by Jan Morrill
He rubbed his thick, nicotine-stained fingers over the arms of the chair. “Pretty comfy. What do you want for it?”
Mama’s eyebrows pressed together above sad eyes.
Mama can’t sell that chair. If that man took it, he’d be taking with it memories of Papa.
“Ten dollars, please,” Mama replied.
Ten dollars? For the chair where I fell asleep while Papa read to me in the afternoons?
“No, Mama! You can’t sell it,” she cried.
Mama paled and looked at Nobu. “Please take your sister outside.”
He placed his arm over Sachi’s shoulder and led her away.
The man’s voice haunted her ears again. “I’ll give you eleven. Give your girl a dollar for some candy or something. Maybe that’ll make her stop crying.”
He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a wallet that bulged at its seams. “Can your boy help me load it in my truck?”
Mama took the money from the man. “Of course.”
Mama was letting him take Papa’s chair—the chair Sachi would have kept forever—if only they didn’t have to leave in three days with only what they could carry.
“Sachiko, come with me, please.” Mama led her to the dance room, closing the door behind her. She lit a stick of incense and knelt in front of the altar. “Sachiko,” she said, pointing to the mat next to her.
Sachi’s prayers hadn’t done any good lately, so what was the use? She’d prayed Papa would get better. Prayed the kids at school would quit calling her names. None of her prayers had been answered. Still, to appease her mother, she bowed her head and closed her eyes.
In the silence of her make-believe prayer, she heard the old man’s truck engine start. It rumbled quieter and quieter as it drove away with Papa’s chair, until she could hear it no more.
Chapter 19
Nobu
April 2, 1942
Nobu needed a place to hide. He walked into his bedroom, slammed the door, and stood in the middle of the darkness, holding his breath as he tried to cast away the anger he felt. Nothing took away his rage. It danced around him, hot and wild as the flames he’d just watched in his backyard.
Sweat beaded on his forehead, dripping off his bangs. His shirt, damp from perspiration, felt cold against his back. But his face still burned.
How could Mama burn all of their pictures, her letters from Ojiisan and Obaasan, Mama’s own parents, that she’d managed to keep hidden from the government men? Did she really believe tossing the mementos of their past into the fire would change who they were today?
The bluish glow from a street light shone through the window blinds. He held his hand under the lines of light, turning it over and looking at the stripes across his skin. If only he were a different color …
He pulled the chain on his desk lamp. When the light blinked on the stripes vanished, returning his skin to the color of a Japanese man again.
A small stack of books lay on the corner of his desk—books he planned to take with him when they were relocated. The damn government called it an evacuation. For your own protection, they said. The books were all that remained on his desk. The pictures he’d had there—Mama and Papa before they were married, his grandparents in front of their home in Hiroshima—all of it was gone. Burned.
He pulled his journal from the bottom of the stack and opened it. The desk lamp cast a circle of light onto a blank page.
Hands trembling, he began to write.
April 2, 1942
Today, I reported to the Civil Control Station as head of my family. I stood in line, looking at the other Japanese and wondering if they, too, would spend their last few days here selling their belongings and trying to find friends who might store property for them.
After hours of waiting, I finally sat in front of the desk of a hakujin—a damn Caucasian—so busy processing paperwork, he barely looked up.
He asked our name, how many in our family. Didn’t even look at me as he jotted down the information.
He gave me several tags and told me to attach them to each family member and to each piece of baggage. Then he reminded me that we could only bring what we could carry.
“Next,” he said. Then he stamped our papers and added them to the pile.
I looked at the tags. A small blank space for our name, then in large, bold letters, “Family No. 13754.” To the right of our family number were instructions: Report ready to travel on Tuesday, April 7 at 8:00 a.m.
So Family No. 13754 replaces our family name on our ID tags. The same tags we will put on our suitcases. To the hakujins, we are little more than baggage.
I’ve just watched Mama burn our family pictures, old letters—anything of our Japanese heritage.
Earlier tonight, I was reading in my room, trying to forget what’s been going on in the last few days: The Civil Control Station and the idiot behind the desk who wouldn’t even look at me. Selling our belongings—practically giving them away. I hated having strangers—leeches—in our house. Handling our personal belongings and arguing with Mama about what they were willing to pay. I hated seeing all that Mama and Papa had accumulated over the years, in the hands of greedy people; so anxious to steal from us for their homes, yet they wouldn’t even look us in the eyes!
Then, I smelled something burning and went downstairs to see what it was. An orange light flickered through the kitchen window. I ran out the back door. In the center of the backyard, Mama’s face glowed above a fire that burned in a steel drum. She stared into the flames, and I saw light reflecting in the tears that fell down her cheeks.
When I called to her, she wiped her face. I asked her what she was doing.
“Nothing, Nobu. Go back inside.”
But I didn’t listen, instead, walked over to her. I noticed scraps of paper scattered around the drum. Torn pictures with brown, curled edges. Pieces of letters lined by black ash.
I couldn’t believe it. Even pictures of Papa!
I crawled on the ground, trying to gather the charred scraps. They burned my hands. “Mama? Why are you burning these?”
“We must destroy anything that might make someone believe we are loyal to Japan,” she said, staring into the blaze.
No, no, no! I cried inside, but bit my lip so Mama wouldn’t see.
I got up from the ground, holding a charred photo in my hand.
“Toss it in the fire, Nobu,” she said softly.
I told her I couldn’t do it.
“It’s for our protection. You must.”
I looked at the scrap and realized I couldn’t make anything of it—could no longer recognize that piece of our lives. So I threw it into fire. The heat grew hotter and hotter until it burned my skin. But I couldn’t make myself move away.
When the orange glow dimmed, I told Mama we should go inside. She still held a picture in her hand.
“What is it, Mama?”
She didn’t answer, but held it up to look at it, then tossed it into the fire.
Now our house is empty of everything we held dear. All that remains are our suitcases—only what we can carry.
Tuesday we must report for relocation. Where will we carry those suitcases tagged Family No. 13754?
He closed the journal and turned off the light.
Chapter 20
Terrence
April 3, 1942
The courtroom hummed with whispers about the three boys sitting at the front of the room. Every once in a while, bits of conversation jumped out and bit Terrence.
“I think the colored one did it.”
“Doesn’t really matter who did it. The Jap had it coming.”
A sour taste burned on the back of Terrence’s tongue, and he wasn’t sure what made him sicker—sitting next to Joe and Ray or the whispers. Then he figured he didn’t have to decide. The whispering people? Joe and Ray? They all thought the same way: The Jap had it coming.
Heck, he’d felt it, too, that day in the park. At least until he saw that little Japanese girl
running toward them and he realized the man huddled on the ground was her daddy.
Blake touched his shoulder. “Doing okay?”
Terrence shrugged, trying to be cool. But inside, he thanked God that at least Mr. Blake believed him.
Joe stared in Terrence’s direction, eyes squinted and hateful.
The court clerk came through a door at the right. “All stand for the Honorable Judge Anderson.”
When the judge entered, the sound of shuffling feet and the moan of chairs scooting across the floor echoed in the room and drowned out the whispers.
“You may be seated,” Judge Anderson said, opening a file before he sat in a big leather chair. He turned each page, seeming unaware of the hundred eyes on him.
Terrence watched. Waited. His pulse pounded in his temples like his brain was about to explode. What kind of man was this judge, the man that would decide his future? He sure hoped the judge wouldn’t see him the same way as he saw Joe and Ray. ’Cause no way was he like those two. No way.
The man in the black robe looked too young to be a judge. Buzzed-short brown hair. Thin lips. Stiff demeanor. Looked more like a drill sergeant than a judge. The man was just a little too stiff-looking, and it gave Terrence an uncomfortable tickle way down in his gut.
More whispers churned in the courtroom, then silence. Then more whispers. Back and forth, like the pant of an invisible demon. Ceiling fans whirred with an irritating click. Hell, it was like a clock ticking his life away.
Finally, the judge spoke. “Joseph Brian Grant. Raymond Dean Morrison. John Terrence Harris Jr. You have each been charged with first-degree murder.” He took off his glasses and looked at the boys. “How do you plead?”
Joe’s attorney stood first, scratching his head as he spoke. “Not guilty, your honor.”
“Not guilty, your honor,” followed Ray’s attorney.
Blake took a breath to speak next.
Terrence held his.
“Your honor, we would like to move for a separate trial for Terrence Harris, based on extenuating circumstances that set the facts of his case apart from Mr. Grant’s and Mr. Morrison’s.” He held up a file. “May I approach the bench?”
“You may,” replied Judge Anderson.
Blake signaled for Terrence to follow.
The judge was even scarier up close, staring down at them like he was God on Judgment Day. He removed his glasses and folded his hands. “Continue, Mr. Blake.”
Blake laid the thick file in front of the judge. Terrence knew it held his report cards, Honor Society certificates, and letters commending his community service. It also contained his father’s naval service record, and the most important document—the one that made Terrence’s story different: the crinkled telegram that informed the Harris family of Daddy’s death at Pearl Harbor.
Terrence studied Judge Anderson’s face as he reviewed each document in the file. Only the sound of shuffling paper broke the room’s silence.
He looked at Blake and Terrence again. “Is there anything you’d like to add?”
“Your honor,” Blake placed his hands on the bench, “most significant is the fact that Terrence and his family received that telegram the day of the beating. A terrible mix of circumstances led to the unfortunate beating and death of Mr. Kimura—Terrence’s emotional state after being notified of his father’s death at Pearl Harbor, and running into Mr. Grant and Mr. Morrison, two boys with previous records who were intent on getting into trouble even before my client came along. As you will note in the file, prior to this event my client had no criminal record. His grades are excellent. Neither can be said about the other two defendants.”
Judge Anderson returned the file to Blake.
“Your honor, it is for these reasons that we request a separate trial for Terrence Harris. The circumstances differ so greatly from the other two boys, we believe it is warranted.”
In the silence between the request and Judge Anderson’s decision, something clutched at Terrence’s throat, squeezing until he felt his heart beat in every part of his body. His knees shook and he needed to sit again. He closed his eyes, thoughts whipping through his head.
Don’t lump me in with those other two. I’m not like them. I’m not like them.
The judge’s face went stiff again. “Please return to your seats.”
As Terrence followed Blake to their seats in front of the courtroom, Momma’s glance gave him silent support.
It’s gonna be okay, son.
But the ice-cold glares of his co-defendants screamed at him. What’re you up to, nigger? You gonna betray us? You’ll be sorry if you do.
The whispers grew louder too, like snakes hissing all around him.
“Mr. Blake,” Judge Anderson began, “Mr. Harris, in further consideration of your request, this court will recess until next Monday morning at nine o’clock.” He pounded the gavel. “Court is adjourned.”
Gasps whipped through the room like a blast of wind. The bailiff took a set of handcuffs off his belt and approached Terrence. With each step the big uniformed man took, he felt a familiar darkness.
The bailiff threw the handcuffs over Terrence’s wrists. Click. The cold hard metal on his skin held him—shamed him. A prisoner. But no more a prisoner than he’d become of feelings he had carried since that day at the park.
“Traitor!” Ray shouted.
“Order!” yelled Judge Anderson. “I’ll not have such outbursts. Order in this court.”
The room quieted, all but the hissing sounds.
Chapter 21
Sachi
April 7, 1942
My house is empty
But memories will remain
Echoes in my heart.
It was almost time to go. Sachi listened to Mama’s heels tapping on the floor as she rushed around the house for a final check before they’d leave for good.
Tap, tap, tap, tap. Silence.
What did Mama think about as she walked into the kitchen? The living room? The bedrooms?
Tap, tap, tap, tap. Silence.
Sachi wandered around, too, drifting from empty room to empty room, trying to gather memories to hold. Each footstep echoed on the hardwood floor, and she, too, stopped walking to remember: getting mad at Taro because he kept winning at jacks, watching Papa build a fire in the fireplace. Even practicing her dreaded dance lessons in front of the mirror was a good memory now.
The government might be able to limit the number of suitcases they could carry, but they couldn’t make her leave her memories behind.
Hollow echoes swallowed her. She paced around her bedroom, running her hands along the pink walls. Tap, tap, tap, tap—like the heartbeat of her home. When they left, the heartbeat would stop.
Mama called from the hallway. “It is time to go.”
Time to go? Time to go? Her heart ached. She didn’t want to leave her room. Her house.
Mama called again. “Did you hear me? It’s time to go.”
Nobu peeked into her bedroom. “Come on, Sach. It’ll be okay,” he said, leading her out.
When Mama closed the door behind them, Sachi squeezed her eyes and thought of all the times she’d heard that door shut before. The fall mornings when she left for school. The evenings when Papa arrived home from work. The afternoons she returned from playing and Mama told her not to slam the door. Mama wouldn’t have to worry. She’d never slam it again.
Nobu was quiet as he drove, and his hands kneaded the steering wheel like clay.
Sachi sat alone in the back seat, suitcases piled so high around her she had to struggle to see out the window. She watched the morning fog roll off the hills surrounding San Francisco Bay. Where did fog disappear to during the day, before returning to the hills again at sunset?
Her family would disappear, too. Would they ever return?
“Turn here, Nobu,” Mama said.
When they rounded the corner onto Van Ness, Sachi couldn’t believe the line of people—so long it stretched around the block. The las
t time she saw so many Japanese together was at Papa’s funeral. They stood still and quiet, their solemn faces hidden between hats and pulled-up collars of gray and brown overcoats. Piles of bags and stacks of suitcases cluttered the sidewalk beside the line. Some of the women whispered to each other, their children huddled close by. Strange that these children didn’t run, didn’t chase, didn’t giggle.
Nobu drove up and down the street, searching for a place to park. After a couple of passes, he said, “I’ll let you out at the end of the line, then I’ll go to find parking.”
Mama got out and opened the back door for Sachi, while Nobu unloaded all but three suitcases and carried them to the curb.
A car honked, and Mama hurried to the sidewalk. “Get those two, Sachi, and stay close to me.” When she reached the end of the line, she placed Sachi between the wall of the building and herself.
Sachi could hardly see daylight and felt suffocated by the forest of grown-ups in drab coats. She faced the wall and found green paint chipping off in places, revealing patches of white plaster. One patch looked like an ice cream cone. That one might look like California, if she could just pick off one tiny piece of green. Moving close to the wall so Mama wouldn’t see, she flicked a piece of paint to make the white plaster look more like her home state.
The long blast of a car horn startled her, and she peeked around Mama’s coat to see a black sedan creeping past the line. The driver rolled down the window, and she heard a familiar song drift from the car. “Pardon me, boy. Is this the Chattanooga Choo-choo?”
But the driver’s voice drowned out the music. “About time you people go back to where you belong.”
Nobody responded. Most didn’t even look at him. Look straight ahead. Do not cause trouble.
Nobu ran from across the street. “I left the key under the floor mat,” he told Mama. “I hope Mr. Cook can find it okay.”
Sachi thought about her dolls, probably displayed now on Kate’s bedroom shelf. “The Cooks are keeping the car for us, too?”