“Unfortunately,” he said, holding her hand so tightly that it was beginning to sweat. “I will write to you,” he promised. “But it doesn’t feel like enough.” He sat up, dusted off his pants, and said, “You don’t know what you’re returning to, and I definitely don’t know what Germany is going to be like, but whatever the circumstances,” said Christian, “I want to see you again. I have to.”
“How will we do that?” she asked, letting her body fold into his. “Because I don’t think I’ll be allowed to return.”
“Not here then. Somewhere else.”
Where, she wondered, would two people like them ever be welcome again?
“You’re a dreamer,” she said, kissing him. But wasn’t that always what her father said of her?
“Am I? I feel I’m a realist,” he said, his gaze growing more intense.
“Do you know where Japan is?” she asked, stretching her arms wide. “Across an ocean. And who knows how long the war will last? Or if America and Japan will ever have good relations again?”
“I don’t care about any of that,” said Christian. “All I know is that we will see each other again and it will be wonderful.”
“It’s wonderful now,” she said, taking his hands and wrapping his arms around her even more tightly. She’d been sure that every moment in the camps would be misery. But sometimes, the world surprised her.
“Okay, then,” she said, leaning against him and closing her eyes. “Please come and find me. Life is long. I hope.”
CHAPTER 13
CHRISTIAN LANGE
SEPTEMBER 1943
At 10 A.M. on August 30, Emi was gone. Christian swam in the pool and reached out under the water for her invisible hand, he went into the silent orchard, and every night he walked past her empty house on the Japanese side. Unlike most of the families in the camp, Emi and her mother had not shared with another family. Perhaps, thought Christian, they were given preferential treatment. The windows were open, the two stumpy cactuses planted outside still growing—it looked as though the Kato women were home, quietly living their imprisoned lives. Christian knew how he appeared, dawdling outside an empty house on the Japanese side every night, but he was long past caring. A week after she’d left, he walked up to the door and slipped inside.
The small house smelled like a hot day in Texas, and a hot day in Texas meant Emi. He ran his fingers over the thin walls—the paint raised in places, the brushstrokes apparent, as if applied as hastily as possible—and sat on one of the twin beds. One of them was hers. He saw a makeshift broom in the corner, abandoned.
At the pool the next day, Kurt kicked back on the pavement beside him, his skin dark from spending every afternoon outside, and said, “Don’t be upset. What did you expect to happen? She’s twenty-one, Japanese, far better off than even you, and she’s going back to a country being shredded by war. Just be happy you knew her. Think about me. What have I known since I’ve been here?”
Christian shrugged and turned his face up to the sky. He rolled to the side, grabbed his shoe, and dropped it on Kurt’s head because, with that comment, Kurt had really reminded him of Jack Walter from the Children’s Home. He missed Jack more than he had expected to.
“What in the hell is wrong with you?” asked Kurt, picking up the shoe and hurling it into the pool.
“And that was the one with the shoelace,” said Christian, watching it bob up and down in the water.
That night after roll call, he went to Emi’s house again, but this time, he heard a man’s voice call out to him as he walked up to the door.
“You miss her?” asked a middle-aged man standing in front of the house next door holding the same kind of rough broom as Emi’s.
“Who?” said Christian, not sure what else to say.
“Who!” said the neighbor, amused. “Emiko Kato, who else? You two weren’t very good at hiding. But it was nice to see at least one thing grow in this desolate place. Love between two young people.”
Christian smiled at the thought and started to open the door, but the man spoke up again.
“This is the last night you can come here,” he warned. “Another family is moving in tomorrow. So take your time tonight, but don’t come back.”
“Thank you,” said Christian, adding, “I’m Christian Lange.”
“I know who you are,” said the man, introducing himself as John Sasaki. “And I’m sorry for your mother and her baby. Terrible thing.”
“Does this side know about that, too?” Christian asked.
“Of course we know. The camp newspapers leave a lot to be desired, there are barely any books to read. What else is there to do but gossip? I think we all know everything. Even the sad things.”
“I guess so.”
“It’s being cut off from everything that’s the worst part, isn’t it?” said John. “I don’t know any of the current troop movements in Europe, and my son is fighting over there.”
“For the Americans?”
John frowned. “Of course. I’m American and so is he. Just like you are.”
“I’m sorry,” said Christian, embarrassed. “That was a stupid thing to say. I hope your son is okay.”
“That’s the one thing they would tell you in here,” said John, relaxing again. “That your son is dead.”
“I suppose so,” said Christian. He thanked John for the update on the house and opened the Katos’ door.
Once inside, Christian immediately noticed an envelope on the floor that had not been there the day before. He bent down to pick it up. It was addressed to Emi and was postmarked from Japan. Ignoring his qualms, Christian stuck his finger in the flap of the envelope and opened it. Like all the mail that came into the camp, it had been opened and resealed, but unlike the letters he’d received from Jack, this one bore none of the censors’ black marks. It was short and written in Japanese. Christian studied the characters, as Emi had taught him a few simple kanji, but he didn’t recognize any of the writing.
Deciding to take the letter anyway, he put it back in the envelope and walked outside. John Sasaki was still there, watching him. “Done already?” he said, eyeing Christian suspiciously.
Christian shrugged and tried to hide the letter, but John spotted it. “Stealing something on your way out?”
“It’s just a letter I found on the floor,” said Christian, wishing he had hidden it.
“And I’m sure you opened it,” said John, walking over. He took the letter from Christian and scanned it. “Would you like to know what it says?”
“Of course,” said Christian, looking over John’s shoulder at the inscrutable text.
John smiled and said, “You’re going to be happy.”
Christian took the letter back and looked at it as if all of a sudden it might translate itself. “What does it say?” he asked.
John pointed at the last character. “In Japanese you read from right to left.” He traced the vertical text with his hand and said, “Beginning here it says, ‘You sounded very much in love in your last letter, Emiko-chan. And I will never be the one to criticize you falling for an American. I am, after all, the one who brought you there. Despite the geography of Japan, the world is not an island.