Nobu
January 2, 1942
Nobu picked up a towel and folded it. “I’m sure we’ll find him, Mama. Maybe now that the holidays are over we can talk to someone who can actually give us some information.”
Mama didn’t look up, but kept folding laundry, as if the repetitive movement of picking up and folding, picking up and folding, was a meditation. She’d been too quiet in the days following Papa’s “abduction,” and Nobu couldn’t decide if it was strength or stress that caused her silence. Was she thinking of ways to find him, to get him back? Or was she doing whatever she could to survive the adversity?
“Mama?”
At last she looked up, as if she’d just realized his presence.
He searched the pile for a matching sock to the one he held. “I’ll call Representative Gearhart’s office on Monday. Maybe he can give me some information. Or, at least tell me who else I can call.”
Mama nodded her head. “Hai.” Then, she went back to folding laundry.
The doorbell rang.
Sachi ran past the living room and into the foyer. “I’ll get it.”
Nobu wondered who it would be on a Friday morning. They weren’t expecting anyone. “I’ll go see who it is,” he said, tossing the mismatched sock on the sofa.
He turned the corner into the entry hall. Sachi stood in the open doorway and turned to Nobu when he approached. “I was just telling this man I’d better get someone else to sign for this,” she said.
Nobu’s stomach sank. Western Union never brought good news.
His hand shook as he signed for the telegram. Even the delivery man’s expression showed that he knew it was likely not good news. He nodded, backed away, then turned to leave.
Nobu shut the door.
Sachi stared up at him. “What is it?”
What could he say to her?
Stop it. Stop it. Sure, it’s probably bad news, but it doesn’t have to be the worst news.
“Nobu?” Sachi’s eyes were wide with anticipation.
“It’s a telegram for Mama. Go back to what you were doing. It doesn’t concern you.” He didn’t mean to sound heartless, but if it was bad news … the worst news … he was not ready to tell his little sister.
Mama called from the living room. “Who is it, Nobu?”
His heart stopped then pounded hard. “Go on, Sach. I’ll take this in to Mama.”
“Oh, okay,” she said and returned to her bedroom.
Nobu tore open the telegram. It was addressed to Mama, but he needed to read it first, in case it was the worst news.
THE DEPARTMENT OF JUSTICE DEEPLY REGRETS
In an instant, everything was sucked out of Nobu, and he fell against the closed door. He couldn’t make himself read the rest, but couldn’t stop himself either.
TO INFORM YOU THAT YOUR HUSBAND, MICHIO KIMURA, DIED EN ROUTE TO THE DETENTION CAMP IN SANTE FE, NEW MEXICO. THE DEPARTMENT EXTENDS TO YOU ITS SYMPATHY FOR YOUR LOSS.
“Nobu? What is it?” Mama stood in the entryway.
He snapped erect and crumpled the telegram, as though he could hide what he knew Mama had already seen.
“What is in your hand?” she asked, walking toward him.
“Mama … Mama.” He struggled to keep the tears that burned his eyes from falling. Words scattered around in his head as he tried to grasp the right ones. But there were no right words.
“Papa is dead.” He handed her the telegram.
She glared at Nobu and shook her head, as if she thought he’d played an awful joke. But as she read the telegram, her lips, her hands began to tremble, until her whole body quaked and she began to fall.
As Nobu grabbed her, she screamed, “No! No! Michio-san!” and her body melted to the floor.
Sachi came running from her room. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong with Mama?” She knelt beside Nobu and Mama.
Nobu put his arm around Sachi, too. As she searched his eyes for answers, he thought his heart would burst with pain and a sudden flood of loneliness overwhelmed him. He had to care for Mama and Sachi, somehow make it all better for them. Papa was dead. Who was there for him?
“Nobu?” Sachi waited.
Nobu. Nobu. Nobu. Never before had he so hated the sound of his name.
Papa’s voice echoed in his ear. Gaman, son. Gaman.
He took a deep breath and pulled his little sister and mother closer to him. “Sach, we just got a telegram and … and it said … that Papa … he died. Papa died.”
Sachi’s eyes widened with the weight of her tears. She shook her head as if trying to chase away a monster that frightened her.
Nobu wrapped his arms around Sachi as she buried her head in his shirt. He pressed her head into his chest, muffling her cries. “It’ll be okay, Sach.” Why did he say that? Why? It wasn’t going to be okay. How could it ever be okay? What were they going to do without Papa? And even if he could make it okay for Mama and Sachi, it would never be okay for him.
Taro. When would they tell Taro? Why wasn’t Taro here? He should be the man of the house now. Nobu did not want to be the man of the house.
Mama gave Nobu and Sachi a quick hug, kissed Sachi on her head, then stood up and smoothed her hair, then her skirt. The pain that had contorted her face only a moment before had been covered by a mask of resolve. She turned and walked toward the kitchen. “We must plan your father’s funeral.”
That night, when the unsettling silence had settled into a quiet that was normal in the house at that time of night, Nobu removed his journal from under his pillow.
January 2, 1942
Papa didn’t deserve to die en route to a detention center where he didn’t deserve to be. A Justice Department camp. But justice for who? Certainly not for us.
My father always told me not to cause trouble. Keep your nose clean. Behave. Lately, he’d begun telling me not to do anything that might seem un-American. Shikata ga nai. Nothing can be done about it, he used to always say. Gaman. Be patient. This will pass one day.
He lived his life like that. Pleasant. Patient. Polite.
Look where it got him.