Kenichi, too, when he came home, immediately went into shock. He had always understood that the U.S. government would likely take his land, his possessions—perhaps even his freedom to speak his mind. But he had never considered that the government might cost him either of his children. He stood there in disbelief as his wife and son mourned his lifeless daughter.
“It was too much,” Shizue lamented. “This life, the poor nutrition, her adolescence . . . I knew it would come, this storm . . . I asked for medicine but they refused . . . they refused to give us any . . .”
“Shhhh.” Her husband tried to comfort her. With an anguished heart of his own, he had alerted the camp officials at the infirmary. After thirty minutes or so, they responded by sending men with a stretcher.
* * *
They took Mae away. For a while it was strange to Harry, who, despite having seen the body, caught himself perpetually expecting his little sister to come back, to come bouncing in from playing outside. Even the camp guards seemed apologetic. Kenichi was able to arrange for cremation and an urn. Friends they had made in the camp suggested they hold a small funeral service, but Kenichi refused. “We will take her home, where she belongs,” he insisted. No one pointed out the fraught nature of his words. Where did any of them belong anymore? They were strangers in their own country. Who knew what had become of the houses they’d raised their children in?
* * *
Shizue was never the same after that. Her own seizures grew worse, a fact that was perhaps a relief to her: She felt she took comfort in the notion of punishment. When she realized this latter fact about herself, she knew what she must do if she ever hoped for relief.
* * *
It ought to have been shocking. But one month later, when Kenichi came into the bungalow to find his wife hanging from the rickety, hastily thrown-up beam that ran through their barracks as the structure’s main support, his heart was deeply aggrieved but he was not surprised. There was a note. A simple apology, a prayer for forgiveness, the brushstrokes steady and elegant, written in beautiful kanji.
61
Are you willing to serve in the Armed Forces of the United States to combat duty, whenever ordered?
_____ (yes) _____ (no)
Will you swear unqualified allegiance to the United States of America and faithfully defend the United States from any or all attack by foreign or domestic forces, and forswear any form of allegiance or obedience to the Japanese emperor, or any other foreign government, power, or organization?
_____ (yes) _____ (no)
—From the War Relocation Authority
Application for Leave Clearance
Yamada Kenichi’s life had never made so much sense as it did that afternoon he had brought a young woman named Miyamoto Shizue of Kyoto, Japan, to his orchard in Newcastle, California, and watched as she set her eyes for the very first time on the charming white clapboard farmhouse he’d built. In that moment, as he saw her face light up with a smile at the sight of the farmhouse, everything Kenichi had ever done—all his adventures immigrating to a faraway land, all of his hard work, all of his dedication and discipline—all took on a sudden, potent new meaning. Everything he had done, he had done for the sake of the gentle soul of the young woman standing before him, and for the beautiful family they would have together.
Kenichi had lost his daughter in a manner he never would have expected. He had worked all his life to build up the sort of security that meant young Mai would always have proper care and medicine—only to lose her the way a pauper would: terribly afflicted, having no access to a doctor or drugs, no cures, Eastern or Western. And then, to watch his cherished wife torture herself over the tragedy, until Shizue could not take it . . . Kenichi had entered a hell beyond anything his imagination could have ever built.
Both had died in the space of a month and a half. Several more months had passed in the wake of these dual tragedies, but the sharpness never quite came back into Kenichi’s eyes. He seemed lost, purposeless . . . He sat for hours in a chair staring out into the flat, ugly landscape that lay beyond the camp’s barbed-wire fences, not quite seeing anything at all.
So perhaps it was for this reason that, when given a loyalty oath sometime in March, only weeks after his wife’s violent death, Kenichi—dwelling in a blur of anguish, grief, and anger—answered those two critical questions “No” and “No.”
* * *
“Otōsan,” Harry murmured, after his father told him what he had inadvertently done.
“It was an accident,” Kenichi pointed out. “I believe it was.” He paused and then looked up at his son with wide, blinking eyes—like a small child answering to a parent. “It was an accident, wasn’t it?” Kenichi said, as though Harry knew how to riddle out Kenichi’s own intentions.
“We had agreed, in order to stay together, we would both answer ‘Yes’ and ‘Yes,’” Harry reminded his father.
Men who answered “No” and “No”—they were actually called “No-Nos”—were moved to the isolation center near the Tule Lake camp, or else to an Army fort, to be treated like POWs. Rumor had it these men were destined to be deported back to Japan.
“You answered ‘Yes-Yes’?” Kenichi asked his son.
“I kept to our agreement,” Harry replied. It hadn’t been easy—an irony, given that when the war first started, Harry would have happily gone to war as an American soldier. But the camp—the things that had happened to his mother and sister—had altered his resolve on this matter forever. Now there was a significant part of him that very much wanted to answer “No-No.” There was a significant part of him that wanted to tell the whole nation to go to hell and give every camp guard he saw the middle finger. There were activists in the camp, too—men who held not-so-secret meetings and lobbied to organize demonstrations against their “captors.” These men had declared that anyone who answered “Yes-Yes” was an inu—a dog. Deep inside his heart, Harry had begun to agree.
But he understood all too well: He was all his father had left, and vice versa. And if he was being honest with himself, he hoped to see Ava again someday. He hoped to see Louis, too, even though Louis had proven a questionable friend and refused to write to him. So Harry and Kenichi had talked it over and agreed: They would both answer “Yes-Yes.” They would be dogs, but they would be dogs together.
“I believe I was confused,” Kenichi said now, trying to explain his spontaneous “No-No” answer. “One question was: Would I be willing to go to war as a soldier? And I could only think: I am an old man; what does it matter? Who could possibly want me as a soldier in the first place?”
“Otōsan, we discussed this . . . They would not have sent you. It was only a question . . . a hypothetical question, in your case.”
“But not in your case,” Kenichi said, his voice grave. He had a point. It was not a hypothetical question in Harry’s case. He was healthy, strong . . . just the right age.
“We would have been separated anyway, I am sure of it,” Kenichi concluded. He sighed. “Dishonesty requires effort. I am too old. I answered ‘No-No’ because I am tired and that is the truth.”
Harry was silent. There was a tremor of angry defeat in his father’s voice that had never been there before.
“It is not that I do not love America,” Kenichi said. “This is my country—America; not these disgusting filthy camps that have murdered my wife and daughter. But would I go to war and take up arms against other Japanese? Even if my age did not make that idea absurd, the answer is no, I would not. A child cannot take the knife his father gives him and plunge it into his mother’s heart. That is not the way of things. The child is both his parents, and only waits—and weeps—while his mother and father fight.”
Harry was silent for a moment. He had heard his father say as much before, he understood the weight of the words. When he finally replied, he only said, “What will come next will be difficult.”
/> His father looked at him. A sad, bitter ghost of a smile turned the corners of his mouth.
“What has come so far has been difficult.”
“True enough,” Harry replied.
* * *
When the news came, it was no surprise to Harry. They learned Kenichi would be moved to the isolation center, just as Harry feared, and Harry would not be allowed to visit his father, who was now considered an enemy of the state.
Months passed in utter loneliness. Eventually, however, Kenichi’s predictions about the implications of Harry’s “Yes-Yes” answer proved right: In August, Harry was called up for the draft. There was a fair amount of paperwork and bureaucracy, a physical exam. By then it was September, and he was scheduled to ship out to basic training on the thirteenth of the month.
A change was in the air, and Harry had made up his mind.
62
Yamada property * September 13, 1943
Louis knew something was wrong by the look on Ava’s face when she came and found him, and insisted he come with her to the barn.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, thinking one of the animals had taken sick.
“Just hurry,” she demanded, refusing to answer. She strode ahead of him in a near run, moving so fast that when they came up out of the orchards and the barn’s roof came into view, Louis found himself relieved to see that the barn was not on fire. He hurried to keep pace with her. Just before the barn door she drew up short and turned around to face him with a serious expression.
“I told them you would keep this quiet,” she said.
Louis only looked at her in confusion.
“I promised them you would. They’re trusting you.”
“Who are?”
“Harry and Mr. Yamada.”
Louis started.
“They’re here?”
She nodded. “They broke out of that horrible camp. Well, Harry did. He put on his Army uniform and made as though he were leaving for basic training, and then found Mr. Yamada and snuck him out.”
Louis was staggered. He didn’t understand half of what Ava had just said. He stared at the barn door, trying to wrap his mind around the fact that the Yamadas were inside.
“Harry’s . . . in the Army?” was all he managed to blurt out.
“You would know as much if you ever bothered to read any of his letters or write to him the way you promised you would,” she replied.
Louis frowned, annoyed by Ava’s efforts to shame him. Of course, she didn’t know the reason Louis found it difficult to write, or what she herself had to do with it. After she’d told him about the deaths of Mae and Shizue, he had wanted to write . . . but by then too much time had passed. It felt so awkward; he had not known where to begin.
“Look,” Ava said now, “I promised them they could trust you. Was I wrong?”
“No,” Louis replied.
Ava sighed and pulled the barn door open, and Louis followed her inside.
* * *
Once his eyes had adjusted to the dim light of the barn, sure enough, there they were: Harry and Mr. Yamada. No one spoke right away; the only sound was the idle rustling of the horses, occasionally stamping their hooves or nickering. Harry and Mr. Yamada were sitting in the hay in an empty horse stall. They looked tired. From their journey? Louis wondered. It was not as if they could hop on a train or thumb a ride in a car; they must’ve had to make the trek on foot. Kenichi Yamada looked particularly drained and thinner than Louis remembered. The thought of Kenichi’s age prompted Louis to finally find his tongue.
“Is . . . is Mr. Yamada all right?” Louis asked, breaking the silence with a halting voice.
“I am fine,” Kenichi replied. He nodded his head politely.
“What . . . what are you two doing here?”
“What do you think?” Harry replied in a flat voice.
“Won’t they come looking for you?”
“I imagine they will.”
“Harry, you’ll be in serious trouble,” Louis said. Vaguely panicked, he looked at Ava. “We all will be.”
“Those camps . . .” Harry shook his head, looking down at the ground. “. . . aren’t suitable for animals. I couldn’t leave my father there and go off to war thousands of miles away to fight for the government that . . .” He faltered. “. . . has done what this government has done,” he finished.
Louis understood what Harry meant but was not saying, and relented.
“I was sorry about Mae and about your mother,” Louis said now, in a quieter voice.
Kenichi perked up, his face inscribed with fresh concern. “Did you bring them, Haruto?” he asked his son in Japanese. Harry nodded somberly.
Louis and Ava looked on with puzzlement as Harry reached into a knapsack. When they saw the two small urns, they caught on.
“We will find a place for these when the time is right,” Harry said to his father, apologetic.
“The two of you will have to stay hidden as well,” Ava said. The sight of the urns had turned the content of Harry’s letters into a terrible reality. The government had put Mae and Shizue in a camp with barbed wire and watchtowers, and now they were dead. A quiet wave of anguish, anger, and panic went through her. But for now she was resolved to address the matter of protecting the living. She turned to Harry and Kenichi.
“You can stay in the caravan. I’m sorry it’s not in better condition, but I don’t think it’ll be safe for you in the house—at least, not for a few weeks. Louis is right: The government will send someone to look for you. They’ll come here, and I doubt they’ll announce themselves before they decide to drop in.”
“No . . . that makes sense.” Harry nodded. Ava looked at Kenichi in particular. He looked so tired, so defeated.
“You deserve to be back in your own home, but that will have to wait.”
Kenichi shook his head. “Do not apologize. Your plan is wise, and we are grateful for your help in hiding us.”
“I’ll tell my mother—you can trust her, too—and we’ll pack up some things and maybe bring a few things down from the house to make you both more comfortable.”
There was a pause.
“Louis?” Harry said. “You haven’t agreed.”
“Yes,” Louis said. “Of course. It’s fine.”
Numb and dazed, he left the barn and walked back into the orchards—their orchards, he reminded himself: the Yamadas’ orchards. All of it was theirs.
63
Two days passed. Louis was uneasy. He periodically checked on Mr. Yamada out in the caravan and worried that the old man never looked as strong as he once had. Louis and Harry danced around each other, awkward as ever. From a distance, Louis also watched Harry and Ava talking and laughing—the two of them careful never to touch, never to acknowledge the secret affection between them that Louis had already witnessed, and this annoyed Louis. Harry never brought up the letters he’d written to Louis or asked Louis why he hadn’t written back. The chip on Louis’s shoulder had not gone away, but now it was wedged under the tremendous weight of all the terrible tragedy the Yamadas had been through.
From the moment Harry and Mr. Yamada had turned up in the barn, a pair of runaways from the camp, Louis had been holding his breath, waiting for someone in a position of authority to accost him, accuse him of harboring two treasonous fugitives, and even perhaps arrest Louis for aiding and abetting. He waited for something to happen, but nothing did . . . until an even more unexpected event occurred.
It was a Wednesday, a weekday. Louis was at the airfield in Lincoln, training pilots. Around eleven in the morning, Louis had already taken two flyboys up, and was preparing to take a third, when the boy who ran errands for the airfield’s on-duty commanding officer came scurrying out across the tarmac, waving his arms.
“Major Comstock wants to see ya!” the boy hollered.
“Can it
wait?”
The boy shook his head. “I don’t think so. He looked pretty sour-faced when he sent me to get you just now.”
Louis bit his lip, suddenly nervous. As he walked in the direction of the major’s office, he felt the collar of his shirt grow damp with a prickly cold sweat. This was it—he was certain—but what had he expected? What had Ava, or Harry, or any of them expected, really? It had always been only a question of time before the Yamadas got caught.
When Louis got to Comstock’s office, the major was seated at his desk with a somber expression on his face. A bottle of whiskey was sitting in plain view on the desktop along with two glasses. It was the two glasses that caught Louis’s attention: Surely Comstock wasn’t about to pour him a drink? Pilots weren’t allowed to drink during training hours, and he doubted Comstock wanted to offer him a drink before interrogating him about the Yamadas.
As Louis entered, Comstock reached for the bottle and poured.
“Here,” the major said in a gruff voice.
Louis didn’t move right away. He regarded the glass in Comstock’s outstretched hand with puzzlement.
“Drink,” Comstock commanded.
“It’s only eleven o’clock,” Louis said, hesitantly accepting the glass if only to alleviate Comstock’s waiting arm.
“Doesn’t matter,” Comstock replied.
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