Other people said they would forswear allegiance to Japan only if the United States gave them back their full rights first. And the young men wondered, What if they died for their country and their families were never even given back their rights?
When Sumiko got home, she found no surprises. Auntie and Bull had already decided to answer yes to both questions, as had Mr. Moto. And Mr. Moto had insisted his son do the same. But Sumiko worried about what Ichiro would say. Nobody had seen him around that day. And Sumiko also worried about what Juchan and Uncle would answer on their questionnaires up in their camp. It was so long ago that she had last seen them!
It seemed amazing to Sumiko that the government would round up all the Japanese, throw them in camps, and then let the men out to join the army for no other reason than that they wrote “yes-yes” to two particular questions on a form. If all it took to prove your loyalty was to fill out some form; why hadn’t the government given them the form before putting them in camps?
Most of the residents of Poston quickly answered “yes-yes,” and the administration announced that those who answered “no-no” would be shipped off to the camp at Tule Lake, California. Meanwhile “loyal” residents of Tule Lake—those who had answered “yes-yes” to both questions—could choose to be shipped to other camps, including Poston. And in the future Tule Lake would no longer be considered a relocation center but, rather, a segregation center. All of this based on a form people filled out! Everybody called the men being shipped to Tule Lake “No-No Boys.”
Most amazingly, the government was now calling on young men to sign up for a special draft for an all-Nisei combat team of about five thousand men. Bull was literally first in line to sign up. And a couple of days after Bull signed up, Ichiro shocked them all by announcing that he would sign up as well. He said he was doing it for Sumiko and Tak-Tak.
“For us?” Sumiko said.
“I’m gonna kill some Nazis and get you out of here faster,” Ichiro bragged. “I’m gonna get twenty medals and marry the prettiest girl I can find.”
Sumiko didn’t know how Frank could stand knowing that his brothers were fighting. The thought of someone shooting at Bull or Ichiro made her sick. And even though it made her sick, she couldn’t stop thinking about it. At night she lay in bed and listened to the sound of their breathing and tried to imagine this room without that sound. How quiet and empty the room would bel How small their family was getting!
Some of the men who’d joined the army got married before they left. Ichiro thought about marrying one of the girls he dated, but he couldn’t decide which one, so then he figured that if he couldn’t decide, maybe it was a sign that he shouldn’t get married.
Some nights Sumiko felt too sad to be inside listening to everyone breathe. Tak-Tak’s nose was often stuffed, and Sumiko hated to listen to him struggle for breath. She imagined his lungs brown from dust. And Auntie was so depressed about Bull and Ichiro leaving that she cried for hours at night. Sumiko thought there was nothing in the world sadder than listening to someone cry for hours. It was even worse than your own tears.
So Sumiko would wrap herself in a blanket and take her chair outside to sit in the desert. The dry winds often kept the world around her in constant motion. One night two huge white clouds stretched out on either side of the moon. It looked like a giant moth; with the moon as the moth’s body and the clouds as glowing wings. The beautiful white moth took up half the sky.
Sumiko remembered what Frank had said about your ancestors watching you; and she thought maybe the moth in the sky might be her mother watching her. She wished she could ask Frank about it. She wished she had a telephone. She didn’t know his phone number, though, or even if he had a phone. She had never actually used a telephone, but it looked easy enough.
The wings of the moth began to spread across the sky.
If that was her mother in the sky, what was it that her mother wanted to tell her?
She remembered the summer nights when she’d slept out here and looked at the stars. She’d tried to go back in time, first to before her birth and then to when her parents were getting married, with her mother in the kimono that Jiichan said had made her look like a flower. And then she would go back before that to when Jiichan had come on the boat from Japan. And then she would skip way back to the time of the samurai. And then she would fall asleep.
Now her mind went back to before she was born and her parents had first fallen in love. Jiichan had once said that he had never seen anything like it, the way they loved each other. Sumiko liked to imagine it. She knew what they looked like because of the photograph that used to sit on the dining-room bureau. Even now she could picture them easily. So she realized it didn’t matter that the photograph had been burned, because she could see it clearly in her head. And that was what Sumiko was thinking of when she fell asleep in the chair.
30
THE FIELDS HAD GROWN BARE OVER THE WINTER.
The Poston Chronicle said that in the spring the internees from Poston would plant twenty acres of cantaloupes, ten acres of tomatoes, five acres of squash, five acres of chard, three acres of cucumbers, ten acres of Hubbard squash, twelve acres of daikon, twelve acres of beans, two acres of okra, ten acres of corn, four acres of eggplant, and twenty acres of sweet potatoes. The camp took up seventy-one thousand acres, and the great majority of Nikkei were farmers. And they were not even growing enough to feed themselves. Still, it was a start.
After Bull and Joseph met, Sumiko walked through the brush nearby every day, but Frank never showed up. At first she thought he was just really busy cutting wood. But when day after day he never showed up, she started to feel angry and betrayed. He’d probably been using her just so Joseph could meet Bull. That would mean he hadn’t been her friend after all!
Every time she visited the empty brush fields, she walked dejectedly back. Camp had started to seem different lately, not so permanent anymore. More and more young men were joining the army, and a couple of people on her block had actually decided to leave camp for outside jobs in a candy factory.
Sumiko generally didn’t give much thought to the government’s attempts to get them out of the camps because so few people were leaving. The departures were more of a trickle than a stream. One man who’d left camp for a while came back and warned couples with babies to be careful about where they went if they left camp. He said that some whites were still so angry about Pearl Harbor, they wanted to kill Japanese babies.
Sumiko asked Mr. Moto if he still planned to stay, and he said, “Yes, oh, yes. I’m too tired out from everything that’s happened. I don’t have the strength to go through all that now.”
Sumiko knew that without Uncle, Jiichan, or one of her sons, Auntie would never leave camp. Plus, Auntie, whose previous life had been work and only work, enjoyed her sewing club. So Sumiko was shocked—actually, truly shocked—when Auntie sat everybody down one day and announced that she had gotten permission for them to leave camp.
“I’ve found a job in a sewing factory near Chicago.”
“But, Auntie!” was all Sumiko could think of to say at first. “Auntie, we’re safe here!” she added.
“We have to leave at some point. Now is best.”
“Why is now best? We should wait for the end of the war! What about my garden? I’m going to win first prize this year.”
Bull said gently, “Sumiko, what if the war lasts ten years?”
“Bull, they’ll put us right back in here if Japan bombs Hawaii again.”
“I’m not going unless Sumiko goes,” said Tak-Tak, throwing his arms around his sister.
Everybody looked at her. “Why can’t Tak-Tak and I stay with Uncle Kenzo? He’s as much my relative as you are!”
Everybody was surprised, and Auntie looked hurt. Sumiko hadn’t seen Uncle Kenzo since his birthday, when Auntie had made her visit him. Sumiko tried to keep her expression firm.
Finally Auntie said, “Don’t be silly,” and she left it at that.
&nbs
p; Later Sachi told Sumiko, “I wouldn’t go if I were you. The hakujin will hang your brother from a tree.”
The scary thing was that it was easy for Sumiko to picture her little brother hanging from a tree.
All throughout camp the no-no commotion continued. One afternoon Sumiko was pulling weeds from the garden when dozens of No-No Boys marched past her waving Japanese flags and shouting. One of them called out to her, “Join us, little girl!” and the men around him laughed as they all marched on. She got up and watched them as they rounded the corner and then proceeded up the long side of camp. A part of her did want to join them.
The government moved her people around like they were animals. And yet as Sumiko walked through camp she was struck by how familiar it all seemed, while her old life on the farm seemed unreal. When camp was dry, the inescapable dust seemed familiar; and when camp was wet, the inescapable mud seemed familiar.
When she got home, she found some neighbors shouting at each other.
“The government wants to tell us where we can live or not live once we get outside!” one shouted. “I’m staying right here!”
Another man shouted back, “Look, we need to move out to prove to them we can be trusted outside.”
“Why do we have to prove anything to them?” the other man screamed.
The first man grew suddenly solemn as he said, “Because we have no choice.”
Sumiko had read a letter that Mr. Moto’s nephew had written him from outside. The nephew said that he and other Nikkei didn’t like to be seen together in public—hakujin got nervous when they saw Japanese in groups. Sumiko got a new letter also. Auntie must have written Jiichan that Sumiko wanted to stay in camp, because the latest letter she received from him exhorted her to leave: I know nobody care about old man opinion, but I say you leave camp.
The grown-ups could debate all they wanted. She would find a way to stay. It wasn’t so bad here anymore. There were parties and dances and movies and free meals. And she had her garden and three friends. Trees and flowers grew on every block. Together the Japanese had made the desert bloom. Even the white men thought so. Even the Indians thought so. Everybody thought so.
Bull started sleeping outside although the weather was still cool at night. He wanted to be alone all the time now. Sumiko would stand at the door and see his big form rising and falling on the cot as he breathed. She tried to imagine what kind of girl he would marry someday. No doubt a hardworking one. He would probably end up in an arranged marriage. He would love his wife, though, because that’s the way he was.
For some reason, watching him out there one night; Sumiko thought of the canoe he and Ichiro had built when Bull was fourteen and Ichiro eighteen. They’d built it for her seventh birthday, when she was still crying all the time about her parents’ death. They’d painted the canoe blue, and when it rained hard and the long, sloping road nearby flooded, her cousins took her and baby Tak-Tak out in the boat and they drifted downhill for miles, surrounded by soaking flower farms. Sumiko remembered that Bull smiled as he saw her laughing and that she’d known right then she still had a family.
31
THE LAST OF THE NO-NO BOYS WERE SHIPPED TO TULE Lake, while some yes-yes families were transferred from Tule Lake to Poston. The camp changed after that. There were no more beatings. There were fewer arguments. All anybody thought of were the men who’d volunteered for the army. Waiting for Bull and Ichiro to leave for basic training was worse even than the waiting after Pearl Harbor.
Dozens of young men were shipping out soon. On many nights all across camp you could hear the goodbye parties or see the future soldiers with their girlfriends or wives crying in their arms.
Auntie scarcely paid attention to Sumiko. One day Sumiko decided to take the bus to Camp One to visit her Uncle Kenzo and ask him whether she and Tak-Tak could live with his family.
Looking at her camp from the bus, she was impressed and proud of how beautiful it had become. There were a couple of white administration types on the bus, and they were impressed too.
“I never saw such beautiful gardens,” said one.
Camp One was so big and had changed so much since Sumiko’s last visit that she nearly got lost. But she found Uncle Kenzo’s place again. He was sitting with some men, playing poker. As she hadn’t visited since his birthday, he was surprised to see her. He certainly didn’t look particularly happy at the sight.
“What is it, Sumiko?” he said. He didn’t even set his cards down.
“Can I talk to you?”
“We’re in the middle of a hand.”
The other men stirred. “Are we playing cards or not?” one man said.
Sumiko decided to ask Uncle Kenzo her question right then and there. “Can my brother and I live with you? Auntie is going to leave camp for a job.”
Uncle Kenzo frowned and finally set down his cards.
Sumiko quickly lied, “She says it’s okay with her if it’s okay with you.”
He picked up his cards again. “The kids are going crazy in these camps. Go with your auntie, where you belong.”
The other men chuckled. Sumiko felt pretty stupid as she walked out the door. On the bus ride home she felt like she was an orphan after all.
Instead of going to her barrack, Sumiko headed for the brush where she’d met with Frank and just sat outside until the sun set and she was too thirsty to stay out any longer.
A couple of days later at the good-bye party for her cousins and several others, friends of those who were leaving gave speeches about courage and strength. Sumiko just stood with her family. They hadn’t spent time together in public like this in a long while. It was as if they had become a family again so that they could say good-bye properly.
Couples began to dance to a phonograph record. The weather was already warming up at night, and the room took on a sweaty smell. Ichiro danced with one of his favorite girls. Even when there was no music, they held each other and swayed as if the music were still playing. Then a reverend announced a surprise: A couple of the men would be getting married that night. Everybody cheered. Sumiko searched out Ichiro in the crowd, wondering whether he would be getting married. But two men she hardly knew made their way to the front with their future wives. The weddings took just a few minutes.
Sumiko noticed Bull leaving the party. She followed him, finding him standing near the fence outside. She stood next to him and stared out at the wild shapes of the mesquite trees.
“Will you write me?” she asked.
“Of course I will. Once a week.” He looked down at her. “Sumiko, do you really want to stay here?”
“Yes.”
He lit a cigarette and blew smoke over the barbed wire.
“Bull? What do you think about?”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. When you’re walking, or just sitting, or working, or before you go to bed at night.”
“Sometimes I think about the farm,” he said. “I wonder who works it now and who’s taking care of your kusabana.” He smiled at her.
Sumiko thought it was sad that today there were things about the flower farm that Bull didn’t know. “How long do you think the war will last?”
“I don’t even know who’s winning,” he said.
Sumiko suddenly had a wild thought. “Someday if you have a baby, can I pick out the name?”
“I’ll have to see what my wife thinks about that. But maybe.”
The party inside grew quiet suddenly, one of those random silent moments that can happen in a room. A strange fear washed over Sumiko, a fear she’d never felt about Ichiro. It was a fear that Bull would not be returning. She tried to imagine him as an old man, and she could not. With Ichiro, she could see him in her mind growing older, raising the kids she knew he would have. She could see the wrinkles forming on his face. She saw the dapper old-man clothes he would wear. But with Bull, she could imagine him in his uniform but nothing beyond that. She shook off the thought.
“I’ll write
you all the time,” she said. “Do you want magazines?”
“Don’t waste your money on me.”
“It won’t be wasted!” she cried.
He smiled one of his rare big smiles and pulled her close against his wide chest. “Sumi-chan,” he said quietly. He squeezed her so tightly that she couldn’t breathe. He loosened his grip.
“I’ll send you lots of magazines!” she said.
The party started to disperse. Auntie exited arm in arm with Ichiro. Bull joined them, and the three of them walked off together.
That night Bull slept outside by himself again because he said he wanted it that way. From the doorway, as Sumiko watched him lying in his cot, she hoped he was thinking about the kusabana blowing beneath a Southern California breeze, the scent wafting over the fields and into their home. Maybe the smell from her little garden here in camp was what had reminded him of their farm. It was April, her favorite month on the farm, full of promise and lukewarm winds.
In the morning nobody woke Sumiko up. She opened her eyes and saw Tak-Tak asleep in his cot, with his glasses on. That was her fault. She usually took them off for him at night, but she’d forgotten yesterday. She turned to check the light outlining the curtains: It looked to be about seven o’clock. She shot up, completely awake. Bull’s and Ichiro’s cots were gone! Auntie was folding sheets, weeping.
“Did they leave?” Stupid question, but she had to ask. Before Auntie could answer, Sumiko ran to the door and saw that the sun was already white. They’d said they were leaving at dawn. “Why didn’t you wake me up?” she screamed.
Auntie didn’t reply, just kept folding sheets, lovingly, even holding the sheets to her face at times to smell them. Sumiko ran out to see the road. A truck was driving by spraying water, to prevent dust from flying around later that day. There were no other vehicles in sight. She knew her cousins were long gone.
She walked back to her barrack and noticed some papers on her pillow. They were notes from Bull about farming, to give to Frank for Joseph. Auntie had put the sheets away and was packing the tablecloth, already preparing for the move to Illinois in three weeks.
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