“I just hope he doesn’t think I’m dead,” said Emi. “Leo. Or that I don’t care anymore.”
“He’s far too intelligent for that,” said Keiko. “I’m sure he can guess why his letters are no longer reaching you. And you’re far too intelligent to be spending all your time thinking about a boy. You’re on your own for a few more years, Emiko. Unmarried. Free . . . relatively free,” she corrected herself. “You don’t want to be like this, do you?” she asked, pushing up against the wall so her tall daughter could fit.
Emi didn’t answer, letting herself drift off to sleep, the faint rattle in her chest the only noise they could hear.
CHAPTER 6
CHRISTIAN LANGE
MARCH 1943
For a few miles they rode through the outskirts of San Antonio, full of buildings with stepped massing and flat roofs. The architecture was the opposite of the Midwest, everything brown and beige, sucked dry of moisture.
When the bus finally pulled up to the Crystal City camp and Christian saw the barbed wire and the watchtowers, the men patrolling on horseback and the signs warning internees that escape attempts were punishable by death, he knew that even little Inge would realize it was nothing like summer camp.
“It’s enormous,” Christian said as the dense rows of buildings came into view. They were composed of squat houses that looked too depressed to grow any taller, like malnourished children.
“There’s the swimming pool,” said Inge’s mother, pointing to a large circular area in the distance.
“And there is a hospital and schools, even a German school where both of you can study.”
“Is there an American school?” Christian asked.
“There is, but you can’t go,” said his mother, her tone indicating that he shouldn’t ask why.
“Where’s Dad?” he asked instead, as the bus drove past the two watchtowers near the entrance. They looked like very tall lifeguard stands, with flat roofs and small terraces where the guards patrolled. One was out, with a gun slung over his shoulder, its barrel reflecting the sun.
“Your father wanted to come, but they said there wasn’t room enough on the bus, plus he had to work. You’ll see him at home,” said Helene. “Temporary home,” she added. “Because all of this is temporary, Christian. I promise you.”
“If you say so,” said Christian, looking at the sprawl of buildings. In the distance he could see the houses, all small and identical. “One of those,” he realized, “is where I live now.” The thought made him shiver even though early spring in Crystal City brought temperatures in the high 80s.
When they all stepped off the bus, Inge looked from Christian to her mother, not sure whose hand to hold. She settled on both and dragged them toward an official who was set up at a small wooden table with a registry book in front of the camp’s triple-winged main building. Behind the fence in front of them, Christian could see a smattering of people. None came to the fence to observe the new arrivals.
“There are also Japanese and Italians here,” his mother explained. “And many South Americans. They barely speak English at all.”
Out of nowhere, a strong gust of wind blew the official’s pages, and with it, a thin layer of orange dirt seemed to settle on everything. Coming from the Midwest, Christian had never experienced the dust of the Southwest. And this version, produced from the grainy golden dirt of Texas, felt like powder in your hands and, he could already tell, fire in your lungs.
When Christian was registered in the book, Inge had to let go of his hand, as she still had to wait her turn, and Christian and his mother passed into the camp through the barbed-wire fence.
He was craning his neck to look at the buildings— a quickly fabricated sprawl in the desert—when he heard his name. His father was hurrying toward them in a pair of stained pants. Gone was the pressed and starched Franz Lange of River Hills.
“Christian, you’re here,” he said, giving him a sideways hug and hitting him affectionately on the shoulder. “Thank God you made it safely. Your mother has been so worried.”
“Fine place you’ve gotten us into,” said Christian, letting his father give him his version of a hug.
“It’s not ideal,” said Franz. “And a very strange combination of people. Communists and Nazis living on the same block. Whoever thought that was a good idea should be put out to pasture. But we won’t be here long. Let’s walk this way, to the German side,” he said, heading toward the group of people who had been watching the bus arrive.
As they got closer, Christian suddenly realized they were all Japanese. He looked at them, stopping in mid-stride. He had never seen Japanese people in such numbers, and he couldn’t hide his surprise.
“Why are you staring like that?” asked his mother, catching him.
“I don’t know,” he said, turning away, embarrassed. “I guess I’ve never seen them all together.”
Christian diverted his gaze to the ground, but not before he had eyed a group of Japanese teenagers with interest and felt his mother’s hands on his back again.
“Stare at the barbed wire. At the men with guns who are trained to shoot us if we try to escape. Stare at the cardboard-box houses we are living in or the scorpions in the shower. But don’t gape at them. They are in the same situation as we are. Probably worse.”
“I’m sorry,” said Christian, trying to comply. He took one last glance at the crowd and noticed a pair of feet going by—a girl’s feet, in pink shoes. He looked up, thinking they would be attached to a young girl, one close to Inge’s age, but instead they belonged to a stylish teenager, only a bit younger than himself.
They walked past rows of little houses, which Christian thought looked more like garden sheds than homes. The roofs barely sloped and the brown walls looked very thin and nailed hastily together. Some people had tried to make their exteriors more cheerful, adding a few plants out front, while others had let their circumstances dictate and were treating their places like camping tents. When Christian reached his family’s house, it was obvious that they were in the second group.
They stepped inside, and his mother pointed to a suitcase by the door.
“Before I left Wisconsin, they let me go home, with an escort, to pack some of our things, your things. I have them here.” She brought Christian over to a large suitcase and unzipped the top. “I wasn’t able to bring much. Just clothes, really. But I did manage to bring your football. The one that was autographed by that boy you and your father like so much.” She dug through the top of the case and produced it. It needed some air but the Don Hutson signature was white and clear. Christian turned it over, fitting it between his thumb and pointer finger, ready to throw a pass to no one.
His mother leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. The small laugh and smile lines on her face that had barely been apparent in the fresh air of Wisconsin were creased more deeply, and her lips felt cracked.