“Do we? Why?” Ruth asked sarcastically.
“Because there’s a war on, and in the end there is more hope for us in America, with its democratic traditions—and all its flaws—than under the dictatorship of Imperial Japan or Nazi Germany. And if we’re to have a place in postwar America, we have to show that we are Americans.”
Ruth thought bitterly: Why don’t the damn Germans and Italians have to prove that they’re Americans?
Everyone was doting on Donnie and Peggy, and Ruth thanked Shizuko again for the loan of the brooms. “Did you make them yourselves?” she asked.
Shizuko shook her head: “Montgomery Ward catalog.”
“We can order things by mail?”
“Sure,” Charles replied wryly, “the Bill of Rights still guarantees us the freedom to shop.” Ruth had to laugh. He explained that copies of the Montgomery Ward and Sears, Roebuck catalogs were available at the post office, as were postal money orders. “Some of us still have a little cash in hand, and those who don’t can work jobs here and make enough money to buy little amenities like gardening equipment, clothing, small appliances…”
She thanked Charles for the information and left with the kids to check out the nursery school Ben had pointed out yesterday. She was impressed by what the teachers had wrought there out of scraps: orange crates covered over in wallpaper were used as tables and colorful cut-outs of flowers decorated the windowpanes. There were sandboxes, a homemade seesaw, beanbags, blocks, and other toys to occupy the children. Donnie and Peggy seemed to like it so she enrolled them, starting the next day.
It was a foggy Bay Area morning but the weather was mild and the wind kinder than it had been during the night. As they explored the camp Ruth found herself surprised by the ingenuity of the residents, who—even knowing their stay here was only temporary—had opted to lend their homes as much grace and beauty as they could. There was an artificial pond in the infield where residents sailed boats or practiced fly-casting, as well as a little park decorated with flowers, a bamboo fence, and an old Japanese lantern—an oasis of serenity in a desert of drab utilitarian buildings, dusty roads, and military green. Ruth could see it was a favorite of the Issei, many of whom came to sit and meditate in this small semblance of a homeland they might never see again. For recreation there was also a six-hole golf course, baseball diamonds, basketball, tennis, football, boxing, badminton, and sumo wrestling.
Ruth took the kids to lunch in the main mess hall in the grandstand. They didn’t care for the egg foo yung but gobbled up the pork and beans. Ruth thumbed through the Tanforan Totalizer and read about the latest war news, art lessons being taught by the well-known painter Chiura Obata, as well as something of potential interest to Jiro.
After lunch the fog lifted and Ruth took the kids up into the grandstand. Donnie tackled the hundred-odd steps eagerly. The stands were a popular place to while away the time: some residents dozed or sunned themselves on benches; others played dice or board games like go or shogi. When they reached the top Ruth put Peggy down on a bench, forced Donnie to sit still for one minute, and looked out at the surrounding city.
To the north, what appeared to be rolling green hills were actually the grassy ridges of San Bruno Mountain, with tracts of multihued houses coloring the lower slopes like wildflower fields. To the south, cars streamed past on Bayshore Highway, their drivers mostly oblivious to the eight thousand souls interned at Tanforan. Less oblivious, perhaps, were the pilots of the military aircraft that took off from Moffett Field, the sound of their engines a muted growl from afar. To the east, San Francisco Bay, cupped between mountains and city, dazzled blue in the afternoon sun.
“Gee whiz!” Donnie cried out.
“Oooh, high up!” Peggy agreed.
For a moment it was exhilarating, taking in the sweeping expanse of the world outside. Then Ruth’s gaze fell on the curtain of steel around the camp, the watchtowers with their guns pointed inward, and was reminded that the world outside was just that: out of bounds. The view only confirmed her loss of freedom: freedom that everyone outside took for granted, for their birthright. What should have been her birthright, and her children’s.
When she returned “home,” Ruth was amazed at the improvements her mother and Aunt Nishi had wrought. The once-gray windows matted with grime and horsehair were spotless, admitting welcome shafts of afternoon sunlight into the front room. The walls had been scrubbed to a fare-thee-well, the embalmed insects excavated from the dried whitewash—with the result that the whole room seem lighter, brighter, larger. Both floors and walls had been cleaned with bleach, and the smell of manure was no longer pervasive. The holes and cracks in the walls were now stuffed with wadded paper or tacked over with cardboard.
“Wow,” Ruth said, “you two did the work of seven women!”
“I think eight,” Nishi replied, “but who is counting?” They all laughed.
The children were tired so Ruth put them to bed in the back room. This freed her to help Etsuko and Nishi unpack. Inspired by Shizuko’s apartment, Ruth suggested hanging some colorful scarves on the walls and removing the stable doors and replacing them with something pretty. Resourcefully, Ruth began unscrewing the hinges of the Dutch doors with the flat edge of a coin. There were also several layers of paint covering the hinges that she chipped away with a nail file. Within half an hour she had removed the doors and each woman sacrificed one of her scarves to stitch together a lovely curtain between rooms, one that could be pulled back during the day to admit light and closed for privacy at night.
When Frank, Taizo, Jiro, and Ralph returned, they were greatly impressed with what the women had achieved—and vice versa. Using only scraps of lumber, pieces of iron, and discarded nails from a construction site, the men had built two sturdy chairs and had begun work on a table and a pair of wardrobe closets for each room. Ruth thought that her father looked particularly pleased and proud with their handiwork, and she was glad to see this after last night. As long as Taizo had something to do, as long as he felt useful, his spirit would meet the challenge.
“Uncle?” Ruth showed Jiro the Tanforan Totalizer. “There’s something here that might interest you.” She pointed out the headline MESSAGES VIA RED CROSS and read aloud, “‘Residents wishing to send messages to Japan or other foreign countries may do so through the American Red Cross by applying at First Aid headquarters in Mess Hall 3.’” She suggested, “Maybe you can write your family in Hōfuna, asking whether Akira has contacted them. Or write the Japanese draft board to find out if he was … inducted.”
Jiro took the paper excitedly. “Yes. Yes, that is exactly what I will do. I will do so at once! Thank you, Dai, thank you.” He embraced her in a bear hug. “You have given me hope, my sweet niece!”
That night they went to bed tired but with a sense of accomplishment.
Around midnight it started raining. The rhythm of the rain on the roof, even the rumble of distant thunder, was soothing at first—then Ruth began to hear a steady plop, plop, plop distressingly close at hand. She looked up. A flash of lightning briefly illuminated dozens of holes in the roof, like constellations in the night sky. In minutes all the adults were up, moving beds, using pots and buckets to catch the myriad of leaks.
“Shikata ga nai,” her father said with a shrug: Can’t be helped.
The next day he and Frank were up on the roof, patching the holes with bits of plywood and tar paper collected from the lumberyard (after first trudging through the ankle-deep mud of the wet track). Ruth looked up at her father and marveled—a man of sixty, doing the work of a twenty-five-year-old. She had never felt prouder, never loved him more, than at this moment.
* * *