Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet (12 page)

The line went on forever. There were mothers with small children in tow. Old people, with faltering steps, pitching forward in the same general direction. Teenagers ran ahead, then walked when they saw the soldiers everywhere. All were carrying suitcases, wearing hats and raincoats. That was when Henry realized what Keiko already knew. By the occasional chatter, he realized they were all Japanese. Bainbridge Island must have been declared a military zone, Henry thought. They’re evacuating everyone. Hundreds. Each group was shadowed by a soldier who counted heads like a mother hen.

Looking around, Henry could see that most of the crowd watching was almost as surprised as he was. Almost. Yet quite a few just looked annoyed, as if they were late and were caught behind a long, never-ending train. Others looked pleased. Some clapped. He looked at Keiko, whose drawing
was half-finished; her hand held the pencil above the page, the lead broken, her arm like a statue.

‘C’mon, let’s go around. We should go home, now,’ he said. He took the sketchbook and pencil from her hands and put them away, helping her to her feet. He turned her away from the scene, putting his arm around her shoulder, trying his best to gently guide her home. ‘We don’t want to be here.’

They crossed the street, passing in front of idling cars waiting for the parade of Japanese citizens to end. We can’t be here.
We need to get home
. Henry realized they were the only Asian people on the street who didn’t have suitcases in hand, and he didn’t want to get swept up in the comings and goings of the soldiers.

‘Where are they going?’ Keiko asked in a hushed whisper. ‘Where are they taking them?’

Henry shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’ But he did know. They were heading in the direction of the train station. The soldiers were taking them away. He didn’t know where, but they were being sent packing. Maybe it was because Bainbridge was too close to the naval shipyard in Bremerton, or maybe because it was an island and it was easier to round them all up there than in a place like Seattle, where the confusion, the sheer numbers would make a similar feat impossible. It can’t happen here, Henry thought. There’s too many of them.
Too
many of us.

Henry and Keiko fought the crowd all the way back to Seventh Avenue, the neutral zone between Nihonmachi and Chinatown. News had spread in advance of their arrival. People of every color littered the streets. Throngs were talking and facing in
the direction of the train station. There were no soldiers to be seen in this part of town. No trouble.

Henry found Sheldon, standing in a crowd of onlookers, his sax case hanging at his side. ‘What are you doing here?’ Henry said, tugging on his sleeve.

Sheldon looked down, startled for a moment, then smiled his cap-toothed grin at Henry. ‘I was just breaking down for the day – Oscar’s club has been temporarily shut down after the raid, so until they open up, and soon I hope, I’m back on the street trying to make a living. And this ain’t helping business any.’

Henry held out the Rhodes bag with the record. Sheldon smiled and winked at him. ‘I’ve got a copy myself.’

Sheldon put his arm on Henry’s shoulder as they watched the scene. Neither felt like talking about music. ‘They evacuated the whole island. Said it was for their safety. Can you believe that nonsense?’ Sheldon said.

Keiko brushed the hair from her eyes, holding on to Henry’s arm. ‘Where are they taking them?’ she asked.

Henry was scared for Keiko; he didn’t want to know the answer. He leant his head until his temple rested next to hers, wrapping his coat around her.

‘I don’t know, miss,’ Sheldon said. ‘I don’t know. California, I reckon. I heard they build some kind of prisoner of war camp down there near Nevada. They pass some order saying they can round up all the Japanese, Germans, and Italians – but do you see any Germans in that crowd? You see them rounding up Joe DiMaggio?’

Henry looked around. What few Japanese people there were in the crowds were all heading home, some of them running.
‘You’d better go, your parents are probably worried sick right now.’ He handed her the record.

Sheldon agreed, looking at Henry. ‘You better get home too, young man. Your family’s going to be just as worried. Button or no button.’

Keiko hugged Henry, lingering a long time. Looking up, Henry could see the fear in her eyes. Not just for herself – for her entire family. He felt it too. They said a wordless goodbye before splitting up, each running in a different direction of home.

W
ithin a week, the evacuation of Bainbridge Island was already old news – within a month it was almost forgotten, on the surface, anyway – everyone was doing their best to go about business as usual. Even Henry felt the restless calm as he and Keiko made plans for lunch on Saturday. She had surprised him by calling his home. Henry’s father had answered the phone. As soon as she spoke in English, he handed the receiver to Henry. His father didn’t ask who it was, just asked if it was a girl – knowing full well the answer.

I guess he just wanted to hear it from my lips, thought Henry. ‘Yes, it’s a girl’ was all he offered. The words came out in meaningless English, but he nodded and explained, ‘She’s my friend.’ His father looked confused, yet seemingly resigned to the fact that his son was practically in his teens. Back in China,
the Old Country,
marriages happened as early as thirteen or fourteen. Sometimes they were arranged
at birth, but only for the very poor or the very rich.

His father would probably be more concerned if he knew the purpose of the call – to meet Keiko’s family. No, Henry realized,
concerned
was too gentle a word, his father would be livid.

Henry, on the other hand, was less worried until he realized that lunch might qualify as a date – a thought that made his stomach churn and his palms sweat. He reassured himself that it was nothing fancy, just lunch with the Okabes.

At school, things seemed abnormally normal – so restrained and peaceful that he and Keiko didn’t know what to think. The other children, and even the teachers, seemed unaware of the Japanese exodus from Bainbridge Island. The day had come and gone in relative quiet. Almost like it never happened. Lost in the news of the war – that the U.S. and Filipino troops were losing at Bataan and that a Japanese submarine had shelled an oil refinery somewhere in California.

Henry’s father had become more adamant than ever that Henry wear his button. ‘On the outside – wear it on the outside, where everyone can see it!’ his father demanded in Cantonese as Henry was heading out the door.

Henry unzipped his coat and left it open so the button was plainly visible, slumping his shoulders, awaiting his father’s stern approval. He had never seen his father so serious before. His parents even went one step further, each wearing an identical button. Some sort of collective effort, Henry reasoned. He understood his parents’ concern for his own well-being, but there was no way that they’d be mistaken for Japanese – because they rarely left Chinatown. And if they did, there were simply too many people to round up in Seattle. Thousands.
Henry and Keiko’s plan was to meet in front of the Panama Hotel. It had been built thirty years earlier by Sabro Ozasa – some architect that Henry’s father had mentioned once or twice. Japanese, but of some renown, according to Henry’s father anyway, who rarely acknowledged anything in the Japanese community in a positive light. This being the rare exception.

The hotel was the most impressive building in Nihonmachi, or the entire district for that matter. Standing as a sentinel between two distinct communities, it provided a comfortable home for people fresh off the boats, rooming by the week, or the month, or as long as it took to find a job, to save a little money, and to become an American. Henry wondered how many immigrants had rested their weary heads at the Panama Hotel, dreaming of a new life that began the day they stepped off the steamship from Canton or Okinawa, counting the days until they could send for their families. Days that usually turned to years.

Now the hotel stood as a run-down shell of its former glory. Immigrants, fishermen, and cannery workers who weren’t allowed to bring their families with them from the Old Country used it as a permanent bachelor hotel.

Henry had always wanted to go down to the lower level. To see the two marble bathhouses, the
sento
, Keiko called them. They were supposedly the largest and most luxurious on the West Coast. But he was too scared.

Almost as scared as he was to tell his parents he was meeting Keiko. He’d hinted to his mother – in English no less – that he had a Japanese friend, and she had immediately shot him her stink-eye, a look of shock so profound he immediately
dropped the subject. Most Chinese parents were indifferent to the Japanese, or the Filipinos who were arriving daily, fleeing the war or seeking better fortunes in America. Some Chinese harbored ill feelings, but most simply kept to themselves. His parents were different – they checked his shirt for an ‘I am Chinese’ button every time he walked out the door. Father’s nationalistic pride, his banner of protection, just kept swelling.

When he walked Keiko home, a polite wave or an occasional ‘Hello’ to her parents was about as far as Henry got. He had been certain his father would somehow find out, so he kept his visits to a minimum. Keiko, on the other hand, gushed to her parents. About her friend Henry, his musical interests, and about wanting to meet for lunch today.

‘Henry!’ There she was, sitting on the front step waving. An early spring was showing signs of new life, and cherry blossoms were beginning to bloom – the streets, lined in pink and white flowers, finally smelt of something other than seaweed, salty fish, and low tide.

‘I can be Chinese too,’ she teased him, pointing at Henry’s button. ‘
Hou noi mou gin
.’ It meant ‘How are you today, beautiful?’ – in Cantonese.

‘Where did you learn that?’

Keiko smiled. ‘I looked it up at the library.’

‘
Oai deki te ureshii desu,
’ Henry returned.

For an awkward moment, they just looked at each other, beaming, not knowing what to say, or in which language to say it. Then Keiko broke the silence. ‘My family is shopping in the market, we’ll meet them for lunch.’

They raced through the Japanese market to meet her
parents. He let her win, a courteous gesture his father would have expected of him. And of course, Henry didn’t know where he was going anyway. He followed her to the lobby of a Japanese noodle shop – recently renamed the American Garden.

‘Henry, so nice to see you again.’ Mr Okabe wore gray flannel pants and a hat that made him look like Cary Grant. Like Keiko, he spoke beautiful English.

The manager sat them at a round table near the window. Keiko sat across from Henry, while her mother found a booster seat for Keiko’s little brother. Henry guessed he must have been all of three or four. He was playing with his black lacquered chopsticks, his mother scolding him gently, telling him it was bad luck.

‘Thanks for walking Keiko home every day, Henry. We appreciate your being such a conscientious friend.’

Henry wasn’t exactly sure what
conscientious
meant, but as Mr Okabe said it, he poured him a cup of green tea, so he took it as a compliment. Henry took the cup of tea with both hands, a sign of respect his mother had taught him, and offered to fill Mr Okabe’s cup, but Keiko’s father had already begun pouring his own, using the marble lazy Susan to work his way around the table.

‘Thank you for inviting me.’ Henry wished he’d paid more attention in English class. Until he was twelve, he had been forbidden to speak English in his own home. His father had wanted him to grow up Chinese, the way he had done. Now everything was upside down. Yet the cadence of his words seemed to have more in common with that of the fishermen who came over from China than with the English Keiko and her family spoke so fluently.

‘That’s an interesting button you have on, Henry,’ Keiko’s mother observed in a sweet, grandmotherly way. ‘Where did you get it?’

Reaching up, Henry covered it with his hand. He’d meant to take it off on the way over but had forgotten it in the race to the restaurant. ‘My father gave it to me; he said I’m supposed to wear it at all times – it’s embarrassing.’

‘No, your father is right. He’s a very wise man,’ Mr Okabe said.

You wouldn’t think that if you met him.

‘You shouldn’t be ashamed of who you are, never more than right now.’

Henry looked at Keiko, wondering what she thought about this conversation. She just smiled and kicked him under the table, obviously feeling more at home here than in the school cafeteria.

‘It’s easy to be who you are here, but it’s harder at school,’ said Henry. ‘At Rainier, I mean.’ What am I saying? It’s hard being who I am
in my own house,
with my own family, he thought.

Mr Okabe sipped his tea, reminding Henry to sip his own. It was lighter, with a flavor more subtle and transparent than the black oolong teas his own father favored.

‘I knew going to a Caucasian school was going to present certain challenges for Keiko,’ Mr Okabe said. ‘But we tell her, Be who you are, no matter what. I warned her that they may never like her, some might even hate her, but eventually, they will respect her – as an American.’

Henry liked where the conversation was going, but he felt a little guilty too, wondering about his own family. Why hadn’t
anyone ever explained it that way? Instead he got a button and was forced to
speak his
American.

‘There’s a free outdoor jazz concert on Jackson Street tonight – Oscar Holden will be playing,’ Keiko’s mother said. ‘Why don’t you invite your family to join us?’

Henry looked at Keiko, who was smiling and raising her eyebrows. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He’d seen Oscar Holden only that one time with Keiko. He’d heard him a few times before that, but only by pressing his ear to the
back-alley
door of the Black Elks Club, where the legendary jazz pianist happened to be practicing. The offer was tempting. Especially since he’d seen so little of Sheldon now that he was subbing for Oscar’s usual sax man – ‘a once in a lifetime gig,’ Sheldon had called it. Indeed.

But, unlike Keiko’s parents, Henry’s didn’t care for
colored
music. In fact, they didn’t seem to listen to music at all anymore. Classical or modern. Black or white. The only thing they listened to on the radio these days was the news.

It was a kind offer from the Okabes, but one he’d have to decline. Henry could picture the scene like a ten-cent horror matinee at the Atlas Theater – complete with Chinese subtitles. A dark tragedy springing to life as he explained that not only did he have a Japanese friend but her whole family wanted to take his to a jazz concert.

Before he could fake a polite answer to Mrs Okabe, a
half-empty
bottle of
shoyu
began skipping around the table. Henry grabbed it and felt the ground tremble.

Through the rattling window, he could see a large
deuce-and
-a-half army truck belching black diesel fumes as it rumbled into the square. Its metal frame creaking and piercing
the lumbering thunder of its massive engine. Even before its gas brakes squealed, people on the street began scattering in all directions. Only the very old or the very young stayed to observe the truckload of soldiers who sat stoically in the back of the massive rig.

More trucks kept coming, one after another, unloading American soldiers and military police with rifles who began canvassing the neighborhood, nailing small posters to doors, storefronts, and telephone poles. Merchants and customers alike poured out to see the commotion. Henry and the Okabes stepped onto the sidewalk as soldiers walked past, handing out copies of the flyer – ‘Public Proclamation 1,’ which was written in English and Japanese.

Henry looked at the paper in Keiko’s hand. The bold type screamed:
INSTRUCTIONS TO ALL PERSONS OF
J
APANESE ANCESTRY
. It was all about Japanese families being forced to evacuate, for their own safety. They had only a few days and could bring next to nothing – only what they could carry. At the bottom, it was signed by the president of the United States and the secretary of war. The rest of the flyer was a mystery to Henry, but not to Keiko’s family. Her mother immediately began crying. Her father looked upset but remained calm. Keiko touched her heart with her finger and pointed to Henry. He touched his and felt the button his family wore. ‘I am Chinese.’