“They’re far from the first,” he noted grimly.
He was right. This war had seen more civilians targeted for mass slaughter than in any previous war: Nanking. Dresden. London. Manchuria. Auschwitz. Dachau. In her heart Ruth wept for them all. But this …
“My God. What kind of world has this become, where someone can press a button and an entire city vanishes in a single flash of light?”
* * *
While doing their best to console Cricket’s family and other neighbors, the Haradas were also preparing for their move to San Jose. With Horace’s help, they transferred their household belongings from the Florin Community Hall and into a rented truck for the drive south.
The night before the trip, as Ruth and Frank lay in bed, exhausted and overwhelmed, Ruth spoke into the darkness:
“Is it wrong for me to feel relief that at least the war is over?”
Her husband took her hand in his.
“No. It’s not,” he said gently. “The war is over, and we can move on with our lives. We’re owed that much. To live a quiet, ordinary life again.”
She smiled. She liked the sound of that.
“You promise?” she said, teasing. “A quiet, ordinary life?”
“I promise.”
It was a promise, they both knew, he had no power to keep—but Ruth loved him for it, and, starting with a long kiss, showed him how much.
PART THREE
'Ohana
Chapter 14
1948
Donnie, now ten, and Peggy, eight, were playing ball, normally a fine thing for children to be doing on a warm, sunny day in August—if they were outside. Not in the living room, where a pop fly ricocheted off the ceiling and fell toward Peggy. She reached up to catch it, just as Max—a sixty-pound golden retriever—jumped up, snatching the ball in his mouth. “Good catch, Max!” Peggy took the ball, now dripping with dog slobber, and pitched it to Donnie, but it spun wildly astray and into the kitchen, where it crashed into what sounded like the refrigerator. Max eagerly galloped after it, but even he stopped dead when he heard:
“Peggy! Donnie!” And moments later: “Yuck! Did you spit on this?”
“Not me, Mom!” Donnie called.
“Me neither!” Peggy said.
Ruth held the slimy ball with two fingers as if it were a giant booger. “How many times have I told you not to play ball in the house?”
Donnie and Peggy were silent. They knew this was a trick question.
“Go out in the backyard and play, that’s what it’s there for!”
“It’s too hot outside,” Donnie protested.
“It’s a zillion degrees,” Peggy added helpfully.
“Yeah? You want to see how hot things can get in here? Out! Out! You too, Max.” Ruth wedged the ball between the dog’s jaws and marched them—in steely, Mommy-means-it silence—to the back door. Reluctantly the kids ran out into a perfectly nice grassy yard graced by pink-blossomed azalea bushes and a tall palm tree whose long shadow was ticking toward high noon.
As the sunlight hit her Peggy moaned, “I’m melting.”
Ruth suppressed a chuckle. “Don’t worry, sweetie, that only happens to wicked witches. So be good and have fun!”
She shut the door and returned to their brand-new Kelvinator, now defaced by a small ding in the door. Peggy really had quite an arm; maybe they could trade her to the San Francisco Seals. Only two weeks of summer vacation left, Ruth told herself. If I could get through three years in internment camps, I can get through this.
Snowball, having observed the chaos from the sanctuary of the second-floor landing, rested her head on her paws and went to sleep.
Ruth smiled despite her aggravation. The Haradas had been lucky to find this place—a small, two-story stucco house on North Fifth Street, a block from Jackson Street, the heart of San Jose’s thriving Japantown. They had spent two years in a one-bedroom shoebox of an apartment on First Street, but fortunately Frank was promoted to foreman of the packing shed just as the housing shortage began to ease. Etsuko generously contributed to the down payment from her bank funds; she had her own bedroom, the kids each had small rooms of their own, and the Haradas had a real home for the first time since Florin. Ruth was especially happy that her mother had adapted well to their new community—she was currently out enjoying dim sum with church friends at Ken Ying Low restaurant. Etsuko still grieved for Taizo, as did Ruth, but seemed content with her new life.
The chime of the doorbell found their chatty mailman, Mr. Ng, on the doorstep. “Lots of letters today, Mrs. Harada,” he said, handing Ruth a bundle. “Another one from Japan.”
“Oh, that must be my Uncle Jiro.” Jiro and Nishi had returned to Japan in 1946, where they were relieved to discover Akira, wounded but alive, in an Imperial Army hospital in Tokyo. Upon his deportation to Japan, Akira had indeed been drafted into the Japanese army—but in combat he could not bring himself to shoot at American troops. He was branded a coward by the soldiers in his unit, several of whom gave him a beating so severe it came close to puncturing his left lung. Jiro and Nishi took him back to Hōfuna, where he slowly regained his health. And as soon as she was permitted to travel to Japan, Akira’s wife, Tamiko, joined him with their children.
After Mr. Ng left, Ruth glanced at the envelope from Jiro and one from Stanley in Portland, feeling a pang of regret that her once-close family was now so widely scattered. They did see Horace and his family at least once a month; Ralph was the nearest, studying journalism at UC Berkeley on the G.I. Bill.
But as she flipped through the packet of letters, bills, and circulars, she was surprised to see an envelope addressed to her parents—both of them—at their old rural route in Florin. The latter address had been crossed out and someone—most likely Cricket—had handwritten below it FORWARD TO: 659 N. FIFTH STREET, SAN JOSE, CALIFORNIA.
Even more surprising was the postmark—Honolulu, Territory of Hawai'i—and the sender’s name: “R. Utagawa.”
She could have waited until Etsuko returned and handed the letter to her. But the Honolulu address seemed to signal bad news—the death of an old friend, perhaps, though Ruth had never heard her parents mention any “R. Utagawa.” Etsuko was still fragile emotionally—they had only recently succeeded, after much stress and bureaucracy, in getting the federal government to return Taizo’s cremated remains from Tule Lake—and Ruth hesitated to add another death to her mother’s burden of grief.
Or perhaps Ruth was simply curious. In any event, she didn’t think her mother would mind if she took a peek inside. She opened the envelope and took out a piece of folded notepaper. The letter was handwritten with an odd leftward slant, as if the writing had been an awkward task. But as she focused on what the words actually said, Ruth’s curiosity turned to shock:
August 13, 1948
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Watanabe:
My name is Rachel Utagawa. My late husband and I gave Ruth up for adoption. A day has not gone by since that I haven’t thought of her. I wonder how she is. Is she married? Does she have children of her own? Sister Mary Louisa Hughes has told me what good people you are, and how much you love Ruth. I’m happy to know she had such good parents. I would give anything in the world to hear her voice or see her face, even once. It is a longing, a setsubō, which has never gone away. I intend no disrespect to you. I am her mother by blood, but you are her parents by law and by love. I hope you will look kindly on this request. Thank you.
Sincerely yours,
Rachel Utagawa
1726 S. King St.
Honolulu, T.H.
ph. HON 68412