“Mrs. Mitsui, I’m sorry, but I have to look through your things,” said Mr. Scott as his eyes roamed over the cabinets and shelves that lined the kitchen walls. “I’m afraid I’ll have to examine everything. Where would you like me to put things I’ve examined?”
“The kitchen table, I guess. We can eat in the work area until you finish.”
“Okay. You start on the kitchen, Scott,” said Mr. Allen. Then he turned to us. “Listen up, everyone. I’m doing the bedrooms. I’m putting everything on the beds after I go through your stuff. So if you have anything on your bed, get it off. Understand?”
I ran into my room and scrambled up the ladder to my bunk to move some books and dolls I had left on it. As I started to back my way down the ladder with my arms full, I realized I couldn’t do it without hands, so I dropped my load onto the floor and continued down.
“I hope you don’t plan to leave your junk there,” Mr. Allen said, looking at the pile at his feet. He doesn’t like me, I thought. But that was all right. I didn’t like him, either. I picked up my books and dolls, placed them on my dresser, and walked passed him pretending he wasn’t there.
During the day, the agents spent most of their time rummaging through our things, and my parents, Brian, and I spent most of our time putting it all back together. They also went through all of our business records and other papers and books. I even saw Mr. Allen looking in the pockets of our customers clothes that hung on the racks.
The “CLOSED” sign remained on the door, but some customers would pound on the door demanding their clothes. On those occasions, Mama would wait on them with either Mr. Scott or Mr. Allen at her side.
Mama couldn’t go to the store without one of them accompanying her. She never told me about those trips, but I often wondered what happened. The grocery store wasn’t very large and the aisles were narrow. Did the agent wait outside? Or did he follow her around in the store? I imagined that if it were Mr. Scott’s turn, he would have carried Mama’s basket, and maybe even discussed the quality of the fruits and vegetables and made other idle conversation. On the other hand, I pictured grumpy Mr. Allen following a few paces behind and muttering something like, “Hurry up! We haven’t got all day, you know.”
I also wondered what the neighbors thought about Mama shopping with a man. Papa had never accompanied her to the grocers. And there she was with a man, and he wasn’t even her husband. I would have liked to think that they thought she had a couple of “boyfriends.” But it was more reasonable that they thought, “There’s Mrs. Mitsui shopping with the FBI agent who has them under house arrest.”
In the evening, it was free time for the agents. They were not “searching,” but just sitting around reading or talking. Brian had received a bicycle the Christmas before—a gray Schwinn with white-walled balloon tires and chrome fenders. It had a lot of extras like a rear carrier, headlight, taillight, and a horn. He was trying to install the horn.
After watching Brian for a while, Mr. Scott asked, “Want help with this?”
“Sure.”
Mr. Scott removed his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and got down on the floor with Brian. “I have a son, Mark, who’s eleven just like you. I got him a bike, but it’s not this fancy. Where’s piece D? You should probably put it with C first.”
Mr. Allen sat on the edge of a chair and watched Mr. Scott and Brian. His face was scrunched up in a frown.
“My uncle Ray gave this to me for Christmas. I think I’m his favorite nephew,” Brian beamed as he backed away from the pile of parts to give Mr. Scott some room.
“I can see why,” said Mr. Scott as he smiled at Brian.
I knelt next to Mr. Scott and peered over his shoulder as he worked. The pomade on his slicked back hair had the sweet scent of roses.
“Is he the uncle that lives in Japanese Town?” he asked. “Do you have a smaller screwdriver?”
“No, that’s Uncle Kazuo,” Brian answered as he picked the smallest of the screwdrivers from Papa’s tool box and handed it to him. “Uncle Ray lives on Monterey Boulevard. He runs a cleaning shop, too. He’s my father’s younger brother.”
“I see,” said Mr. Scott. “You mentioned Rev. Nakamura before. How did you know him? Did you go to his church?”
Brian had mentioned Rev. Nakamura having been arrested by the FBI. Why is he asking about him now? He’s questioning us! I thought. Was that our crime? Knowing Rev. Nakamura? Is that why Brian and I were not allowed to leave our home?
“Rev. Nakamura was our Japanese-school teacher. He was a nice man,” I said rather loudly, although I was right next to his ear. “We used to go to Japanese school to learn Japanese at the Buddhist Church. My best friend, Jean Ireland, whose father is the captain of inspectors in the San Francisco Police Department, was also a student there. Is there a law against studying Japanese? Is that why you’re here? Because we know Rev. Nakamura?”
Papa came running into the room.
“What are you shouting about, Marie. Lower your voice! . . . Oh, Mr. Scott! I didn’t know you were here with them. Is she bothering you?”
“Everything’s all right, Mr. Mitsui.”
I ran into my bedroom and slammed the door. Mr. Scott was just being nice to us to get information, I thought. He’s just a sneaky FBI agent. His niceness is only an act! Going to Japanese school is what got us into trouble. We shouldn’t have gone to Japanese school! I thought. Then maybe we wouldn’t be in this fix.
The following day, I was drawing on a large piece of paper of the kind my parents used to cover clean clothes. I was on the floor of the work area. I suddenly got a whiff of roses. Mr. Scott is nearby, I thought. I put my face closer to my drawing. I didn’t feel like talking to sneaky Mr. Scott. Then I felt a tap on my shoulder. I looked to my left and saw that he had folded up his long body so that he was down on his knees on the floor next to me. HIs long narrow face was just inches from mine. His breath smelled like mint.
“I’m sorry if I upset you, Marie. I was just making conversation. If it were wrong to know Rev. Nakamura, everyone who was in his Japanese school class and congregation would be criminals. Everyone who was a member of his church would be a criminal. That would be silly, don’t you think? We would have to pick everyone up! That would be crazy!”
“You haven’t ‘picked us’ up, although you’re here. And I guess you’re right. I’m sorry I shouted at you,” I said. “I made a mistake. I’m glad you weren’t ‘drilling’ us. So why exactly are you picking on us? Does that mean you aren’t going to take us away?”
“I don’t know. Someone else made the decision. I’m just following orders.”
Later that day, a third FBI agent came by. He looked older than Mr. Scott and Mr. Allen. His dark hair was streaked with white and his face had deep lines and sagging cheeks. He had come to speak to Mr. Scott.
“I need to speak with you in private,” he said. The older man took Mr. Scott to the front of the store, but we could hear Mr. Scott being scolded.
“Scott, I understand you’ve been helping the kid with his bike. You’re an FBI agent. Your job is not to be a handyman. You need to maintain some distance between members of this family and yourself. Understand?”
Mr. Scott avoided us after that.
After a few days, Brian and I were allowed to return to school. I stood beside Mama as she wrote a note to take back to my teacher. I read her note aloud as I peered over her shoulder, “Please excuse Marie for being absent from school, as she had an upset stomach. . . .”
“Mama, I didn’t have an upset stomach!” I said. “Why’d you write that?”
“Shh!” she said in a tone that told me she didn’t want to talk about it. It seemed an unnecessary lie. I was sure everyone knew about the FBI. We left school suddenly. Jean and Jimmy brought our homework assignments over and gave them to Mr. Scott. Our cleaning shop was closed and the agents were going in and out all the time. My mother walked up and down Lawton Street running errands with a man that didn’t even come close to
resembling Papa—-things were not exactly normal at our house. Mama thinks this is something to be ashamed of, I concluded, and doesn’t want Miss O’Brien to know! Should I be ashamed, too?
Finally, after a week, Mr. Scott announced that they would be leaving. My guess was that they were satisfied that we were not communicating with the Japanese army, and that we were not dangerous people.
“I’m very sorry we intruded on you like this. I was just following orders,” said Mr. Scott. “I hope we meet again under better circumstances.” We were all outside, saying our goodbyes to him and Mr. Allen. They were about to leave, when Mr. Allen said he had forgotten something inside.
“Why don’t l just go get the car and bring it around,” Mr. Scott said and left for the gas station on the corner where the car was parked. Everyone else had gone inside. I stood watching as Mr. Scott walked away for the last time.
Wisps of fog began drifting toward him and reached out like fingers trying to bring him back. I turned and looked up Lawton. The fog doing its usual thing. It was crawling toward us wrapping itself around everything in its path. When I turned back around, I was surprised to find Mr. Allen standing next to me. He leaned over and put his scrunched up pock-covered face next to mine. He could have used a mint. As the mist swirled around him, his green eyes flashed with anger. Just like the Black Tiger in the Shadow movies, I thought. I started to stumble back away from this scary person and was about to run inside. But he grabbed me by the shoulders.
“We’re leaving you now,” he sneered, “But I hope you suffer even more for what Japan did to us!”
I should have screamed in his face. Or pushed him away. Or run away. Did something. But I couldn’t. For some reason, I couldn’t move. I just stood there.
Suddenly, tears began to fill my eyes. They were beyond my control. I could barely see him through the blur. He seemed to stare at me for a moment. Then, without a sound, he let go, turned, and started down the street after Mr. Scott.
I ran inside past Mama, Papa, and Brian into my room, climbed into my bed, and cried until I could cry no more. I could hear Brian saying, “I think Marie liked Mr. Scott.”
CHAPTER 6
“Marines’ Hymn”
U.S. MARINE CORPS
Patsy McCarthy lived in the neighborhood, but went to St. Anne’s, a Catholic school. She was a pretty girl, about my size, with large smiling eyes and long brown pigtails. She also loved to sing. We learned the words to the “Marines’ Hymn” we found in a giveaway magazine at the grocery store. Then we locked arms and marched up and down Lawton singing it to demonstrate our patriotism.
“It’s good for the war effort!” we told anyone who asked.
Papa and Mama demonstrated their patriotism by buying U.S. savings stamps and distributing them to our customers. They could paste them in a book. When it was filled with $18.75 worth of stamps it could be converted into a bond at a bank. After ten years the bond would be worth $25.00. I could picture most things in my mind, but ten years was beyond my imagination. In any case, these bonds helped pay for the war effort.
One day, not long after our house arrest was over, Mr. Bouchard, the captain of the neighborhood Civilian Defense Committee invited my father to join them. I was so proud. That meant that they trusted him. I imagined that Mr. Scott had arranged it.
First thing, Papa had to learn first aid. He took a class and practiced at home by putting splints on Brian and me. We found out how it felt to have broken legs and arms. Or at least, how awkward it was to be bandaged up. Papa and Uncle Ray had long conversations on the phone about their first aid training. Uncle Ray had been asked to join the Civilian Defense Committee in his neighborhood, too. After Papa completed his training, he was assigned to “blackout” monitoring.
“Everyone has to practice making their homes and shops dark when the siren sounds.” Papa explained. “That’s so enemy planes can’t see us to bomb us. When we hear the air raid siren at night, we have to ‘blackout.’
“That means we have to turn out our neon signs,” he continued. “Marie, I put you in charge of that and all the lights in the front and work area, because I will be out checking the other stores on this block. When I get back from my rounds, I want to come back to a darkened store.” I was so happy that Papa gave me such an important job.
“Brian,” he said turning to him, “I want you to be sure the blackout-curtains are drawn in the kitchen. Go outside and see if any light is leaking. If it is, fix it. And be sure the door to the work area is closed.”
“Do you and Brian understand your responsibilities? Mama, I want you to see that they do what they’re supposed to.”
“I’m going to leave my Civilian Defense hat here in the show window, so everyone can see it,” he continued. It was a white hard hat with a Civilian Defense sticker affixed to the front.“I don’t want you two playing with it. And the Civilian Defense sticker on the window will also let people know they can come to us for first aid.”
“I’ll absolutely be back before eight,” said Papa.
Because Papa and Mama were not citizens, they had to follow rules established for them. They couldn’t be outside after eight p.m. The reason they weren’t citizens even though they had lived in the U.S. for over twenty years is that the law didn’t allow it. But Papa was doing his best to protect us from the enemy anyway. I was very proud of him.
* * *
One Friday night, after we had all gone to bed. I could hear someone banging on the door out front and people shouting. I hid under the covers.
“Who’s out there? What do you want?” Papa shouted. His voice trailed as he ran out front, closing the door behind him. I could then see light trickling in from under the door to the work area. Then I heard the bell. He’s going out the door, I thought. There was the rumble of a car driving off and the screeching of tires.
“What happened?” I could hear Brian asking Papa when he returned.
“Nothing. Go to bed.”
* * *
“It was way past your curfew,” I could hear Mr. Bouchard telling Papa in a loud whisper. He was on the other side of the wall from where I lay on the upper bunk reading. “It was irresponsible, and I’m afraid that I am going to have to have you resign from the committee.” I pressed my ear to the wall.
“Someone was at my door,” Papa said. “I thought it was an emergency. So I was just checking. I shouldn’t have stepped outside, I know. I wasn’t thinking.”
“Pete down at the hardware said that you were having a loud party or something. Loud voices and general carrying on.”
“That’s what I heard, too. It woke me up. But it wasn’t me.”
“Well, I . . . I’ll look into this further. In the meantime, Joe Smith will be taking your turn during blackouts,” said Mr. Bouchard.
The following day, Mr. Bouchard was back. “I am very sorry I accused you, Mr. Mitsui,” he said. “I asked around. It was Curtis Wright and his friends. They were bragging at the Drop Inn Tavern that they were going to get you. They were drunk. But I have also discussed this with the committee and we all agree that for your safety, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be out after dark. So we’re relieving you of your blackout duty. There are too many loonies out there. I’m really sorry.”
“I can take care of myself. Why don’t you do something about them, instead of punishing me?”
“I’m not punishing you. I’m trying to protect you.”
“I don’t need that kind of protection!”
“Well, I’m sorry you feel that way, but the decision is final.”
The door to the bedroom area opened. Papa came in, slammed the door behind him, and left Mr. Bouchard standing in the work area.
That was the end of Papa’s Civilian Defense assignment, but Papa kept his Civilian Defense hat and left it in the window. He never had a chance to actually monitor a blackout. A couple of days later, when I returned home from school, the hat was gone. As well as the sticker.
* * *
/> At school, our class was making afghans for children in Europe. For victims of the war. Each of us knit seven-inch squares in different colors, which were patched together to make a beautiful blanket. I chose a beautiful turquoise blue yarn. I went to Mrs. Bagley’s to show her what I was going to do. Her variety store wasn’t a particularly busy place, and I had often found her knitting to pass the time between customers.
“Do you know how to knit, Marie?”
“No, but I’m sure my mother can teach me.”
“I know she’s very busy with the cleaners. Let me just help you get started.”
“Okay.”
She showed me how to cast on, knit, and cast off. She taught me two ways to knit. One way was to loop the yarn around the needle and the other was to hook the yarn. Hooking the yarn was faster. That’s what I decided to do.
“You won’t have to purl on these squares. Just keep knitting as you did before, when you start on a new row,” Mrs. Bagley explained.
With those simple instructions and demonstration, I was off and knitting. Mostly I knitted after I got home from school. Sometimes, I’d go across the street and knit with Mrs. Bagley. We would knit and chat. At other times, I sat in the show-window alcove clicking my knitting needles, creating squares out of lines of yarn. This filled much of my time after school.
“What are you doing, Marie?” customers would ask.
“Knitting an afghan for children who are victims of the war. It’s part of the war effort.”
“All by yourself? That’s a lot of knitting.”
“Everyone in the class is knitting squares. It’s a team effort.”
“I see. Well, keep up the good work.”
“I will.” I wanted to do the best I could for the war effort. I wanted to prove how much of an American I was. I became a knitting-maniac. At least that’s what Brian called me. I was able to knit fifteen and a half squares, which was more than anyone else in the class.
In the middle of February, I overheard Papa and Mama talking about a rule President Roosevelt made about restrictions in terms of where people, “both aliens and non-aliens of Japanese Ancestry,” should live. Papa had talked about how he and Mama were “aliens,” because they were born in Japan, so I knew what that was. But “non-alien?” I wondered what it meant. The rule didn’t mention citizens. How does the rule affect me, I wondered. But I had learned that it was better not to ask my parents questions about anything. If they wanted us to know they would tell us without our asking.
The Little Exile Page 6