The Little Exile

by Jeanette Arakawa

  “It’s a really beautiful house, Papa,” Brian said. “It’s not that we don’t like it. For the first time in our lives, we would be able to live in a real house. It’s perfect. The only thing is, all our friends are returning to California. Marie and I want to return to California, too. If we buy this house, that would mean we would have to stay here forever.”

  Papa was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “The most important thing for me is that you two are happy. I am sorry that you have had to live in the kind of places that you have. I just wanted you to be able to live in a decent place. But to be honest, I’d like to return to California, too. Everyone in our family has returned now. I especially miss Uncle Ray.” He paused as he gazed out the window.

  “But I know you have made friends here, so I didn’t think you’d want to move again,” he continued. He turned to look at us. “We’ve made so much progress here. If we go back to San Francisco, it’ll be like starting all over again. Housing is very scarce. People are living in the Buddhist churches.”

  “I think we should go back anyway,” I said. “If we stay here it’ll be like starting all over again, anyway, since all my friends will be gone. At least we have relatives in California. And we’ll be back in San Francisco, where we belong.”

  “What about you, Mama, what do you want to do?” Papa said.

  “Of course, I want to return to California. I’d like to be able to visit Grandma. She’s almost seventy. She probably doesn’t have many more years left. “

  “So, we’re returning to California?” Brian asked.

  “Papa,” I asked, “is it decided we’re going home?”

  He nodded. “But before we celebrate, we have to find out if we can get work there. “I’ll write to Ray and see if he can find me a job.”

  * * *

  Two long weeks passed before we heard from Uncle Ray. Finally, a letter from San Francisco! Brian was the first to see it. He would have opened it and read it, had it not been written in Japanese.

  “He says there are three job openings available to us!” Papa said as his eyes scrolled down and up the page. “They’re crying for pressers and silk finishers. We can take our pick of jobs! Okay! We’re really returning to San Francisco! Before we all go back, Uncle Ray wants me to check the jobs out for myself and find a place to live.”

  Then he turned to Mama.

  “You’ll have to tell my boss that I’m sick and can’t work. It’s important that you keep working while I go to San Francisco, just in case things don’t work out.”

  “How’re you going to get to San Francisco?” Brian asked.

  “By car. You’ll have to come with me to help with the driving.”

  “Wow, I’d hoped you would say that! That’ll be great!” said Brian. “I get to do some serious driving!”

  The next couple of days the entire family was busy making plans for Papa and Brian’s trip to San Francisco. The car had to be checked by the mechanic, clothes packed, and snacks assembled. I peeked over Papa’s shoulder as he and Brian planned the route they would take to San Francisco.

  Early Monday, August 3, 1946, Mama and I stood at the curb and waved to Papa and Brian as they drove off to San Francisco. For a brief moment, I was Alice, waving to me as I left San Francisco, four years earlier.

  That evening Mama and I were trying to imagine how much progress they had made.

  “They’re probably approaching the Wyoming/Utah border by now,” I said. “At least that was their goal for the first day.”

  Just then, there was a commotion in front of the house.

  “I think we have visitors, Mama,” I said. “But who’d be dropping by at this hour?”

  Mama peered out the front window and gasped, “Papa and Brian are back!”

  We rushed out to greet them as the cab drove off.

  “What happened? Where’s the car?” I shouted.

  “It broke down in Cheyenne, Wyoming, and it’s being fixed. We came back by bus.”

  “So, the car can be fixed?” asked Mama.

  “It’ll take a few days, but it’s fixable.”

  The following week, Papa and Brian were off again. This time they rode the city bus to the Greyhound terminal. We didn’t see them again for two weeks.

  When they returned, they were brimming with news about who they saw, what they saw, and, most importantly for me, a description of the place they found for us to rent.

  “It’s in the middle of Japanese Town,” Brian said. “We have two rooms. One at either end of a flat. The front room is really large, so you and I can share that one. It has bay windows and a fireplace. The smaller one is at the other end of the flat and the folks will use that one. We won’t have our own kitchen or bathroom. We have to share them with another family. They’re the owners. It’s a couple, two teen-aged children, a grown daughter, and one grandchild. But the folks’ room has a sink, hotplates, and eating area, so we could eat there, if we don’t want to use a full-size kitchen.”

  “That’s the best we could do,” Papa said. “There is a housing shortage in San Francisco, just as I suspected. The jobs are at great cleaning shops, so I’m looking forward to working. But Uncle Ray says we should look toward buying our own business. That’s what he’s done already. Since we didn’t buy that house, we have enough cash to do that.”

  “What’s a bay window?” I asked.

  “You explain it to her, Brian,” Papa said, shaking his head. “In the meantime, we have lots to do. Let’s get busy.”

  Papa purchased a one-wheel trailer, which he attached to the rear of our car. All our earthly belongings had to be packed on it. We also had to leave space for four recapped 550 x 17 tires, since no one made tires this size anymore. Old ones were salvaged by some garages and new treads attached. We were grateful for that. We were warned that they were not easily found outside of large cities; hence, our stockpile.

  Our old car’s other special need was water because of its cracked block. We filled jugs with water for the leaky block’s unquenchable thirst. By the time we finished loading our car’s necessities, there was little space for ours. Much like we did when we left San Francisco, we pared our things down to the bare essentials. Even so, the result was a tall, precarious heap of suitcases, bundles, tires, and water jugs that reached above the level of the roof of the car. It was evening by the time we finished arranging and packing the trailer into an acceptable mound.

  The following morning, in the middle of August 1946, we left Denver and headed toward San Francisco. Foremost in everyone’s mind was the hope that the aging, ailing car would safely deliver us home to California.

  We headed north toward Wyoming. It was a magnificent drive. The majestic rocky crags of Colorado yielded to the soft rolling hills and meadows of Wyoming. Little streams and brooks meandered alongside the roads. After a couple of hours we pulled over to eat lunch. We parked next to a gently babbling brook that ran alongside the road and gazed in amazement at the quiet beauty of the area. We munched the rice balls and pickled vegetables Mama had prepared before dawn that morning. Ahead toward the horizon a huge wall of dark clouds appeared to be creeping toward us like a dense, dark fog. We were soon to learn that these clouds would appear in waves and become our constant companion across the entire state of Wyoming. When at last we met the clouds, we were greeted with sudden intense showers. The clouds poured on our windshield in torrents as if someone were throwing buckets of water at us. Then the rain would stop as suddenly as it started. Dark clouds would reappear in the distance, then drench us once again when we met.

  Although water poured from the heavens, blurring our windshield and creating rivulets on our path, it could not satisfy the thirst of our engine’s cracked block. We soon ran out of our water jug reservoir. During the breaks in the rain, we searched for sources to replenish it. We discovered that we had to be on the lookout for livestock. Livestock meant water troughs. We raided the supply of water ranchers created for horses and cows.

  The first nig
ht, we didn’t eat at a restaurant in the small town we passed through, for fear we wouldn’t be served. Papa and Brian had had that experience on their earlier trip through the area. We stopped at a grocery store instead, and Mama bought makings for sandwiches, which we ate in the car. At nightfall, we pulled over on the side of the road and slept the best we could in the car. Hotels and motels were out of the question. They had even stricter rules about who they would and would not serve, Papa said.

  From Wyoming we entered Utah. The most memorable event of that part of our trip was Salt Lake City. We were able to eat at the Chinese restaurant that Papa and Brian had found on their earlier trip.

  We sat in a secluded room enclosed by a curtain. It was set up just like the Chinese restaurants in San Francisco. I felt transported to those days before the war. My excitement about returning home grew.

  But most of our energy was focused on the journey, without much thought beyond that. Our trip was broken up by a series of stops for water or flat tires. Anxiety ran high that we would eventually find ourselves totally dry, or totally tire-less.

  About twenty-five miles out of Winnemucca, it happened. Our last tire blew. We had no replacement. It was on a road with little traffic, in the midst of miles and miles of low shrubs and no trees. Papa shifted the weight on the trailer and unhitched it. One end sloped up to provide shade for us. We pondered our plight.

  It was decided that Mama should represent our family to strangers, because she spoke better English and was a woman. Papa felt that people would be more sympathetic and less likely to be prejudiced against a woman. Tipping the scales in Mama’s favor was also the fact that Papa resembled the emperor of Japan.

  Mama tried to flag down the intermittent cars that passed, but no one stopped. Then Papa spotted a train in the distance running parallel to the road.

  “Maybe you can stop one of those trains and ride back into Winnemucca,” he said to Mama.

  I tried to envision that. Mama would walk across the desert in her cuban-heeled shoes and flag down a freight train. The engineer would stop, let her climb into the cab? Or she would run astride of the train as the engineer decelerated and she would hop on one of the cars, like they do in the movies?

  Just then a pickup pulled up in front of us.

  “What seems to be the trouble?” the driver asked.

  Mama told him what had happened.

  “I can take you back to town to a garage I think can help you,” he said.

  To my surprise, Papa led Mama to the pickup and opened the door for her. I couldn’t believe what was happening. Papa put Mama in a total stranger’s car!

  “You go with him and I’ll stay,” Papa told Mama as he helped her climb into the cab. “Someone has to stay with the children,” Papa said. With that he slammed the door shut and told us to stand back.

  The pickup kicked up dust as it moved off the shoulder and swung a U-turn onto the road. I watched as the truck faded in the distance. Will I ever see Mama again, I wondered.

  After what seemed like hours, a garage truck pulled up behind our stranded car with Mama sitting at the driver’s side.

  “I’m so glad you’re safe,” I said and threw my arms around her.

  “Of course, she’s safe!” said the driver, “and we have a couple of tires for you. Hopefully, these should take care of the rest of your trip. You’ll be out of the desert soon, so your tires won’t heat up so much. That’s what makes them come apart.”

  I was so grateful to the men who came to our aid. It gave me hope to know that there was also kindness and generosity in the world. Papa was in tears and wanted to give the garage man extra money.

  “You folks have been through a lot. I’m glad to be of help,” he said as he took Papa’s hand and closed it around the money Papa offered him.

  That evening, we had dinner at a Chinese restaurant in Reno and spent our last night in the car. We were near the Nevada/California border.

  The following day, Brian drove as our car labored up the mountain into California. We stopped twice to quench the car’s thirst. Brian was so relieved when we finally reached the summit.

  “Boy! I didn’t think this car was going to make it up that grade!” he said. “It’s a lot harder this second time with the car so loaded and pulling a trailer. Going down should be easy. We can just coast.”

  As we made the descent toward Lake Tahoe, the car began to pick up speed.

  “Slow down, Brian,” Papa said, “you’re going too fast.”

  “Did you hear me? I said SLOW DOWN! You’re not going to be able to make the turns! YOU’RE GOING TOO FAST!!”

  “SLOW DOWN!!!”

  “I can’t!” said Brian, finally. “Pop, We don’t have any brakes. . . . The brakes don’t work anymore!”

  “You were riding the brakes! You should have been pumping them!”

  “I know, but they don’t work anymore . . .”

  “Pump them! PUMP THEM!”

  The trailer whipped the car in delayed action to the curves in the road. The front and back of the car jerked in opposite directions. And cars were coming up the hill.

  “Keep a good grip on the wheel! Don’t oversteer!” Papa yelled.

  “I’m trying my best!”

  So there were curves, a “fishtailing” trailer pushing us, and oncoming traffic. I was being thrown back and forth between the door and Mama.

  “Get down on the floor, Marie! You’re going to get hurt!” Mama yelled. I slid down into the well in the floor formed by the middle hump and door. I pulled my knees to my chest and curled up into a ball. We came this far and now that we’ve finally reached California, we’re going to crash and die, I thought.

  After what seemed like forever, the car stopped its jerky movements and settled into a peaceful, straight course. I crawled out of my niche back onto the seat. We were now on flat land. Miraculously, we had managed to survive. Brian pulled off the road and Papa took the wheel. He drove the grade up through Donner Pass and down into the Sacramento Valley.

  In Sacramento, we stopped at a grocery store and we all went in without fear of rejection. It was a store that Papa and Brian discovered earlier. It was run by Japanese Americans. We helped Mama gather items for our lunch. Although it was very hot, we had a picnic in the shade of a huge elm tree in a nearby city park. It was the best lunch ever.

  We made a detour in Richmond in the East Bay to visit my adult cousin, Brent, who was living in temporary housing the government had built during the war for shipyard workers. They lived in a real apartment with indoor plumbing and everything.

  “Why don’t you stay here?” Brent asked. “You won’t have to share your bathroom and kitchen. It’s a nice friendly little community with lots of Japanese Americans.”

  It would have been nice not to have to share parts of our living space, but Papa decided it was too long a commute to San Francisco. Finally, we started the last leg of our journey. We were almost home.

  As we approached San Francisco Bay, a cool breeze blew in through the open windows. The towers of the Golden Gate Bridge peeked through the fluffy white shroud that surrounded its base and most of the water. As we passed the Emeryville mudflats, the familiar odor of the black muck that carpeted its shoreline wafted into the car.

  Misty puffs separated from the fogbank across the bay floated toward us. Foghorns groaned in the distance. They all seemed to be saying, “Welcome home. Marie. Welcome home!”

  AFTERWORD

  AN EPILOGUE OF SORTS

  In commemoration of the fiftieth anniversary of Japan’s attack on Pearl Harbor, a gathering of a civic organization in a neighboring town was planning a special program. Speakers were to be selected to share their recollections of that day. I was asked to speak. I was reluctant at first, but the chair of the event was someone I had known for many years and was very persuasive.

  “You must share your story, Jeanette,” she said. “It’s an important part of our shared experience. Today with the gift of wisdom the passing yea
rs have given us, we can come together as a family to reflect and bond.”

  This was true. Postwar, the ban on interracial marriages was removed; racial covenants were outlawed; the McCarran-Walter Act permitted my parents to become naturalized citizens; and in 1988 we received a formal letter of apology from our government for wrongfully imprisoning us during World War II.

  I was watching my mother shorten my coat that December 7th morning. I could share that and my parents’ reaction to the attack. Folks could see the commonality in our diverse experiences. We were all Americans experiencing the horror of having been attacked by a common enemy. I agreed to participate.

  “Great, Jeanette. I am so pleased!”

  * * *

  It was a Sunday afternoon. I was early, but the door was open, so I walked in to find a crowd of tall people scurrying about tending to last-minute details. It was as though I had entered a forest of moving trees. No one seemed to take note of my arrival. At other functions, there would usually be a greeter. Being that I was waist high to most of these people, they probably didn’t see me. A manzanita among sequoias, I thought. This happens to me often. In restaurants, for example, a host will look past me to seat the person at his eye level. It wasn’t too long ago, though, that I would interpret seeming slights as racially motivated. But I had since outgrown such paranoia. My friend was nowhere in sight. As the chair of the event, it was understandable that she would be occupied elsewhere.

  No matter. I’ll just look around on my own. To my right was a table with neatly arranged handouts. Mostly recruitment material for the organization. There were about fifty chairs set up in the middle of the room. I decided to take a seat toward the front. As I turned to my left, I was startled at what greeted me. “JAPS BOMB PEARL HARBOR,” screamed one poster. Similar headlines on several other newspapers were mounted on poster board supported by easels.