“Oh. I see,” I said. But I didn’t really see. I didn’t understand. I realized there was a war going on in Europe and the Pacific, where there was shooting and bombing and people getting killed. But there was also an invisible war going on in the United States that I didn’t understand. It was unseen and mysterious, because there were no battles. It was this invisible war that made us prisoners and caused things to happen to me and my family. The army of my country decided we were the enemy, although we never attacked them or did any harm to anybody. The FBI even proved that we were not enemies. But that didn’t matter. That invisible force was strong. It was an enormous thing like the white blob that invaded my dreams when I was sick. It invaded my mind then seeped down into my stomach and sucked it empty, leaving me alone and afraid. It was like a fog that covered us completely and controlled us. I couldn’t imagine that we would ever be released. How does one get rid of something one can’t see? We were going to be here forever. The blob would be with me forever.
* * *
We were dropped off at the back entrance of the mess hall next to a pile of coal. The barracks, six on each side of the mess hall, were placed perpendicular to it, and a laundry building that also housed the men’s and women’s bathrooms was behind it. Each pair of barracks faced each other. And each barrack had six apartments with a pair of apartments sharing a porch. The tiniest apartment for two or three persons and the largest, built for families of five, were paired and located at the ends of the barrack. The middle pair were twins, so to speak, built for families of four. Mounds of dirt formed paths that ran the length the barracks. Papa led the way to our apartment checking the paper with our address on it against the markings on the barrack. We walked on the raised path that branched off the main one to a porch in the middle of the barrack.
“8-2-C. Block 8, Barrack 2, Apartment C,” said Papa. “That’s it. Our new home.” The main path from our barrack led directly to the mess hall exit. The entrance was on the other side. The bathrooms were kitty-corner in the farthest part of the block relative to our “apartment.”
Just like the assembly center in Stockton, an apartment here was just a room. In the corner of our apartment were four collapsed cots, mattresses, a pile of army blankets, and a stack of huge white boards. Next to the inside wall stood a round black-metal wood-burning stove, which came up to my shoulder. It was tall and trim. It didn’t have a “pot,” so it couldn’t be called a pot belly stove. There was an opening at the top for depositing coal, wood, or trash and one at the bottom for removing the ashes.
The outside walls had exposed studs that formed the skeleton of the building. Two-by-fours ran up and down and diagonally, naked and uncovered. Thankfully, the walls separating the rooms extended to the ceiling. Our conversations would not be permitted to travel the attic tunnel to the rest of the barrack as they had in the assembly center.
* * *
Uncle Ray arrived to greet us. He and his family had preceded us by several days. Back in the assembly center they had been living close to the hospital, because my cousin was only six months old at the time. The section close to the hospital housed people from the farming areas surrounding Lodi, near Stockton. Since the schedule assignments to depart the assembly center had been based on location, they had arrived in Rohwer ahead of us and were housed together with their communities. Uncle Ray and his family were assigned to this same block and had arranged to have us live close by.
So now we were going to live among people from the farming area surrounding Lodi. My grandparents and Uncle Robert lived in the area where Stockton people were assigned, Block 33. Block 8 was another new community for our family. I would have to make a whole new set of friends.
* * *
“Before you bring your baggage in the room, we have to cover your walls with the plaster boards,” Uncle Ray said pointing to the stack. A couple of other men appeared from nowhere to help. “It’ll help to insulate the room from the heat as well as the cold.”
Soon the walls were transformed into a series of white panels. The skeleton got its skin. When they were done, we were left with the task of cleaning up chunks of plaster and paper that were trimmed from the boards. We had no cleaning tools, so Mama, Brian, and I painstakingly picked up as much as we could by hand. Mama used her handkerchief to clean up the fine chalky powder. We then unfolded the cots and set them up in pairs, so they were perpendicular to the outside walls. The beds were unmade, but Brian and I had the same idea. We each leaped onto a cot and stretched out. It felt good to be able to actually lie down after four nights of sleeping upright.
“Mama, I have to use the bathroom,” I said as I sat up suddenly.
“Why don’t you and I go look for it,” Mama said As we headed toward the mess hall, we met a woman who lived in the end apartment of our barrack. A cotton kerchief covered her head and pulled her hair away from her dark wrinkled face. She wore a flowered apron that covered most of her upper body. Her dark pants were tucked into black rubber boots that rose halfway up her calf.
“Excuse me,” Mama said. “We just moved in. My name is Mitsui and this is my daughter, Marie.”
“Welcome to Block 8. My name is Oyama. I have a daughter about your age,” she said as she put her hand on my head. “I don’t know where she is now, but come by later so you can meet her.”
Terrific! I thought. I’ll have a friend that lives in the same barrack!
“We’re just learning our way around.” Mama said. “Can you tell us where the bathroom is?”
“Of course. Go down past the mess hall and you’ll see another building. It’s U-shaped. Enter and turn right and there’ll be another door. That leads to the toilets and showers. The toilets are to the left. You want to go past the first two rows to the ones that face the wall, unless you like to look at someone else facing you as you’re sitting. There aren’t any doors on the stalls. A bunch of us were talking about making curtains or something. I think Mrs. Nakamura has already ordered some fabric from Sears Roebuck. Again, welcome. And let me know if there’s anything else I can do to help you,” she said.
Then, as we began to head toward the bathroom, she added, “Most people have ordered chamber pots from Sears Roebuck, if you don’t already have one. Otherwise it’s a long way to go in the middle of the night.”
It was a long way to the bathroom. Farther than at the assembly center. When we arrived, there was no one else using the toilets, so Mama and I were able to get the last ones in the row that faced the wall. No one would be walking past us, either. The wash area was equipped with real sinks and mirrors. There were two rows of them. About fourteen in all.
We also decided to check out the bathing area. There were four tubs and eight showers. Just as some of the toilets faced each other, the shower stalls faced each other as well. I wondered if curtains were going to be made for those, too.
As we left the bathroom, we saw that at the end of the corridor formed by the base of the “U” there was a door to the laundry room.
“Let’s go take a look,” I said to Mama as I dragged her by the hand and leaned forward using all my weight to pull her toward the laundry.
“I really think we should get back to our room.”
“There’s nothing to do right now. Our luggage isn’t here, yet. Come on, Mama.”
“Okay. We’ll just take a peek. And then we have to get back to the room.”
I was surprised by the size of the laundry room. It was an enormous area with eight pairs of double-sink washtubs occupying only half of it. There were only two women scrubbing clothes, totally absorbed in their work. One woman was busy near the entrance and the other at the far end. They didn’t seem to be aware of each other.
“Hi,” I said to the woman closest to the door. She was bent over her washboard in sudsy water. She was scrubbing a sheet, which she twisted tightly before snaking it gradually from the suds into the clear water in the next tub. Although she had her hair wrapped in a navy blue bandana, a few wisps hung in her fac
e. As she straightened up she tried to move the hair out of her eyes by sticking her lower lip out and blowing. The mischievous strands fanned out for a moment, then fell back into place to further annoy her. She then brought her sudsy hand out of the water and used her dry forearm to push the hair out of her eyes.
“Hi,” she said with a smile. She exhaled forcefully causing her shoulders to drop. She seemed happy to have a break.
“You must be the new folks. The Mitsuis? The Ray Mitsuis are my next door neighbor! Isn’t that a coincidence?” she said with a polite laugh. “My name is Yamamoto. Welcome to Block 8.” She bowed to Mama.
“My name is Mitsui,” Mama said as she returned her bow. “How do you do?”
“And who is this?” Mrs. Yamamoto said, turning to me.
“My name is Marie. How do you do, Mrs. Yamamoto. Do you have any daughters my age?”
“No,” she laughed. She wiped her hands on her apron and started to redo her bandana. “I have a daughter, but she’s in high school.”
“This is a very large laundry room.” Mama said. “All these washtubs . . . I’ve counted sixteen. Is it always this empty?”
“Heavens, no.” She said. “Sometimes every single wash stand is in use, and at other times, it’s like this. I haven’t figured out a pattern yet.”
“Oh. Then it’s just the luck of the draw as to whether you have to wait for a sink? And what is all that empty space back there?” Mama asked as she pointed to the expanse beyond the tubs.
“That’s supposed to be for ironing. But there aren’t any ironing boards. I hope they weren’t expecting us to provide our own. I certainly didn’t pack one. Did you?” Then she released a deep, hearty laugh that rolled through the empty laundry room like thunder. The woman at the other end looked up, shook her head, and returned to her wash.
Ironing boards never arrived. The empty space was eventually filled with ping pong tables that some of the men fashioned out of boards and saw horses. Mama did her ironing using her very firm bed as a board. I guess others did the same.
“You said you were neighbors of my in-laws. Can you tell me which is their apartment?” Mama asked.
“We’re right next door. We share a porch. We’re in 8-3-F, so they must be in “E,” she said. “They’re a great couple. And the baby is so cute. He never cries.”
* * *
Auntie Asayo screamed with delight when we arrived at her apartment. She was a very pretty lady with laughing eyes and a tiny pointed nose that tipped up. There were little toys peeking out of the pocket of the blue smock she wore over a flowered dress. My cousin, Ray, Jr., crawled on the floor behind her. When he caught up to her, he pulled himself hand over fist up his mother’s dress until he was standing. He wobbled like a drunkard as he turned and reached into his mother’s pocket. Out came a small car. He squealed with delight, sat down with a thud, and began chewing on his newly discovered toy.
“It’s so good to see you, both!” she said, as tears streamed down her face. “Come in, come in,” She pushed the screen door open. Then she suddenly held her hand out to stop us. “Do you mind taking off your shoes? Little Ray still crawls on the floor. He’s such a slow child. He’s almost a year old and he still isn’t walking.” She always talked like that. It was clear she was bursting with pride about little Ray, but she never bragged about him.
“What do you mean?” I said. “Look at him. He’s standing! Mama says Brian didn’t start walking until he was eighteen months. And look at the floor!” I said as I stared at it in disbelief. It gleamed like a polished table top. “How did you get it to look like that?” I asked.
“I use floor wax. And I wash it down every morning.” she said as she waved us into the room and gestured us to sit on her bed. “Ray sanded it down first so the baby wouldn’t get slivers. Then I waxed it. But never mind the floor. When did you get here?”
We told her how we had already seen Uncle Ray and how he was helping us get settled. Then we talked about our train trip from Stockton.
“While you went south, we took the northern route,” Aunt Asayo said. “We were able to see the Great Salt Lake and Colorado. The scenery was beautiful. And we were here in three days.”
“All we ever saw was desert and it took us four,” I said.
“I think the train went faster because there were babies and sick people on our train,” Aunt Asayo said. “Because we had little Ray, they gave me and the baby a Pullman berth, so we could lie down. But Big Ray had to sit throughout the trip like everyone else. I feel guilty that we were given special treatment, and that your trip was so long and uncomfortable.”
“It must have been uncomfortable for you, too, having to care for little Ray in cramped quarters,” Mama said. “But we’re here now, alive and well. I guess that’s all that’s really important.” Then Mama stood up suddenly as she looked at her watch. “Look at the time! We’d better get back!” We both hurried out the door.
We returned to our apartment to see that our luggage had arrived. Papa was disassembling the crate that held most of our belongings. There was a mountain of clothes, bedding, and other odds and ends piled high on the beds.
“I’ll build a table with wood from this box like I did before. Ray and Brian have gone to scavenge some wood scraps to make shelves,” Papa said, as he tugged at a stubborn nail. He braced his foot against the box and gave it a healthy yank. Out it came as the nail released its grip suddenly, sending Papa backward, so that he almost fell. He regained his balance, then turned to look at Mama. “It certainly took you a long time to go to the bathroom. Did you get lost?”
“No. I’m sorry we were gone so long. We bumped into a lot of people. We even stopped by to talk to Asayo,” Mama said.
“Are they all right? How’s little Ray doing?”
“They both seem to be settled in nicely. The baby seems on the verge of walking. He’s pulling himself up.”
“I’ll have to go over there and pay my respects, too. I’ll do that later.”
Mama and I finished setting up our apartment, as Papa continued with the box. She found some clothesline amidst our stuff and we pulled a section of it across the room so we could hang a blanket to create separate spaces for sleeping and waking activities. Mama also tacked pillow cases over the windows.
“It’s a good thing we brought all these sheets and pillow cases from the hotel,” she said. “I’m sure we’ll find other uses for them, too. But I might order fabric from Sears Roebuck later and make some decent curtains. For the time being, though, this will give us some privacy.” Mama said.
“And don’t forget to order a new chamber pot,” I said.
When Papa and Ray finished our projects, they left to begin working with the other men of the block doing community carpentry. They cut boards into three-foot slats and nailed them to logs stripped of their branches to place on the paths that connected the apartments to the common buildings. Then they became lumberjacks and were off into the woods to collect logs for firewood. These would be cut into uniform pieces, then split with an ax. The firewood would be laid in a cross-hatch pattern until a huge pile stood like a stack of Lincoln Logs at the far end of the laundry/bathroom building. This wood would be used to fuel the boilers in the bath and laundry rooms.
Every so often a lumberjack would get lost in the dense woods. It was a treacherous combination of marsh and forest with bogs and snakes. If it was after nightfall, curfew would be suspended and everyone was permitted to leave their lights on. Since our block was the closest to the forest, we were constantly involved. People would wave their flashlights and call into the darkness. Thankfully, no one ever got permanently lost.
We ate our meals in two shifts. The mess halls were not large enough to handle our entire block at one sitting. Ours was the second bell, and Mama, Brian, and I ate together. Papa was hired as a cook, so he ate with the kitchen crew. He had worked in a restaurant in his youth and entered that on his questionnaire, even if his experience was only as a busboy.
&
nbsp; We could always count on creamed corn for dinner. It was the stable staple in our diet. I imagined that the cooks mined a bottomless pit of the stuff somewhere deep in the woods. Mercifully, when the crops grown by some of the internees reached harvest, our meals became more varied.
There was always a surplus of bread. Every day platefuls placed on each table were left uneaten and piles of bagged loaves were left by the exit from the mess hall for people to take back to their rooms. Bread pudding was a regular, as was stuffing, toast, and anything else the cooks could make with leftover bread. It didn’t take a genius to figure out we didn’t eat much bread, because we were rice eaters. The only time we ever ate bread back in San Francisco was when Mama made a sandwich. I’m sure that was true for everyone else. The rumor was that someone in the administration was related to the owner of a bread factory. Eventually, rice made its way to our tables, but that didn’t replace the bread. A plate of bread continued to appear at every meal.
Papa came home one evening and announced that we were going to have turkey for our first Thanksgiving dinner in camp. That was exciting news. We had always had turkey back home in San Francisco, so it would be like a little piece of home in Arkansas.
“I’m so glad I’m working in the kitchen. My experience at Pig ’N Whistle Restaurant will come in handy with the turkeys,” he said. “All this reminds me of the days when I first arrived in San Francisco.”
“I thought you were a busboy at Pig ’N Whistle. Did you also cook?” I asked.
“I spent a lot of time in the kitchen, so I watched what the cook did. I learned a lot from just watching. And sometimes I helped cook,” he said.
We learned from Papa that there was more than the usual amount of preparation involved for the big Thanksgiving dinner. So Papa was at the kitchen most of the day. At one point he came home very upset.
“Those idiots,” he said. “They’re going to ruin the turkeys. They want to overcook them. They probably never prepared turkeys before. But I know that the worst thing you can do is overcook them. The meat gets dry and tasteless. I can’t convince them to cut down the cooking time.” He paced a bit, then returned to the kitchen.
The Little Exile Page 13