by Kirby Larson
Okay, it’s only for a little while but I’ll take what I can get. I don’t understand the whole thing but basically the Navy finally figured out how brave and smart my brother is and tapped him to train as a Naval aviator. That means he has to come back to the States to train, which means he gets a visit home! He’ll be here in three weeks! I can’t wait.
And maybe, just maybe, the war will be over before he’s ready to fly.
Saturday, April 17, 1943
DeeDee —
When we walked into the dining hall for lunch today, there were a bunch of guys gathered around the bulletin board in the back. Pretty soon we heard why: The Army had posted the names of the guys who’d passed their physicals.
Betty grabbed my arm. “Come with me,” she said. “I can’t face looking at that list by myself,” she said.
Jim’s Math class always gets out late so he hadn’t arrived for lunch. I found the sheet with the S names on it and ran my shaky finger down the list. My heart skipped a beat when I didn’t see anyone between Sakamoto and Sawaji. “Yahoo!” I called out. “No Sato!”
Betty peered over my shoulder. But I’d been in too much of a hurry. She reached around me and pointed. “His name is on the list. There it is.”
We stood there for a few moments and then Betty said she didn’t feel like eating lunch. “I think I’ll go home.”
“Are you okay?” I asked her. I was glad I hadn’t had the chance to tell her about Hank yet. That might have been more than she could bear.
She bit her lip. I could see tears in her eyes. “I know this is what Jim wanted, but it’s too hard. And I can’t forget that he promised me he wouldn’t go. That’s what really hurts.”
“He’s doing the best he can,” I said.
“I wish I felt that way. But I don’t.” She tugged on her coat and left.
I got my food and sat down. But I’d lost my appetite, too.
Sunday, April 18, 1943
DeeDee —
Betty must have been watching for us. She flagged the Blue Box down after we’d passed the guards at the gate. I slid across the front seat and she hopped in next to me. She asked Pop if he could do some shopping for her in Twin Falls. He said of course and she handed him a list. I leaned against Pop and read it. In Betty’s perfect Palmer script were these items: one yard white cotton fabric, red embroidery thread, a ruler, an embroidery hoop, and a packet of needles.
“Looks like a sewing project,” Pop said. She ducked her head and nodded. I thought she was being shy—she is around grown-ups. But then I saw that her eyelashes were damp.
Monday, April 19, 1943
DeeDee —
I stopped in to see Mrs. Harada today. Mr. Harada was out playing Go with some old friends. She gave me a big hug. “You still celebrating about Hank?” she asked. She pulled the teakettle off the potbelly stove to make some tea.
“You’re celebrating, too,” I said. “Using that teapot.”
She smiled. “I said I wouldn’t use it until Mr. Harada and I were together again. And I didn’t.”
We sat quietly while the tea brewed. One of the things I like about Mrs. Harada is that it’s okay not to say anything when you’re with her. She doesn’t get all squirmy with quiet like some people do.
When the tea was steeped, she handed me a cup. “One lump or none?” she asked, laughing. With the sugar rationing, sweetening tea was out of the question.
“None,” I answered. The tea was hot so I set it down. “I’m worried,” I told her. “About Betty. She’s pretty mad at Jim. What if she hasn’t forgiven him by the time he leaves?” Betty and Jim were like Hank and me — good friends. What if we’d been on bad terms when Hank had shipped out?
Mrs. Harada sipped her tea. “Betty is like that teakettle. She is hot right now and needs to let off steam.” She patted my hand. “It will all work out.”
“I sure hope so.” I glanced at the calendar above Mrs. Harada’s desk. “And I hope it’s soon.”
Tuesday, April 20, 1943
DeeDee —
This morning, I took Betty the packet Pop had picked up for her. After school she invited me to come back to their apartment. Her mother made us some tea. I’m starting to like drinking it without sugar.
Betty opened the packet, spread the fabric out on the table, and cut off a strip twelve inches wide the whole length of the piece. She folded the larger piece in half, stitching it together along the cut edge, then turning it inside out. It sort of looked like a big bandage. Then she took the ruler and marked off rows and rows of dots on the fabric. While she was doing that, her mother snipped and sewed the twelve-inch piece into two ties which they sewed onto the two short sides of the folded fabric.
Betty cut off a piece of the embroidery thread, doubled it through a needle, and rolled the ends into a knot. Then she handed the needle to me. “We’re making Jim a senninbari, a thousand-person belt,” she told me. “To protect him. Will you make the first stitch?”
“I’d be honored.” Mrs. Harada had been right. When push came to shove, Betty would be there for Jim. “You’re a good sister,” I told her. She just shook her head and handed me the belt.
It took me a couple of tries but I finally made a decent looking French knot. Mrs. Sato hugged me.
After that, Betty carried that belt with her everywhere — to the mess hall, to school, even to the shower rooms. She asked every girl or woman she met to stitch a knot for Jim. Not one person said no. She asked Mrs. Harada to make the last knot.
A thousand hands touched that senninbari for Jim. He would be held in a thousand hearts while he was gone, he would be in thousands of prayers.
I hoped that was enough to keep him safe.
Wednesday, April 21, 1943
DeeDee —
I’m sitting here on the bed looking over at the shelf Jim made me — with Mikey and Tommy’s help, of course.
It was nice of Betty to ask me to do a stitch in the senninbari, but I wish there was something I could give Jim, too. Something just from me.
But I have no idea what that would be. And time is running out.
Thursday, April 22, 1943
DeeDee —
Sometimes the answer to a question stares you right in the face but you still don’t see it. I’ve been making myself crazy thinking of the perfect farewell gift for Jim and I finally got an idea, thanks to a letter from John.
He’d tucked in a photo of his family—including his fiancée! I was so happy for him and ran to show Pop the photo when it hit me.
That’s what I could give Jim!
Friday, April 23, 1943
DeeDee —
I felt like a spy on a dangerous assignment as I skulked around camp today, camera in hand. I managed to get photos of everyone on my list and avoided running into Jim! That was a major accomplishment.
Saturday, April 24, 1943
DeeDee —
It cost me extra for the rush developing but it was worth it. Maybe Margaret Bourke-White would’ve done a better job, but I was proud of this batch. There were Mikey and Tommy, on their knees in the dirt, shooting marbles, with Mr. Harada nearby on an overturned apple crate, watching. I caught Mr. Sato, getting ready to take a sip of his tea; when he saw that, I hoped Jim would feel like he was right there, on the other side of the table from his dad. I got the other three members of the Quartet, his baseball buddies, and Yosh. I even managed to get a picture of his sugar beet harvest pal, Dean. My favorite photo, though, was the one of Betty with their mom. They’d been working in their Victory garden, and Betty popped open a couple of Nehi sodas. She’d just given one to her mom and they clinked the bottles together, in a toast. For some reason, they both started laughing, holding on to each other in sheer joy at the sweetness of the soda or the moment or both. That was the moment I caught them in. The moment Jim could carry with him to the war.
Sunday, April 25, 1943 — Easter
DeeDee —
Maybe I’m growing up, after all. For the fir
st time in my whole life, I listened to one of Pop’s sermons from beginning to end. He talked about how things looked pretty grim for the disciples on Good Friday. Their leader had been killed and they were hiding and afraid. What they didn’t know—because they were too close to everything — is that good things were coming. “It was Friday, but Sunday was coming,” Pop said. Sunday — the day of glory and triumph for Jesus and all his followers. Pop repeated it, “It was Friday, but Sunday was coming!” Some people said it along with him. He smiled.
Then he said there are times in our lives when we are living in the Fridays — “when we are betrayed and beaten down.” He slapped the pulpit. “Like the Friday when our Savior was crucified.” In times like that, he said, it seems impossible that any kind of good thing, any kind of “Sunday” would be coming. “But you must believe that Sunday is coming. Not just this Sunday, Easter Sunday, when we celebrate the resurrection — though that is truly something to celebrate — but the kind of Sunday where men and women are genuinely regarded as equal, no matter where their fathers were born, no matter what the tint of their complexion. That kind of Sunday might not be three days away or three years away or even three hundred years,” he said. “But it will come. We must believe that it will come.”
He nodded and Miss McCullough pounded her way through “Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee” on the rickety piano while the rest of the congregation sang along.
Me, I sat there, finally beginning to understand Jim’s decision. He was living in a Friday — mistaken for the enemy, sent away to a camp — but he was choosing to live as if Sunday was coming, as if his actions could change people’s ideas and feelings.
I realized how lucky I was to have someone that courageous for a friend.
Monday, April 26, 1943
DeeDee —
When I stopped to pick Betty up for the walk to school, Jim was ready to go, too. I thought for sure he’d skip this last week.
But there he was, carting his textbooks like everything was normal. Like he wasn’t leaving for boot camp in six days.
Later, I figured out he did it because he knew Betty needed him there.
That’s the kind of guy he is. The Army is lucky to get him.
Tuesday, April 27, 1943
DeeDee —
One of our Language Arts vocabulary words was “bittersweet.” I now know what that really means.
Fifteen days until Hank comes home.
But only five until Jim leaves.
Thursday, April 29, 1943
DeeDee —
Betty wants to plan a tea party for Hank when he comes. She says she needs something to look forward to. Her mom has stashed away a little sugar and they are going to bake Mrs. Harada’s oatmeal molasses cookies, Hank’s favorites.
Thirteen more days in the good column.
Three more days in the bad.
Friday, April 30, 1943
DeeDee —
Jim got it into his head that we needed to play a baseball game. So we went out to the field —Jim, Yosh, Betty, me, and the little Sato boys. Pretty soon, there were people of all ages, hitting and running and catching. Mrs. Harada even took a turn at bat. We shouted and laughed and played until it got too dark to see the ball.
Then slowly, like we were each carrying some incredibly heavy burden, we all went back to our homes to wait for morning.
Saturday, May 1, 1943 — May Day
DeeDee —
When I was little, I remember making construction paper baskets — a cone with a stapled-on strap — filling them with flowers, and hanging them on neighbors’ front doors. The game was to ring the bell and run away so the neighbors wouldn’t know who the flowers were from. Kind of childish, but May Day has always been one of my favorite holidays.
Not this May Day. Today Jim and three others from the camp left for basic training at Camp Shelby in Mississippi.
The boys marched to the dining hall where the cooks had prepared a special breakfast. Not a Vienna sausage in sight! After we ate, there were so many people crowded around, I could hardly make my way over to say good-bye. Little Mikey was glued to Jim’s left leg, and Tommy to his right. Mrs. Sato hovered nearby. Mr. Sato sat at the end of the table, smoking cigarette after cigarette, staring off into space. I got them all on camera.
When I finally found myself next to Jim, I didn’t know quite what to say. I gave him the wrapped-up album and told him not to open it until he was on his way. Until he needed a bit of home. He touched the package to his heart. “Thank you, Piper. Thank you.” His voice got husky and thick and I wondered if he was going to cry. To lighten things up, I told him not to take any wooden nickels. He smiled and said he wouldn’t.
“Promise you’ll be careful?” I said. “You don’t have to win the war by yourself.” I’d said it in a teasing tone, but Jim’s eyes darkened as if a storm cloud had passed over.
“I’m no hero,” he said. “It’ll be easier fighting the war over there than it will be for these guys” — he ruffled Tommy’s hair — “to fight the one here.”
I said I’d write him and he said he’d like that. I had promised myself not to blubber, but I did. “I wish you weren’t going,” I said, tears streaming down my face.
He handed me a napkin. “Me, too.”
Betty and I stood arm in arm as Jim and the other boys tossed their newly issued Army duffel bags over their shoulders and headed for the waiting jeeps.
Betty swiped at a tear. “He’s leaving. Hurry!”
I held up my camera and began snapping. I couldn’t help but think that here I was, taking photos of her brother leaving, while in a week I’d be taking pictures of my brother coming home. My mind had been buzzing with all the plans I had for Hank’s short visit — there’d be photos to take of chocolate sodas at the Falls Café, fishing in the canal, Monopoly games with Betty, feasting on Miss McCullough’s buttermilk fried chicken, and quiet nights at home. I could hardly wait.
Betty nudged me out of my daydream. I looked at her sweet face, her brown eyes holding back the worry.
Yes, I had a lot to look forward to.
But Betty and Jim didn’t have any more time. All they had was today. And I didn’t want to miss one shot. I clicked away, imagining us, years and years from now, when we were old ladies, sitting together with cups of tea and talking about this day. Talking about our brave, brave brothers.
The last picture I snapped framed the jeeps, kicking up clouds of dust as they passed through the gate in the barbed wire fence. I managed to catch Jim, standing up in the jeep, waving his hat at us, as he left Minidoka far behind.
I dropped the camera to my side, waving until my arm ached. I waved until Jim and the jeeps were specks on the Idaho desert.
Then I took my friend’s arm and we started walking back into the camp. She talked the whole way about the welcome home party for Hank but I know that was to keep from thinking about Jim’s going away.
It’s funny. A year ago, I wouldn’t have known that about Betty. I’ve learned a lot of stuff since I wrote on the first page of this diary. Mrs. Harada taught me that a good broom and good faith are essential tools when facing the dust of life. Mr. Matsui taught me that there is beauty to be found, even in the middle of a desert.
But it was Pop who helped me learn the most important thing of all. He made me realize that even if we can’t do much about the fences that get built around people, when fences get built between people, it’s our job to tear them down.
Signing off—
Piper Davis
Epilogue
In 1945, when the last incarceree left Minidoka, Piper Davis returned with her father to Seattle to finish high school. After graduation, she entered the University of Washington to pursue a degree in journalism. She carried her camera with her everywhere and one spring day while photographing the cherry trees in full bloom on campus, she met an artist named Seth Brown. After a whirlwind romance, they were married in their senior year. Following college, Piper went to work for
the Seattle Post-Intelligencer, where she spent her career as a photojournalist. She won a Pulitzer Prize in 1967 for a photo-essay called “Moving Toward Hope: Migrant Workers in Eastern Washington.” She retired from the paper in 2003 but she says she will never retire from taking pictures.
Hank Davis completed aviation training, but after the war, came home to Seattle and went to college on the GI Bill. He married Betty Sato and had a successful career in sales before deciding to follow in his father’s footsteps. He is now a visitation pastor at the Seattle Japanese Baptist Church. Betty stayed home to raise their three children, remaining active in the Japanese community. When she was in her fifties, she wrote a memoir about her Minidoka experiences, with her lifelong friend and sister-in-law, Piper Davis Brown.
Pastor Davis returned to the Japanese Baptist Church after Minidoka closed its doors, serving the congregation until 1979. He was honored at a banquet upon his retirement that nearly one thousand people attended.
Jim Sato, like so many members of the valiant 442nd “Go for Broke” Regimental Combat Team, died in France in October of 1944 during an attempt to rescue the Lost Battalion. He was nineteen years old.