Sachi
April 1, 1942
A stare needs no words
You are different. Go away.
A slap needs no hand.
Sachi held her doll close and rang the doorbell. She heard shoes tapping on hardwood floors on the other side of the door. While she waited, she admired purple and yellow pansies that bloomed and overflowed from garden boxes lining the porch rails. Maybe Mama would plant some flowers with her now that spring was here. Like Papa used to do.
The door opened, and Kate’s mother stood behind the screen.
Sachi looked up at the very tall woman. “Can Kate play?”
“Why, hello, Sachi.” She opened the door and called for her daughter. “Katie, Sachi is here to play with you.”
Sachi sensed that Mrs. Cook was looking at her—like she wanted to say something. She still got that awkward feeling from people, even three months after Papa died.
Finally, Kate’s mother put her hand on Sachi’s shoulder. “How are you and your family doing, Sachi? I’ve been meaning to call your mother, but I’ve been so busy lately.”
The knot in her stomach and the lump in her throat returned, like unwelcome guests—surprising and prickly. “We’re fine, Mrs. Cook. Thank you for asking.” It had become her standard reply.
Mrs. Cook smiled nervously. “That’s good, dear. Katie, did you hear me?”
Kate replied from the back of the house. “Coming, Mommy.”
“Have a seat in the living room, Sachi. I’ll make a snack for the two of you.”
Sachi watched Mrs. Cook walk out of the room. She had such pretty blonde hair, and she was so much taller than Mama.
“Hi, Sachi,” Kate said, skipping into the living room. She plopped onto the couch next to Sachi. “Oh, good. You brought baby Sally with you. Come on. Let’s go to my room. You and me and Sally and Susie can play house.”
There must have been a hundred dolls sitting on shelves in Kate’s room, overflowing out of the toy box and lying on the bed. Baby dolls, porcelain dolls that looked like they were from the olden days, rag dolls. But no geisha dolls.
“Sit here,” Kate said, pointing to the center of the yellow carpet, where doll clothes lay scattered all around.
She sat next to Kate, and they chatted as they fed their babies, changed diapers, swapped clothes, and put pink ribbons in the dolls’ hair. Just like grown-up ladies.
“Do you think Susie looks like me?” Kate asked, wrapping her doll in a pink blanket.
Sachi considered the question. Yes, the doll had blonde hair like Kate’s. Blue eyes. “I suppose she does.”
“Sorry, but I really don’t think Sally and you look much alike. Couldn’t you find a doll that looks like you?”
The words stung. She looked down at Sally, lying between her crossed legs. Brown hair, blue eyes. Pinkish skin. No, they didn’t look alike at all.
Silly old doll.
Mrs. Cook called from the kitchen. “Girls, I’ve got snacks for you on the table.”
Kate jumped up, holding Susie in her arms. “Come on,” she said, walking out of her room. “Mommy made some peanut butter cookies yesterday. Bet that’s what she put on the table. That and some grape Kool-Aid, I hope.”
Sachi left her doll on the floor, and followed Kate to the kitchen. She picked up a cookie from the plate in the center of the table and sat across from her friend. Taking a bite, she watched Mrs. Cook washing dishes at the sink. Kate put her cup down and Sachi giggled at the purple moustache above Kate’s lip.
The scene was so unlike how things looked at her house. When she thought about how different she always felt, her mouth went dry, and the cookie tasted like sandpaper. She didn’t want to be rude, so she quietly hid the cookie in her jumper pocket.
“Mama, I’m home,” Sachi called. She found her mother sitting at the kitchen table, sorting through a pile of mail.
“Did you have a good time at Kate’s?” Mama asked, skimming along the edge of an envelope with a bamboo letter opener.
“I guess so. Mrs. Cook made cookies for us. She asked how you were doing and said she’s been meaning to call.” She placed her doll on the table. “We played dolls, too.”
Mama studied her daughter. “And was that fun?”
“Kind of. But—”
Mama opened a few more envelopes between glances at Sachi. “But what?”
Mama wouldn’t understand, and she sure wouldn’t want to hear that sometimes Sachi wished she had blonde hair and round blue eyes. “Nothing, Mama. I’m going to go play in my room for a while.”
Mama stacked the mail and rose from her chair. “Sachi-chan, you haven’t practiced your dance today, and you have lessons tomorrow. Go practice, then we will take a walk to the grocery store.”
Now she was sure her mother wouldn’t understand. All she did was push her to learn the Japanese ways. Papa wanted her to be an American, to fit in. American food. American music. American dolls. Just like everyone else.
She passed through the living room on her way to practice and saw Papa’s reading chair in the corner. Sunlight shone in through the blinds in stripes on the chair’s brown leather. She saw him sitting there, with his reading glasses resting on his nose and his arms held out for her to join him. She remembered rushing to his lap.
She curled into the chair. But without Papa’s arms around her, it was too big and too empty, even cold. She closed her eyes and buried her nose into the leather—breathed deeply to find the scent of him. It was hardly there anymore. Would her memories of Papa fade the same way?
In the dance room, she watched the clock, tracking every minute of the hour Mama said she had to practice. At the sixty-first minute, she called, “Mama, I’m finished. Can we go to the grocery store now?”
“Yes,” Mama replied from her bedroom. “Get your jacket and we will go.”
The sky was clear and blue, and the sun warmed Sachi between brushes of cool sea breezes that blew in from the bay. Spring bloomed all around. Red tulips, purple pansies, yellow daffodils, emerald lawns. Perfectly-groomed houses bordered both sides of the street, like finely-dressed boys and girls lining the walls of a dance room.
When they turned on to Gilman Street, traffic sounds replaced bird songs. The street hummed with passing cars and an occasional honking horn at a stop light. Spring, summer, fall, or winter—not much changed about this busy street.
But that afternoon, something was different. White sheets of paper hung off street lights and utility poles, flapping in the wind as though calling everyone’s attention. Store windows were plastered with them, too. People slowed to read the words, forming small crowds everywhere.
Mama took Sachi’s hand and pulled her over to where several Japanese had gathered. Some scratched notes on small pieces of paper they held with hands that trembled as they wrote.
Sachi stood on her toes to try to read the words, but the grown-ups were too tall. She jumped up and caught a glimpse of the bold letters at the top of the notice: INSTRUCTIONS TO ALL PERSONS OF JAPANESE ANCESTRY:
Mama searched her purse and pulled out a pen and a piece of paper. Sachi was able to read some of what her mother wrote:
All Japanese persons, both alien and non-alien, will be evacuated from the above designated area by 12:00 o’clock noon Tuesday, April 7, 1942 … Responsible member of each family … must report to Civil Control Station … between 8:00 a.m. and 5:00 p.m. Thursday, April 2, 1942 … the size and number of packages is limited to that which can be carried by the individual or family group … Go to the Civil Control Station … to receive further instructions.
Whispers hissed through the crowd. Some people shook their heads and walked away. Mama returned the pen and paper to her purse and took Sachi’s hand.
“What did the sign say?” she asked. Maybe Mama’s answer would take away the bad feeling that made her stomach hurt. She put her other hand in her pocket and felt the crumbled cookie from Kate’s house.
Mama walked faster, and Sachi noticed she held her head higher than usual. Those who were lucky enough not to be of Japanese ancestry stared when they passed.
“Mama, why are they staring at us?”
“Do not concern yourself. We will do our grocery shopping on another day.”