by Camellia Lee
“This is a nice Christian family,” one of them said, with a hint of condescension in his voice. Neither agent stopped walking, however. They both continued for the door.
When the agents finally exited the house, Sumiko and Mama collapsed in their seats. They hugged one another without saying a word. What would we have done if they had seen something that made us seem like spies?
Sumiko and Mama scrambled to clean up their home.
Chapter Ten
“Why would the president make all the Japanese leave if they weren’t dangerous?” Jimmy asked.
Emi snorted but Sumiko sighed. She tried to keep to herself at school most days, especially since the announcement about the exclusion line, but her class was doing a research project and they were in the library gathering materials. This was unavoidable.
“My papa says there are a lot of reasons,” Sumiko explained. “It’s partly panic and partly because there are a lot of people who want to get rid of us.”
Jimmy wasn’t satisfied with that explanation. “Well, isn’t it possible you might try to help Japan? Like my mama says, after all, they are your people.”
“But it’s not my country,” protested Sumiko. “The United States is.”
“Your own country taking you away from your home,” he said reflectively.
“I’m just caught on the wrong side of the line,” Sumiko said, feeling unimaginably hopeless and lost. She’d found out last night that her family lived in the exclusion area. They were going to have to leave their home.
Sumiko caught Emi’s eye. The look held a mixture of pain, anger, sadness, and relief. Emi’s family would not be incarcerated. They were on the other side of the line. The right side.
May 31, 1942
Dear Diary,
Papa says that we must pack up and move to Poston without complaint. He thinks doing so will show that we are loyal American citizens, and hopes it means we will be released sooner. But I’m not sure I agree with him. By forcing us into a relocation center, they are taking away our basic rights, part of what American democracy was founded on. How can we be denied our rights as citizens simply because of our heritage?
Sumiko
“How can I pack our whole life into boxes in just a few days?” Sumiko’s mama asked desperately, to no one in particular.
Sumiko didn’t respond. She knew her mother wasn’t looking for an answer, at least not really. This whole thing—being forced into a prison camp simply because they were Japanese—didn’t make any sense. I was born here. My parents were too. Why are they treating us like we’re the enemy?
Sumiko opened the jewelry box and took out a gold-and-garnet ring that Obaasan had given her. Visiting her in Los Angeles seemed like such a long time ago.
“Keep this for good luck, Sumiko, dear,” she’d told her. “I know you’ll wear it well.”
Sumiko sighed. She didn’t want to take the ring into camp with her for fear she might lose it. Her mother had already sold most of their nice furniture to neighbors. Sumiko was helping her mama work through the rest of their belongings. They would put their sentimental items into a trunk and bring it to a storage facility.
Sumiko put her ring back in the small, brown box, and snapped it shut. She put it inside the trunk. She wiped a tear from her eye, thinking of her last day at Phoenix Elementary. Mrs. Fields had been sad to see her go—she even gave her books to take with her.
How is it that this war has divided my life so much in just a few short months?
The entire family was careful to obey all orders issued by the government. Her father even turned in his binoculars and camera over to the police station after Japanese Americans were told to turn in all “contraband.”
Chapter Eleven
Dear Emi,
My family is all packed up and ready to go. I can’t believe the day is already here. Everything has been so fast-paced preparing for our departure that I almost feel a sense of peace knowing we’re leaving now. But I’m scared too. Will we ever see our home again?
Please write me often, will you? I promise I will write you.
Your friend,
Suzie
It was the Adachis’ last supper at home. There was rice and chicken stew with everything in it: big chunks of potatoes and carrots, green bell peppers, celery, onions, and lots of thick pieces of meat. Sumiko’s mama said the whole family needed to be well fed before the trip.
But they weren’t going on vacation.
Papa reminded them that they couldn’t worry about the rotting vegetable crops, the farm equipment, or the house, or how any of it would fair in their absence. For the moment, they had to concentrate on what was next. He said that he trusted George Findley, their neighbor, to harvest the crops and pay the rent with the money that he had given him.
Mama said that the Findleys and the Millers would eat what was left of the food in their pantry.
When the meal was over, Mama and Sumiko prepared food for the next day’s journey. Mama wrapped peanut butter sandwiches in waxed paper and placed them in a box with some rice balls. Then she scrubbed and washed the rice pot and put it away in its place on the counter. She cleaned up the same as she did every night after dinner.
When the kitchen was spotless, Mama said, “Sumiko, go and get ready for bed now.”
Sumiko was numb from the day’s stresses and didn’t want to take a bath, but she obeyed her mother.
She got a towel from the closet and her pajamas and went to their small bathroom. Then she soaked in peace, happy for the last moments of relaxation and rest.
“Oyasumi.” Good night, Mama said.
Sumiko nodded and headed to her bedroom for her last night in her own bed.
What will happen to our house? Sumiko pulled the covers up tight around her chin. Will our house look different when we return? What if we never come back? Sumiko hoped that no one would look at the things they had packed away, their books and picture albums. All their clothes were also packed away in boxes. It didn’t seem possible that they would live with only the few things that they could carry with them.
Sumiko thought about how much she’d miss Emi, and how unfair it was that Emi wasn’t coming with her. Actually, there wasn’t any part of this that was fair.
She lay in her bed staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. She felt like a leaf blowing in the wind with no control over where she went.
Part II: Poston Relocation Center
Chapter Twelve
It was barely dawn, but the Adachi family car was packed and ready to go.
We are on our way to our prison home. Sumiko couldn’t quite keep the irony out of her thoughts.
The family stopped at a gas station. Mr. Adachi had already made an arrangement with the young gasoline attendant, Willie, who they knew from years of frequenting the station, to buy their car. When Papa told Willie they needed to get to Poston first, Willie offered to drive them there.
After stretching her legs one last time, Sumiko climbed into the car. It was only a few hours until they reached their destination.
In the distance, in the middle of the vast, dry, flat land, hundreds of barracks enclosed by barbed wire came into view. Guard towers surrounded the compound. A huge black-and-white sign appeared, looking out of place in the expanse of desert: “Poston Indian Reservation.”
They had arrived.
Willie stopped the car and helped the family unload their belongings. He pulled out his wallet and handed Mr. Adachi some cash—payment for the car.
Mr. Adachi quickly hid the cash in his shoes.
After giving Mr. Adachi a firm handshake, Willie got in the car and turned it back toward Phoenix.
Sumiko and her parents approached the gate, above which was the guard tower. The tower held two armed guards, who had their guns pointed at the incoming crowd. Sumiko couldn’t feel her hands or feet; she wa
lked in a daze. She’d never seen a gun before.
Sumiko snuck a side glance at the guards as she walked through the gate, hoping they wouldn’t notice her. The white faces of the guards looked serious. The sign said to keep ten feet away from the fence in both English and Japanese. Sumiko stood a little straighter, wanting to appear as if she were staying in line.
Sumiko gripped her father’s hand a little tighter, and her mother walked a little behind them. Hundreds of weary people, arms loaded with bundles, coats, and babies, trudged through the open gates. It was getting dark already.
“Ganbare,” she heard her mother say. Persevere.
It was a long, dusty walk to find a barrack that wasn’t already filled. The dry dirt left by the bulldozers during construction was very deep in areas. Sumiko’s feet sometimes sunk into the ground, making her feel like she was sinking into quicksand. There was not one blade of green grass, not one weed, and no trees. Everything was dirt and dust. After searching for a while, they found an unoccupied barrack.
Metal cots with thin gray-and-white mattresses were lined up on the black asphalt floor. A single light bulb hung from the rafters, casting long shadows around the room. Sumiko found a cot in the corner of the room and claimed it, setting her bag on top.
I guess I’m home, she thought grimly.
Chapter Thirteen
June 5, 1942
Dear Diary,
My name is Sumiko Adachi.
I live in Block 227, apartment 10-A in the Poston Relocation Center in Poston, Arizona.
My prisoner number is 22816-C.
Never mind that they call this place a relocation center. Make no mistake: I am in prison. The government says I am not a citizen anymore. I am a “non-alien.”
Here’s the truth: I am an American citizen, stripped of my constitutional rights. I am a prisoner in my own country. I sleep on a canvas cot under which is a suitcase with my life’s belongings, a change of clothes, a notebook, and a pencil. Why? I haven’t done anything wrong. What will happen to me and my family?
Sumiko
Clang! Clang! Clang! A sharp sound, like a rock hitting something metal, broke through the gray dullness of the room.
Sumiko ran to the door to see what all the commotion was about. People were hurrying back in the direction of the front gate.
“Time for chow! Mess hall,” one of them said.
The last thing Sumiko wanted to do was eat. She hadn’t had an appetite since she woke up this morning.
Her mama and papa were at her side now.
“We better go get some food. I don’t know when they’ll offer it next,” her father said.
Sumiko thought back to their last dinner at home and choked back tears. She stepped outside in a half daze and followed her parents and the other prisoners down a long path, past five or six rows of barracks.
In the drab and dark interior of the mess hall, she saw silhouettes of a few helpers busily moving back and forth. The whole place had a strong smell of mutton stew. It made her nauseated.
At about five o’clock, the cook banged on the back of an aluminum pan with a smaller skillet; the first call for supper. Servers behind the counter dished out stew and rice. A few kids wrinkled their noses. Sumiko pushed her misery and homesickness away and joined her parents, who were helping to fill teapots and water pitchers.
When the work was done, her family got in line for their supper. They found a spot at a far table against the wall to eat. After a whole day of snacking on their prepared snacks, it felt good to Sumiko to sit down with her parents and eat together. She scooped the white rice untouched by the stew into her teacup. To her surprise, it tasted good. But it wasn’t the same as her mother’s cooking.
Sumiko looked around, surveying the room. There are more people here than I thought. The mess hall was like the other barracks except that it was not partitioned into separate rooms. It was hot and had an overwhelming and unappetizing smell that was almost suffocating.
Mama tried to joke with Sumiko about some sashimi for the rice, but Sumiko couldn’t make herself crack a smile. The leftover bread with milk and raisins wasn’t bad, but she couldn’t tolerate the mutton. Mama must have thought the same thing. She hated to waste food, but she hardly touched it.
When dinner was over, everyone headed back to the barracks. Sumiko was full but in a daze. This still doesn’t feel real.
When they got back to their barrack, Papa checked on the money he had smuggled in with his bedroll. Mama brought in a wet towel from the shower barrack so they could all wipe their faces.
Sumiko’s mattress was dusty but she was too tired to carry it outside to shake out the dust. They spread out their bedrolls, glad for the opportunity to rest. Papa made a quick trip to the men’s shower, and Mama organized the family clothes for tomorrow. Curfew was ten o’clock and they made it under their covers just in time.
Sumiko thought of Emi at home in her own bed. I have to write her soon, she thought. Does she miss me?
The night was warm and still, and the camp was silent. Sumiko couldn’t hear any sounds from insects, birds, dogs barking, or cars driving by. It’s so different from the farm.
Every so often, huge searchlights shone through the small windows, throwing unfamiliar shadows against the unfinished walls.
Sumiko couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Sumiko jolted awake at the sound of the mess hall bell. Outside the barrack door, hundreds of people hurried toward the sound. Sumiko and her parents dressed and hurried out the door to follow.
At the mess hall, Sumiko went through the line for pancakes, Spam, and stewed prunes.
After breakfast, the shower, laundry, and latrine bustled with activity. Mothers lined up with clothes to wash. Mama, too, had a bundle of laundry wrapped up in a sheet.
Sumiko dragged her straw mattress out into the open desert to shake out the straw. When she returned to the barrack, the heat was unbearable. At about 120 degrees, the black tar-paper walls caused the air inside the barracks to be so insufferable that it seemed like it could have boiled a pot of water. Papa finally relented.
“Tonight, we will sleep outside,” he told them.
Sumiko could hardly wait until nighttime.
When the sky darkened, Sumiko carried her cot and sheet outside wearing her loose cotton nightdress. Prisoners, young and old, lined up at the outside faucet carrying their cots. Sumiko placed her cot under the faucet and sloshed the running water back and forth over the canvas surface.
They decided to sleep along the west side of their barrack. Sumiko’s whole body relaxed as it hit the cooled cot.
A falling star steaked across the sky, and the prisoners oohed and aahed with delight.
One by one, quiet fell upon their tired bodies and the children drifted off to sleep. Eerie howls of a coyote floated into camp. Even in the night outside, the oppressive heat was unrelenting.
Sumiko slept, waking several hours later bone dry and hot. The coyote howls sounded closer. Just before dawn, she heard the coyotes as they rushed through her block. Sumiko lay frozen in terror. But no one else moved, either, and the animals moved on to the next block.
Chapter Fourteen
June 15, 1942
Dear Diary,
Papa has become friendly with one of the camp directors, Mr. Rockland. Mr. Rockland says that a manager has to be appointed for our block, and it could be Papa!
According to administration rules, a block manager has to be a citizen. Since Papa is a Nisei he qualifies. But he does not speak Japanese, which Mr. Rockland says is helpful with Issei prisoners.
Doesn’t it seem a little odd that they say we are non-aliens, but that one has to be a citizen to be a block manager?
Sumiko
June 21, 1942
Dear Diary,
&nb
sp; I am eleven now; my birthday was yesterday. Only Mama remembered my birthday. But it wasn’t until suppertime. She said suddenly, “Today is your birthday, isn’t it?”
There were no cake or presents, but I didn’t expect those things anyway. Maybe next year. I hope we’ll be home by then.
Sumiko
July 2, 1942
Dear Diary,
Mama keeps telling me to drink more water. She’s worried about the heat getting to me. But the water has a strong metallic taste, so I drink tea instead.
Sumiko
Dear Emi,
I finally can write to you with some good news! Mama told me that she is going to have a baby. I’m so excited to have a little baby brother or sister. You know that I’ve always wanted to be a big sister. But I’m nervous about a baby living here with us. The baby will be born a prisoner. What kind of life will it have?
I hope I will see you soon.
Suzie
Dear Suzie,
I miss you so much! I made my dad drive past your farm the other day. It looked so empty, and I started to cry. I hope you are doing okay.
I’ve been learning new dance moves, and I wish you were here to play the piano for me. I’m not very good yet, but I’m working hard. When you get back, we can start our Hollywood-bound act!
Miss you!
Emi
August 6, 1942
Dear Diary,
There is a little boy in camp who follows me around. His name is Masahiro. He asks me questions like, “Why can’t we go home?” Or, “How come he has a gun?” How do I explain to him that we are imprisoned? He’ll only ask more questions: Are we bad people? What did we do to deserve this?