House of Ghosts (27 page)

McCloy waved his cigar to continue. “That’s why you’re on my staff. Speak your mind.”

“General Gullion sees Japanese saboteurs under every rock, and General DeWitt’s reputation is one of being an old fool and should be put out to pasture. His position, in reality, is passing the buck. Navy Lt. Commander Kenneth Ringle is for custodial detention, but no mass evacuation and says the entire Japanese problem has been magnified out of proportion. Naval intel seems to be the most credible.”

Striking a matchstick against the side of the desk, McCloy brought the cigar to its smoky life. He flipped the match into a glass bowl sitting atop the bookcase behind the desk. “The
Arizona
lying on the bottom of Pearl Harbor is a testimonial to Navy intel,” he said between puffs. “The latest Army G-2 assessment suggests Tokyo’s espionage net containing Japanese aliens and first and second generation Japanese Americans is organized and working underground.”

“Any specifics?” Preston asked.

“Not that I can talk about,” McCloy said, fiddling with a paperclip. “There
are parallels to Black Tom. Mark my words, the enemy will eventually engage in sabotage.”

Preston was well acquainted with “Uncle John’s” involvement with the Black Tom case. “The
real
threat, as I see it, comes from Germans and Italians residing in this country,” he countered. “How many Nazi sympathizers have been arrested?”

“Scores,” McCloy acknowledged as he puffed on the cigar, exhaling a cloud of smoke through his nose. “With the German and Italian populations dispersed around the country, relocation would be impossible even if we wanted to do it.”

“And, they look like you and me,” Preston quipped. “Without the time to cull these reports, I’m not sure where the Justice Department stands?”

“Deputy Attorney General Rowe is fighting tooth and nail against relocation, says we’re targeting one group, that it’s racism,” McCloy said. “James is a bleeding heart liberal New Dealer always bitching about the Constitution and the rights of the individual.”

“The issue could wind up before the Supreme Court.” Preston squirmed in his chair. McCloy and his father could always find a detour around the deepest pothole. He steeled himself.

McCloy turned and smashed the cigar into the ashtray. “This issue is putting this former Wall Street lawyer in one helluva box, but if there’s even a remote question of the country’s safety, the Constitution is just a scrap of paper. I talk to Justice Frankfurter daily. Despite his concerns, he’s on board, recognizing the nation’s survival trumps the individual.”

“Frankfurter is one of nine,” Preston said.

“The Court understands there is another way,” McCloy paused, staring at Preston. “The writ of Habeus Corpus could be suspended. Military necessity now makes almost anything possible.”

Preston recoiled. “Does Roosevelt have the capital to do it?”

McCloy banged the desk with his hand. “Lincoln did it! This is an explosive political issue with California voters scared to death of the possibility of a Japanese invasion.”

Even though McCloy said to speak his mind, Preston knew their relationship had its limits. “After the battle of Midway, the Japanese fleet doesn’t have the capability to attack Pearl Harbor no less the west coast of the United States. Japanese Americans no longer pose a threat.”

McCloy fought to control his temper. “The policy of relocation and internment will stay in place. I’ve spent more time on this issue than I care to think about. You’re going to the coast to move the process to completion. In addition, you will meet with Japanese American leaders and impress on them the need to
play ball and not rock the boat with lawsuits that will go to the Supreme Court, or they’ll stay behind barbed wire until their ancestral homeland is brought to its knees.”

Preston wondered if shouldering an M-1 rifle in a combat assignment would have been worse than being involved in “Uncle John’s” machinations. “I assume that Mrs. Higgins has the required paperwork completed in the center drawer of her desk.”

“For a Princeton man, you’re surprisingly smart,” McCloy, an Amherst grad, needled as he leaned back in his chair. “Have a safe and productive trip.”

PRESTON DOZED IN THE REAR SEAT of the Chrysler New Yorker. The flight into Los Angeles had been delayed seven hours by a preview of winter in Chicago where heavy sleet grounded all traffic. McCloy, in a briefing before Preston boarded a C-47 at Washington’s Andrews Air Force Base, stressed the importance of this trip. The Japanese relocation program was becoming a public relations nightmare. If he had to kick some ass to get the resettlement completed, do so.

“Lieutenant, rise and shine,” Sergeant Billy Shawn said, snapping a glance in the rearview mirror. The twenty-five year veteran intended to retire at the end of December 1941 and buy a fishing boat. The Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor changed his plans. Pulling the short straw among the available drivers in the motor pool, Shaw was assigned the Chrysler to drive the “snot nose” lieutenant from D.C.

Preston squinted into the brilliant warm California sun, catching a sign that read “Welcome to Arcadia.” Trying to stretch out in a booth in the airport’s bar had proven futile. The twenty-five minute nap gave him a boost of energy. He hadn’t missed anything—miles of scrub brush bisected by a two lane highway. Nothing grew in the fields but rabbits.

“Do you play the ponies, lieutenant?” Shawn asked over his shoulder. “Been coming here since they opened in ’34. I saw Seabiscuit win his last race here in 1940.”

In the distance, the outline of Santa Anita Park racetrack appeared on the horizon. The Chrysler eased off the highway and entered an area marked “RESTRICTED.”

“Not my thing,” Preston replied. He opened his leather satchel and rummaged through a pack of papers. They approached the main gate of the thoroughbred track that was considered the jewel of wintertime horse racing in the United States. Manicured azaleas formed a mural of a galloping horse.

An eight foot high chain linked fence topped with barbed wire ringed the entire complex. The Chrysler rolled to a stop at a whitewashed guardhouse. A wood railroad crossing barrier blocked the road. The baby-face that peered into the car was partially obscured by a helmet stenciled with “MP.” Preston rolled down the window and thrust his credentials into the kid’s face. Only a few years younger than the officer in the rear of the staff car, the MP’s eyes widened as he read “Office of the Assistant Secretary of War.” He managed a stammering southern drawl, “Thank you sir, and y’all have a nice day” and raised the gate.

Acquired on March 20 by the Wartime Civil Control Administration, Santa Anita became the largest Japanese American assembly center in the United States. The Chrysler turned left as it cleared the guardhouse, entering a no-man’s land that extended fifty yards to another barbed wire topped fence. Guard towers with .50 caliber machine guns covered the grounds on the four corners of the complex.

“Shawn, stop,” Preston ordered. He stepped out of the car and approached the inner fence. Four hundred temporary barracks had been constructed in the parking lot to house a population averaging four thousand. From his vantage point, milling about was the main activity for the adults. A game of touch football was being played by a group of kids in an alley between the rough sawn buildings. Preston got back into the car and tapped Shawn on the shoulder. “Go.”

Shawn hugged the inside fence, following the barbed wire to a second guardhouse and parked next to a staff car bearing the flag of a Lt. General John DeWitt.

An MP opened the left rear passenger door and stood at attention. Preston grabbed his satchel from the car. “Lieutenant, follow me,” the master sergeant said.

“I want a tour,” Preston said firmly. This MP wasn’t a kid and by the looks of his face, had been in more fights than Preston had credits from Princeton. The .45 automatic added to his no-nonsense air.

As tall as Preston, the MP looked into the young lieutenant’s eyes. “General DeWitt is waiting.”

“Sergeant Shawn,” Preston said, waiting for Shawn to get out of the car. “Take care of my case.” He handed Shawn the satchel and proceeded to walk around the guardhouse toward what was once the paddock. It now held barracks like those in the parking lot.

“The General isn’t going to be pleased,” the MP said.

“I’ll handle it,” Preston said, crossing between two rows of barracks. Plush grass had been pulverized to raw dirt. Wisps of dust rose with each of his long
strides. The MP remained two steps behind. A middle age Japanese woman stood in an open doorway. Despite the conditions, her pink flowered dress was starched and pressed. “How long have you’ve been here, mam?”

“Since
May
,” the woman replied in impeccable English. Bitterness dripped from her every word. “Two days after my daughter graduated from U.C.L.A.”

“What did she major in?” Preston asked, trying to lighten the mood.

“Education,” the woman replied. “She’s over at the center, teaching reading to fourth graders.”

“Do you mind?” Preston asked, as he stepped toward the entrance of the makeshift dwelling.

She shook her head no, pointing to Preston’s feet. “Your shoes.”

Preston looked at the shoes lined up outside all the doors. He slipped off his brogues and stepped inside. The twenty by twenty barrack was home to three families. A woman and two elderly men, who Preston assumed to be grandparents, and a man who appeared to be in his late thirties were reading on their Army manufactured beds. Each resident was given one blanket and one straw tick on arrival, having left any comforts at home except for what they could carry in one suitcase.

The younger man put his book down on the cot and sat up. “How long do you expect to keeps us here? We were supposed to be in permanent housing with private bathrooms and cooking facilities months ago.” He pointed to a chamber pot. “How would you feel if your mother had to relieve herself in front of you in the middle of the night?”

One of the elder women said, “You wouldn’t allow us to become citizens because we were born in Japan. But my daughter and son-in-law and their children were born in Los Angeles, and they are forced to live like animals.”

A child with Caucasian features, Preston thought to be three or four, ran to one of the older women and asked for his mother. “She’s at home,” the woman said as he crawled into her lap. Preston didn’t have to ask why the child’s mother wasn’t in the camp—non-Japanese married to Japanese were not permitted to accompany their families. Children of mixed couples were considered Japanese and were relocated without their mothers.

Despite the balmy weather, the barrack was uncomfortable. Small windows provided little ventilation. With perspiration dripping down his back, Preston couldn’t imagine what the conditions were like in the buildings erected on the asphalt parking lot.

“The Nazis used their Nuremberg laws to strip Jews of their citizenship and property and to move them into ghettos,” the man said as he moved his son to his
own lap. “Here, my government does the same, but uses the excuse of national security.”

Preston didn’t reply, turned on his heels and walked back into the sunshine to put on his shoes. The MP, standing with his arms crossed, looked amused. “What’s over there?” Preston asked, pointing to a low row of buildings.

“The horse stables,” the MP replied. “The troublemakers are housed there.”

Preston was looking at the rear of the structures. He walked a well beaten path that cut through an opening in the center of the red painted buildings. Preston counted thirty stalls. Half of the rolling doors were open. Toddlers, chased by their older siblings, ran stall to stall. A menu of disparate music coalesced into a cacophony noise. Preston stood in disbelief. The outline of a man resting against the doorway ten stalls away looked familiar. Preston walked toward the compact figure leisurely puffing on a pipe.

“Lieutenant, be careful. That one’s trouble,” the MP warned.

“Tommy Shikiro,” Preston called out. He hadn’t seen the Princeton debating club member and engineering honors student for four years.

Shikiro smiled with his toothy grin. “Preston Swedge or should I say Lieutenant Swedge.” He hopped to attention and gave Preston a comical salute. A plum colored bruise extended from beneath his right eye to the middle of his cheek.

Inching his hand onto the handle of his nightstick, the MP ordered, “Shikiro, have some respect. Lieutenant, he’s one of the organizers of several demonstrations we’ve needed to break up.”

Preston turned to the MP. “I want some privacy with Mr. Shikiro.”

“I’ll wait at the cut through,” the MP snorted as he walked away.

“Ben-son,” Shikiro yelled in an exaggerated Japanese accent. “Fuck you!”

Preston suppressed a laugh. “Still the same old Tommy.” He examined Shikiro’s bruised face. “Slip on a bar of soap?”

“Benson and I had a difference of opinion,” Shikiro said, relighting his pipe. “Come into my humble abode.”

Preston took his place in the doorway. The space intended to house a fourteen hundred pound horse had two beds. Sunshine coming through a barred window spotlighted a vase with a single wilted rose atop an orange crate serving as a night table. A bright yellow dress was hung on a nail. “Wife?”

“Married two years ago,” Shikiro said. “Nancy is at the showers. She should be back any minute.”

“Cozy,” Preston said as he swung at several flies dancing around his head.

“Don’t hurt our pets,” Shikiro quipped. He moved a book on Constitutional law and sat on one of the beds. “Make yourself comfortable. I’d offer you a cup of
coffee, but my kitchen appliances are back in L.A.” He re-lit his pipe. “Sent from D.C. to evaluate the Fifth Column threat?”

“Something like that,” Preston said. He remained close to the door. “I thought you were in Massachusetts?”

Shikiro sighed. “I was until I married Nancy. Decided to move back to California to be near our families. I got a job at Boeing. That was back in the day when being Japanese American wasn’t a liability.”