“Don't think of it,” Hiroko said to her. But there was too much not to think of these days.
And on Christmas night, after he'd given her the tiny ring he'd made with a gold band he'd fashioned himself, and a tiny piece of turquoise he'd found in the nearby mountains, Tadashi sat down and had a serious talk with Sally. He wanted to know what she wanted to do with her future.
“What does that mean?” she asked, looking very young as he smiled at her. They had been “dating” for a year, ever since her father's death, and if he hadn't been twenty-five years old, he'd have called it “going steady.”
“You mean like school?” she asked, confused and embarrassed, and unhappy to be leaving him. Her mind had been a jumble for weeks. She was happy they were about to be free, but she didn't want to leave Tadashi.
“I mean like us, not school.” He smiled at her, and held her hand in his own. She was about to turn eighteen, and she had almost finished high school. She was a senior at the camp school, and she would graduate in New Jersey. “What do you want to do, Sally? Grow up and go to college in New Jersey?” She hadn't even thought of college yet. All any of them ever thought of was freedom.
“I don't know. I'm not sure I care about school that much,” she said honestly. She was always honest with him. She could say anything to Tadashi. He was that kind of person, and she loved him. “I know my dad did, and my mom probably will again once we're out of here. I don't know what I want. … I just want …” Her eyes filled with tears as she looked at him, and weeks of terror and grief engulfed her. It brought it all back to her again, losing Ken, losing her dad, and now she was going to lose Tadashi. Why was it that she lost all the men in her life? That they all deserted her one way or the other? She could hardly breathe, she was in so much pain, thinking of leaving Tule Lake without him. “I just want to be with you,” she said, crying as she finished her sentence, and he looked immensely relieved as she said it.
“So do I,” he said soberly. She was young, but she was old enough. Others had made their minds up at her age. “What do you think your mother would say if I ask her to come with you?” And then he gulped, and took another big step, which left her staring at him. “We could get married when we get there.”
“Do you mean that?” She looked like a child at Christmas. Maybe she hadn't lost everything after all, and she threw her arms around his neck. He had been wonderful to her all year, and she had been reasonable and mature ever since she'd been with him. She thought her mother might just agree. And if she didn't, maybe he could come back later.
“I'd like to get married right away,” he went on, “but I still want you to finish school,” he said, sounding firm, and she giggled. “After you finish high school, we'll talk about what you want to do.” But, by then, he hoped they'd be having a baby. They could wait till June at least, before they got started. But they had all lost so much of life in the past three years that he wanted it all now. A wife, and family, and babies, and decent meals, and warm clothes, and a real apartment with central heating. “I should be able to find work in New Jersey too. At least I hope so.” He had a college degree, and unlike Hiroko, he also had training as a paramedic. “I'll talk to your mother,” he promised.
And he did the next day. She was surprised at first. She thought Sally was still too young, but she had to agree with him that everything had accelerated in the camps, people grew up faster, people died young, just as Tak had. And now her little girl wanted to get married. But she was fond of Tad, and she thought he'd make Sally a good husband, and she agreed to let him go with them. And he had talked to his own mother that day about his plans, and she understood. She wanted to go to Ohio anyway, to stay with her sister. And she had no objection to him joining the Tanakas in New Jersey, or even marrying the elder daughter. At first she thought he meant Hiroko, and she hadn't been pleased. She didn't approve of Toyo, but she was happy when she heard it was Sally, and wished him well. And afterward, when they told the others, he and Sally were elated. The only one not going with them now was Hiroko. But she still insisted that she wanted to return to San Francisco.
“I can always go later,” she promised again. But there was a sweet sadness to everything now, a bittersweet quality to the people they saw, the places they went. Every time Hiroko looked at something or saw someone, she remembered that soon she would never be seeing them again, and it made her weep and cling to Toyo. Soon he would be the only familiar face she saw, the only person she loved and who loved her. And he would never remember the place where he had been born, or the lessons they'd learned there.
On New Year's Day, they went to the temple and celebrated the anniversary of Takeo's death. And afterward, they went to his grave in the cemetery. Reiko hated leaving him there, and yet she couldn't take him with her, except in her heart, and her memories. They stood there for a long time, and the children left her alone with him, to say good-bye again. The ground around them was hard and frozen, just as it had been the year before when they buried him. And this time when they went back to their little rooms again, they started packing.
It only took two days. They gave away most of their things. Much of it was useless to them. There was so little they wanted to save, the lion's share of the work was throwing away and sorting. Someone had found an old trunk somewhere, and Reiko packed the bulk of their things in it, and she and Hi'roko packed yet another dollhouse to save for Tami, mostly as a souvenir this time, if she ever bothered to unpack it.
All of Hiroko's and Toyo's things fit into a single bag, the same one she had brought with her when she'd arrived. She had so little for him even now that it hardly took up any room in her suitcase. Reiko had given her two hundred dollars to tide her over until she got a job, and she had it in cash in her handbag. The cousins in New Jersey had sent them five hundred dollars to get them there, and told them they'd be happy to send more if they needed it. But all they needed were train tickets. They had decided to take the train to New Jersey, and they were leaving from Sacramento.
They were all leaving the next day. In the morning, Tad came with his things and helped them with the final packing. Reiko gave her small hibachi to the people next door. She had bought it from a family that had gone back to Japan at the beginning of their stay at Tule Lake, and there were some old toys she gave to another family down the road. The photograph of Ken was in her handbag, the memories of him in her heart, along with those of her husband.
And finally, after all of it, they stood looking around at the two small rooms they had lived in. The straw mattresses had been taken out, the steel cots were bare, the tatami mats Hiroko had made were gone, the cooking utensils passed along or thrown away. Their trunk and their bags stood in the road, the rooms behind them were empty.
“It's funny,” Sally said, looking at her mother. “Now that it's happening, it seems so sad. I never thought I'd feel this way when we left here.”
“It's hard leaving home …this was home for a while. …” For a long time, in her life. And they all felt the same way. Hiroko had cried when she said good-bye to the nurses in the infirmary, especially Sandra. Her baby had been born there, and despite the years of pain, there had been special moments. There had been humor and friends, and even music, and laughter behind the barbed wire, while the guards watched them.
“Ready to go?” Tad asked quietly. He'd already said good-bye to his mother, who had left for Ohio the day before. It was a sad good-bye, but he knew she wanted to be with her sister.
The War Relocation Authority had given them free train tickets to Sacramento and fifty dollars per family for expenses. After that, they were on their own. Tad and the Tanakas were taking the train. And Hiroko was taking a bus to San Francisco. Reiko was nervous about leaving her alone, but Hiroko insisted she'd be fine. She had absolutely no one in San Francisco, but she had promised again and again that if anything happened, if she couldn't get a job, she'd take a train to New Jersey before she ran out of money. She had their phone number and address and e
verything she needed to reach them.
One by one they picked up their bags, and Tad and Sally carried the small trunk between them. It was mostly filled with memories, and Reiko suspected she might never open it again, but still, she wanted to take it with her. It was full of odd little souvenirs of Tule Lake.
The bus was waiting for them at the gate, and there were others waiting there too. As always, the soldiers were standing sentry, but now it was more to keep the peace inside, than to keep anyone from leaving. They were more of a police force than prison guards, and they helped Hiroko put her bag on the bus, and then they shook hands with everyone and wished them luck. Oddly enough, neither side bore the other any malice. And now, whatever it had once been, good or bad, necessary or not, it was over. The subject was closed. It was January 1945, and soon Tule Lake, and Manzanar, and all the other camps like them would be nothing but memories, places to talk about and remember.
As the bus started up, Hiroko sat staring at the camp, engraving it on her memory, the barracks, the dust, the cold, the faces, the people she had loved, the children she had cared for, those who had died, and those who had moved on, never to be seen again, but always remembered.
Toyo sat on her lap, playing with her hair, and holding him close to her, she kissed him. One day she would tell him about it, the place where he was born, but he would never understand, he would never know. And as she looked at the other faces around her, she saw the same love, the same pain, the same agony slipping away from them after so long. And from somewhere behind her was a single voice speaking up in the silence, “We're free now.” And with that, the bus drove away, and headed for Sacramento.
Chapter 17
FOR HIROKO, leaving Tad and her cousins at the train was one of the hardest things she'd ever done. Everyone had cried copiously, and the emotions they hadn't been able to let go of when they left the camp came tumbling out of their pores now. Even Tad cried when he said good-bye to her, and she was still sobbing as the train pulled away and she and Toyo were waving.
She had kissed each one of them, and they had kissed her, and him, until they almost missed the train. And after they left, she thought she had never felt as empty. She felt drained as she walked the ten blocks to the bus station, carrying Toyo and her suitcase. A few people glanced at her, but no one seemed surprised to see a Japanese woman walking anywhere. There were no shouts of “Japan no unpleasantness, and yet the war wasn't over. She wondered what had happened while they'd been away, if everyone had forgotten or lost interest.
It was five o'clock by then, and she bought a sandwich for both of them before she got on the bus. At exactly five-thirty the bus left, right on schedule, and headed for San Francisco.
It was an uneventful ride, and Toyo slept most of the way, and as they came in over the Bay Bridge, Hiroko sat and stared at how beautiful the bridge was. It looked like diamonds strung across the bay. Everything looked so clean and so perfect. There was no barbed wire in sight, there were no guns, no one hurrying to their rooms, with newspaper in their coat because they were cold, to sleep on straw mattresses that scratched you all night. She couldn't even begin to imagine now what a real bed would be like, or even a comfortable futon. It made her smile, too, to realize that she had become so American over the past three and a half years since she'd come from Kyoto. It had been a hard way to become one.
She slept in a small hotel downtown that night, and thought about the others on the train. It was going to be a big adventure for them, and she smiled thinking of Tad and Sally. She was going to miss them all, but she still thought she had made the right decision.
She took Toyo to breakfast the next day, and afterward she looked for a phone booth. She was holding his hand, and flipping through the directory, and when she saw the familiar name, she started to tremble. Maybe she was wrong. She could go through an agency. She didn't have to do this, and yet she wanted to. Something told her that she had to.
Hiroko called, and asked for her, and she came on the line very quickly. She hadn't given her name, she just said “a friend from college,” and whoever had answered went to get her.
“Yes?” a voice asked pleasantly.
“Anne?” Hiroko said as the phone trembled in her hand, and she tried to keep her voice normal, as she held Toyo with her other hand. But he was bored and started complaining. He was not yet two years old, and he didn't understand where they were, or where the others had gone. To him, it was all an incomprehensible adventure. He kept saying Tami's name, and Hiroko had explained to him that she was going on a train. But he didn't know what a train was.
“Yes, this is Anne,” Anne Spencer said, sounding as aristocratic as ever. She was going back to school the next day. They were still on Christmas vacation. And she was graduating in June, but St. Andrew's seemed like a distant memory to Hiroko. “Who is this?”
“Hiroko,” she said simply. “Hiroko Takashimaya.” From St. Andrews and Tanforan …and Tule Lake …perhaps she had forgotten, but somehow Hiroko didn't believe it.
There was only a brief pause, and a small gasp.
“Your basket kept us going for days,” Hiroko said sadly.
“Where are you?” Anne asked softly. It was hard to tell if she was glad she had called, or just startled.
“I got out of camp yesterday. My cousins went to New Jersey.”
“And you, Hiroko?” she said gently. They had once been roommates, never friends. And yet twice she had come to tell her she was sorry. “Where are you?” she asked again.
“Here in San Francisco.” Hiroko hesitated, and then looked down at Toyo to give her courage. “I need a job.” It sounded so pathetic now that she had said it, and she was sorry she had called, but it was too late now. “I wondered if you know anyone … or even your parents, or friends … if you need a maid, or someone to clean house …really anything…. I've been working in the hospital for two years. I could take care of a child or an old person.”
“Do you have my address?” Anne asked her bluntly, and she nodded, stunned into silence.
“It's in the phone book. Yes, I have it.”
“Why don't you come right over. Take a cab, I'll pay for it.” She wondered if Hiroko had decent clothes, or if she was hungry or had any money.
Hiroko left the phone booth and hailed a cab, but she paid for it herself, and was surprised to see Anne waiting for her outside. But Anne was even more surprised when she saw Toyo.
“Is he yours?” Anne asked in utter amazement, and Hiroko smiled as she nodded. While Anne had been playing tennis and learning French, and summering at Lake Tahoe, Hiroko had had a baby.
“Yes, he is,” she said, looking down proudly at her son. “His name is Toyo.”
Anne did not ask his last name, or if Hiroko was married. She suspected, looking at her, that that wasn't the case, and the dress Hiroko was wearing was not only ugly and too big for her, but it was threadbare and ancient.
“I spoke to my mother,” she said as they stood on the sidewalk on Upper Broadway. “She'll give you a job. I'm afraid it won't be a very fancy one. They need someone to help in the kitchen.” She looked down at Toyo then, but she knew it wouldn't make a difference. “You can keep him with you when you work downstairs,” she said, unlocking the door for her, and then she turned to her and asked if she was hungry. But Hiroko smiled and told her they'd had breakfast.
Anne took her right downstairs to see her room. It was small and clean and without frills of any kind, but it was far better than anything she'd seen in nearly three years, and she was grateful for the job, and when they were in the room that was to be hers, she told her.
“I cannot thank you enough for this, Anne. You owe me nothing.”
“I thought what they did to you was wrong. It would have been better to send you home, if they didn't trust you. You, at least, were Japanese. But the others, the Americans, didn't belong there, and neither did you, really. What could you have done to them? You were no spy.” The woman who had taken care of her as
a child had died the year before at Manzanar, during an emergency operation. Anne thought of her as a beloved relative and Anne would never forgive them for taking her away and letting her die there. She was doing this for her, and the others. It was something she could do to make up for what had happened.
She explained that Hiroko would have to wear a black dress and a white lace apron and cap, with matching collar and cuffs, with black shoes and black stockings. But that didn't bother her either.
“What are you going to do after this?” Anne asked her. She didn't imagine for a moment that this was going to be Hiroko's future. But the war was still on, her cousins were gone, and she couldn't go back to Japan yet.
“I'd like to stay here, with you, if I can, until I can go home again. My brother was killed, and I must go home to my parents.” She didn't tell her that two of her cousins had died too, Ken and Tak. And she had no news of Peter. But Anne looked down at Toyo then, wondering.
“Will his father come back?” she asked cautiously, not quite sure of their arrangement. It was obvious that the child's father had been Caucasian. But Hiroko only looked at her with worried eyes. She wanted to ask her another favor.
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