“And if Japan wins this war, we’re in big trouble,” Papa said. “We will be considered traitors, since we’re citizens of Japan. But since we made America our home and decided years ago that we wouldn’t be returning to Japan, it won’t matter. Just hope the U.S. wins. . . .” With that, they pledged their loyalty to the United States.
Mary was a very good friend. She and I visited each other’s apartments often. Mary was about thirty years old, but not yet married. She was tall and slender, with a long face and nose. She was always cheerful and had a certain rhythm about the way she walked and talked.
She had a collection of jewelry that she kept carefully arranged in a wooden box. Whenever I visited her in her apartment, she explained the different ways stones were cut and mounted. My favorite was the ruby ring that she wore most often. Each time I saw her with it I said something about it. One day, to my surprise, she removed it from her finger and gave it to me!
“You like it more than I do, Marie. It’s yours. I want you to have it as a reminder of our friendship. If I ever get married and have a daughter, I would want her to be just like you!”
“That‘s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me! That means more to me than the ring! But I’ll take good care of it and it’ll always remind me of you.” It was a heavily faceted oval stone in a bezel setting. That means it was cut at angles in many places so that it reflected light from all directions and was held in place by a continuous piece of gold, rather than just prongs. The inside of the ring was faceted just like the exposed surface. It wasn’t a cabochon, which is a stone sliced in half. I wound tape around the inside of the ring so it wouldn’t slip off my finger. But it was on and off my finger constantly so I could admire and more fully appreciate the wonderful gift and what it represented. I would hold it up to the light and peer through it. One day, I set it down instead of replacing it on my finger. I never saw the ring again. I was so ashamed. I never told Mary what I had done. Instead I told her that Mama had it for safekeeping.
Among those who answered the questionnaire in such a way that they were transferred to Tule Lake was Jim, a friend of Brian’s friend Dave. Jim wrote that he was enraged that his father had wanted to return to Japan. Jim decided that he would run away, although he was only thirteen at the time. He and a couple of friends planned to “hop a freight train” to Oregon. It might have worked, had not other kids learned of it and tried to join them. Three would-be escapees grew to a crowd of twelve. They all appeared at the appointed time without warning. Rather than abort the plan, Jim and his friends decided to go through with it. They managed to squeeze under the barbed wire, and down the road toward the tracks. But word of their planned escape had spread to adults, who alerted the sentries.
“We could have made it if it weren’t for those other kids tagging along. They slowed us down. But I’ll tell you, I was never so scared in my life as when all those soldiers in tanks bore down on us with their guns and lights. They yelled at us, ‘Halt! Or we’ll shoot!’ Man, I didn’t have to think twice. I stopped so suddenly, I fell down,” Jim wrote in his letter to Dave. Poor Jimmy. I hope he doesn’t get shipped to Japan, I thought.
As a result of the questionnaire there was a lot of shuffling of families from one camp to another. Some of the people who lived in Tule Lake and didn’t want to go to Japan were moved to other camps to make room for the new inmates. Our block received two such families.
One of them, the Sanos, was a family of three. They had a daughter, Ann, who was nine, a year younger than I. She was very pretty, although some said that she and I resembled each other. Poor Ann.
We never became friends. Perhaps because she hated it when folks made comments regarding our resemblance. There was no doubt in my mind that it was an insult to her. We were also in different grades.
Another latecomer to our block was a large family from Hawaii. They arrived one rainy day, dressed in Hawaiian clothes. Short-sleeved shirts, shorts, cotton dresses, and split toe sandals. The rest of us were bundled in coats and boots. One of the children was a girl about my age. She had long, dark brown hair that flowed in soft waves past her shoulders. She had eyes that never stopped smiling. It didn’t matter if she was laughing or frowning. I kept my fingers crossed that she was also a fifth-grader. She wasn’t. She was in fourth grade. There were now four girls in fourth grade in our block. I was the only one in my block in the fifth.
The other two girls in the fourth grade were Martha and Teruko. They both lived on the other side of the block and were from large families. Yoshiye was the oldest of six and moved and talked like a boy. She wore dresses that hung amazingly loose on her body. From her broad shoulders, they would drape straight down as though there was nothing to break their fall.
Martha had dark eyebrows that arched over large deeply set eyes framed in thick dark lashes. She was beautiful.
I usually bathed late in the evening when there were few people in the bathroom. One evening I decided to go right after dinner around six. As I entered the shower room, I could hear shouting and laughter. Martha was standing naked at the entrance to the showers, beaming. Donna and a couple of other high-school-aged girls were pointing at the swelling around her nipples, celebrating the fact that her breasts were developing.
“What about you, Marie? Let’s have a look!”
I turned around and left. They called after me calling me a poor sport. I decided I hated showers. And I hated those girls. That was the last time I entered when they were around.
Not long after that incident, I was going to the bathroom after there had been a heavy rain. I could hear men’s voices coming from the women’s lavatory.
“What’s going on?” I shouted. “What are you men doing in there? It’s a girl’s lavatory you’re in, you know. I have to go. . . .”
“There’s a snake loose in here. You girls need to keep the outside door closed! Especially during a storm!”
Between leering teenagers and snakes, the bathroom was not a pleasant place.
* * *
In the fall of 1943 our family received an enormous package from San Francisco. Jean Ireland’s parents had arranged to have our large Gilfillan radio shipped to us. It was the talk of the block. No one ever before had received anything like it. Wrapped separately were some loose-knit sleeveless sweaters and wool plaid skirts for me. Just what Jean would wear, I thought. Jean had also included letters from some of my Lawton classmates. I felt like I was back at Lawton when I read them. For them it seemed nothing had changed. The kids were just as they were when we left, except we weren’t there anymore. The letters made me cry. I never wrote back, because I felt embarrassed to tell them what it was like here.
The radio was my link to the “outside.” I kept up with the latest songs by listening to the “Hit Parade” and pressed my ear to the radio in an attempt to learn lyrics. Fred Allen and Jack Benny were also my favorites, and I was able to get a glimpse of what those on the outside were experiencing through their comic routines. However, as much as I enjoyed listening to them, I was always left with the feeling that I was the “outsider,” an eavesdropper. The programs touched on common experiences Americans shared that didn’t include people like me. Programs ended with patriotic messages like “Buy War Bonds” or “Save your grease to make ammunition.” It reminded me of that brief period after the war started when we were living in San Francisco. A time when I felt like I was doing my part in the war effort. That seemed so long ago.
* * *
Papa had a job with the Community Activities department because of his acting background. CA was responsible for providing entertainment to the internees. One could say we experienced the evolution of the movies in camp. Early in our stay, we didn’t have “talkies” (movies with sound). He and his committee did things like provide sound for silent movies. It started with crashing waves. Papa and his coworkers simulated the sound of the ocean with rocks rolling around in a washtub. He also did voice-overs. He added dialogue to a full-length Japanese sile
nt film, 47 Ronin (“47 Samurai”), which someone had brought into camp. All the characters, including women and children, were done by men. Rehearsals often took place in our apartment. It was pretty silly. My father’s voice did not sound anything like a woman’s, no matter how squeaky high he raised it. But they seemed to enjoy themselves, and I guess others enjoyed their work, too, regardless. They played to packed houses.
After a couple of years, CA was able to rent movies. Papa would bring catalogs home from movie companies such as United Artists and Columbia that released their films in 16mm format. I would pore through the books and tell him which movies I wanted to see. I spent a great deal of time reading the short descriptions and determining who the starring actors were. Many of the movies I selected were actually screened. Henry Fonda, Walter Pidgeon, Maureen O’Hara, and James Stewart were among my favorite actors, so my choices of Grapes of Wrath, How Green Was My Valley, and Mr. Smith Goes to Washington were very logical picks. I also chose Abbott and Costello’s Hold That Ghost and Flying High, which I had remembered seeing just before the war. The early movies were limited to those available in 16mm because of the small size of our “theaters.” They were converted recreation halls. Each block had a recreation hall, but a few blocks had to sacrifice theirs for the common good to be used as churches, canteens (mini-stores), and movie theaters.
The movie theater in our area was in Block 10. We were fortunate because the people in that block built rows of seats on gradually elevated risers to imitate theater seating. There were no bad seats in that house. Later, with the construction of a large auditorium in the center of the camp, more recent 35mm movie releases became available to us. The first to be shown was Lost Weekend, starring Ray Milland. I didn’t see it, since it was all about a man who has a problem because of his love of alcohol.
CHAPTER 16
“Dream”
PIED PIPERS
Alcohol was no stranger to our household. Many of the arguments between my parents were about Papa’s drinking. When we lived in San Francisco, Papa really enjoyed his beer and Japanese sake. He settled down every evening comfortable in his yukata, sitting cross-legged in his chair, savoring his drink.
But it only became a problem when he was drinking away from home. A particularly frightening episode occurred in San Francisco on our way home from a visit with Uncle Ray. He lived on Monterey Boulevard. Our home was in the Sunset. Somehow we found ourselves at the entrance to the Twin Peaks tunnel at West Portal Avenue. It was designed for streetcars, only. The tracks sat above ground in the tunnel and blended into the pavement that rose to meet their level as they exited the tunnel.
As we drove home after Papa’s drinking all evening, Papa attempted to enter the tunnel and drove off the pavement into the track area. We were all in the car and I recall thinking we would be crushed by a streetcar charging out of the tunnel before Papa could free the car from the tracks. By some miracle, he was able to get back on the pavement and back out of the tunnel. Things like that didn’t happen often, but it was frightening when they did.
In camp there was no beer or sake. There wasn’t any kind of alcohol. And, of course, there were no cars, so concerns about Papa drinking and driving were not issues. But one day Papa made a surprising announcement. “I’m going to make my own sake!”
The word “sake” isn’t just for “rice wine” but can be used for any kind of liquor. Holy moley, I thought. Papa wants to make “moonshine!” Just like Lonesome Polecat and Hairless Joe! They were characters in the Li’l Abner comic strips. They were bootleggers and made “kickapoo joy juice,” which was whiskey. It was made in the light of the moon. That’s why it was called “moonshine.” They had to make it at night to avoid being caught. The bootleggers were on constant guard against “Revenoo’ers,” special police who were on the prowl for “moonshiners.”
“Isn’t it against the law to do this?” I asked. “Won’t ‘revenoo’ers’ be looking for you?”
“Revenoo’ers?”
“In L’il Abner, revenoo’ers are always looking for bootleggers,” I said.
“What are they going to do?” asked Papa. “Put me in jail?” Then he laughed.
“Hey! Isn’t Dogpatch supposed to be in Arkansas?” said Brian. “Only, they’re in the Ozarks. But Ozarks, bottom-lands, what’s the difference. Arkansas is Arkansas! It’s the perfect state to have a still!” Then he laughed. “Maybe someone will create a cartoon about Papa and his version of ‘kickapoo joy juice’!”
“It’s not funny, Brian! It’s against the law! Suppose he gets caught! They might send us to Japan!”
“You’re right, Marie, this could be serious.” Brian said. “Hey, Pop, remember when you used to talk about Mr. Shimizu and how he got blind from drinking poorly made whiskey during prohibition? You’re no expert in whiskey-making. Suppose something goes wrong?”
Then, suddenly, Papa said, “A chamber pot! I’ll make it in a chamber pot! It would be perfect! It’s just the right size and I can keep it under the cot. No one would know I was brewing.“
“I’m confused, Papa. How can you get a whiskey-making contraption under a cot?” asked Brian
“I’m not going to make whiskey. That’s distilled liquor. For that, you need fancy equipment and there’s boiling and catching the liquid from tubes. And temperature is critical. With Japanese sake you just let rice rot,” Papa said.
He had been talking to Mr. Kobayashi on the other side of our camp. Not only had he made sake before, but he also had a key ingredient he was willing to share with Papa. Sake is fermented rice, I learned. Together with what he received from Mr. Kobayashi and some rice from the kitchen, he was ready to start his own brew.
“How will you keep the buckets separate? They both stink. You might accidentally use the wrong one!” his friends teased when Papa told them his plan. “You won’t find me drinking from your chamber pot!”
“They don’t have to drink it. I’ll just enjoy it by myself,” he said after they left. “It’ll be their loss. That much more for me.”
It still didn’t seem right. But at least I wouldn’t have to worry about him driving drunk. From the Sears Roebuck catalog, he selected a gray-and-white-mottled pot, distinct from the other navy-blue-and-white one. He had Mama get some rice from the mess hall. He placed the rice in the pot with water and the ingredients he received from Mr. Kobayashi. Each morning he carefully washed his hands before he removed the lid to stir the mash. On the third day, the faint stench of sake escaped when he opened the pail.
One evening after two weeks had passed, he announced, “I think it’s ready.” He carefully pressed a piece of cloth down onto the surface of the liquid, which filtered through to the top. He scooped some of the clear liquid with a cup and handed it to Mama.
“Here. Heat this,” he ordered. The pot of water she had placed on the hotplate was boiling. She removed the pot from the heat and placed the cup in the hot water without scalding her fingers. She had done this many times before in San Francisco and was an expert.
“How is it?” Mama asked.
“Hmm. I can’t really tell,” said Papa. “Heat some more.” This continued for a few glasses.
“This is really strong stuff!” Papa said a short while later. “It’s gone to my head. I’ve got to lie down.” Mama had to help him to bed.
The following morning he complained he didn’t feel well. Of course, he’s not feeling well, I thought. He’s “hung over.” I continued my usual morning routine to get ready for school. After getting dressed I squeezed some toothpaste on my toothbrush, grabbed my soap case, and draped my towel around my neck. I was about to go out the door. Mama and Brian had already left for the bathroom. Papa was looking at himself in the small mirror hanging on the wall.
“I can’t seem to close my right eye,” he said. I could see part of his reflection. There was a definite droopy look to his right eye.
“Let me take a look,” I said. He turned and when I saw his face, I felt like I was watching a s
cene from “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.” In it, Dr. Jekyll watches his face transform into the grotesque Mr. Hyde character. I had to step back. Half of Papa’s face looked as though something was pulling it down, while the other half was normal. As he tried to speak, saliva spilled from his drooping lips.
“Something’s wrong with my face!” he said. Just then Mama walked in the door. I could see the horror in her eyes when she looked at him. “Oh, my goodness! We have to get you to the doctor!” she said.
“I’m not leaving the house looking like this,” Papa said.
“Don’t be difficult. You have to see the doctor.”
“Have the doctor come here!” Papa said. “Tell him I’m too sick to go to the hospital.”
“Okay, okay . . .” Mama said reluctantly. “I’ll go get him. In the meantime, go back to bed,” she said. “And, Marie, you go wash up and get ready for school. There’s no need for you to be here. You’ll just be in the way.”
“But, is Papa going to be all right?” I whispered.
“I don’t know. But there’s nothing you can do, so go on to school.”
“Maybe I should stay with Papa while you get the doctor.”
“I don’t need anyone to stay with me!” Papa shouted. “Just do what Mama says!”
When I returned home that day, I learned that it wasn’t serious. That is to say, he wasn’t going to die. He had just lost control of all the muscles on that side of his face. The doctor diagnosed it as Bell’s Palsy. Since Papa didn’t tell him about his “moonshine,” we never learned whether or not there was a connection. But no one else hesitated to make it.
“I’m glad you tested it first,” said Uncle Ray, when he came by to see him. “Something must have gone wrong with the brew.”
The Little Exile Page 16