by Elise Hooper
Christina shook her head and opened the back door of my station wagon to place our equipment onto the backseat. “You know, you scare me sometimes. If you continue to push Beasley’s buttons, who knows what’s going to happen? You must be more careful.” Her face, already red from heat, crumpled into tears. “I don’t want to end up stuck here. And do you really think the press cares? Have any of your old friends from the Chronicle or the Examiner called you to hear what’s happening here?”
I looked toward the wall of mountains, hazy in the distance.
“No one cares about this, Dorothea. Everyone thinks it’s just as well to lock up the Japs. They’re the enemy.”
“Do you think that?”
She groaned. “Of course I don’t, but what I think doesn’t matter. We must be careful. Now,” she looked both directions to assure we were not being overheard, “let’s get out of here and find a room in Lone Pine.”
She was right and I hated it.
About twenty long minutes later, we arrived at a dilapidated huddle of cabins and reserved a room. After lugging our bags inside and trying to ignore the lace of cobwebs covering the beams of the ceiling, we peeled off our sweaty layers and collapsed on the lumpy cot beds in only our undergarments, depleted. We fell asleep without dinner.
I dreamed of Maynard. We lay on a blanket outside in the dark, camping in a forest. Our arms linked together, my bare chest against his, we kissed. When I awoke, disoriented in the darkness, my heart hammered in my chest. The feeling of his smooth skin and the silkiness of his dark hair still tingled upon my fingertips. The sensation of the wool blanket still scratched at my bare shoulder blades. It felt so real, yet there I was alone with Christina. Propping myself up on one elbow, I pushed some hair plastered to my forehead off my face and exhaled. Silence pressed from every direction. The vivid sense of my body joined to Maynard’s left me unnerved. My sleep had been plagued with strange visions ever since I began photographing the relocation camps.
I rose from the bed, fumbling my way to my bags, found my thermos, and gulped down mouthful after mouthful of warm water. It spilled from the opening, ran down my cheeks and neck, but I kept drinking until the bottle was empty. Only then, I limped back to the bed and slipped under the sheets, searching with my hands and feet for new, cooler spaces not yet heated from my body. Next to me, Christina sighed in her sleep and threw her arm overhead. A sour smell clung to the thin, pilled bed linens. I rearranged the pillow on my bed before lowering my head to it.
Chapter 40
July bled into August. Christina and I continued to photograph the evacuees arriving in Manzanar, but my interior shots of the camp left me dissatisfied. Inmates did their best to convert those miserable wooden boxes into homes by hanging school pennants on the walls and setting family photographs, potted plants, tea sets, and colorful textiles upon shelves and tabletops, but still, my photos of these cramped spaces never worked. After being developed, the compositions appeared flat, too dark, cramped, and uninteresting. I suppose they reflected the truth of the situation. These barracks lacked the filth of Tanforan, but they were shoddy and felt dangerously unsteady in the high winds buffeting them. Gaps in the walls and floorboards let in dust and wind. Women strung up sheets in an attempt at privacy and to create a semblance of hominess, but it was a lost cause. At first, frequent disagreements flared between neighbors stressed by the close proximity of one another, but then many of the interned, especially the men, settled into a state of listless resignation.
I focused on the faces of the internees. Their resilience and stoicism broke my heart. At the end of each day, I left camp depleted from arguing with Beasley and chafing from the constant vigilance of the censors who trailed me throughout the camp, but most of all, the overwhelming sense of futility looming over us took a toll. No matter how many photos I took, the camp and its inhabitants remained trapped, unseen, and forgotten by the rest of America.
One afternoon after Christina and I loaded the camera bags and tripod into the backseat, I paused and leaned against the side of the car, brought up short by pain in my lower belly. Speckles of black dots shot across my vision like fireworks. I gasped. The steel of the car door burned against my back, but I didn’t care.
“Come on, let’s get you back to the cabin.” The pleading tone in Christina’s voice caught my attention and I lifted my gaze to meet hers. She gestured to the car. “Let’s return to San Francisco in the morning.”
“I need one more day. We need to photograph those women we heard about earlier. If it’s forced labor, it’s illegal.” In the camp’s newspaper office we had visited that day, the internees had told us about a cadre of women who were making camouflage netting for the army.
Christina’s chin swung from side to side before I had even finished speaking. “No way. The censors will never allow it. Beasley will lose his mind. As it is, he’s mad about you even talking with the camp reporters.”
“Well, if he didn’t have anything to hide, he wouldn’t have to worry about me talking to them.”
“Do you want a list of all the stuff he’s trying to hide here?”
“I know, that’s my point. I want to document as much of it as I can.”
My voice had risen and Christina’s head swiveled around the dusty patch of parking lot, checking to make sure we were alone. “Please get in the car.”
Sighing, I opened my door, grabbed a towel lying on the seat, and used it to wipe off the scrim of dust on the windshield. Seated next to Christina in the airless car, beads of sweat dripped down my spine. I winced with pain at each lurch as Christina shifted the station wagon into gear, backed up, and exited the parking lot, heading to the main gate. A brown expanse of wasteland rolled past. “Nothing’s going to change in the next couple of days. Let’s go home, rest, and then we can come back to do more work.”
She slowed to a halt and nodded to the young guard who stepped toward the car, glancing at both of us with a bland expression before waving us on. After we passed him, I felt the pain in my side loosen slightly. The guards, the rifles, the constant scrutiny, the arguments—they exhausted me. But even worse than the sense of impending confrontation was the feeling of powerlessness I felt every time I looked at an internee. Shame filled me every time distaste flickered over a woman’s face as she sat down to her meal in the mess hall; every time a young boy stood on the improvised basketball court and stared beyond the barbed wire toward the mountains; every time a seventeen-year-old girl tied a bandanna around her head in the futile hope of protecting her hairdo against dust. The whole place was wrong. Whenever I left the camp, I felt like a traitor. I could leave whenever I chose and my shame increased because I wanted to leave. I wanted to drive home and never return. But just by seeing these prisoners and witnessing what was happening, I had committed to something. I wasn’t sure what exactly, but I knew I couldn’t quit. If only people outside the camps could see my photographs, maybe they’d see how wrong this was.
I turned to say this to Christina but was silenced by the lovely glow of her face. Her skin, unlined and perfect, gleamed as afternoon faded into the magic hour of early evening. I said, “You must think me a terrible curmudgeon to keep you away from that handsome new husband of yours back at home.”
Her face reddened. “No, no, I don’t think that for one minute. If anything, I need to get you home to Paul. He worries about you all the time.”
“Believe it or not, I remember what it’s like to be young.”
“You’re not old.”
“Maybe not yet, but I’m getting there. That’s the thing about aging, you still can fool yourself into believing you’re young. Every time I look into the mirror I’m shocked by the face looking back at me. I still see myself as the girl who somehow wrangled a fancy studio on Sutter.” Actually that wasn’t true; that naive girl had vanished long ago. So, who was I now? I was old enough to wear wrinkles and scars, but young enough to feel stronger and smarter because of them. I reached toward my hair to smooth it d
own. “You probably can’t believe it now, but once upon a time I never needed to sleep . . .” My voice trailed off as I thought back to my old studio and the dancing that carried on all hours of the night. I sighed. “Before everyone was poor, before the war, we used to have the most wonderful times.”
“I remember Mother’s parties. My brother and I would creep down the stairs and watch you all through the bars of the railing. I still remember Mr. Klein and Mrs. Clark kissing on the landing one night.” She giggled. “They almost caught us but were so consumed in each other they didn’t even see us.”
“My, my, did they?” I said, chuckling at the thought of Klein, the most buttoned-up lawyer I’d ever met, having a stolen moment with someone else’s wife. “It’s funny how it all feels like yesterday, but at the same time, it feels like a lifetime ago.” A swirl of memories swept around me for a few moments before I clapped my hands together with conviction. “Tell you what, we will stay and work tomorrow, then drive home for a few days, but we must come back on Monday.”
“All right.”
“There’s so much more here that I haven’t even begun to capture.”
Christina nodded as I described what I still wanted to photograph, but I could tell from the brightness of her eyes and the secret smile tugging at the corners of her lips—she was already back in San Francisco with her young husband, walking hand in hand along the seawall in the marina. I couldn’t blame her. Someday she too would awaken during the night with the vivid sensation of someone else’s body—maybe her husband’s, maybe a long-lost love’s—pressed upon her skin and realize with disappointment that it was only a dream. But at that moment, sitting beside me, humming to herself, she was young and I envied her.
Chapter 41
I sat in Colonel Beasley’s office reminding myself not to squirm as I awaited a scolding over my latest offense. My left arm still stung from the grip of the guard who dragged me into the office, but I restrained myself from rubbing it and stared straight ahead, rigid with indignation over the young man’s rough treatment of me. I closed my eyes and pictured the women I had just photographed, the work that led to me being yanked across camp to Beasley’s office. The women had crouched in front of tall sheets of netting, weaving khaki- and olive-colored strips of burlap through the twine webbing to create camouflage nets for the War Department. Blooms of sweat darkened the backs of their stretch-knit cotton shirts. Mesmerized by the steady beat of breathing made visible from the rise and fall of their thin gauze face masks, I knelt down to capture the seriousness of the work. They leaned toward the nets without talking, weaving strips of fabric through the nets with surgical precision. When the MP accompanying us realized how bad the whole thing looked, he had pulled us out and dumped me in Beasley’s office.
I opened my eyes, only to be stung by sweat trickling down my face, but I let it drip, my discomfort fueling my mounting fury. A thin layer of sand covered the colonel’s desk. The damned sand, always the sand; it covered everything.
The door screeched open and the colonel strode in, trailing his ever-present scent of Juicy Fruit chewing gum. He stopped behind his desk but remained standing and barked, “Mrs. Taylor, how many times must we meet like this? You know the rules.”
“Lange. My name is Lange.”
A vein pulsed on Beasley’s temple as he skimmed the contents of a manila folder opened on his desk and scribbled down a note of his own. “Your record of being difficult is going to be your undoing.”
His tone needled with the same patronizing manner I’d encountered so many other times with men who, over the years, had treated me like a wayward child, a spoiled brat who asks for lollipops long after she’s been told no. A nag. A broad. A bitch. It’s always the same tone men reserve for difficult women, she who isn’t compliant, who voices her opinion, who has ambitions. But I stayed still, resisting the urge to argue. If I was to have any hope of continuing my work, I could not fight back, and though I hated myself for staying quiet, I gave him nothing. He watched me, looking for any sign of anger, any sign of anything he could use against me to stop my work. I stilled my heel from jiggling and attempted to be motionless. When he saw he couldn’t get a rise out of me, he shrugged. “Well, you’re done for today. I’ve sent your film to the War Office in Los Angeles to be reviewed. My driver will escort you back to Lone Pine to await further instruction from my office.”
“My car is here. We can drive ourselves.”
“Your car will stay here. You’re not going anywhere without my approval.” He flicked his hand at me imperiously to indicate that I should leave. Despite the heat, a cold dread crept down my spine, raising the hairs on the nape of my neck and forearms. Had I finally been outplayed?
I stood and a sudden dizziness descended upon me, a burning pain shot through my belly, a thousand pinpricks of sweat rose all over my skin, but I blinked furiously to clear my swimming vision. Give him nothing, I commanded myself. Nothing. One foot in front of the other. Aim toward the door. The pimply faced guard moved from his post beside the entrance, took a sharp step forward, and pivoted to stand aside to let me pass into the outside hallway. There, Christina popped up from a bench against the wall and rushed toward me, her eyes wide.
“Are you all right?” She grasped my left hand, looking me up and down.
“I’m fine. We’re being driven back to our room.”
Christina frowned. “What about your car?”
“Apparently it will remain here.”
A flicker of fear glimmered in Christina’s eyes before she blinked a neutral expression into place and nodded. I bent over to retrieve my camera bag on the floor next to where she had been sitting but ended up clutching my side with shaking hands, trying to breathe through the pain ripping across my innards.
“It’s that bad?” Christina whispered, huddled beside me.
Unable to speak, I nodded, trying to focus only on my breathing.
“Here, let me.” Christina lifted the straps of my two camera bags and slid them up her arm. She then hoisted the tripod over her shoulder, before gesturing at me to follow. Once outside, a row of parked jeeps blurred in the heat waving skyward off the asphalt. Though the temperature neared the upper nineties, I was grateful the vehicle was covered. Grit hung in the air. Nearby, an internee sprayed water from a firehose onto the empty expanse of open ground in front of the administrative building in a futile attempt to tame the dust. Nothing else moved. Only the hiss of sand blowing in the wind could be heard.
Once we were moving, the jeep’s jostling in the deep ruts of the camp’s roads caused me to hold my breath against the pain tightening inside. Christina took my hand, and I focused on the contrast between our interlaced fingers: mine, wrinkled like peanut hulls; hers, smooth and lightly tanned. The vehicle lurched to a stop. I raised my gaze to a guard holding a rifle with a fixed bayonet. His blond hair and pale face, freckled in the desert sun, appeared haloed by the coils of barbed wire on the fence behind him. With a stifled yawn, he waved us through. Now, there’s a photo. I framed the shot in my mind, but the moment slipped away as the engine growled with our acceleration through the camp’s gate. Looking down, I noticed a small rent in the seam of the black leather seat next to my thigh. With my index finger, I worked the split into a gaping hole before stopping, satisfied with my small act of vandalism. Behind me, the low-lying cluster of Manzanar’s buildings faded in the plumes of dust kicked up from the jeep.
Chapter 42
Back in Lone Pine, inside our cabin, the heat and the crunching sound of Beasley’s guard pacing on the gravel path outside our door amplified our sense of imprisonment. I slumped down onto my bed, groaned, and clutched my side.
Christina peered out of the cabin’s window, dropped the curtains, and crossed the small room to crouch next to the side of the bed where I lay. Her face hovered over mine in the dim light. “Is it that bad?”
I nodded.
She stood up and wagged her index finger at me. “That’s it. I’m going outside
and demanding to be allowed to drive you back to Oakland tonight. You’re ill and need a doctor.”
“Hold on. I don’t want to go anywhere, not while Bozo’s got all of my negatives. Who knows what he’s going to do with them?”
Christina blew out her cheeks and sprawled onto the sagging twin bed next to mine. “Your health is more important.”
“I’m fine. The work is important.”
“No one doubts your commitment.”
“No. We’re staying. I’ve been dealing with these pains for the last seven years and have visited plenty of doctors. None of them help. They each have ideas, but nothing seems to work. I’ve had enough of their quackery. I’m not stopping this work. These people need our help.”
Christina gave me a long look.
“Don’t look at me like that. I know it sounds grandiose, but it’s true. I refuse to leave until I’ve gotten the shots we need.”
“Dorothea,” Christina enunciated each syllable for emphasis, “who knows what Beasley’s going to tell us tomorrow. Even if he lets us continue, someone else could take the photos. Didn’t Ansel tell you he’s gotten an offer to do this work too?”
“Ansel?” I snorted. “He can’t think for himself. He’s bought into the government’s position hook, line, and sinker and won’t listen to any of my suggestions. No, this is my project. I want to see it through. This work is important, dammit. I have a chance—we have a chance—to help these people.” I smacked my palm against the rough pine wall next to my bed for emphasis, and for a moment, the stinging of my palm canceled out the pain in my stomach.