This Light Between Us

by Andrew Fukuda

  Some head straight to the communal restroom. It is an abhorrence. They hold their breaths as they walk in. The floor flooded. Pieces of excrement floating about the concrete slab, dark and stringy like seaweed. Twelve toilet bowls run down the center of the room: side by side and back-to-back without any partitions. Close enough to touch skin if you lean back or spread your legs too wide. Along the far wall are the urinals and across from them a row of spigots over a trough. When they flush, the pipes clank ominously. Excrement suddenly erupts from the toilet bowls, spewing out of them and splashing onto the floor.

  They spend the day like shell-shocked scavengers. Following every rumor, watching other internees like hawks. Who is carrying wood? Or more blankets? Or even oil for the stoves? Their immigrant survival instincts, lying dormant for so many years, spring to life. They chase down every lead, usually just wild-goose chases. In the midafternoon, a man is seen scurrying away with planks of wood. Go to Block 3, he says. There’s some discarded scrap lumber lying around.

  But by the time Alex and Frank get there, it’s almost all gone. Only a few ends of lath and rolled paper. Back in their room they use the lath ends to plug up the gaps between planks, and stuff the rolled paper around the doorframe.

  “Good,” Mother says, nodding. “That might help.”

  “This sucks,” Frank mutters. “Livestock have it better than this.”

  And right on cue, five gongs sound. But this time it’s not from the mess hall. It’s from the infirmary. Typhoid shots next.

  But they get sidetracked along the way. A convoy of buses arrive. Everyone rushes over to the main gate, curious to see who has arrived. Almost a dozen buses unload hundreds of dazed passengers.

  Frank cannot help himself: his natural leadership skills spring forth. He at once drops everything and makes a beeline for them. He helps carry their things to the registration table, points them to their assigned block, or in some cases, even walks them over. He smiles, thumps teens on the back, helps the old with their luggage.

  Alex tags along, glad to see some spunk in his brother again, even if it is for just a day. Of late, all he’s seen of Frank is the gloom and anger eating him up inside.

  For these bewildered arrivals, he’s a godsend. Though he’s been here less than a day, Frank gives advice with the wisdom of someone here much longer (inflate the number in your family to get extra blankets; don’t unpack your clothes until you’ve plugged up the knotholes, or they’ll get covered in dust; when the mess hall gongs start ringing, run before the line gets too long) and because he comes across as knowledgeable and friendly, people are asking his name, shaking his hand, remembering his face.

  20

  JUNE 1942

  The short spring ends and summer sets in with a vengeance. The heat clamps down on you, turning every day into a slog. You wake up in the predawn stillness, and gaze up at the rafters overhead. You hope for quiet in this predawn hour, but the air is full with the wheezes and whines and coughs and murmurs of twenty-plus people in various stages of slumber. Sometimes the newlyweds will be up, and at first it’s a form of entertainment (or education) to eavesdrop on them, the creaking bed, their stifled sounds. But soon enough, quickly, it leaves you feeling like a dirty louse.

  But most mornings, you wake up to the sounds not of lovemaking but of phlegm and snot being cleared. Or the piss trickle of an illegal bedpan. You kick aside the scratchy army blanket and sit up, the wires of the old iron army cot creaking under you. You swing your legs and plant your bare feet on floorboards that are rutted with knotholes and again coated with dust. The air inside is stale and musty and will, by noon, become hot as an oven.

  Weeks and months pass. More internees arrive, hundreds at a time from Los Angeles, from San Bernardino, from Stockton. They come aged and bent, muttering Japanese; they come clutching their mothers’ hands; they come blinking away dust, in disbelief at this city of tar-papered barracks. They come, the tired, the poor, these huddled masses yearning to break free.

  There is nothing to do. Later, jobs will be assigned, rudimentary classrooms built, clubs organized. But for these first few months, the day stretches long, the nights longer, and the boredom, especially for older teens, is unending. All their innate energy, along with any vestige of altruism, melts away under the harsh sun and the slow tick of time. The desert burns everything to a crisp.

  Even Frank. Unbelievably, even Frank. Alex sees his brother’s natural life force slowly drain away. He is slow to get up in the morning. He pouts around in the evening, sighing constantly. He curses all the time, even in front of Mother. His posture, usually ramrod straight, begins to slouch. Sometimes Alex sees him with a group of other young men. They all look the same. Bored. Restless. Angry.

  21

  * * *

  July 17, 1942

  Dear Charlie,

  I still haven’t heard from you. I tell myself there must be a simple explanation, and that you’re fine. You are, aren’t you, Charlie?

  On my end nothing much has changed. People continue to pour into the camp. Thousands upon thousands. On Bainbridge Island there were about two hundred of us. But here, almost ten thousand, I heard. Everywhere I look, there are people who look like me, usually lining up. We’re always lining up. For clothing. Food. Wood. Sometimes you see a long line and you don’t even bother asking for what, you just get in line.

  Now that it’s hot, those lines can get pretty stinky. People need to take more showers but there’s always a line for that too, even late at night. Some of the older men have resorted to taking baths in the laundry tubs. So disgusting.

  The food remains terrible. We call it SOS—Same Old Slop. The mess halls are hot and awful: babies crying, children screaming, adults yelling, teens shouting, grandpas slurping, grandmas chewing, pans clanging, workers yelling. Families don’t sit together anymore. Teens sit with other teens. The family structure is breaking apart. Not just in the dining halls, but over the whole camp. Teens roam about everywhere by themselves, and parents have lost control over them. I’ve seen fathers explode with rage, lashing out at their sons. And mothers crying, worried and upset. I feel bad for these parents. First they lost their homes, their jobs, their freedom. Now they’re losing maybe their most precious possession. Their own children.

  And Frank’s no different. He’s altogether disappeared at mealtimes. He used to sit on the other side of the mess hall, but recently he’s been going to a whole other block. Sometimes I sit with my mother so she won’t feel so lonely, but she always asks where Frank is. Even when I tell her he’s probably at a different mess hall, she holds a spot at the table for him.

  He’s changed, Frank. A lot. In the beginning, before camp life really got to him, he had more spunk. But now all he does is hang out with a bunch of other guys. They’re all bored and restless and spend their time griping about this and that. The stale food. The communal latrines that stink and offer no privacy, the boredom, the heat so intense that some people have taken to lying under the barracks in dug-up holes.

  The only time I see Frank is late at night for curfew. I barely recognize him. Sometimes he even scares me.

  Please write. Please?

  Alex

  At the post office, Alex slides his stamped envelope over the counter. As usual he asks, “Any mail for me? The Maki family, Block Sixteen Barrack Four Apartment F.”

  “I know who you are, Alex. You’re only here every day. Give me a sec.” The postal worker disappears into the back. Alex is not expecting her to return with anything. He’s already half turned when she reappears. An envelope in her hand.

  Alex’s heart springs awake.

  Fingers trembling, he reaches for the letter. Instantly, his heart drops—it’s not from France. Or Europe. It’s from Crystal City Internment Camp, Texas.

  22

  JULY 8, 1942

  That night, as the sounds of slumber lift up into the rafters, Alex hears the door creak open. Wind gusts in, chilly even in the middle of July. Boots stomp
across the floorboards. Frank’s cot creaks as he lies down.

  Even in the darkness, Alex knows Mother is awake. She will not allow her heavy eyelids to close, or her body to drift off to sleep, until Frank is back in the barracks and asleep. Ever since Frank first started staying away for the whole day, this is the only time she sees him.

  Tonight it is Mother who falls asleep first, her snores ragged and wheezy.

  Alex pads quietly over to Frank’s cot. He’s lying slumped on his side, facing the wall.

  “Frank.”

  No response. Alex prods him on the shoulder. “Frank.”

  “What is it?” Annoyed.

  “I need to tell you something.”

  Still facing the wall: “Go ahead.”

  Alex pauses. “We got a letter yesterday. From the prison facility in Texas. Crystal City.”

  Frank’s back stiffens.

  “It’s about Father.” He pauses, wishing Frank would turn around and face him. “His release petition was denied.”

  Alex waits in the darkness, willing his older brother to speak. Please say something, please tell me what’s going on inside your head, tell me what’s going on inside that heart of yours that used to be as big and open as the endless blue sky, please …

  Alex breaks the silence himself. “How long will they keep him?”

  Frank shifts, the springs of the cot complaining squeakily. “I don’t know.”

  He stares at Frank’s back. Hard and impenetrable as granite. “Will they send him back to Japan?”

  No response.

  “If they do, we won’t ever see him again. Will we?”

  “There’s nothing we can do, okay? It’s out of our control. Now let me sleep.”

  “You need to tell Mother.”

  “No. It’ll break her.”

  Frank is right. Alex hears her praying every morning over her Bible. For Father’s health. For his return. Her voice weaker with every passing week, her back more crooked, her very cartilage disintegrating. Without him she’s crumbling like a piece of chalk.

  “Still, Frank. She should know.”

  “You tell her then.”

  “You’re the oldest—”

  “I said you tell her.”

  Alex wants to rip the blankets off Frank, make him turn around. But he only sucks in a deep breath. “Fine, Frank. But I’m going to lie. Tell her that Father will be back soon. It’ll give her hope.”

  Frank doesn’t answer.

  “And who knows? Maybe Father will be released. Maybe even—”

  “Shut up.”

  The words, slaps to his face, stinging. He recoils, his cheeks smarting red. He waits for his brother to apologize or chuckle it away. But instead: “Quit being a child, Alex. Father’s not coming back. That’s not how the world works.”

  “How do you know that? Maybe he will—”

  “You’re so out of touch with reality, it’s not even funny.”

  “You don’t know—”

  “Head out of the clouds, Alex. How many times do I have to tell you?” His bed creaks as he shifts in the cot.

  Alex stares at him. “Can you turn around, Frank?”

  “Why?”

  “Please?”

  Frank sighs, flips his body over. “What?”

  In the faint moonlight, Frank’s face seems harder than Alex has ever seen it. His eyes, which once glowed warmly, are as cold and stark as the nightly searchlight beams that sweep across the barracks.

  “What do you do every day?” Alex whispers. “Where do you go?”

  Frank rolls his eyes. “God,” he mutters, turning around to the wall again and throwing his blanket over himself.

  23

  AUGUST 1, 1942

  The next time Alex visits the post office, a miracle.

  The clerk gives him a smile. “I think we finally got something for you, Alex. Give me a sec.” She disappears into the back room.

  He waits. It’s probably nothing, he tells himself. A Sears, Roebuck catalog. A letter about war bonds. Another disappointing letter about Father. Something—

  “Good things come to those who wait,” the clerk says, returning with a smile. “A letter from France.” She turns the envelope over. “With a ton of stopovers, judging from all the postmarks.”

  Alex takes the letter. He gulps. The crisscrossing postmarks and stamps are like the vines and branches of a dense rainforest, and through them he glimpses Charlie’s handwriting.

  It’s like seeing her face.

  He wants to scream.

  She’s alive. He’s alive.

  He stands, woozy, delirious, and light-headed. The world has suddenly opened up, announced its existence beyond these barb-wired fences.

  “Are you okay, Alex?” the clerk asks.

  He nods, walks out into the blazing heat. Looks down at the envelope, afraid it won’t be there, this was all his imagination …

  It’s still there. Shining brightly in the searing sunlight.

  He doesn’t know what to do with himself. He walks. Stops. Stares down at the envelope, heart pounding. Charlie is seconds away. What is he doing, what is he waiting for? He rips open the envelope, his fingers quaking with excitement.

  * * *

  10 June 1942

  Dearest Alex,

  Alex! I received your letter! You are alive! Hourra! I didn’t hear from you for such a long time, and I was worried to death! Are you okay? I wondered, Has something happened to you?

  Then this afternoon when I returned home, I saw Monsieur S sitting in our living room! He looked very tired and old. And filled with sadness, very unusual for him. But when he saw me his face lighted up. He handed me a package with ten of your letters (TEN!!) and I almost exploded with joy. It was like my whole heart went whoosh on fire with life! I found my joie de vivre in that moment.

  I rushed to my room and read the letters. I am so happy you are okay. But Alex, dearest Alex, I am pained to read what has happened to you. I cannot imagine what it must be like to be torn from your very home and put in some camp in the middle of nowhere.

  Oh, I wish I could write more to you! I have so many things to tell you. But Monsieur S is departing now! He keeps knocking on my bedroom door and telling me he has to leave to catch his train back to Vichy. And that I must finish my letter now if he is to take it with him to mail off. So au revoir for now, dear Alex! Forgive the bad English, I have no time to write fancy sentences or to correct grammar mistakes or write better words! Maybe you think I am Charlie from three years ago! I am laughing!

  I miss you,

  Charlie

  Oh, Monsieur S just got into a big argument with Papa so I can write more. Monsieur S says Paris has become too dangerous, and that we must all flee to the south, to Nice, to his summer apartment. Do you remember it was the place I spent one summer maybe six years ago? My best summer. I still remember the sun, the pier, the small Notre Dame church, the bowling grounds. Monsieur S says that Nice is unoccupied and free from anti-Jewish laws, we must go there at once.

  But Papa is now calling him an idiot, says the Vichy zone is even worse for Jews, why would he move his family there? And now Monsieur S is yelling back, saying that Nice isn’t part of the Vichy zone, it’s in the free zone and that Jews are safe there. Maybe the Italians will invade, but so what? Il Duce has no desire to harm Jews.

  Oh! Now they are really yelling at each other. Calling each other crude nicknames they haven’t used since the French war when they fought together in the trenches. Maman is pleading with both to calm down.

  Maybe Monsieur S is right. Things in Paris have become much, much worse. A few days ago, all Jews were ordered to wear a big yellow star on our clothes. Maman says we must wear this star with pride. But I don’t agree. This is a badge of shame, a thing of disgrace, a bright yellow target on our chests.

  Do you know what’s the most embarrassing? It’s when I meet others who are wearing the star. I don’t know why we turn our eyes away and hurry past each other. Somebody
explain this aspect of human nature to me.

  And now there are rumors of roundups. And even of faraway camps.

  Alex, where are the gleams of sunshine?

  Oh, Monsieur S is leaving. Don’t worry everything is

  And just like that, the letter ends. Alex peers hopefully into the envelope. But there’s nothing else.

  * * *

  That night, he dreams of her. She’s never sent a photo of herself; but over the years he’s built a mental picture, drawn from random comments she’s made about her appearance.

  In his dream, he is walking along a cobblestone street. It is dusk. The temperature an autumn cool. Comfortable. A row of homes flanks the street, and these houses are fluffy and comforting like warm loaves of freshly baked bread. In the air, the smell of croissants, wine, the sound of laughter. Not a speck of dust. Even as he walks he realizes this is a dream, the images nothing more than a composite of every stereotype he knows of Paris.

  Rising over the rooftops to his left, he sees the distant Eiffel Tower. And to his right—

  He sees her. Sitting at a table set for two in an outdoor terrace of a restaurant. The Café de la Paix. Before her, a plate of foie gras and banana flambé. She is reading a book, a frayed old hardcover of Jane Eyre.

  Something makes her look up. Their eyes meet. She does not seem surprised.

  He walks toward her grinning. She smiles back, her hair sashaying back and forth.

  “Alex,” she whispers, a glow in her face, a fire in her eyes.

  24

  SEPTEMBER 6, 1942

  A blisteringly hot Sunday. By late morning, the heat has topped a hundred degrees. The barracks are ovens; people are driven outside only to be blasted by the sun and stung by dust-filled winds.

  Some head to Bairs Creek, a small stream that cuts across the southwest corner of the compound. Others find refuge under the few trees dotted around the one-square-mile camp compound. Children climb the branches, their hair plastered to sweaty foreheads as cranky parents below scold them half-heartedly, their energy sapped as they fan themselves and indulge in bootleg sake concocted out of raisins and sweet potatoes.