Lines We Draw

by Camellia Lee

  The two made their way to the departure station. Mama smiled and squeezed Sumiko’s hand. After a while, the two bounced along in the back seat of a bus as it headed down the long, dusty road.

  This was the day Sumiko had been waiting for, here at last.

  Sumiko’s heart skipped a beat and she pinched her leg to see if she was dreaming. Is it true? Am I home?

  Sumiko found she was actually a little self-conscious standing in front of her family’s farmhouse. It’s like we’re strangers to this place. It had been almost three years since she last stood here. Still, there was something warm and comforting about the familiar, brown dirt and the worn, gray shutters that put her at ease.

  An older, grayer Mr. Miller greeted Sumiko and her mother at the door.

  “Welcome home,” he said, smiling.

  Mr. Miller let them inside. Mr. Findley was there, too, and dinner was waiting for them.

  The group talked over a late-night dinner. The farm was doing well. Mr. Findley’s son had helped labor in the fields while they were away, and it was decided that he would continue to do so for the time being, as would Mr. Sanchez, another man who was brought on to help in the fields. Sumiko and Mama would help as much as they could too.

  The reunited neighbors didn’t talk about Papa’s death. Sumiko appreciated that.

  February 8, 1945

  Dear Diary,

  These past few days it’s been very quiet around here.

  I asked Mama if we could go to Emi’s store because I wanted to see it. I sort of wish I hadn’t. I know her family was so proud of that store, and seeing it still in ruins made me cry. Mama said, “After the rain falls, the ground hardens.” I think she was trying to tell me that the Kunos will come out of this ordeal stronger than they were before. I hope that’s true. But I still wish Emi were here.

  While we were in town I mailed the birthday present I made Emi. I miss her so much. I don’t have any friends since returning home. Her family is coming to visit for Thanksgiving, and I wish I didn’t have to wait so long.

  Speaking of New York, Mama is talking about moving there in a few years. It’ll be tough to keep up with farmwork with Papa gone. I’m not sure if I want to move or not. Part of me thinks that if we do, I’ll lose all memory of Papa. But I also want to be in a better place, and hopefully we’d move close to Emi’s family.

  More than anything, I want to feel like I belong. I don’t feel like I belong anywhere right now.

  Sumiko

  Dear Suzie,

  I am so happy to hear that you are free of that horrible place! I wish I was still in Phoenix to welcome you home!

  My new middle school offers some courses for learning to speak Japanese. I’m thinking of signing up, but I want to dance too.

  Overall I think I like it here, but it’s so different than Phoenix! And I am still getting used to the weather. It snows! Papa works at a large supermarket and Mama has been busy setting up our new house and helping me organize my school schedule. The newness of everything can get me down sometimes. I think about Kuno’s Market often, and that makes me sad.

  I’ve been able to see a few movies on breaks from my studies. Doesn’t it sound like I’m living a wild life? Can’t wait to see you for Thanksgiving!

  Love,

  Emi

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Not long after returning to Phoenix, Sumiko bought a large, white drawing tablet on a shopping trip. She also picked up some charcoal pencils. The world looked different to her now, after the long years of confinement. She wanted—no, she needed—to record what she saw.

  When she got home she sat at her kitchen table, unsure of where to start. She looked up at her mother as she worked to prepare dinner. Sumiko saw the determined line of her eyebrow, the graying of her hair around her temples, and her weathered hands.

  Before she knew what she was doing, Sumiko opened to a fresh page in her notebook and started sketching. First it was her mother’s hands; they told a story. In them, Sumiko could see the hours she had toiled on the farm, turning the barren land into rich soil. She saw the thin, weathered wedding band that her father had given Mama.

  She flipped the page. Next was her mother’s face. As she drew, Sumiko saw a bit of herself in her mother that she hadn’t noticed before. The shape of her eyes, the curve of her nose, the set of her jaw.

  Sumiko focused on her drawings for weeks. She was inspired by everything around her. She saw the old piano in the living room with new eyes. The fence outside their house was no longer just weathered; its texture suggested years of endurance and fortitude.

  One afternoon, Mama walked by Sumiko, who was deep into another drawing. A smile flickered across Mama’s face. “Maybe you’ll go east to art college, Sumiko,” she said.

  “You mean, you want to leave?” Sumiko asked. “But we just got here.”

  “It is in your blood, you know,” her mother said.

  “What is?”

  “Your great-great grandfather was a well-known woodblock painter from Kyoto. His name was Ichiro Hiromi,” Mama said, as she began to put pieces of wood into the fireplace.

  Sumiko was speechless. Why have I never heard of him before?

  “You could draw what it means to be a survivor. Paint your experiences for future generations to see,” Mama said.

  Sumiko saw the strength in her mother’s eyes. We are both survivors. Sumiko knew she needed to live her life as best she could. She couldn’t get back the years that she’d lost, but she could move forward.

  Later that evening, Sumiko said good night to Mama and went to her room.

  She sat down at the edge of her bed with her notepad on her lap. She drew until her eyes were weary. She felt a special connection to the artist relative she had never met, knowing there was a love of beauty running through the family.

  When she finally crept into bed, she noticed how the shapes and shadows in the room were now familiar and comforting to her. She said a prayer, hoping that she had gotten through the worst, and that the best was ahead.

  One gray Arizona summer day, Sumiko was outside with her drawing pad. Suddenly, she heard the kitchen door slam, and her mama came running out.

  “It’s over!” she yelled, running toward her daughter and waving a kitchen towel frantically. “It’s really over. Japan’s surrendered. The war is over!”

  Sumiko threw her notepad off her lap. “It is?” Sumiko cheered and hugged her mother.

  Her mother wasn’t done yet. She ran down their dirt driveway shouting to anybody who would listen.

  “Have you heard? The war is over!”

  Epilogue

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The short days slipped quickly now into long, cool nights. The leaves turned brown and fluttered to the ground with the chilly winds that blew in from the desert.

  Sumiko’s life had started to settle into a routine. With Thanksgiving came a feeling of anticipation in the air. This was Sumiko’s first Thanksgiving since they had been released from prison.

  They had many friends coming to celebrate with them. Emi and her parents were coming to visit. And Sumiko had good news to share: she and her mother would be moving to New York City that spring. Mama had also invited Mr. Miller and his family to Thanksgiving dinner since she was so grateful for his help and support. Mama said there is no doubt that they would have lost their farm if it weren’t for Mr. Miller.

  Finally, the day was here. Sumiko’s face was glued to the front window when Emi and her parents’ car pulled up the driveway. Sumiko raced out of the house, leapt over the porch steps, and clobbered Emi in a giant hug just as her friend emerged from the car.

  “Emi!” she screamed. “It’s really you!”

  “I missed you so much, Suzie!” Emi said with tears running down her face. She looked different to Sumiko, more grown up.

  “I missed
you too! And we’re moving to New York City!” Sumiko blurted out in her excitement.

  Emi’s face went from happy to completely giddy. “Really? That’s great!”

  Sumiko hugged Emi again. She’d waited so long, but she finally had her best friend back.

  Inside, there were flowers on the table, and Mama had baked a pumpkin pie. Sumiko had decorated the table with special plates from their trunk of treasures.

  Sumiko couldn’t remember the last time she had seen such a wonderful dinner. The roast turkey their neighbor Helen White carried in from the kitchen was plump, brown, and glistening on its bed of parsley. It was the biggest turkey Sumiko had ever seen. And with it came candied sweet potatoes, string beans, carrots, and a beautiful cranberry salad.

  As the group sat together around the big table, there was such a good feeling of closeness, common culture, and sharing that Sumiko already knew that she didn’t ever want the day to end.

  Sumiko’s mother sat at the head of the table, her face calm and full of peace and gratitude. She began to speak, thanking their guests for coming and for their support over the last several years. She talked about how difficult things had been in the prison camp.

  Mama never talks this much, thought Sumiko.

  “But I will forgive them for what they did to all of us,” Mama said, looking at Sumiko.

  Sumiko looked down, wondering if she really could forgive those who had hurt her.

  “I know we’ve had reasons for much anger,” Mama continued, “but we won’t destroy ourselves with any more bitterness.”

  Sumiko nodded slowly. She didn’t feel ready to forgive, maybe she never would, but she was glad her mother had found some peace after everything that had happened to them.

  “Forgiveness takes a bundle of hate off your back,” Mama continued. “There are ways to fight back without destroying yourself or others.”

  The table was silent as they listened to every word that left Mama’s mouth. Emi looked at Suzie and smiled. She understood.

  “We’re survivors, and we’ll struggle to rebuild our lives. But we also cherish this life that we have. With so much tragedy around us, we will move forward to pursue our dreams and remain strong.”

  Mama raised her glass. “Kanpai.”

  “Kanpai,” the group said in unison. Cheers.

  Author’s Note

  The preceding is a work of fiction. However, the experiences of Sumiko Adachi were very real for thousands of Americans during World War II.

  What the US government called Military Area No. 1 was simply “home” for the 120,000 Japanese Americans who had lived in a huge swath of the United States from Washington to Arizona. Any person of Japanese descent could be forced to leave everything behind and move to a prison camp. This all happened in just a few months following the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor in December 1941. But while that may have been the direct cause, there were in reality many contributing factors that began decades earlier.

  Anti-Asian sentiment had been present in America since the 1800s. The influx of Chinese laborers in the California Gold Rush established their population in the West, which was met with hatred and distrust from white settlers. This hatred was later made official with laws that barred Asian immigrants from holding certain jobs or owning land in certain states. This eventually resulted in the ending of immigration from Asia. By the 1900s, this anti-Asian sentiment was turned toward Japanese Americans.

  In Sumiko’s Arizona, anti-Japanese sentiment was as rampant as it was on the West Coast. In 1913, Arizona became one of the first states to pass alien land laws, which prevented certain people who were ineligible for citizenship from buying farmland, and specifically targeted the Japanese. Arizona put further restrictions on Japanese farmers in 1921, passing a law that prevented them from renting land. But Japanese farm families found ways around the laws and thrived despite the restrictions. Agriculture was one of the main ways that Japanese Americans made a living. This upset many white farmers in the area, who worked throughout the 1930s to harass and intimidate Japanese farmers and their families.

  Another factor in the increasing hatred of Japanese Americans was the Empire of Japan’s growing military power and influence. As Japan grew to be more of a threat, some saw these “foreigners” in a new way: as the enemy. After Pearl Harbor, a string of surprise Japanese victories in the Pacific fueled those irrational fears. Famously, in the aftermath of Pearl Harbor, US Secretary of the Navy Frank Knox warned of a “fifth column” of Japanese conspirators waiting to destroy the United States from within.

  Simmering historical hatred of the Japanese boiled over into extraordinary fear and distrust following Pearl Harbor. Japanese Americans were accused of spying against and sabotaging the United States. Arrests were made mere hours after the attack took place and continued into 1942. The notion of exiling Japanese Americans, promoted by Knox and others, became a very real possibility. On February 19, 1942, President Franklin D. Roosevelt signed Executive Order 9066, giving the military the authority to expel and imprison any person that it deemed the enemy.

  In Arizona, that included approximately 650 Japanese Americans in the Phoenix area. Most of these people were American-born, which by law would make them US citizens. Arizona was included in Military Area No. 1

  when it was created in March of 1942. Many Japanese Americans living in Arizona reported directly to a prison camp (known by the government as a “relocation center”) in the Arizona desert, oftentimes driving themselves, like Sumiko and her family did. However, in other states, most Japanese Americans were forced to report to temporary prison camps before being sent on to more permanent ones. The army thought that immediate imprisonment of Japanese Americans was necessary, thus prisoners stayed in these temporary prison camps (called “assembly centers”) an average of three months while permanent prison camps were constructed.

  The dividing line of Military Area No. 1 cut entire communities in two. In Phoenix, families who happened to live on opposite sides of the street were separated. The ones who got to stay had the relief of not being forced into a confinement camp. But they lived with the fear of not knowing if they would be next. They also drew the anger and suspicion of the non-Japanese population. In a way, they were prisoners in their own homes.

  During World War II, the constitutionality of confinement was tested in a few cases. Ex parte Endo was ruled on in December 1944. While the court did not rule on whether confinement was constitutional, it ruled that

  the government lacked the authority to imprison citizens

  that it could not prove were disloyal. This ended confinement, though Executive Order 9066 wasn’t formally rescinded until 1976.

  A separate case, Korematsu v. United States, judged the same day as Endo, ruled that the order was constitutional. But this case has since been subject to scrutiny despite remaining a legal precedent. In 1980, The Commission on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians was convened by Congress to investigate the events that led to Executive Order 9066. It concluded that there was no legal or moral basis for Japanese confinement, and that the evacuation had been caused by “race prejudice, war hysteria, and a failure of political leadership.”

  The report made recommendations of reparations. These included a payment of $20,000 to each person imprisoned and a formal apology from the United States government. The apology was signed into law by President Ronald Reagan in 1988.

  The Korematsu ruling received a measure of retraction in 2018. In a review of a related case, Chief Justice John Roberts cited Korematsu as “gravely wrong” and having “no place in law under the Constitution.” While Korematsu’s case is still legally on the books, Roberts’ retraction makes it clear that this period in American history was illegal and shameful.

  Photos

  Timeline

  Confinement Camps in the Southwest, 1942-1946

  About the Consultant

 
Stephen Vlastos received his BA from Princeton University (1966) and PhD in History from the University of California, Berkeley (1977). His principal areas of teaching, research, and publication are modern Japanese history; US–Japan relations, including Japanese American history; and American Vietnam War historiography. He has been a professor of history at the University of Iowa since 1976 and has held visiting teaching and research appointments at U.C. Berkeley, U.C. Irvine, the National Humanities Center, University of Michigan Center for Japanese Studies, Tokyo University, Kyoto University, and Doshisha University.

  About the Illustrator

  Eric Freeberg has illustrated over twenty-five books for children, and has created work for magazines and ad campaigns. He was a winner of the 2010 London Book Fair’s Children’s Illustration Competition; the 2010 Holbein Prize for Fantasy Art, International Illustration Competition, Japan Illustrators Association; Runner-Up, 2013 SCBWI Magazine Merit Award; Honorable Mention, 2009 SCBWI Don Freeman Portfolio Competition; and 2nd Prize, 2009 Clymer Museum’s Annual Illustration Invitational. He was also a winner of the Elizabeth Greenshields Foundation Award.