Under the Silk Hibiscus

by Alice J. Wisler

  Where was God? What kind of God didn’t hear the cries of His people?

  A faint murmur from Emi had me up and attending to her. Mechanically, I changed her diaper as I’d done only once before with the aid of Mama. I gave her a half-full bottle my aunt had prepared for her from evaporated milk.

  “Oh, Emiko, what are we going to do?” I said as she sucked the milk into her small mouth.

  I wanted to cry, but no tears came.

  Two nights later in the mess hall, someone dropped a plate. It was as though each of the broken pieces took off in a different direction. The plate would never be whole again. A member of the kitchen crew swept all the pieces, all the jarred fragments. Into the dustpan they went and then he took the dustpan and emptied it into a large waste bin. Gone.

  My heart and that plate had a lot in common.

  “We need to let Papa know,” I said to Aunt Kazuko.

  She brushed her lips across Emi’s head. “I love the smell of a baby.”

  Had she not heard me?

  But she had. “You can write to him.”

  “A letter?”

  “No, a note in the mud. Yes, silly, a letter.”

  What would I say? I had already written to him many times and had not heard back.

  As I pondered, my aunt said, “Tom writes to him often.”

  “He does?”

  “Yes, I took peek into his notebook.”

  “Snooping?” I raised an eyebrow and waited to see how she would get out of this accusation.

  She laughed. “I don’t snoop, just make sure he isn’t writing anything too crazy.”

  I guess she meant one of his stories. Once he wrote about a boy who had special powers and could fly and burn through buildings with his supernatural vision. He would often read them to Mama, and she never laughed, just told him to continue with his “talent.”

  “Why don’t you write a love story?” asked Ken one night as he combed his hair before heading over to the adjacent barracks to hear Lucy sing.

  “Love?” Tom made a face similar to the kind he made when my parents insisted he eat Aunt Kazuko’s fermented soybeans.

  “Yeah, something racy.” He added a dollop of some smelly tonic to his hair and ran his comb over the sides.

  “Ugh,” said Tom. “Yuck.”

  “We need coal, lover boy,” Aunt Kazuko said to Ken.

  Ken smiled at his reflection in a slice of a mirror he kept on a shelf that he had built over his bed. “Coal?”

  “Yes, this stove won’t fill itself.”

  Ken placed the mirror back onto the shelf. “Doesn’t the truck come around and deliver it every Tuesday, or is it every Saturday? We can get it then.”

  “We will be out before morning. Go.”

  “I’ll get it after—”

  “Now.” Aunt Kazuko gave one of her piercing looks which usually made any one of us do as we were told.

  He actually took the bucket we filled for coal and said he’d be back soon. After he left, we all hoped he was searching for coal. With Ken you never knew.

  “Write a letter and send it to your papa,” my aunt said to me the next night as we huddled around the stove. I wondered if we needed more coal and where my older brother was. He had found some coal for us last night. My aunt had taken one look at him upon his return and exclaimed, “Well, well, look who is capable of work after all! I am flabbergasted.”

  Tonight, he was out again per usual. Clearly, for him, there were more important things than family.

  My aunt took a morsel of chocolate from her pocket. “God knows that your papa needs mail.” She looked at me before placing the chocolate into her mouth, “I only have one piece,” she confessed. “Sorry.” With a handkerchief, she wiped a smudge of chocolate from her lips. “Write to him. Cheer him up. But first fetch water.”

  I recalled when I’d been Tom’s age that my aunt had been much quieter and less assertive. Heart Mountain had made her heart as tough as shoe leather.

  Even though she appeared to be strict and tough, I knew her heart was broken.

  I sat in our billet at the wooden table listening to the evening news. As the commentator on the radio spoke of General Sato and the Japs’ propaganda, the water in the kettle on top of the pot-bellied stove hissed. Steam escaped from the spout.

  “Water’s ready,” I called out to my aunt. I’d filled the kettle for her earlier while she’d opened a fresh container of loose tea, some Mrs. Kubo had given her. Bending closer to the radio, I listened to hear the words I longed for: The war is over. But there was nothing to indicate that, just talk about a rocket destroying a Nazi battalion in Stalingrad.

  The newscaster took a break from the current events and announced the familiar spiel about Mobil Gas and Oil, both with flying power.

  The kettle hissed louder.

  I thought the kettle might have power to fly off the stove; the sound was vehement. Turning my attention from the radio, I scanned our apartment for my aunt.

  She was seated on her cot with Emi in her arms, her back to me.

  The water continued to boil, the noise, irritating. I had to turn the volume up on our radio. “Water’s ready!” Seeing that she was not going to take the kettle off of the stove and pour the liquid into a cup, I tried using the tactics she used on me. “Don’t dilly-dally! Get the kettle off the stove!” When she didn’t move, I stood and stormed over to her. “Do you want me to make your tea for you?” I asked.

  My aunt just sat there with her head down, as though unable to move.

  “Aunt Kazuko. Did you hear me?” When she didn’t reply, I took Emi from her embrace, and immediately felt how wet the blanket around my sister was. “The blanket’s wet,” I said.

  Aunt Kazuko raised her head, sniffed twice, and said, “Well, don’t know why it would be wet.”

  But her face gave me the answer. It was drizzled with tears, tears that had made their way onto her chin. I knew she was crying about Mama.

  The next day, Aunt Kazuko was no longer crying, but back to her insufferable ways. She complained that the billet was too cold, that we were lazy boys, and that there was no money for milk for Emi. “I don’t know what we do.” She looked at Ken’s bed, and not seeing him, sighed in despair. Over the months, I could classify my aunt’s sighs into three categories—disgust, despair, and determination. That night she found me seated on my bed reading for my history homework.

  “Nathan, you find out what we need to do to get milk.”

  I knew that the camp received its milk from a creamery in Powell. I’d seen a truck deliver it. But what happened when we needed more than what was supplied at meal times? Who did I need to talk to about that?

  When I asked Ken what we should do, he seemed more consumed with flirting with girls. I watched as he’d edge close to a girl, his eyes never leaving her face. With a quick glance, he’d move his gaze across her body, her shoulders, her chest, and down to her waist. Then he’d take her hand and say, “Doll, let me tell your fortune.” With fingers caressing her palm, he’d add, “Ahh, I see some great stuff.”

  “Like what?” Most of the girls were curious and would ask.

  “Your future looks bright. You’re going to be a movie star.” And he’d flash his movie-star smile as though he were Clark Gable.

  I’d seen him do this same routine over and over. I knew the lines he used, the way he looked at each girl as though she was the only one. But she never was. He had been saying he was a fortune teller since middle school. Mama warned that telling fortunes was not a good practice. Ken had merely shrugged off her apprehension with, “It’s just a line, Ma.”

  He knew it was just a line, but there had been girls who really believed. It wasn’t that they believed he could really see their future, but they did trust that he cared about them. There were those who thought his words and gestures meant he liked them. Yet, truthfully, I doubted that he carried a torch for any girl. He wasn’t after an intimate relationship with one; he was out to be put up on a
pedestal by all.

  Ken was equally good with males, befriending his peers and making them believe that they had what it took to be whatever they wanted to be. Charisma was the word a teacher once used to describe my older brother. “Filled with charisma,” the teacher had written on his report card. While teachers wrote, “Studious” about me, Ken got the more charming superlatives. “A team leader, one of a kind. Destined to go far.” I would have added Flirt to his repertoire. It was a good thing that I wasn’t one of his teachers. I think he liked girls from the day he was born, and even as an infant found a way to charm my parents’ friends.

  Now it seemed that he wasn’t affected much at all by our mother’s death. He carried on as usual. He would be out late conducting business—as he called it. Although I asked him once what that entailed, he never explained it to me. I didn’t care anymore to learn what he was up to.

  But we still needed milk.

  “Check the Ohashi’s shop.” Ken pulled a clean shirt off the rope that was stretched overhead—our indoor clothesline.

  “They’re out. Apparently, all the other families with babies need milk.”

  He buttoned his shirt, leaving the top buttons undone to expose part of his chest. “A milk shortage?” Sitting on his cot, he rolled up each leg of his dungarees, producing the tailored cuff-look so many of the boys liked to sport. “I guess Heart Mountain needs to buy a cow.”

  “Be serious for once.”

  “Ask the mess halls. Go around to all of them. I gotta go.”

  “She’s your sister, too!”

  “I know. But you’re the smart one.” And with that, he left our billet.

  Chapter Six

  My heart, though pained, was not gone. Whenever Emi let out baby gurgle noises, I felt a tinge of life come back to me. And, gradually, I was able to listen to Lucy sing again.

  When she sang, she secured her long hair on top of her head, a tendril or two floated around her neck. On most nights, she wore a rose-colored kimono with a simple obi. During the summer, she slipped into a pair of sandals. Now with winter’s arrival, saddle shoes with socks were her choice. Some of the older women thought it disgraceful to wear saddle shoes with a kimono. I overheard Lucy telling Ken she hadn’t brought any proper tabi or geta to camp because her suitcase had been full of more important things-movie star magazines.

  Whether it be in her barracks or inside the rec room, whenever she sang, she looked at no one, yet her message spoke to everyone. Even Aunt Kazuko stopped whatever she was doing, took a seat, and listened.

  I worried about my sister growing up under such damp and sorrowful circumstances. I worried for her health; I woke from nightmares that had her in a casket, identical to the one Mama was placed in. Yet when she turned her head toward Lucy’s tender voice and would fall asleep, I counted my blessings. At least she had the privilege of being soothed to sleep by the most beautiful person and voice ever to enter the camp.

  One night, when Lucy sang the song about the canary finding safety, an idea came to me: Forget going to school every day. I should get a job. While plenty of the internees now worked within the camp in the mess halls or administration services, I knew of a few people who worked outside the camp. If I could get a job outside this place, perhaps I could find a way to get our whole family out. Perhaps a Caucasian store owner would want me to help out or run a business with him. I’d helped Papa at our fish store; I knew more than most people, especially my aunt, gave me credit for.

  As Lucy finished her song, I prayed one of my “Please God, help me” prayers. I hope God heard it; Aunt Kazuko once said that God hears every prayer, even those of boys who dilly-dally.

  By midnight I was praying for quiet. Usually Aunt Kazuko’s snores and Emi’s cries didn’t disturb my sleep. Usually, when Ken crept in around two in the morning, I wasn’t bothered, I just turned over in my cot, and resumed my sleep.

  But that morning, sleep would not befriend me. Every sound irritated me. I stretched out on my back, but that was uncomfortable; I turned over onto my stomach, but my neck felt cramped. I tried to close my eyes and dream of my nice bed in San Jose, and that only made things worse.

  By the time Ken entered our apartment, I had had enough. As he dropped his shoes onto the floor, I yelled out at him, “Why do you have to make so much noise?” Then for emphasis, I threw my pillow onto the floor. That was silly. I needed my pillow.

  As I bent down to retrieve it, Ken said, “Don’t worry, little bro. It will all be all right.”

  The War Relocation Authority wanted to pay Aunt Kazuko nineteen dollars a month to work with the project director, ordering food for our block’s mess hall. The job had been filled by one man, but he had to leave the position when he developed bronchitis. The director spoke with my aunt, impressed by her mathematical skills and work history in Japan. “We could use a good accountant,” he said.

  This flattered Aunt Kazuko. “He said I am just what he looks for.” She beamed as she told me the way he had asked her.

  “Great!” I gave her a hug. “We can have more money to buy things.”

  “Buy more? No, we save. Always save. Save for a rainy day.” Playfully, she bounced Emi against her knee, waited for her to smile.

  “When will you start work?”

  Emi gurgled, produced a wide smile and laughed.

  “Will you start Monday?”

  “Not going to happen.”

  “Why not?” I asked. “Why don’t you want to work?”

  She stopped bouncing Emi and drew her to her chest. “My obligation is to care for her. She is full-time job.”

  True, Aunt Kazuko’s days were filled with caring for Emi. Between feedings, nap times, and diaper changes, I knew Emi was a lot of work. I wondered if Mrs. Kubo would care for Emi during the day so that my aunt could earn the cash we needed for coats, hats, clothes, milk and toys for Emi, and other items that the War Relocation Authority didn’t provide enough of. “Do you think that she would babysit Emi?”

  “Who? Are you thinking of Mrs. Kubo?”

  I realized I hadn’t said the woman’s name. “Yeah, her.”

  “She isn’t strong enough to take care of a child.”

  “What do you mean?” Mrs. Kubo didn’t seem weak to me. She could change a diaper without any fuss and seemed to enjoy being around my sister.

  “She is not strong in her spirit. She is not suited.”

  “Not suited?”

  “Don’t make fun of my English.”

  “I wasn’t. I just thought that maybe Mrs. Kubo could take care of Emi.” Sometimes I wondered if it was language that kept us from being able to understand each other or my aunt’s stubbornness.

  “No. Answer is no.”

  I suppose that settled it. Aunt Kazuko would not take the job helping the project manager with ordering food for our camp. Ken was too busy with his affairs, and of course, Tom was only a little boy in a leg brace. Getting a paying job was up to me.

  Filled with determination after lunch on Saturday, I begged to work with the coal. I knew I could haul it from the gondola into the delivery trucks which then took it to the barracks so that it could be used to light our stoves. Yet the men said that I was too young. Mr. Kubo told me that I was needed at school and at home. “You have a new baby and must care for her.”

  “But we have to have more money. No one else in my family works.”

  He looked me over. “I know.” He started to say something else, but was taken from my side by a woman who said her barracks’ roof leaked.

  I lingered at the scene and continued to watch the men loading the coal onto the trucks. I listened to their conversations, sometimes a word or two was spoken in Japanese, especially by the Issei. Some of the words I knew, thanks to my aunt and parents. Other words left me clueless. As they worked, a man with a dusty bucket pocked with dents approached one of the parked trucks.

  “We are out of coal,” he said. “Can you fill my bucket for me now, just enough to last until your truc
k makes its deliveries?”

  His bucket was filled by a thin man in a wool cap, and the man with the bucket acknowledged gratitude. “They sure have kept us from the rest of civilization here,” he said, placing his bucket on the dirt and wiping his face with a gloved hand. “We are in no man’s land.” His gaze stretched over to Heart Mountain, and when his eyes met mine, I saw a vacancy, one I was seeing more and more in the eyes of my elders. Then I recognized this man. I wasn’t used to seeing him in a coat, but I knew who he was. Once, he had been a successful businessman, selling furniture to Caucasians, but today there was no way to tell that he’d ever worn a pressed suit. He was just like the rest of us—hanging onto frayed threads of hope.

  “I don’t know how we are going to be able to accommodate more people in the camp,” another man admitted. Whispering, he confessed, “At first, I welcomed the newcomers and wanted to be helpful, but now, I wish so many wouldn’t come.”

  “They make it more crowded, taking up more places at the lavatories and in our mess halls,” the businessman said. “I think we should protest.”

  The others looked at him and said nothing. The businessman picked up his bucket and walked away.

  I wanted to call after him, but I didn’t know what to say. I hated seeing him in such despair.

  When Mr. Kubo returned, he told me to go back to my barracks. Unlike me, he always knew what to say, even if it was harsh. As he got into one of the trucks, he barked, “Go home. I’ll be delivering coal to your barracks soon. You need to be there to carry it inside.”

  Chapter Seven

  But I didn’t want to go back to our living quarters that reeked of soiled diapers and unfulfilled dreams. I wanted to hop on his truck and head out of the camp’s perimeters. I wanted to sail down roads until the camp was so far away that I would never be able to find it again. I wondered what the town of Cody was like and the other town called Powell. I wanted to see how the real people of Wyoming lived, what they ate, how they worked, and what sacrifices they were making because of the war.