Caged Eagles (7 page)

“Here.” I dropped to my knees to unfurl the blankets and retrieve the third doll. She was more safely trapped within the folds and resisted coming out for a few seconds. I wished the others had been so deeply buried. I handed it to my father. He took it, but instead of looking at the doll his gaze was fixed firmly on me.

“It was my fault,” I said softly. “I just couldn't —”

My father held his hand up to silence me and I stopped abruptly.

“These dolls should not be in the bedding,” he said.

“I know … but …” I looked at the ground.

“They could be lost,” my father said.

“Lost?”

“We would not want anything to happen to three such important dolls.” He reached out and handed them gently to Yuri. “I want you to keep them in your arms … in plain sight where they will not be misplaced or left behind … by accident.”

I looked up at my father in shock. The expression I was expecting — anger or disapproval — was missing. Instead he looked almost proud. But that made no sense. I had defied him and he should have been angry … unless … maybe what I had done was the right thing and he knew it. My father subtly bowed his head and I bowed back.

“Tadashi,” my father called out. “Mattresses first … unless you have other ideas.”

“I don't know … maybe we could …” I stopped myself as I realized he was gently poking fun at me. “No … I mean, no, sir, I'll get them right on the truck.”

The edges of his mouth curved ever so slightly into a smile.

What had started as a gigantic empty truck bed had quickly become full. We were piling our belongings in one of the back corners, while the possessions of three other families were occupying the rest of the space. The other families, the Matsuis, Asadas and Moris, were all from our village and I'd known them forever. I went to school with the Matsui and Asada kids.

The Moris, though, were a lot older and had never had kids. It was getting harder and harder for Mr. Mori to run his fishing boat, so they'd sent word back to Japan that they wanted a member of their extended family to come and live with them and eventually take over the boat. And that was how Toshio came to live in our village. His father was Mr. Mori's great-nephew. Toshio's father seemed okay. He didn't speak much English, but he was friendly. Actually, the whole family was fine — except for Toshio. He was just different. He didn't talk much and when he did it was almost always in Japanese.

And he always seemed to be scowling. My mother said that it must have been hard for him to leave Japan at fifteen, and how would I feel if I had to move so far away and leave all my friends behind. Back then I didn't understand how it would feel. Now I knew too well. Still, before he came I got along pretty good with everybody.

It was strange, but living in a village so small, where everybody knew each other, meant that while people may not have been family, they were a lot more than just neighbors. You knew everything there was to know about them, and they knew everything about you. There weren't many secrets in a village the size of ours. And, of course, all special occasions, from births to weddings to deaths, were shared with everybody.

I gently put down the sewing machine in our corner of the truck. It was now one of four machines in the back of the truck, one for each family whose possessions had to be put in this one vehicle. Of course, it had been no surprise that each family had selected this as one of the possessions that had first come on their boat and now was designated important enough for the truck. Every Japanese woman had a sewing machine. The sounds of sewing — the whirring of the wheel and the rhythmic pumping of the foot pedal, punctuated by the tapping of the needle through the material — marked a Japanese home as much as the smell of Japanese cooking.

It wasn't just my mother who knew her way around a sewing machine. All the other woman in the village were experts as well. Little girls learned from their mothers, who'd learned from their mothers. Midori was already pretty skilled, and even Yuri had started to sew clothing … mainly for her dollies …

I had to smile. It was so much nicer to see Yuri holding them instead of having them secreted away. It also felt like a load had been lifted from my shoulders. I knew she should have her dolls with her, but I'd felt guilty the whole way for defying my father. I didn't like going against him like that. After all, he was my father and deserved my respect.

I leaped down from the truck. It was a long way to the ground. My grandmother and all the other old folks would have trouble getting up into the back of the truck. Maybe there was some way to put some boxes or something on the ground to make it easier.

“Come on, and quit lolligagging!” yelled out an angry voice.

I turned around. There was a soldier, who couldn't have been that much older than me, standing in front of a group of old women from our village. There were four or five of them, and I'd noticed them standing off to the side, talking, watching. A couple of them were old, even older than my grandmother, and not able to help any more than by offering words of encouragement to others as we'd been loading.

“Come on, get moving, there's no time to waste here!” the young soldier bellowed. “You're blocking the wharf!”

The old women looked perplexed. Not only didn't they understand what he was saying, or what he meant, but they were confused by his tone of voice.

“Don't you speak any English?” He held up his hand and pointed to his watch. “Ticky, ticky … time's wasting … move!” he said, making a shooing gesture.

A couple muttered something in Japanese, too quietly for me to hear, but didn't move. They had no idea what he was trying to say to them, and it would have been rude to just walk away. The soldier walked even closer to them, until he was standing over top of them.

“Move!” he bellowed.

I couldn't just stand and watch. I had to explain. “They don't understand —”

“Leave alone!”

I heard the voice at the same instant I saw the person speaking. It was Toshio. His arms were full, but despite the load he quickly closed the distance to the soldier.

He put the boxes down and inserted himself in the little gap between the soldier and the old women. Toshio was two years older than me, but he was a little guy and the soldier was a full head taller than him.

“Leave alone!” Toshio repeated, practically screaming into the soldier's face.

“You speak English,” the soldier said, although I couldn't tell whether that was a question or a comment.

Toshio didn't answer. His English wasn't good — his family had only been here about a year — but I knew he understood enough to answer … if he wanted to.

“Do you speak any English,
Jap
?” the soldier said.

Again Toshio didn't answer, but I knew he hated that word as much as any of us — maybe more. His eyes darkened and his glare became angrier.

“Answer me!” the soldier demanded, and moved ever so slightly forward, reducing the space between them to a matter of inches. The soldier was now more over top of him than just standing in front of him.

I could see Toshio's fingers straighten into weapons. Toshio knew judo, and despite the size difference I knew he could toss that guy halfway across the deck. That would serve the soldier right, but it wouldn't end there and Toshio would find himself in trouble, maybe even in jail.

I had to do something. “He speaks English,” I blurted out, and the soldier took a slight step back as he turned to face me.

“His family hasn't been over here that long, so his English isn't that good,” I explained. “And some of the older folks mainly speak Japanese.”

“You speak English — good English,” the soldier said.

There was more than a hint of surprise in his voice.

I shrugged. “Why wouldn't I? I was born here.”

“You were?”

“Almost everybody my age was born in Canada. Even some of the adults my parents' age were born here.”

Now he looked as perplexed as the old women had when he was bellowing out orders. “I thought you were all, like, from Japan.”

“Hardly anybody.”

He nodded his head and then looked at his watch. “There isn't much time. I got orders to hurry everybody up.” He motioned to the old ladies. “Could you get them to move?”

“Um …” I couldn't very well give them orders … but I had an idea.

“The soldier says that he thinks you all look tired and asks that you please sit down,” I said in Japanese, bowing at the end.

As a group they smiled, nodded their heads and started to shuffle away. One of them, Mrs. Sakamoto, reached out, patted the soldier on the arm gently and bowed slightly before starting off after the others.

“What did you say to them?” he asked.

“To get moving,” I lied. “Isn't that what you wanted?”

“Yeah. Thanks, appreciate your help,” the soldier said.

“Sure,” I answered.

He turned and started off down the wharf, leaving me and Toshio alone. I wasn't surprised to see that Toshio was still glaring — it always took me a few minutes to settle down when I was angry, too. But then I realized he was now aiming his angry eyes at me. Why was he mad at me? Didn't he understand that I'd stopped him from getting into a fight? Maybe getting tossed in jail or in serious trouble? He should be grateful to me.

“Whites your friends,” Toshio said through clenched teeth.

“What?” I demanded.

“You think all whites friends.”

“He's no friend of mine,” I said. “I was just trying to help.”

“Help the soldier … help the whites.”

“Don't be so dense, Toshio! I was trying to help those old women and
you
.”

“Toshio not need you help!” he snarled, and took two steps toward me. “Toshio take care of self. Not afraid of soldier.” “I didn't say you were afraid.” What an idiot! Did he want to get into a fist fight that badly that it didn't matter who it was with?

“Don't be stupid,” I said, backing away.

He kept coming toward me. Whether or not I wanted to fight didn't matter. He was going to take a run at me, so I put up my fists to defend myself.

“Toshio!” screamed out a high-pitched voice. It was Mrs. Mori. She yelled and gestured for him to come to her side. He hesitated, took a halting step toward her, stopped and then turned back toward me.

“In the end … you not be riding in front of truck with soldier … but in back with Japanese. You only white on the inside … outside is yellow like everybody else. You not hakujin.”

Toshio turned and away.

What did he mean? Of course I wasn't white. I shook my head. There was no point in wasting any time on anything that idiot had to say.

.6.

Twenty-two of us, including Toshio, sat in the back of the truck, surrounded by our belongings. It was an eerie feeling when the soldiers slammed the tailgate with a metallic thud and then tied the canvas into place. The only light that entered the truck was either filtered through the canvas or entered through the small gaps. Despite the faint light I could still see the glare in Toshio's eyes. He sat directly opposite me, staring, his gaze burning holes right through me. It was bad enough that I had to be sealed in the back of this truck like luggage, but why did I have to be locked in here with him?

We were bounced around and our possessions occasionally shifted as the truck rumbled and roared and bumped and bashed along the road. The noise of the engine was a constant, as were the fumes from the exhaust. It was a sickening smell, far worse than almost anything aboard the boat.

Periodically somebody would lean close to somebody else, put a mouth to their ear and say something. I couldn't hear anything more than an occasional snatch of words — always spoken in Japanese. Words seemed to be spoken in hushed tones to match the dim lighting. Were they afraid to be overheard? Did they think that anybody was listening … or cared to listen?

I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I didn't know whether the feeling was caused by the motion of the vehicle, the presence of Toshio glaring at me or the uncertainty of what lay ahead when the truck finally stopped and the tailgate was lowered.

I felt the truck slow down dramatically, and the engine's tone changed to a deeper rumble as it geared down. I had hoped that signaled the end of our ride, but the truck continued to move on. The ride, never smooth, suddenly became rougher, and we were bounced about more violently. My father reached over and placed a hand on my grandmother's shoulder to steady her. She nodded in response.

Then the truck came to a stop and the smell of the diesel fuel was replaced by dust, which percolated up through the folds and gaps of the canvas walls. I heard the doors of the truck opening and then slamming shut, the voices of the soldiers moving along the side of the vehicle, and then the men working the ropes to release the canvas and free us from the truck. The canvas loosened and then the tailgate groaned and creaked and dropped open with a thunderous crash that shook the whole truck. The canvas was thrown back and the bright light flooded in and I shielded my eyes with the back of one hand.

“That's it, last stop!” announced one of the soldiers.

I rose to my feet. My legs felt shaky and I steadied myself with a hand against the side as I shuffled toward the tailgate. I stopped at the edge, staring out anxiously. Behind us other trucks came to a stop, sending clouds of dust up into the air. Farther back, along a dirt track, was a high metal fence, and on the other side of the fence a street brimming with traffic — cars as well as more military trucks. Toshio and some of the men leaped down right after me. My father and Mr. Matsui offered assistance to the women and children, reaching up and then gently lowering them to the ground.

“This is it?” Toshio asked.