The Red Kimono

by Jan Morrill

  Between countries, not people. Was that why he didn’t feel better after beating up a Japanese man? Matter fact, he felt worse. Now, he had sorrow and guilt. It was like swallowing bad medicine every time he remembered seeing the little girl’s eyes. Hearing her cries.

  “I don’t think you ever really get over the death of a loved one,” Blake said. “But with time, you learn to live with it. I still remember how I felt, so I understand a little about what happened the day you found out about your daddy.” He sat again. “And now you know why I wanted to take your case. That, and I’m a good attorney.” He chuckled. “We’ve got a lot of work to do before your trial begins. Now, are you ready to tell me your side of the story?”

  Chapter 16

  Sachi

  April 1, 1942

  A stare needs no words

  You are different. Go away.

  A slap needs no hand.

  Sachi held her doll close and rang the doorbell. She heard shoes tapping on hardwood floors on the other side of the door. While she waited, she admired purple and yellow pansies that bloomed and overflowed from garden boxes lining the porch rails. Maybe Mama would plant some flowers with her now that spring was here. Like Papa used to do.

  The door opened, and Kate’s mother stood behind the screen.

  Sachi looked up at the very tall woman. “Can Kate play?”

  “Why, hello, Sachi.” She opened the door and called for her daughter. “Katie, Sachi is here to play with you.”

  Sachi sensed that Mrs. Cook was looking at her—like she wanted to say something. She still got that awkward feeling from people, even three months after Papa died.

  Finally, Kate’s mother put her hand on Sachi’s shoulder. “How are you and your family doing, Sachi? I’ve been meaning to call your mother, but I’ve been so busy lately.”

  The knot in her stomach and the lump in her throat returned, like unwelcome guests—surprising and prickly. “We’re fine, Mrs. Cook. Thank you for asking.” It had become her standard reply.

  Mrs. Cook smiled nervously. “That’s good, dear. Katie, did you hear me?”

  Kate replied from the back of the house. “Coming, Mommy.”

  “Have a seat in the living room, Sachi. I’ll make a snack for the two of you.”

  Sachi watched Mrs. Cook walk out of the room. She had such pretty blonde hair, and she was so much taller than Mama.

  “Hi, Sachi,” Kate said, skipping into the living room. She plopped onto the couch next to Sachi. “Oh, good. You brought baby Sally with you. Come on. Let’s go to my room. You and me and Sally and Susie can play house.”

  There must have been a hundred dolls sitting on shelves in Kate’s room, overflowing out of the toy box and lying on the bed. Baby dolls, porcelain dolls that looked like they were from the olden days, rag dolls. But no geisha dolls.

  “Sit here,” Kate said, pointing to the center of the yellow carpet, where doll clothes lay scattered all around.

  She sat next to Kate, and they chatted as they fed their babies, changed diapers, swapped clothes, and put pink ribbons in the dolls’ hair. Just like grown-up ladies.

  “Do you think Susie looks like me?” Kate asked, wrapping her doll in a pink blanket.

  Sachi considered the question. Yes, the doll had blonde hair like Kate’s. Blue eyes. “I suppose she does.”

  “Sorry, but I really don’t think Sally and you look much alike. Couldn’t you find a doll that looks like you?”

  The words stung. She looked down at Sally, lying between her crossed legs. Brown hair, blue eyes. Pinkish skin. No, they didn’t look alike at all.

  Silly old doll.

  Mrs. Cook called from the kitchen. “Girls, I’ve got snacks for you on the table.”

  Kate jumped up, holding Susie in her arms. “Come on,” she said, walking out of her room. “Mommy made some peanut butter cookies yesterday. Bet that’s what she put on the table. That and some grape Kool-Aid, I hope.”

  Sachi left her doll on the floor, and followed Kate to the kitchen. She picked up a cookie from the plate in the center of the table and sat across from her friend. Taking a bite, she watched Mrs. Cook washing dishes at the sink. Kate put her cup down and Sachi giggled at the purple moustache above Kate’s lip.

  The scene was so unlike how things looked at her house. When she thought about how different she always felt, her mouth went dry, and the cookie tasted like sandpaper. She didn’t want to be rude, so she quietly hid the cookie in her jumper pocket.

  “Mama, I’m home,” Sachi called. She found her mother sitting at the kitchen table, sorting through a pile of mail.

  “Did you have a good time at Kate’s?” Mama asked, skimming along the edge of an envelope with a bamboo letter opener.

  “I guess so. Mrs. Cook made cookies for us. She asked how you were doing and said she’s been meaning to call.” She placed her doll on the table. “We played dolls, too.”

  Mama studied her daughter. “And was that fun?”

  “Kind of. But—”

  Mama opened a few more envelopes between glances at Sachi. “But what?”

  Mama wouldn’t understand, and she sure wouldn’t want to hear that sometimes Sachi wished she had blonde hair and round blue eyes. “Nothing, Mama. I’m going to go play in my room for a while.”

  Mama stacked the mail and rose from her chair. “Sachi-chan, you haven’t practiced your dance today, and you have lessons tomorrow. Go practice, then we will take a walk to the grocery store.”

  Now she was sure her mother wouldn’t understand. All she did was push her to learn the Japanese ways. Papa wanted her to be an American, to fit in. American food. American music. American dolls. Just like everyone else.

  She passed through the living room on her way to practice and saw Papa’s reading chair in the corner. Sunlight shone in through the blinds in stripes on the chair’s brown leather. She saw him sitting there, with his reading glasses resting on his nose and his arms held out for her to join him. She remembered rushing to his lap.

  She curled into the chair. But without Papa’s arms around her, it was too big and too empty, even cold. She closed her eyes and buried her nose into the leather—breathed deeply to find the scent of him. It was hardly there anymore. Would her memories of Papa fade the same way?

  In the dance room, she watched the clock, tracking every minute of the hour Mama said she had to practice. At the sixty-first minute, she called, “Mama, I’m finished. Can we go to the grocery store now?”

  “Yes,” Mama replied from her bedroom. “Get your jacket and we will go.”

  The sky was clear and blue, and the sun warmed Sachi between brushes of cool sea breezes that blew in from the bay. Spring bloomed all around. Red tulips, purple pansies, yellow daffodils, emerald lawns. Perfectly-groomed houses bordered both sides of the street, like finely-dressed boys and girls lining the walls of a dance room.

  When they turned on to Gilman Street, traffic sounds replaced bird songs. The street hummed with passing cars and an occasional honking horn at a stop light. Spring, summer, fall, or winter—not much changed about this busy street.

  But that afternoon, something was different. White sheets of paper hung off street lights and utility poles, flapping in the wind as though calling everyone’s attention. Store windows were plastered with them, too. People slowed to read the words, forming small crowds everywhere.

  Mama took Sachi’s hand and pulled her over to where several Japanese had gathered. Some scratched notes on small pieces of paper they held with hands that trembled as they wrote.

  Sachi stood on her toes to try to read the words, but the grown-ups were too tall. She jumped up and caught a glimpse of the bold letters at the top of the notice: INSTRUCTIONS TO ALL PERSONS OF JAPANESE ANCESTRY:

  Mama searched her purse and pulled out a pen and a piece of paper. Sachi was able to read some of what her mother wrote:

  All Japanese persons, both alien and non-alien, will be evacuated from the above designated area by 12:00
o’clock noon Tuesday, April 7, 1942 … Responsible member of each family … must report to Civil Control Station … between 8:00 a.m. and 5:00 p.m. Thursday, April 2, 1942 … the size and number of packages is limited to that which can be carried by the individual or family group … Go to the Civil Control Station … to receive further instructions.

  Whispers hissed through the crowd. Some people shook their heads and walked away. Mama returned the pen and paper to her purse and took Sachi’s hand.

  “What did the sign say?” she asked. Maybe Mama’s answer would take away the bad feeling that made her stomach hurt. She put her other hand in her pocket and felt the crumbled cookie from Kate’s house.

  Mama walked faster, and Sachi noticed she held her head higher than usual. Those who were lucky enough not to be of Japanese ancestry stared when they passed.

  “Mama, why are they staring at us?”

  “Do not concern yourself. We will do our grocery shopping on another day.”

  Chapter 17

  Nobu

  April 1, 1942

  April 1, 1942

  When Mama came home this afternoon, I knew something was wrong. She looked frightened, and I could tell Sachi had been crying.

  She told me about the notices that were posted everywhere. Notices that we are to be evacuated by April 7. Evacuated from our own homes? How can they do this? They say it’s for our own protection. Bullshit! It’s because they are afraid of us! Afraid we are spies for the Japanese. They thought Papa was a spy!

  Mama and Papa raised us to be proud of our heritage. Now we are ashamed, even try to hide it. No matter how much I want to fit in—to look and act like the other Americans, I wear my Japanese ancestry like a mask I can’t remove. There is no place to hide.

  We have done nothing wrong, yet they will gather us and lock us up. Hell, I might as well be Terrence, locked up in that jail cell. We’re no better than prisoners. No better than the bastard who killed my father.

  Mama wants me to go to the Civil Control Station tomorrow. I don’t want to go. I don’t want to hear an American give me orders about where we must go, when we must leave our home, even what we can bring with us. I AM an American!

  Mama says this is how we must show our loyalty. Where is the loyalty to us?

  But I’ll go, no matter how much I don’t want to. It’s my duty as man of the house. I’m tired of it. But just like being Japanese, there’s nothing I can do to change it.

  He slammed the journal shut and threw his pen across the room.

  Chapter 18

  Sachi

  April 1, 1942

  The large suitcase lay open in the middle of her bedroom floor, and Sachi watched Mama neatly arrange sweaters, pajamas, socks, and underwear.

  But Mama wouldn’t know which books to pack, so Sachi ran to her bookshelf and skimmed her finger over the titles, choosing her favorites. It was not an easy choice. Each of them had taken her to imaginary places she had grown to love.

  Finally, she made her reluctant decision. “These need to go, too,” she said, laying the books next to Mama.

  Mama looked at the stack. “You cannot take all of those. The notice said we can only bring what we can carry. Books are too heavy. You may choose two of your favorites.”

  “Two? I had a hard enough time choosing ten.”

  “Please, do not argue with me. We all have to make sacrifices. Please choose two.”

  She carried the books to her bed and tossed them onto the pink chenille spread. How could she choose between castles or farms? Princesses or pirates? Witches or fairy godmothers?

  “Mama, why must we sacrifice? Why do we have to leave our home? All of our favorite things?” She hesitated. Anger strangled her confusion, until it swelled—grew bigger and bigger, until, like a balloon, it burst.“Papa said we are Americans! But do other Americans have to make sacrifices? No! Well, I don’t want to make sacrifices either!” The words spilled from her mouth like marbles, scattered so quickly she knew she’d never get them back.

  Like a ghost, Papa had returned and slapped Mama with his words. Her eyes reflected shock, dismay, hopelessness, anger. For a tiny moment, it was all right there in the glare Mama blasted toward her. But as quickly as it had fired in her eyes, flushed in her cheeks, it disappeared. She tilted her head down, closed her dark, tired eyes, folded her hands, and straightened her back. In silence, she rose from the floor and walked to the bedroom door.

  Without looking at Sachi, she calmly let her own words escape. “You may choose two books … and one doll.” Then, she walked out and closed the bedroom door.

  The next day strangers came to the house, ringing the doorbell early in the morning. Sachi had never seen any of them before, yet Mama let them in. Caucasians. Americans who didn’t have to choose which books to pack, which doll to bring. In walked tall men in overcoats and fedoras, following prissy women with white-gloved hands that touched everything. They opened cabinet doors to look at the dishes. Flipped through pages of books on the bookshelf. Talked about whether or not the pattern on the couch would match their decor.

  “How much for the set of dishes?” a lady with red hair asked.

  “Two dollars for the whole set,” Mama said.

  The redhead took her wallet out of her patent-leather purse. But the bald man with her told her to put it away. “Seventy-five cents,” he said.

  Mama touched a dinner plate. “They are from Japan.”

  He stared at her. “Precisely. That’s why they’re not worth two dollars. Like I said, seventy-five cents.”

  “Very well,” she said, avoiding his eyes when he handed her the coins.

  “Hi, Sach.”

  Sachi was surprised to see Kate and her mother standing in the kitchen.

  “Hi, Kate. What are you doing here?”

  “My mom wanted to come over to talk about a few things with your mom.”

  Mama walked toward them, putting the coins in her purse. “Hello, Mrs. Cook. Kate. How are you?”

  “Fine, thank you,” Mrs. Cook replied. “We wanted to come by to see if there’s anything we can do to help.”

  “Arigato. Thank you.” Mama bowed slightly. “But I’m afraid there is not much you can do.”

  “Would you girls like a snack?” Mama asked. “I have some omanju if you’d like.”

  Kate looked at Sachi, her nose crinkled. “O-man-gee? What’s that?”

  Sachi leaned over and whispered, “They’re sweet bean cakes. All kinds of pretty colors. I think you’ll like them.”

  “Yes, please, Mrs. Kimura,” said Kate.

  Sachi smiled, excited to have her friend try the Japanese treat.

  Mrs. Cook stood by the counter while Mama placed the pastel-colored desserts on a white plate. “Mrs. Kimura …”

  “Please, call me Sumiko.” She smiled. “Or Sue, if that’s easier.”

  “If you’ll call me Nancy,” replied Kate’s mother.

  Mama nodded.

  “Anyway,” Mrs. Cook continued, speaking softly, “I’m so sorry about what’s happening to you and your family … to all of the Japanese. I can’t imagine what I’d do in your place.”

  “Shikata ga nai. We do what we must do.”

  “How can we help? Anything we can hold for you while you’re gone?”

  Mama looked at Sachi. Moving closer to Mrs. Cook, she whispered. “The notices say we can only take what we can carry,” she said. “We will sell most of our belongings, but some things … are very difficult to part with. Like Sachi’s doll collection.”

  “What about my dolls?” Sachi asked.

  Mama’s words spilled quickly. “My mother gave them to me when I was a little girl, and when Sachi was born, I gave them to her.”

  “Mama? What about my dolls?”

  Mrs. Cook touched Mama’s hand. “Of course we’ll take care of them until you return.”

  Sachi rose from her seat. “You’re going to give my dolls to them?”

  “We cannot take them with us,” Mama s
aid, her voice shaking. “I do not want to sell them. It is the only thing we can do.”

  Mrs. Cook walked out of the kitchen, signaling Kate to follow.

  Mama pulled out a chair. “Kate and her mother were very kind to offer. You know they will take good care of them until we get back.” She wiped tears from Sachi’s cheeks.

  “But it’s not fair.”

  “No. Life is not fair. But we must endure it.”

  Kate and Mrs. Cook returned to the kitchen.

  “I’ll take good care of your geisha dolls” said Kate, placing her baby doll on the table. “And … you can have Susie. I have lots of dolls.”

  It was like sunlight peeked through the dark clouds of the last few days. She was letting her keep Susie!

  The two women carried each of the glass-cased geishas to the car and put them on the back seat. Mama placed blankets between each, as though tucking them in for a long night’s sleep. She bowed to Kate’s mother. “Thank you, Nancy.”

  Sachi held Kate’s baby doll in one arm, and her own doll with the other. When the Cooks’ car pulled away, she wasn’t sure if the tears she blinked away were happy tears or sad ones.

  Mama took her hand and they walked up the front porch steps, back to the hard reality of the pack of strangers picking through their belongings.

  Sachi wanted to escape the whispers and decided Papa’s chair would be a good place to hide. But she found an old man sitting there, head tilted to one side, cheek smashed against his hand. Loud snores rumbled in and out of his fat lips.

  That’s Papa’s chair. “Get out of my papa’s chair!”

  Everyone—strangers with blond hair, brown hair, red hair, blue eyes, green eyes—stopped what they were doing and turned to look at her. The old man woke with a look of surprise.

  Mama and Nobu ran into the room.

  “Please accept my apologies for my daughter’s behavior,” Mama said to the man, bowing as she spoke, pulling Sachi behind her.