The only lifeline connecting the closed universe of Tanforan with the outside was the daily mail delivery. Residents had to stand in long lines at the post office to receive their mail, but what else was new? Here they received letters from home—from white neighbors who were looking after their houses or belongings—or from friends and family at other relocation centers. Evacuees were given “letterforms”—lined greenish paper on which no more than twenty-four lines of text could be written, then folded into quarters for mailing, no postage necessary. To the mortification of everyone concerned, the address side of the form announced in large, boldfaced letters that it came from an INTERNEE OF WAR. Letters to correspondents outside the camp were subject to the Office of Censorship, which deleted any derogatory comments about camp conditions, though correspondence between evacuees in different camps was not. Jiro and Nishi received letters from their three daughters, who were interned in Poston, Arizona, and Ruth was happy to see a letter from Stanley, whose family was safe and living in not-dissimilar surroundings. The Portland Assembly Center had been hastily built on the site of the Pacific International Livestock Exhibition, fragrant with the same aromas as at Tanforan:
At first the placement of the camp baffled me, Stanley wrote, until I realized it was probably thought up by some horse’s ass and then it all made sense.
Ruth laughed out loud. She would have to share this with Ralph.
Like all evacuees, Taizo had sent change of address forms to his friends on the outside, and in response he received a letter back from an old friend, Mr. Hioki, who had owned a dry goods store next to the Watanabes on Kukui Street. When he saw the Honolulu postmark, Taizo’s heart sank, wondering how much more terrible life must be for his Japanese friends back in Hawai'i; Taizo had heard that martial law had been declared after Pearl Harbor. But Mr. Hioki’s letter was nothing like what he expected.
His friend told him that, unlike on the West Coast, the vast majority of Japanese living in Hawai'i had not been forced to relocate. Out of the 158,000 Japanese living in the islands—both Issei and Nisei, foreign nationals and American citizens alike—only two thousand individuals deemed “potentially dangerous” had been sent to internment camps at Sand Island and Honouliuli. Because the Japanese made up thirty-seven percent of the islands’ workforce, it was feared that the economy would collapse if they were all removed in a mass evacuation. And so the majority of Hawai'i’s Japanese residents were allowed to stay in their homes and, in most cases, retain their businesses.
Taizo was stunned. How was this possible? The mere possibility of a Japanese attack on the West Coast had been enough to justify evicting 110,000 Japanese from their homes and dumping them into stables reeking of horse manure. Hawai'i had been attacked, but the majority of its Japanese residents had been allowed to remain in their homes and continue their lives as if nothing had happened! How was this fair? How did this make any sense?
Sitting on the edge of his cot as Etsuko gathered laundry to be washed, Taizo revealed none of the shock and anger he felt. Once again his shame at having been duped by Jiro boiled up in him. Had he and his family stayed in Honolulu, they would not have lost their home and business. They would not be imprisoned. Taizo quickly folded the letter and stuffed it into his pants pocket. Etsuko must never see this; his family must never know of the life that might have been theirs had they remained in Hawai'i. It would only make them feel even worse over what they had lost. And selfishly, he could not bear the shame of seeing that loss in their eyes.
And so he left the barrack, disposed of the letter in a pile of leaves being burned near the grandstand, and bottled up the secret inside him.
But his anger at Jiro was not so easily contained. Each time he saw his brother he felt a festering rage and resentment. He may not have shown it on his face but, despite himself, his manner toward Jiro became colder; he rebuffed offers to play go, spoke barely a word to him during meals. Jiro read the change in Taizo’s body language; baffled, he finally approached him alone outside and asked, “Taizo, have I done something to offend you?”
Taizo snapped, “Have you done something? We are here because of what you have done, because of your lies! It is because of you that my family is living in a horse stall!”
Jiro hung his head. “I know. You are right. I am so sorry.”
“You are sorry,” Taizo said, “a sorry excuse for a brother!” Jiro looked deeply wounded. “For the moment we share living quarters, and out of respect for family harmony, we will speak no more of this. But know that in my heart, you are no longer worthy of respect, and I no longer consider you my brother!”
Taizo turned and stormed away. Shattered into silence, Jiro made no attempt to disguise the shame and sorrow in his face.
* * *
Gradually life at Tanforan improved: the dirt roads were covered in gravel; the mess halls began serving Japanese foods like rice, tea, and pickled vegetables. Frank worked long hours for all of sixteen dollars a month, leaving in the morning and not returning until after the last dinner shift—which was why Ruth, as she helped Etsuko with the ironing one day in late July, was so surprised to find him back home after having just left a half hour before. “Forget something?” she asked.
“No. I, uh, stopped at the post office before going to work.”
She could see he was holding a letter in his hand, and immediately feared the worst: “Is Stanley all right? Akira?”
“It’s not about either of them. But … it is bad news.” He turned to Ruth’s mother. “Etsuko? Could you give us a minute?”
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Ruth demanded.
“It’s from Jim and Helen Russell.”
Ruth’s heart skipped a beat. “Slugger?”
Frank nodded. “After we left, he … spent a lot of time in our old driveway, like he was waiting for us to come home.” His voice caught. “Then he started running away. Looking for us, I guess. The first time they found him at your parents’ old house, and brought him back.”
“Oh God,” Ruth said, tears welling in her eyes.
“Jim and Helen tried to keep him indoors, but he clawed at the doors and draperies, desperate to get out. So they did the only thing they could, they tied him up with a rope in the backyard and brought him in at night. But one day he chewed through the rope and leaped the fence again. They searched everywhere. All over Florin. Elk Grove. All the way to Sacramento.” He added quietly, “They tried, Ruth. They did their best.”
Ruth began to sob. All she could think of was her good boy, lost, lonely, and perhaps starving somewhere, and all because of …
“God damn it!” she shouted in a burst of fury.
“Honey, calm down—”
But Ruth was not to be placated. To Frank’s shock, she pushed over the ironing board, which crashed to the floor, then gave it a violent kick.
“God damn it! Slugger—” It was a howl of grief unlike anything Frank had ever heard from her. She grabbed the water jar they used for the iron, but before she could throw it Frank grabbed her by the wrist.
“Honey! Stop it, before you hurt yourself!” He had never seen her like this. “I loved him too, honey. But—for Chrissake, he’s only a dog.”
Only a dog. Why did those words only fuel her rage?
“Let me go!” Her voice raw, anguished, she threw off his grip, losing her own grasp on the water jar, which struck the wall and shattered.
Ruth sank into a chair, covered her face with her hands, and wept uncontrollably, as if she had tapped some deep well of sorrow and loss. She ached to see her good boy one last time, his brown—no, black—furry face, his loving eyes, or just to know that he was safe. But somehow she knew she never would.
Chapter 9