Silent Honor (38 page)

“What
are
we going to do?” Reiko asked seriously, as they pondered the problem. There was nothing left for them in Palo Alto.

“Why don't you write to your cousins in New York and New Jersey,” Hiroko suggested. And when Reiko did, they wrote and told her they would love to have her. Her cousin in New Jersey was a nurse too and said that she was sure she could get Reiko a job. It all sounded so easy that it made her wonder why they hadn't gone there in the first place. But of course, by the time they'd understood they really needed to get out, they couldn't any longer. The “voluntary relocation” in the beginning had seemed so useless. Three years later, with all they knew and had experienced, it didn't seem quite so stupid.

And on December eighteenth, the Supreme Court decision in the
Endo
case was handed down, declaring that it was against the law to hold loyal citizens against their will. But the government already had, for two and a half years now. It was hard to take that back and say they were sorry. Most people had no idea how to put their lives back together. They had nowhere to go, and no way to get there, except for the twenty-five dollars the WRA was willing to give them for transportation. They all had the same problem as the Tanakas, or worse ones.

But the week before Christmas, Reiko and her children sat down and decided what to do. They were going to New Jersey, and of course they wanted Hiroko to come with them. She was quiet for two days while she thought about it seriously, and she noticed that Sally was subdued too. They all had decisions to make, and sad moments ahead of them. Having come together in shock and grief, they would all be leaving each other in loss and sorrow. But at least she was leaving with Toyo; he was her one great joy in life, her baby.

And finally, having thought about it carefully, she sat down and talked seriously to Reiko. She was staying, not in the camp, but on the West Coast, if she could find work there. She wasn't sure what she could do. She had no degree, and although she had served as a nurse's aide for two years, no hospital would hire her without some training. She was going to have to look for something more menial.

“But why won't you come with us?” Reiko looked deeply upset when Hiroko told her.

“I want to stay here,” she said quietly, “in case Peter comes back here. But also, when the war is over, I have to go back to Japan as soon as possible, to see my parents.” It had been four months since she'd heard from Peter, and even she knew something must have happened. She rarely spoke of it to anyone, but she thought of him incessantly, and prayed that he was still alive somewhere. She had to believe he was, not only for her sake, but for Toyo's.

“If anything goes wrong, if you can't find work, or” —Reiko didn't want to say the words
if Peter is killed
, but she thought them— “whatever, I want you to come to New Jersey. They'll be happy to take you, and once I get a job, hopefully we can get a little apartment.” All she needed was one bedroom for herself and the girls, and they could always make room for Hiroko and Toyo.

“Thank you, Aunt Rei,” she said softly, and the two women embraced and held each other as they cried. They had been through so much together. She had come to spend a year, and learn lessons about life, and she had learned so much more than she'd ever dreamed in the three and a half years she'd been in the States. Looking back at it, it seemed like a lifetime.

But the girls were devastated to hear she wasn't coming with them, and all through Christmas they tried to talk her into it. They weren't going until after New Year's. Some people had already left, but many refused to. Old people said they had nowhere to go, many of them had no relatives, and the camp was their only home now. And little by little, they were hearing horror stories from people who had left, about belongings that hadn't been kept or stored, automobiles that had disappeared from the federal reserve where they'd been kept, government warehouses that had been plundered. Most of the evacuees had lost all their belongings. And as they heard the first tales of it, Hiroko thought of Tami's dollhouse. At nearly twelve, she was too old for it now anyway, but it would have been a nice souvenir of her childhood. And Reiko wept again, thinking of all their photographs and mementos, which would have meant even more now, with Ken and Tak gone. Her wedding photographs were in there too, and all her photographs of Ken. It made her cry again realizing she had only one photograph of her son. The one that had been taken of him in his uniform, in Hawaii.

“Don't think of it,” Hiroko said to her. But there was too much not to think of these days.

And on Christmas night, after he'd given her the tiny ring he'd made with a gold band he'd fashioned himself, and a tiny piece of turquoise he'd found in the nearby mountains, Tadashi sat down and had a serious talk with Sally. He wanted to know what she wanted to do with her future.

“What does that mean?” she asked, looking very young as he smiled at her. They had been “dating” for a year, ever since her father's death, and if he hadn't been twenty-five years old, he'd have called it “going steady.”

“You mean like school?” she asked, confused and embarrassed, and unhappy to be leaving him. Her mind had been a jumble for weeks. She was happy they were about to be free, but she didn't want to leave Tadashi.

“I mean like us, not school.” He smiled at her, and held her hand
in
his own. She was about to turn eighteen, and she had almost finished high school. She was a senior at the camp school, and she would graduate in New Jersey. “What do you want to do, Sally? Grow up and go to college in New Jersey?” She hadn't even thought of college yet. All any of them ever thought of was freedom.

“I don't know. I'm not sure I care about school that much,” she said honestly. She was always honest with him. She could say anything to Tadashi. He was that kind of person, and she loved him. “I know my dad did, and my mom probably will again once we're out of here. I don't know what I want. … I just want …” Her eyes filled with tears as she looked at him, and weeks of terror and grief engulfed her. It brought it all back to her again, losing Ken, losing her dad, and now she was going to lose Tadashi. Why was it that she lost all the men in her life? That they all deserted her one way or the other? She could hardly breathe, she was in so much pain, thinking of leaving Tule Lake without him. “I just want to be with you,” she said, crying as she finished her sentence, and he looked immensely relieved as she said it.

“So do I,” he said soberly. She was young, but she was old enough. Others had made their minds up at her age. “What do you think your mother would say if I ask her to come with you?” And then he gulped, and took another big step, which left her staring at him. “We could get married when we get there.”

“Do you mean that?” She looked like a child at Christmas. Maybe she hadn't lost everything after all, and she threw her arms around his neck. He had been wonderful to her all year, and she had been reasonable and mature ever since she'd been with him. She thought her mother might just agree. And if she didn't, maybe he could come back later.

“I'd like to get married right away,” he went on, “but I still want you to finish school,” he said, sounding firm, and she giggled. “After you finish high school, we'll talk about what you want to do.” But, by then, he hoped they'd be having a baby. They could wait till June at least, before they got started. But they had all lost so much of life in the past three years that he wanted it all now. A wife, and family, and babies, and decent meals, and warm clothes, and a real apartment with central heating. “I should be able to find work in New Jersey too. At least I hope so.” He had a college degree, and unlike Hiroko, he also had training as a paramedic. “I'll talk to your mother,” he promised.

And he did the next day. She was surprised at first. She thought Sally was still too young, but she had to agree with him that everything had accelerated in the camps, people grew up faster, people died young, just as Tak had. And now her little girl wanted to get married. But she was fond of Tad, and she thought he'd make Sally a good husband, and she agreed to let him go with them. And he had talked to his own mother that day about his plans, and she understood. She wanted to go to Ohio anyway, to stay with her sister. And she had no objection to him joining the Tanakas in New Jersey, or even marrying the elder daughter. At first she thought he meant Hiroko, and she hadn't been pleased. She didn't approve of Toyo, but she was happy when she heard it was Sally, and wished him well. And afterward, when they told the others, he and Sally were elated. The only one not going with them now was Hiroko. But she still insisted that she wanted to return to San Francisco.

“I can always go later,” she promised again. But there was a sweet sadness to everything now, a bittersweet quality to the people they saw, the places they went. Every time Hiroko looked at something or saw someone, she remembered that soon she would never be seeing them again, and it made her weep and cling to Toyo. Soon he would be the only familiar face she saw, the only person she loved and who loved her. And he would never remember the place where he had been born, or the lessons they'd learned there.

On New Year's Day, they went to the temple and celebrated the anniversary of Takeo's death. And afterward, they went to his grave in the cemetery. Reiko hated leaving him there, and yet she couldn't take him with her, except in her heart, and her memories. They stood there for a long time, and the children left her alone with him, to say good-bye again. The ground around them was hard and frozen, just as it had been the year before when they buried him. And this time when they went back to their little rooms again, they started packing.

It only took two days. They gave away most of their things. Much of it was useless to them. There was so little they wanted to save, the lion's share of the work was throwing away and sorting. Someone had found an old trunk somewhere, and Reiko packed the bulk of their things in it, and she and Hi'roko packed yet another dollhouse to save for Tami, mostly as a souvenir this time, if she ever bothered to unpack it.

All of Hiroko's and Toyo's things fit into a single bag, the same one she had brought with her when she'd arrived. She had so little for him even now that it hardly took up any room in her suitcase. Reiko had given her two hundred dollars to tide her over until she got a job, and she had it in cash in her handbag. The cousins in New Jersey had sent them five hundred dollars to get them there, and told them they'd be happy to send more if they needed it. But all they needed were train tickets. They had decided to take the train to New Jersey, and they were leaving from Sacramento.

They were all leaving the next day. In the morning, Tad came with his things and helped them with the final packing. Reiko gave her small hibachi to the people next door. She had bought it from a family that had gone back to Japan at the beginning of their stay at Tule Lake, and there were some old toys she gave to another family down the road. The photograph of Ken was in her handbag, the memories of him in her heart, along with those of her husband.

And finally, after all of it, they stood looking around at the two small rooms they had lived in. The straw mattresses had been taken out, the steel cots were bare, the tatami mats Hiroko had made were gone, the cooking utensils passed along or thrown away. Their trunk and their bags stood in the road, the rooms behind them were empty.

“It's funny,” Sally said, looking at her mother. “Now that it's happening, it seems so sad. I never thought I'd feel this way when we left here.”

“It's hard leaving home …this was home for a while. …” For a long time, in her life. And they all felt the same way. Hiroko had cried when she said good-bye to the nurses in the infirmary, especially Sandra. Her baby had been born there, and despite the years of pain, there had been special moments. There had been humor and friends, and even music, and laughter behind the barbed wire, while the guards watched them.

“Ready to go?” Tad asked quietly. He'd already said good-bye to his mother, who had left for Ohio the day before. It was a sad good-bye, but he knew she wanted to be with her sister.

The War Relocation Authority had given them free train tickets to Sacramento and fifty dollars per family for expenses. After that, they were on their own. Tad and the Tanakas were taking the train. And Hiroko was taking a bus to San Francisco. Reiko was nervous about leaving her alone, but Hiroko insisted she'd be fine. She had absolutely no one in San Francisco, but she had promised again and again that if anything happened, if she couldn't get a job, she'd take a train to New Jersey before she ran out of money. She had their phone number and address and everything she needed to reach them.

One by one they picked up their bags, and Tad and Sally carried the small trunk between them. It was mostly filled with memories, and Reiko suspected she might never open it again, but still, she wanted to take it with her. It was full of odd little souvenirs of Tule Lake.

The bus was waiting for them at the gate, and there were others waiting there too. As always, the soldiers were standing sentry, but now it was more to keep the peace inside, than to keep anyone from leaving. They were more of a police force than prison guards, and they helped Hiroko put her bag on the bus, and then they shook hands with everyone and wished them luck. Oddly enough, neither side bore the other any malice. And now, whatever it had once been, good or bad, necessary or not, it was over. The subject was closed. It was January 1945, and soon Tule Lake, and Manzanar, and all the other camps like them would be nothing but memories, places to talk about and remember.

As the bus started up, Hiroko sat staring at the camp, engraving it on her memory, the barracks, the dust, the cold, the faces, the people she had loved, the children she had cared for, those who had died, and those who had moved on, never to be seen again, but always remembered.

Toyo sat on her lap, playing with her hair, and holding him close to her, she kissed him. One day she would tell him about it, the place where he was born, but he would never understand, he would never know. And as she looked at the other faces around her, she saw the same love, the same pain, the same agony slipping away from them after so long. And from somewhere behind her was a single voice speaking up in the silence, “We're free now.” And with that, the bus drove away, and headed for Sacramento.