, oh, maybe two years now. Car accident. On island. Bainbridge Island.”

  Johnstone nodded. His mind reeling. “So Matthew Kobata had a skin infection from a tattoo? And he came to you?”

  “Yes. I help. But not very bad. Sean Kanagawa’s more bad. Much more bad.”

  “You know what the tattoo symbolized? You said Sean Kanagawa said he got the tattoo for his country.”

  The doctor shook his head. “No. I ask Matthew.” He smiled. “His father my friend and he dead, so I ask. His father here, he would ask, you see?”

  Johnstone nodded. “What’d he say?”

  “Say Japanese fishermen on island have it. To be group, you see?”

  “But Sean Kanagawa wasn’t a fisherman,” Johnstone pointed out.

  He shrugged. “Like I say, mean they are in group.”

  “Any idea what kind of group?”

  The doctor shook his head. “Matthew Kobata good boy. Sean Kanagawa, I no know him very well, you see? But Matthew. He good boy. So if group, good group.”

  Johnstone doubted the tattoo meant Kobata and Kanagawa belonged to some altruistic society. But he didn’t say so. Instead, he said, “I’ll need the name of the person that did the tattoos, please.”

  Manzanar War Relocation Center, Owens Valley, California. April 2, 1942

  All Donald knew for sure was that Mr. Kobata had to eat, and he had to use the latrine. He found Ido Kobata easily enough departing the mess hall after lunch since he was the only Japanese-American using a white walking stick. For a moment, Donald simply watched the old man. As the crowd leaving the mess hall thinned out, Ido was by himself, walking at a measured pace. Other people gave him a wide berth. Donald headed over to the man, soon walking close to him.

  “Mr. Kobata?”

  Ido stopped short. Looking in Donald’s direction, even though he couldn’t see him.

  “My name is Donald Bollgen, sir.”

  “One fifty-seven,” the older man mumbled.

  “Excuse me?”

  “One fifty-seven. I stay here. I am at one fifty-seven.”

  Donald frowned. “Sir?”

  Ido became irritated. “I have to count. My area, to eat, I have to count.” He waved the stick around, nearly hitting Donald in the head, had he not ducked. “All these buildings the same. No rocks. No curbs. No change in this,” he said, tapping the ground. “No grass to dirt to pavement. All the same. So I count. One fifty-seven.”

  “Got it,” Donald told him. “But I can walk with you if you’re going to your barracks.”

  “You know where it is?” Ido asked, surprised.

  “Yes, sir.”

  But Ido did not move. Other people leaving the mess hall went around them. “Bollgen, you say?”

  “Yes, sir. My uncle, Rex Bollgen, he owns the Crow’s Nest.”

  “Ah…” Ido said.

  “Tom Bollgen was my cousin.”

  Ido’s face changed at the mention of Tom. Then he said, “Is it true? He was killed?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Who? Who did that?”

  “I don’t know.” Donald noticed several Japanese-Americans looking at them, and he was glad Mr. Kobata was blind. He went on, saying, “I’m worried about Matthew.”

  Ido waved the thought away with his walking stick. “He’s gone.”

  “Where? Gone where, sir?”

  “To fight. I tell Kumiko this. She say no. He come here. But he is fighting.”

  Donald was surprised. “He tell you this?”

  “No, no,” Ido scoffed. “But I know. He want to fight.”

  “Okay. That’s probably what happened,” Donald conceded. Then he added, “Let me ask you this. If Matthew went off to fight in the war. Join the Army. He would need—”

  “Navy, not Army. Navy,” Ido interrupted, correcting him.

  “Okay, Navy. But he’d need a new name. He’d know that the Army is looking for Matthew Kobata. So any idea of what name he might use?”

  This time, Ido didn’t respond.

  “What name might he use? His mother’s maiden name, maybe?”

  “What do you care?” Ido harshly rebuked him. “No difference.”

  “It would be a big difference if he couldn’t even join up using his own name. If that’s what he is doing.”

  “Of course he join,” Ido retorted hotly. “Why else he not here?”

  “I agree. So what name would he use?”

  “He is a Kobata. No other name,” Ido insisted.

  “But if he had to use—”

  “He is Matthew Kobata. No one else.” With that, Ido took a step forward, saying softly to himself, “One fifty-eight…one fifty-nine…”

  Seattle, Washington. April 2, 1942

  Johnstone didn’t know this section of Seattle very well, but with only two wrong turns he had found the small shop. The large sign was in Japanese, but the small English lettering on the glass door read, “Herbalist, Massages & Tattoos.” He thought it was a strange combination of businesses to be under one roof, but he realized that he knew very little about the Japanese culture. In fact, only Carsteen’s and Bollgen’s deaths had brought the Japanese to his attention. Otherwise, he knew he would have continued to live in Seattle without so much as a thought about the large and growing Japanese population residing in its midst. Nor would he have given much thought to the fact that they were being rounded up and sent off to camps.

  Now, however, he wondered what it would be like to wake up one day and find out you were being taken away from your home and work. He had read that most of the Japanese living in the state were being sent to a camp in Owens Valley, California. He also wondered what the camp was like and if the Japanese were adjusting to their new lives.

  He knocked on the glass door. The neighborhood was strangely quiet. All the residents knew that they had 48-hours to finish what must seem like an overwhelming task – selling property, cars and businesses. If at all possible. There weren’t always buyers. Then organize what to pack. For a trip that no one could tell them the duration of. Just 48 hours to say good-bye to longtime friends. What must that be like?

  He rapped harder on the glass and felt a tinge of panic. He had so few solid clues on the case, and with three people dead, his chief was going to be demanding an arrest soon. While he knew he could pin it on Matthew Kobata, he didn’t think that was the entire story. For some reason that he
couldn’t explain, he believed Sally Grazer when she said Porter’s truck hadn’t been at the Kobata property when Matthew had snuck away on his boat.

  When the door opened, Johnstone was surprised to be facing a small Japanese boy. Probably about 10, but Johnstone was not married and didn’t see children very much. He took off his fedora. “Good afternoon,” he offered.

  The boy just stared at him. For the first time he wondered what effect the internment camps would have on small children. Would they return to their homes and their lives some day and never give it another thought? Or would they harbor resentment? He could hear a woman speaking Japanese from somewhere inside, and gave the boy a nice smile. Then the boy said something and the woman appeared, probably his mother. Very young and quite striking.

  “Sorry to bother you,” he said. He took out his identification badge. “My name is Johnstone. I’m a detective with the Seattle police.”

  The woman just gave him a blank look. Her hands were on the boy’s shoulders.

  “I need to see if you recognize this,” he said. He quickly pocketed the badge and pulled out the drawing Mortenson’s wife had done of the tattoo. He unfolded the paper and she studied it silently for some time. Then she spoke firmly in Japanese and the boy disappeared.

  “It’s important. Do you know what it means?”

  She seemed to shrink from him.

  “I know you have to pack and leave. And I’m sorry,” he said, surprising himself with the words. “But two men are dead. They had this tattoo. On their ankles. Their left ankles.”

  He could see that his words had an effect. “You’re not in trouble. No one is. I just want to know if you did this work and what it means.”

  She said something softly in Japanese.

  “Pardon me?”

  “They are dead? Who?”

  Usually Johnstone decided who he did and did not share information with. But he had little choice, considering the woman would be evacuated in just a couple days. “A Caucasian man named Cody Carsteen.” No reaction. “And a Japanese man. Sean Kanagawa.”