It isn’t until the third and last sergeant speaks that things change. Everyone noticed this sergeant almost as soon as he’d stepped into the mess hall.
His name is Ben Kuroki. A chiseled, handsome Japanese American with broad shoulders, a barrel chest, and a steady, no-nonsense gaze. Intelligent eyes. Unlike the other three, he doesn’t speak loudly. He doesn’t ingratiate. His voice is soft, not with timidity but with an easy confidence. Like he doesn’t have anything left to prove. He tells them he is from Hershey, a small town in Nebraska, and that he grew up on a farm. He doesn’t make any cheesy jokes about being a farm boy. He tells them Pearl Harbor was the worst day of his life, that he vomited three times that day and punched a hole in his bedroom wall.
Everyone leans forward to hear more, Alex included. Arms unfold.
He tells them shortly after Pearl Harbor, he ran to the recruitment center to enlist. He was rejected. He went to another recruitment center. This time, he got in.
“How?” someone shouts from the back. “Japanese Americans weren’t allowed to enlist.”
Sergeant Kuroki turns his eyes slowly toward the back of the hall like he has all the time in the world. Even though there’re hundreds inside, his eyes lock in on the person who spoke.
“Two reasons,” he says, his voice as quiet and authoritative as before. But now with an uptick of humor. “One: I had a greedy recruiter. He got two bucks for each soldier recruited. He didn’t care that I was Japanese American.”
Laughter.
“Two: he wrote me down as Polish. He said ‘Kuroki’ sounded Polish enough. And it worked.”
More laughter, louder.
“And that’s how I got processed. How I got to fight in Europe. How I became an aerial gunner.”
“You fought in the skies?” someone asks.
“And then some. I was a dorsal turret gunner on a B-24 Liberator. Which means I sat in a glass bubble on the underside of the plane. Completely visible, completely vulnerable. And in that confined space, in that glass eye, I saw the world. I shot down Nazis.”
The audience is hushed with awe.
“That was one of the most dangerous assignments. It was no desk job. And I flew over thirty combat missions.” He grins, the first time a smile cracks his lips. “And the only reason why I’m here talking to you chumps and not flying the skies over Europe is because on my last mission I got hit by Nazi flak. Trust me on this one, I’d rather be shooting down Nazi planes than looking at your ugly mugs.”
More laughter.
“It’s the best job in the world, let me tell you. With the best of company. Because those soldiers in the plane with you? They’re more than just soldiers. More than just friends. They’re your brothers. When you fight in tight quarters, their lives in your hands, your life in theirs—you become family. You learn that sweat and blood and tears are the same color, no matter where you’re from. Our left waist gunner was Irish, our bombardier German, our tunnel gunner Jewish. And I’m Japanese. But you know what? No one cared. When you’re under fire, no one cares about the color of skin. You’re all American. You’re fighting for each other. You’re fighting for your country. And you realize, man, there ain’t no other place you want to be.”
The room is quiet and full of beating hearts.
Kuroki scans the crowd, slowly taking in each face. “I got into the army and flew the skies and killed Nazis because of a greedy recruiter and under a Polish name. But you won’t need to. You can get in as Japanese American. You can get in as you. You get in because America wants you. Because America needs you.” He turns to look through the windows, stares at the barbed fences, the barren landscape. “You’re all stuck here. Doing nothing. Waiting for your life to restart. I say: See the world. Go to the beaches of Greece, the farmlands of Italy, the cobblestone streets of France. And fight for America. Fight for your friends, fight for your family, fight for your mother, fight for your father, fight for freedom.” He pauses, gazes steadily at them. “How can you not?”
He steps back. The room is silent.
The white lieutenant steps forward. “Thank you, Sergeant Karaki.”
“You mean ‘Kuroki,’” someone from the crowd says. “Jeez.”
“Yes, Kuraki. That’s what I said.” The lieutenant turns red. “I’ll now field any questions you may have.”
The questions come quickly: when and where and how to enlist, where they will be fighting, fairly standard questions—
Alex suddenly finds himself raising his arm. And asking a question he didn’t know, until now, has been burning inside him. “If I enlist, will that help my father?”
Every head turns to look at him.
“Tell me about your father,” the lieutenant says.
“He’s at Crystal City, Texas. In the prison there.”
“You mean the internment camp.”
“Like there’s a difference!” someone yells, to cheers.
“If I fight for America,” Alex shouts over the jeers, “will that get him released? Will they finally let him join us here?”
The room falls quiet. Alex isn’t the only one who wants to know.
The lieutenant licks his lips, as if sensing an opening. “Of course,” he says. “You fight for America, and America will reward you. You show you love America, and America will love you right on back.” He steps toward Alex. “If you enlist I’ll personally see to it that your father gets brought here.” The sergeants behind him are silent, their eyebrows slightly pulled together. “And that goes for all of you,” the lieutenant says. “Any other questions?”
“Why are we getting lumped together?”
The lieutenant swivels his head to the back corner. “Excuse me?”
“Why a segregated unit? Why can’t we fight in a regular unit?”
The lieutenant has a prepared answer. “This is a favor to you people. It’s great for publicity, see. The story will practically write itself, how you’re all true, real Americans, giving your blood, sweat, and tears to this country. It’ll play great before the cameras, all you folks together showcasing your patriotism.”
“Is there a segregated German or Italian American unit?”
The lieutenant cocks his head to the side. “No.”
“Then why—”
“Next question,” the lieutenant says, ticked off, in full military mode now.
“I got one,” someone says. Alex’s breath catches short and sharp. He recognizes the voice.
Frank stands up in the middle of the crowded room. “My father’s done nothing wrong, but he’s in jail. My mother’s done nothing wrong, and she’s behind a barbed-wire fence. I’ve done nothing wrong, and look at me. Tell me why I should fight for a country’s that treated us like common criminals when our only crime was to dream the dreams America promised. Tell me why I should—how’d you put it?—oh yeah, give my blood, sweat, and tears to a country that’s screwed us over royally.”
The sergeant speaks in a scolding tone. “This is your chance to prove yourself. To show that you’re really an American—”
“I am an American! Why should I have to prove it?” His face is scarlet now. “And how do I know that after the war you won’t take away my citizenship? That you won’t take our family’s farm, our land?”
The lieutenant looks smug. “Don’t you worry about that. The Fourteenth Amendment will protect you. The Fourteenth Amendment, in case you don’t know, guarantees that no law shall—”
“Abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States; nor deprive any person of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws.” Frank stares at the lieutenant. “That Fourteenth Amendment, you mean?”
The lieutenant stares back with hard, cold eyes.
Frank continues. “The same Fourteenth Amendment that did such a dandy job in protecting me from being thrown into this camp like a common criminal? That same Fourteenth Amendment? Gee, I feel so safe now.�
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The lieutenant sniffs with contempt. “Don’t quite know what you’re getting at. Why don’t you sit down, son.”
“I may be jumping to conclusions but I’m pretty sure I’m not your son.”
“Next question.”
A barrage of questions are yelled out. The lieutenant has lost control. MPs step in and escort the recruitment team away.
* * *
Alex leaves the mess hall as it explodes into bedlam. Two blocks later, a cold wind whistles into his ears but he barely hears it. The lieutenant’s words are echoing in his head. If you enlist I’ll personally see to it that your father gets brought here. Alex had gone to the meeting without the slightest intention of enlisting. But the lieutenant’s promise has got him suddenly, almost reluctantly, thinking.
Walking past Block 18, Alex hears someone calling after him.
“Yo, Alex,” Frank says, giving him a friendly thump on the back. “Can you believe that bull?”
Alex doesn’t answer. Keeps walking.
“The gall they had, coming in like that! Making it look like they’re doing us a favor.” Seven strides later: “Alex, you hear me?”
Alex gives a quick nod of his head.
“And that Kuroki guy. What a patronizing piece of work. He was so full of himself.”
“I thought he was all right.”
Frank flings his head at Alex. “Really? Guy’s a total sellout. He’s lucky to get out of here alive, let me tell you. Heard some guys talking. They were thinking of beating the crap out of him. But he took off. What a coward.”
Alex can hardly believe his ears. “We’re talking about the same guy here? Sergeant Kuroki? The guy who shot down Nazis. Twenty-five combat missions? Him a coward?”
“If he had any self-respect at all, he wouldn’t be here. Wouldn’t allow himself to be paraded about like a little puppy. Would refuse to be their puppet. I get that he’s military and you need to obey orders. But heck, at some point you’ve got to draw the line somewhere. Have a little self-respect, for God’s sake.”
Alex stays quiet.
They pass a barrack. From inside, the sounds of a newborn baby screaming, a couple bickering, parents yelling at children. An elderly man, despite the cold, sits outside on the steps to the door. Doesn’t even look up as they walk past.
“Even so,” Frank says, “there will be some idiots who’ll still enlist. And that’s stupid. That’s foolish. They’ll think it’s patriotic. But it’s not. It’s being gullible. And they won’t realize this until it’s too late, until they’re lying on the battlefield, their guts oozing out of them, and finally thinking, Oh boy, I’m an idiot, America’s just used me as cannon fodder, and America doesn’t care, America won’t even remember me.”
He stares at Alex, eyes wet. “But real Americans won’t do it. Real Americans will show their patriotism the principled way. By protesting. By calling America to account. Exactly what I’ve been doing here at camp. And what I’ll keep on doing.” He drapes his arm around Alex’s shoulders. “I’m so glad you’ve got better sense than all them military idiots, Alex.”
“I don’t know, Frank.”
A slight break in his stride. “What d’ya mean?”
“Did you hear that lieutenant? Enlisting might help Father get released from Crystal City.”
Frank waves his arm dismissively. “Nah, that man’s full of crap. He’ll say anything to get us to sign up.”
Alex shrugs off Frank’s arm from his shoulder. “But what if he’s right, Frank? What if it’ll help Father get released?”
Frank is silent, his jaw set hard.
“And with Father reunited with Mother, she’ll return to her normal self,” Alex continues. “Everything will be back to the way it was—”
“Things will never be back the way they were,” Frank spits out.
Alex looks at Frank. “We’re his family. His sons. We’ve got to do whatever it takes to bring him here.”
Frank turns with a suddenness and a quickness. “Is this your way of being a hero, little bro? Your way of saving Father? Because I’ve got news for you: it’ll do squat.”
Alex keeps his eyes on the ground. “Yeah, well, at least I’d be doing something! Instead of wasting away in here—”
“I am doing something. I’m standing up to wrong. I’m protesting—”
“Which is doing nothing for Father! Or Mother!” Alex glares at Frank. “You used to care, Frank. About Father. You wrote a release petition even though you hate writing. You went after FBI agents, slammed your fists on their car. What happened, Frank?”
“I do still care! But it’s all noise, Alex, don’t you get that? Stupid release petitions, hitting FBI cars, and now enlisting? None of it makes a damn difference! It’s all just shaking fists at the sky. This country’s too big and we’re too small.”
“What, and doing stupid protests, that’s supposed to help Father? Shouting into the wind when no one outside cares or even sees—how the hell does that help Father?” He’s furious now. “Listen. If it’s me who has to enlist to help Father, then I’ll do it.”
Frank is silent, his face closing in on itself. When he finally speaks it is with a quiet, seething anger.
“I hate to be the one to break it to you, but you’ll die out there. You’re not cut out for war, plain and simple, baby brother. Get your head out of the clouds, out of your little fantasy world where you’re some imaginary tough guy, okay?”
The words slide in, silent as razors, cutting deep. Because it’s true. Alex won’t survive war. He’s a weakling afraid of violence. A bookish kid who couldn’t even boil a frog, who gets light-headed at the sight of blood. He won’t make it out there on a battlefield.
Frank isn’t done speaking. “And you think you’ll be helping Father? The opposite—news of your death will break his heart, he’ll literally have a heart attack out there in Texas. Because he’s got everything riding on you, his favored son.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, you’re his—”
“No, you don’t be ridiculous. I know what my future holds. I’m a farmer at best. But you, you’re his brainy son, his future dentist son, his retirement pension. So you dying for a country that spits on us—that will kill Father. And Mother. If you enlist you’ve just about shot them yourself.”
There are about a thousand red-hot words Alex wants to yell back. But he doesn’t. He swallows them down, the words like mangled paperclips cutting bloody trails down his throat. Because deep down Alex knows Frank is right. America has spit on him. Why should he put his life on the line for it? Why should he do as asked? He thinks of that incident years ago in front of the hardware store. Father being mocked by kids, then told by the policeman to move along. And Father kowtowing with a stupid grin, doing as told.
Alex enlisting would be just that. Kowtowing with a stupid gullible grin, doing as told.
He says none of this to Frank. The two brothers walk the rest of the way in a tense silence.
39
MARCH 18, 1943
In the early morning, Alex walks into the office of the Manzanar Free Press. The smell of printer ink and glue floats faint in the air. He turns on the lights, starts sweeping. He glances over at the in-box shelf where all the latest magazines and newspapers are stacked. It’s empty. News from Europe has slowed to a trickle.
He’s putting away the broom when he sees a magazine opened on Ray Takeda’s desk. It’s unusual for Takeda’s desk to be anything but immaculate, the stationery placed in its stands, fountain pen ink containers tightly capped and wiped clean, and notebooks aligned perfectly flush against the edges of the desk. An opened magazine on Ray Takeda’s desk is unusual, and Alex, curiosity piqued, glances down.
The New Republic, December 21, 1942, issue. He reads the title. “The Massacre of the Jews,” by Varian Fry.
He picks it up. The pages tremble in his hands like the leaves of a shaken branch.
Two minutes later he drops the magazine. His mouth has turned to chalk.<
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The door opens. “Morning, Alex,” Ray Takeda greets him. A pause as he observes the dropped magazine. “Alex.” He takes a step toward him. “I was going to let you know.”
A scrim of vomit burns his throat. Slaughterhouse, starvation pens, extermination centers. He cannot fathom these places. He cannot associate them with humans.
Of the 340,000 Jews of France, more than 65,000 have been deported.
That was back in December. It’s now almost April. How many more have been deported since then?
“Alex? Sit down. You look like you’re about to faint.”
Alex swipes aside Ray Takeda’s arm. He stumbles across the floor, picking up the magazine, and walks out. The cold air, it should sting away the nausea. But at the next barrack he upchucks.
He gets off his knee. Stumbles along. Dark barracks drift by like ghost ships on a cold dark sea. He is chased by words (purged, Judenrein), by numbers (nearly two million already slain), by phrases (there is burning alive … asphyxiation by carbon monoxide … starvation … embolism…), by a horror he cannot outpace; it chases him down. The good old-fashioned system of standing the victims up, very often naked, and machine gunning them, preferably beside the graves they themselves have been forced to dig. It saves time, labor, and transportation …
He needs Frank. Frank to comfort him, put his arm around him. Or Mother. Father. But he realizes the only person he wants to talk to about Charlie Lévy is … Charlie Lévy herself. But she’s not here. She’s over there, across the globe, unreachable.
Slaughterhouse, starvation pens, extermination centers.
He walks. Through funnels of windblown dust, through mud-sloshed grounds. He never stops moving, as if to do so would allow dark thoughts to catch up and devour him.
Nearly two million already slain.
He goes without breakfast, walking past the long lines. Lunch, too. He keeps walking, welcoming the pain that shoots up his aching legs, the cold that seeps into his bones, the thirst and hunger that consumes him whole and raw. Anything to drive out the thoughts, the words.
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