by John Okada
“What guys?”
“Guys like you and me. Who else?”
“Oh.” He couldn’t hide his disappointment, and Freddie noticed it with a frown.
“Give me a little time, Shorty. I’ll straighten out.”
As he made his way out, Freddie shouted at his back: “You been stewin’ about it for two years. How much time you need? Wise up, Itchy, wise up.”
3
Ichiro started walking down Jackson Street, plunging down the hill with quick strides which bore him away from Freddie, who could be of no help to anyone else because he too was alone against the world which he had denounced. He had gone to seek assurance and not having found it had not increased his despair. Freddie was waging a shallow struggle with a to-hell-with-the-rest-of-the-world attitude, and he wasn’t being very successful. One could not fight an enemy who looked upon him as much as to say: “This is America, which is for Americans. You have spent two years in prison to prove that you are Japanese—go to Japan!” These unspoken words were not to be denied.
Was it possible that he, striding freely down the street of an American city, the city of his birth and schooling and the cradle of his hopes and dreams, had waved it all aside beyond recall? Was it possible that he and Freddie and the other four of the poker crowd and all the other American-born, American-educated Japanese who had renounced their American-ness in a frightening moment of madness had done so irretrievably? Was there no hope of redemption? Surely there must be. He was still a citizen. He could still vote. He was free to travel and work and study and marry and drink and gamble. People forgot and, in forgetting, forgave. Time would ease the rupture which now separated him from the young Japanese who were Americans because they had fought for America and believed in it. And time would destroy the old Japanese who, living in America and being denied a place as citizens, nevertheless had become inextricably a part of the country which by its vastness and goodness and fairness and plenitude drew them into its fold, or else they would not have understood why it was that their sons, who looked as Japanese as they themselves, were not Japanese at all but Americans of the country America. In time, he thought, in time there will again be a place for me. I will buy a home and love my family and I will walk down the street holding my son’s hand and people will stop and talk with us about the weather and the ball games and the elections. I will take my family to visit the family of Freddie, whom I have just left as I did because time has not yet done its work, and our families together will visit still another family whose father was two years in the army of America instead of two years in prison and it will not matter about the past, for time will have erased it from our memories and there will be only joy and sorrow and sickness, which is the way things should be.
And, as his heart mercifully stacked the blocks of hope into the pattern of an America which would someday hold an unquestioned place for him, his mind said no, it is not to be, and the castle tumbled and was swallowed up by the darkness of his soul, for time might cloud the memories of others but the trouble was inside of him and time would not soften that.
He was at Fourteenth Street where Jackson leveled off for a block before it resumed its gradual descent toward the bay. A bus turned into the stop and he hurled himself into it. There were plenty of seats and he was glad for that because he could not have suffered a crowd. Sitting next to the window and glimpsing the people and houses and automobiles, he gradually felt more at ease. As the bus sped down Jackson Street and made a turn at Fourth to go through downtown, Ichiro visualized the blocks ahead, picturing in his mind the buildings he remembered and reciting the names of the streets lying ahead, and he was pleased that he remembered so much unerringly.
Not until the bus had traversed the business district and pointed itself toward the northeast did he realize that he was on the same bus which he used to take every morning as a university student. There had been such a time and he vividly brought to mind, with a hunger that he would never lose, the weighty volumes which he had carried against his side so that the cloth of his pants became thin and frayed, and the sandwiches in a brown grocery bag and the slide rule with the leather case which hung from his belt like the sword of learning which it was, for he was going to become an engineer and it had not mattered that Japan would soon be at war with America. To be a student in America was a wonderful thing. To be a student in America studying engineering was a beautiful life. That, in itself, was worth defending from anyone and anything which dared to threaten it with change or extinction. Where was the slide rule, he asked himself, where was the shaft of exacting and thrilling discovery when I needed it most? If only I had pictured it and felt it in my hands, I might well have made the right decision, for the seeing and feeling of it would have pushed out the bitterness with the greenness of the grass on the campus and the hardness of the chairs in the airy classrooms with the blackboards stretched wall-to-wall behind the professor, and the books and the sandwiches and the bus rides coming and going. I would have gone into the army for that and I would have shot and killed, and shot and killed some more, because I was happy when I was a student with the finely calculated white sword at my side. But I did not remember or I could not remember because, when one is born in America and learning to love it more and more every day without thinking it, it is not an easy thing to discover suddenly that being American is a terribly incomplete thing if one’s face is not white and one’s parents are Japanese of the country Japan which attacked America. It is like being pulled asunder by a whirling tornado and one does not think of a slide rule though that may be the thing which will save one. No, one does not remember, and so I am not really to blame, but—and still the answer is there unchanged and unchallenged—I did not remember and Freddie did not remember. But Bob did, and his friend, who talks of Bob’s dying because the father wishes it, did, and so did a lot of others who had no more or no less reason than I.
* * *
—
The bus stopped at the corner with the fountain lunch where he had had many a hamburger or coke or black coffee in cups that were solid and heavy but did not hold much coffee. From there he walked naturally toward the campus and on up the wide, curving streets which soon branched off into countless narrow walks and drives among countless buildings of Gothic structure which had flying buttresses and pointed arches and piers but failed as authentic Gothic because everyone called it bastard Gothic with laughing familiarity as though the buildings were imperfect children of their own.
As if he had come to the university expressly for the purpose, Ichiro went directly to the offices of the engineering school. He found the name Baxter Brown on the wall directory and proceeded up the stairs to the assistant professor’s office in a remote corner of the building which was reached finally by climbing a steep flight of stairs no more than twenty inches wide. By their very narrowness, the stairs seemed to avoid discovery by the mass of students and thereby afforded the occupant of the office the seclusion to which the learned are entitled.
Mr. Brown, grayer and heavier, sat behind a desk impressively covered with books and journals and papers. He gaped at Ichiro in that vague, suddenly alert way that one instinctively manages when startled unexpectedly from a dozing mood.
“Professor Brown?” He knew it was Professor Brown and he hadn’t meant to make it a question.
The professor wrenched himself out of his chair and came forth energetically with extended arm. “Yes, yes, have a chair.”
He sat and waited until the professor got behind the desk. “I guess you don’t remember me. It’s been some time since I was one of your students.”
“Of course I remember. I knew the moment you stepped inside. Let me think now. No, no, don’t tell me.” The professor studied him thoughtfully. “You’re Su . . . Suzu . . . no . . . Tsuji . . .”
“It’s Yamada. Ichiro Yamada.”
“That’s it. Another minute and I would have had it. How are you, Mr. Yamada?”
“Fine, sir.”
“Good. Lot of you fellows coming back. Everything all right?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent. Tough about the evacuation. I really hated to see it happen. I suppose you’re disturbed about it.”
“No, sir. Not too much, that is.”
“Of course you are. Who wouldn’t be? Families uprooted, businesses smashed, educations interrupted. You’ve got a right to be sore.”
“Water under the bridge now.”
Professor Brown smiled and leaned back in his chair, relaxing. “Admire you for saying that. You fellows are as American as I am. And you’ve proved it. That outfit in Italy. Greatest there ever was. You were there too, I suppose?”
“No, I—”
“Over in the Pacific then? Interrogating prisoners I bet.”
“Well, no. You see—”
“Sure. We can’t all get in. I was in the first one myself. Did some consulting work for the navy this last one, but as a civilian. Still, every bit helps. Good to see you’re thinking about coming back to the university.”
Relieved to get off the touchy matter of war and who was in it and who wasn’t and, if not, why and so on until it was too late to turn and run, Ichiro spoke quickly: “Yes, sir, I’m thinking seriously about it. It’ll probably take me a little time to adjust myself . . .”
“Everybody worries about that. No point to it. It’ll come back in no time at all. You just pick up where you left off and you won’t have any trouble. I’ve talked plenty of fellows out of repeating courses because they think they’ve forgotten so much and, you know, they all come back and thank me for it. You fellows are older and you’ve matured and you know what you want. Makes a whale of a difference, I’ll tell you. You haven’t forgotten a thing—not a thing. It’ll be there when you need it. Take my word for it.”
“If you say so, but—”
“I say so. What were you in? Double E? Mechanical? Civil?”
“Civil.”
“Makes no difference, really. Big opportunities in any branch. Too bad you’re late for this quarter.”
“Yes.”
“Well,” Professor Brown stood up and extended his hand, “nice seeing you again. Drop in any time.”
Ichiro took the hand and while being ushered to the door muttered something about the professor’s being good enough to spend time with him. Outside the office and alone again, he went down the narrow stairs and hurried outside.
That wasn’t the way I wanted it to happen, he thought. What happened? He was nice enough. Shook hands, talked, smiled. Still, it was all wrong. It was like meeting someone you knew in a revolving door, you going one way and the friend going the other. You smiled, maybe shouted “Hi” and then you were outside and he was swallowed up by the building. It was seeing without meeting, talking without hearing, smiling without feeling. We didn’t talk about the weather at all only that’s what it felt like all the way through. Was it him or was it me? Him or me? He or I? Brown or Itchy? It wasn’t Brown, of course. Brown was heavier, his hair grayer, but he was still Brown of the engineering school of the university of the world of students and slide rules and he was Brown then and now of that tiny office with the books and papers which was cut off from the rest of the world by the narrow stairs which one would not think to climb unless he was six and curious and thought that the stairs led to the roof and the big blue sky. No, Brown is still Brown. It is I who reduces conversation to the inconsequential because Brown is of that life which I have for-feited and, forfeiting it, have lost the right to see and hear and become excited over things which are of that wonderful past.
And then he crossed the street and did not look back at the buildings and students and curved lanes and grass which was the garden in the forsaken land. He felt empty and quietly sad and hungry.
* * *
—
He was halfway through his second hamburger, sitting on the stool at the counter, when Kenji placed a hand on his shoulder.
Ichiro turned and looked into the smiling face, the pleasant, thoughtful, old face of Kenji, who was also twenty-five.
“Ichiro, is it not?” It was said softly, much more softly than he had known the shy, unassuming Kenji to speak.
“Yes, and you’re Ken.”
“Same one. At least, what’s left of me,” said Kenji, shifting the cane from his right to his left hand and shaking with Ichiro.
So Kenji had gone too. Or had he? He hoped that it was an automobile accident or something else that had brought on the injury which necessitated the cane and inspired the remark. “Join me, Ken. We can talk,” he said, displaying his hamburger.
“I’ve already had lunch, but I’ll go for another coffee.” The stools were high, and he had to hook his cane to the counter and lift himself up with both arms.
“Going to school?”
“Yes, I guess you could call it that.” The waitress came and he ordered coffee, black.
“What does that mean?”
“I’m enrolled. I go when I feel like it and most of the time I don’t. How about you?”
“No. Just looking around.”
“Feel the same?”
“How’s that?”
“Things. You’ve probably been walking around the campus, trying to catch the same smells and sounds and the other things which you’ve been thinking about all the time the government kept you away from Seattle. Is it still the same? Can you start back to school tomorrow and pick up just where you left off?”
“No, it’s not the same and I’m not going back.”
“Why?”
“Well, because it’s not the same. Or rather, I’m not the same.”
Kenji sipped his coffee gingerly. “So what are your plans?”
“Haven’t got any.”
“That makes it nice.”
“Does it?”
“Sure.”
“Why?”
“I haven’t any either.”
They left the café and walked slowly to Kenji’s car, for Kenji could not hurry on his bad leg, which was stiff and awkward and not like his own at all. Ichiro felt he should ask about it but could not bring himself to do so.
The new Oldsmobile was parked by a meter with the flag up to indicate that the time had expired. There was a ticket on the windshield, which Kenji removed with the rubber tip of his cane. The pink ticket floated down and under the car.
“Is that the way to do it?”
“My way.”
“Get away with it?”
“Sometimes.”
They got in and started down the street. Ichiro sniffed the new upholstery and touched a finger to the shiny, spotless dash. “New?”
“Yes.”
“These things must cost a fortune these days.”
“It’s a present.”
“Must be a nice guy,” he said, remembering Kenji’s father, who had known only poverty and struggle after his wife died leaving six children.
“He is. Uncle Sam.”
Ichiro turned so that he could see Kenji better and he saw the stiff leg extended uselessly where the gas pedal should have been but wasn’t because it and the brake pedal had been rearranged to accommodate the good left leg.
“I was in, Ichiro, mostly in hospitals. I got this for being a good patient.”
“I see.”
“It wasn’t worth it.” He started to slow down for a red light and, seeing it turn green, pressed on the accelerator. The car responded beautifully, the power in the engine throwing the vehicle forward with smooth effort.
Ichiro looked out at the houses, the big, roomy houses of brick and glass which belonged in magazines and were of that world which was no longer his to dream about. Kenji could still hope. A leg more or less wasn’t important when compared with himself, Ichiro, who was strong a
nd perfect but only an empty shell. He would have given both legs to change places with Kenji.
“Am I a hero?”
“What?”
“They gave me a medal too. Ever hear of the Silver Star?” Kenji was talking to him and, yet, he was talking to himself. Ichiro felt drawn to the soft-spoken veteran who voluntarily spoke of things that the battle-wise and battle-scarred were thought not to discuss because they had been through hell and hell was not a thing which a man kept alive in himself. If Eto had been a brave man, if Eto had been wounded and given a medal, he would have dramatized his bravery to any and all who could be cornered into listening, but he was not a brave man and so he would never have gone into battle and displayed the sort of courage of which one might proudly speak.
There was no trace of the braggart as Kenji continued: “A medal, a car, a pension, even an education. Just for packing a rifle. Is that good?”
“Yes, it’s good.”
Kenji turned and watched him long enough to make him feel nervous.
“Better watch the road,” he warned.
“Sure.” Kenji looked through the windshield and bit his lower lip thoughtfully.
“Ken.”
“Yes?”
“Tell me about it.”
The small man behind the wheel raised the leg which was not his own and let it fall with a thud to the floor board. “About this?”
“If you will. If it isn’t too painful.”
“No, it’s not painful at all. Talking about it doesn’t hurt. Not having it doesn’t hurt. But it hurts where it ought to be. Sometimes I think about killing myself.”
“Why?” There was anger in his voice.
“What makes you say why that way?”
“I didn’t mean it to sound the way it did.”
“Of course you did. I don’t say that about killing myself to everybody. Sometimes it scares people. Sometimes it makes them think I’m crazy. You got angry right away and I want to know why.”