Caged Eagles

CAGED EAGLES

E
RIC
W
ALTERS

ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

Text copyright ©
2000
Eric Walters

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Walters, Eric, 1957–

Caged eagles

Sequel to: War of the Eagles.
ISBN 10: 1-55143-139-4 / ISBN 13: 978-1-55143-139-0

1. Japanese Canadians—Juvenile fiction. I. Title.

PS8595.A598C34 2000    jC813”.54    C00-910192-6

PZ7.W17129Ca 2000

First published in the United States,
2000
Library of Congress Control Number
:
00-100927

Summary
: A young boy learns to take pride in his Native heritage, but can he
accept his country's betrayal of his best friend.

Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing
programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada
through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and the Canada
Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts
Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

Design and typesetting by Christine Toller
Cover artwork by Ken Campbell

www.orcabook.com
Printed and bound in Canada.

12   11   10   09   •   10   9   8   7

To those who endured.

Contents

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afterword

.1.

Kairn Island, British Columbia
March 17, 1942

“You know you can't take all your dolls with you,” I said softly to my seven-year-old sister Yuri.

“But I can't just take one and leave the other two here,” she pleaded. “It wouldn't be fair to pick one over the others. And who will take care of the ones I leave? I can't just leave them here … alone …” She blinked her eyes quickly to try to hold back the tears that were starting to form in the corners of her eyes.

“There just isn't room on the boat for all of them. Maybe you could just tuck the other two dolls into your bed together and that way they wouldn't be alone,” I reasoned.

“But there'd still be nobody to take care of them. They'll be scared,” she whimpered.

I didn't know what to say to her. I was scared right now. Maybe it would have been better if we at least knew where we were going. All we were told by the RCMP was that we had to be out of our homes within twenty-four hours — by noon today. Since then every family in the village had been working to put their things on their fishing boat. And I'd heard that the same was happening up and down the whole coast. All families of Japanese heritage had been ordered to leave their homes and assemble at Prince Rupert. For some families, farther up the coast, that was a trip of over a hundred miles. For us it was about fifteen miles to the outer reaches of the Prince Rupert harbor.

My father said that once we were at Prince Rupert we'd be told where our final destination was. There were rumors — there were always rumors — that our boats were going to be pulled out of the water and stored in the boatyards in Rupert, and then we'd all be sent by train down to Vancouver. And what then?

“Tadashi … I just can't leave them …” Yuri continued. “But father said you could only take one,” I answered.

I'd been surprised that he'd allowed her to even take the one. There really wasn't much space on the boat — at least, space in the cabin — and that space was already filled with pots and pans and dishes and food and extra clothing and bedding … things we'd need.

The only non-essentials he'd allowed anybody to take were the family photo albums and two delicate vases that had been brought over from Japan thirty years ago when my father and his family first came to Canada.

“Are we just going to be gone for a few days?” Yuri asked. “I don't know.” That was at least partially truthful.

I didn't know how long we were going to be gone for. Nobody knew. All we did know was that every person who had Japanese blood in them had been ordered to leave an area within one hundred miles of the coast now that Canada was at war with Japan. Why couldn't they just leave us alone?

“I just can't choose one of my dollies over the others,” she said, clutching all three to her chest, tightly wrapped up in her arms. She was no longer even pretending that she could stop the tears and big, fat drops started to leak out of the corners of her dark eyes, tracing a path down her cheeks.

“Maybe I can help,” I said. “Let me see your dollies.”

Yuri hesitated and then reluctantly released her grip on one and handed it to me.

“What's her name?” I asked.

“Mollie.”

“She's a very pretty dolly,” I said, grateful there was nobody in the room to overhear my conversation. At fourteen, I was far too old to be playing with dolls.

“She's my prettiest doll,” Yuri said. “Doesn't she have lovely hair?”

I ran a hand over her hair, stroking it gently. It was soft, red yarn that formed the doll's hair. The hair matched the freckles spread across her face. Bright blue eyes stared back at me as I looked at the doll.

“And what do you call these two?” I asked as I reached out and took the other dolls in my hands.

“Their names are Nabuko and Sachi.”

“They're very pretty dollies too,” I offered as I looked at them.

Although I hadn't known their names, I knew the dolls well. They'd been in our house for longer than Yuri had been — actually, longer than I'd been around … a lot longer. They were dolls my mother had when she was little. Sent to her by a grandmother she'd never met — a great-grandmother I'd never known. My mother was born in Canada just one year after her parents — both dead now — came from Japan.

The two little dolls were almost identical: straight black hair, dark slanting eyes, slight in build and powdery-white faces — little Japanese girls. Of course, the traditional Japanese dresses had long ago been replaced by dresses that looked like those worn by my two sisters, like those worn by any other girl in my school.

My mother was a wizard with a needle and thread and could make anything. She sewed almost all our clothes. Sometimes Yuri or my other sister, Midori, who was eleven, would come to her with a picture of some Hollywood actress and beg her to sew them a dress like the one in the picture. If mother thought it was a nice dress, she'd make it. If she didn't like it, she'd give some excuse about not having the right material or say. “maybe later.” My mother didn't like to say no, but I knew what maybe later really meant.

I looked at the dolls. They were wearing Western clothes, but that still didn't change what they were — little Japanese dolls … still Japanese dolls after being in this country for forty years. And I looked over at my little sister and saw the same delicate features of the dolls and realized that being born here hadn't changed her appearance either … or mine.

“Why do we have to leave our house anyway?” Yuri asked.

I didn't know what to say. “It's because … because of the war,” I stammered. “They want to make sure we're … safe.”

That was nothing but a lie and I knew it and felt bad. Our safety had nothing to do with it. Instead, it was to make sure that they were safe from us. They were afraid that we'd help the Japanese — be spies or blow up bridges or kill people or I don't know what. Did they believe my grandmother was dangerous? Or my mother, or my two little sisters? Or me? I was born in this country. Did they really think I was going to help Japan? I'm Canadian.

“Will my doll be safe if I bring it where we're going?” Yuri asked anxiously.

“Are you a little scared like your dolls?” I asked, realizing what she really meant.

A trail of tears started again. I reached out and wrapped an arm around her shoulder.

“Everything is going to be okay. We're all going to be together. Do you think Father or Mother, or Grandmother, or Midori or your big brother here would ever let anything happen to our little Yuri?”

She shook her head, and I squeezed her a little bit tighter. If only I believed what I was saying.

“Tadashi!”

I turned around at the sound of my father yelling out my name. “I'm in here with Yuri!” I yelled back.

He appeared at the door to her room. “No time to waste. Come and help — now,” he ordered.

“I was just getting the bedding from the girls' room,” I explained. There was no point in mentioning the dolls to him.

“Hurry. There is much still to be done.”

“Yes, Father.”

“I will help old Mrs. Koyanagi. She is alone and needs assistance. You finish loading our boat while I help with her belongings,” my father continued.

“Is she coming with us on our boat?” Yuri asked.

“No,” he answered, shaking his head. “Traveling with others.”

“I'll get the bedding down to the boat and come right back to the house,” I offered.

My father gave a curt nod of his head in response and then he was gone.

“Here,” I said, handing Yuri one of the Oriental dolls — I didn't know if it was Nabuko or Sachi.

“But what about the other two?” she pleaded.

“They'll be just fine,” I said.

“But I can't leave —”

I put a finger up to her mouth to silence her. “You're not leaving them.” I took the two dolls and stuffed them into the bedding, folding them in so they were lost but safe within the folds of the material. Yuri's face erupted into a smile.

“But I want them to stay deep down in your bedding. I don't want to see them, and you better not let Father see them. Do you understand?”

She nodded her head obediently.

The bedding filled my arms and I walked out of the room. I held it tightly, knowing that I had two little secrets locked away inside. My mother and Midori were nowhere to be seen, but I could hear my grandmother in the kitchen, humming loudly to herself. How she could be humming I didn't understand. Throughout this whole ordeal — the bombing of Pearl Harbor by the Japanese, the declaration of war against Japan by Canada, Great Britain and the United States, all JapaneseCanadians having to get registration cards and not being allowed to leave our village, and now, finally, being forced to move — she'd seemed almost happy. No, that was wrong. Not happy … just not upset.

All she kept saying, over and over and over, was
shikataga-nai
. That was Japanese for “it can't be helped.” She somehow saw this as being almost like fate — our fate — and there was no point in fighting it.

I wanted to fight it. Or fight something. Or somebody. But there was nobody to fight. I just felt so angry and hurt and confused and it was all so tightly balled up together inside of me that it made my gut ache when I thought about it too much.

I opened the front door and walked out into the cold March air. Walking down our front path I couldn't help but be amazed at the sight before me.

Everywhere I looked were the people of our village, either burdened down with possessions and headed for the boats at the dock, or walking back toward the houses empty-handed. Regardless of the direction they were moving, they all looked the same: heads down, moving silently, serious expressions etched on their faces. I wondered what would happen if I called out to somebody, or yelled or laughed out loud. Would anybody even turn my way? Would they pretend that they even heard or noticed? Probably not.