The California Immigrant

by Barbara Anne King

  One day Martin came home very upbeat for a change. “Guess what,” he said to Lena and Frankie.” The Slavonic Society wants to throw a reception in your honor, Frankie. What do you say to that?”

  “I don’t know. They already had that article in the paper. That’s enough recognition for just doing my duty.”

  “Frankie, our friends and relatives want to do something nice for you to show their gratitude. It’s not just for you alone. You’re a symbol to them of every military man fighting for our liberty.”

  “I understand. I guess it’s my duty to attend.”

  A couple of weeks later, Frankie walked into the society’s hall on Main Street, attired in his 4th Infantry Army uniform with bronze star and purple heart displayed prominently on his chest. The young women present flocked to Frankie as if he were some sort of Hollywood star. They had all read the newspaper account of his war record and were in awe. Just standing near him was such a thrill that they didn’t mind he had little to say. But there was one girl in the crowd whom he noticed and remembered meeting years ago, Ivana Rosandich, the daughter of a prosperous apple famer. He imagined she was in her early twenties now and suspected the only reason she was still unmarried was the lack of eligible men.

  Ivana always knew what she wanted and usually got it. So, when she set her sights on Frankie, she didn’t wait for him to make the first move. When the dinner bell sounded, she went right up to Frankie and said, “It would be my pleasure if you would join me for dinner.” Taken aback, Frankie stammered, “I would be delighted.”

  Lena noticed that Frankie was sitting with the Rosandich family instead of his own. At first she felt hurt by the snub but when she saw him laughing with the Rosandich daughter, Ivana, she realized a blessing had been bestowed. After that Frankie started courting Ivana and love began to bloom.

  Chapter 70

  On January 2, 1945 Executive Order 9066 was rescinded because the Supreme Court ruled Japanese could not be detained without cause. Soon thereafter, Japanese began leaving the prison camps with $25 dollars in their pocket and a train ticket home. They began returning to Watsonville by early August, Ken Nakamura and his family among them. They had so looked forward to being welcomed by the thousands of cherry trees they had left behind. But not even one was standing vigil—they seemed to have vanished from the earth.

  Once Ken got his family settled at the Buddhist Temple turned hostel, the first place he headed for was his strawberry farm. His first glimpse of the fields brimming with red berry plants left him breathless. He knelt down and scooped up some of the rich soil into his hands, held it up to his nose, and took in the fragrance of it bursting with richness so different from the arid, sandy soil of the desert where he had spent the last three years of his life.

  Ken was pleased to see his farm flourishing with plenty of field workers tending the plants. He did not know what to expect when he returned home having heard so many stories of Japanese losing their businesses and having to start over from scratch. As he watched the operation from a distance, a familiar figure emerged heading directly for him. It was Martin. Ken could barely contain his excitement at seeing him and ran up to greet him. Martin was already extending his arm, “Welcome home, my friend.” I don’t think he’ll ever know how much calling me friend means to me, Ken thought. Then Martin gave Ken a hug, which completely took him aback since Japanese are much more reserved. But he had to admit it felt good to be embraced so warmly.

  “The farm looks good,” Ken said.

  “Yes, we tried our best to keep it going for you. Unfortunately, Frankie couldn’t manage it until you returned because he got drafted.” Ken nodded, not knowing whether he should ask about Martin’s sons or not. Fortunately, Martin continued, “We got lucky that Hector was able to manage the farm because I couldn’t be here as much time as it needed.”

  “Hector?” Ken said.

  “Hector is one of the braceros up from Mexico. But he manages to come and go on his own schedule. Don’t ask me how. I don’t ask any questions. But come along and I’ll introduce you.”

  They found Hector in the office, making a list of supplies. He looked up when the pair walked in. “Hector, I want to introduce you to Ken Nakamura whose farm you have been managing. He just returned home.”

  Hector stood up and approached Ken, extending his hand in friendship. After they pressed the flesh, Ken said, “I am so appreciative of everything you have done to keep the business alive for me and my family. We owe you a debt of gratitude.”

  “Of course, I have been paid for my work. But from where I come from, Michoacan, we have a motto, which my parents pounded into me from birth. “We have inherited freedom; we bequeath social justice.”

  “I don’t quite understand.”

  “It means it is my responsibility to ensure fairness prevails. You and your people have been mistreated by the US government not unlike other races including us Mexicans. And even though I cannot help all of you, I can help one. So, you have given me an opportunity to practice social justice, which is a value where I come from.”

  “Hector, you and I have been taught many of the same values, even though we come from very different parts of the world,” said Martin. “Now that the Japanese are returning, we have an even greater opportunity to practice social justice. And I am certainly going to do everything I can to help the Japanese community recover.”

  “This is a very good welcome home, more than I could have ever expected. Knowing I have your support means so much. I am going to pass your kind words onto others so they know that here they also have friends.”

  Martin had extended an invitation to Ken for lunch at his restaurant. He was pleased when Ken walked through the door the next day and went up to greet him. “Thank you for coming, friend.”

  Ken said, “Every time you call me friend I feel so honored. I tried to time my arrival so most, if not all, of your patrons would be gone. I didn’t want to cause any problems by my presence.”

  Martin did not respond but only looked into Ken’s face that was very different from the one he had known before the war. He knew Ken may never be the same again but he hoped for the best. “Sit down, please. I will bring a menu over and you can have whatever you like on the house.”

  “No need for a menu. Just bring me a platter of your exquisite seafood risotto. And maybe some fried squid as an appetizer if it would not be too much trouble.”

  “Excuse me a moment while I get things underway in the kitchen. I want to do the cooking for you myself.” It is one way to nurture you.

  The fried squid kept Ken occupied until the seafood risotto arrived at the table. Then Martin sat down to join him with a plate of seafood risotto for himself. At first they just sat in silence as they concentrated on their lunch. Then Ken just had to express what was in his heart. “We were devastated when we didn’t see the cherry trees upon our return.”

  “I’m sorry but there are still three left.”

  “Three?”

  “I know it’s not many out of the thousands that had been here.” Martin did not want to give voice to the fate that had rid the town of the beautiful trees, a gift from the Japanese community many years before the war broke out.

  “Three is very auspicious. Whenever we arrange flowers we use three stems. The long one represents heaven, the medium one man, and the short one earth. My community will be overjoyed knowing three still stand. Where can we find them?”

  “Two are at the elementary school on Palm Avenue and the other at the high school.”

  Martin could see Ken becoming emotional so he changed the subject, although he should have thought better of the topic. “I heard you ended up in Arizona. That surprised me since there were camps in California.”

  “We were even more surprised than you were. Poston was the most miserable place imaginable. A real hell on earth. It was hot and dusty in the summer. Then in the winter, cold winds blew through the camp even through the walls of our flimsy houses made of tarpaper. Even wor
se was when torrential rains poured down making a muddy quagmire out of the place. Add to that the fact that they divided our town community amongst the three camps that made up Poston. We called them Roasten, Toasten, and Dustin.”

  Ken let out a little laugh and then continued. “There was one bright spot, though. A famous Japanese American artist voluntarily appeared wanting to create an arts program for us. His name is Isamu Noguchi and he is best known for his sculptures. In fact, he was doing sculptures for Hollywood stars before he showed up and completed one of Ginger Rogers while he was there. You see, once he set foot in Poston, authorities did not want him to leave. So we had an artist among us longer than expected.”

  “That was fortunate. So arts programs must have helped pass the time.”

  “Not really. The US government put Poston on Indian land and in their wisdom they used us as free labor to develop it.”

  “But I thought Del Webb built the camp? That’s what we heard anyway.”

  “If you say so but I have no knowledge of him. He probably built the barracks and camp buildings. But we Japanese did the hard, back-breaking work of building schools out of adobe bricks, constructing irrigation systems, and doing experimental farming, all under the hot desert sun. The government saw us as free labor. They had seventeen thousand mouths to feed during the war, and they wanted us to earn our keep.”

  “Oh, Ken. I never knew about this. Of course, I knew they sent you to a relocation camp, but I didn’t know they forced you to do work that should have been done by government contractors. It just wasn’t right.”

  “Of course it wasn’t but what could we do about it? Write our congressman? Funny thing, at the train station an old Indian came up to me and said the tribe didn’t think the government had treated us well but they had no power to change it.”

  “That’s what it’s about, isn’t it?” said Martin. “Power.”

  Chapter 71

  On the morning of August 7, Martin opened the door to retrieve his newspaper as the coffee percolated. He always liked to browse through the paper while having a cup of coffee and sometimes even a cigarette before moving on with his day. He poured himself a cup when it was ready, unfolded the paper and prepared to sit down to have some leisure time to himself. But as soon as he unfolded the San Francisco Chronicle, the headline popped out at him like a slap in the face:

  “Japan Hit By Atom Bomb”

  “Mightiest Weapon in History”

  “Tokyo Admits Heavy Damage”

  Oh, my God. He could no longer sit down. He scanned the front page article while standing. Then he gathered his things and made a beeline for the door. First, he went by the Buddhist Temple but there was no sign of activity there and Martin did not want to disturb them. Next, he went to the strawberry farm to determine if Ken was there. He ran into Hector but Ken had not yet shown up for the day. Martin left frustrated. He wanted to express his heartfelt condolences to Ken, and through him, the entire Japanese community. Instead, he went to the restaurant where he encountered Liu and Chao.

  “Did you hear about the bombing of Hiroshima?”

  “We know all about it,” said Liu. “News travels fast through our Chinese network.”

  “Oh…and what is your network reporting may I ask?”

  “Only that Tokyo has not responded.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe they don’t know what just hit them.”

  Martin noticed Liu and Chao exchange smug smiles. There was certainly no love lost between Chinese and Japanese even if they were both Asians. Martin didn’t understand their hatred. But then he corrected himself. We have the same thing between Croatian and Serbians. Most people can’t tell us apart either but we hate each other. He remembered his encounter with the Serbian diplomat. Some things defy understanding.

  Martin continued to make trips to Ken’s farm whenever he had a break in his day but he was never there. It was almost like he vanished into thin air. Then on August 9 another, bigger bomb was dropped on Nagasaki. Truman had warned Tokyo that there would be a “rain of ruin” if they did not surrender and he was true to his word. Perhaps, after years of dealing with the complicated mind of Roosevelt, the Japanese did not realize that Truman was an altogether different sort—a straight shooter who called a spade a spade.

  Ken continued to elude Martin until after Japan surrendered on August 15. The next morning, Martin went to the farm and found Ken in the office, his face full of sorrow and shame. Martin said, “I have been looking for you for days. I wanted to express my condolences on what the atom bombs did to your ancestral homeland.”

  “Martin, my family and our community have been in seclusion praying to our ancestors for the relief of our relatives back home. My parents came to this country from Hiroshima, as did other families in our Japantown so we still have many relatives left behind. So far, we have heard nothing and are afraid for them.”

  “And what about Nagasaki? Do your people have family there, too?”

  “Japan is a small island. We have friends and family all over.”

  “It is a terrible thing that happened. But at least we now have peace.”

  “Peace on paper, yes. But in our hearts…in our soul? That is why we have been praying…to restore our souls.”

  “I know it is difficult but we have to put the past behind us and move on.”

  “Of course, we want that, too. When I returned home, with Poston behind me, I thought the worst had already occurred. But then the bombs were dropped on my homeland, bombs so powerful they killed one hundred thousand people at once and injured many, many, more. I’ve heard ninety percent of the city of Hiroshima was destroyed. It is so mindboggling that I still cannot comprehend it.

  Chapter 72

  Marty and Tom Paul had been waiting around Honolulu to see what direction the war in the Pacific would take next. They were now fully rested and ready to take on a new fight. They got their answer on August 6 when they saw headlines from newspapers lying around the mess hall. The New York Times read:

  “First Atomic Bomb Dropped on Japan”

  “Missile Is Equal to 20,000 Tons of TNT”

  “Truman Warms Foe of Rain of Ruin”

  And The Washington Post had this three-line headline running from border to border:

  “Single Atomic Bomb Rocks Japanese Army Base”

  “With Mightier Force Than 20,000 Tons of TNT”

  “To Open New Era of Power for Benefit of Man”

  “So,” Marty said to Tom Paul, “I guess this is how it ends.” Tom Paul was speechless.

  Marty and Tom Paul were not relieved from duty until the armistice was signed on September 2 aboard the USS Missouri. Most people assumed the ship was chosen for the honor since it was named after Truman’s home state. His daughter, Margaret, had sponsored it. While the Missouri was the last battleship commissioned by the navy, it had seen action in both Iwo Jima and Okinawa, more than earning the honor.

  High-ranking officials of all Allied nations took part in the ceremony. The Japanese diplomatic delegation arrived dressed in top hats, tails, and white gloves, accompanied by military officers in uniform, for what to them was a somber even shameful occasion. Two hundred and fifty warships of Allied nations lay at anchor in Tokyo Bay while the event took place, a visible symbol to the losing nation that they still had strength in numbers.

  Shortly after the peace was established, Tom Paul and Marty jumped a transit for home. When they returned, they quickly learned that a war of sorts was still going on in their hometown as well as the entire Monterey Bay over the Japanese who were returning to their coastal communities. The Chamber of Commerce did a survey of its members, and most answered that they not only did not want to employ Japanese but they felt their presence would be harmful. A Monterey Bay Council on Japanese Relations was formed to decide how to handle the Japanese problem. Mass public meetings were planned to discuss how to discourage Japanese from returning to the coast and, of th
ose who did, how to best supervise their activities.

  A letter to the editor from enlisted men at Camp McQuaid, an army base on the outskirts of Watsonville that was home to a California National Guard unit, called out the Chamber of Commerce for its position of discrimination and bigotry, citing businesses with signs that read, All Japs Back to Japan. They reminded the community that many Nisei fought bravely for this country, some making the ultimate sacrifice.

  Then in the wee hours of September 24, someone or some group, sent a flare toward the Buddhist Temple, setting fire to a nearby shrub. The temple was crowded with returnees, many women and children, and among them a few servicemen and Gold Star mothers who had lost Nisei sons in the war. When the police arrived, they found a group of Japanese working to put out the blaze, but the suspects left no trail. Authorities made it clear that violence would not be tolerated.

  As a response, several members of the professional community in town reached out to help the Japanese transition back into a normal life, among them a prominent doctor, a lawyer, and an educator. But, of course, after war, nothing is ever normal again.