Sachi
April 1, 1942
The large suitcase lay open in the middle of her bedroom floor, and Sachi watched Mama neatly arrange sweaters, pajamas, socks, and underwear.
But Mama wouldn’t know which books to pack, so Sachi ran to her bookshelf and skimmed her finger over the titles, choosing her favorites. It was not an easy choice. Each of them had taken her to imaginary places she had grown to love.
Finally, she made her reluctant decision. “These need to go, too,” she said, laying the books next to Mama.
Mama looked at the stack. “You cannot take all of those. The notice said we can only bring what we can carry. Books are too heavy. You may choose two of your favorites.”
“Two? I had a hard enough time choosing ten.”
“Please, do not argue with me. We all have to make sacrifices. Please choose two.”
She carried the books to her bed and tossed them onto the pink chenille spread. How could she choose between castles or farms? Princesses or pirates? Witches or fairy godmothers?
“Mama, why must we sacrifice? Why do we have to leave our home? All of our favorite things?” She hesitated. Anger strangled her confusion, until it swelled—grew bigger and bigger, until, like a balloon, it burst.“Papa said we are Americans! But do other Americans have to make sacrifices? No! Well, I don’t want to make sacrifices either!” The words spilled from her mouth like marbles, scattered so quickly she knew she’d never get them back.
Like a ghost, Papa had returned and slapped Mama with his words. Her eyes reflected shock, dismay, hopelessness, anger. For a tiny moment, it was all right there in the glare Mama blasted toward her. But as quickly as it had fired in her eyes, flushed in her cheeks, it disappeared. She tilted her head down, closed her dark, tired eyes, folded her hands, and straightened her back. In silence, she rose from the floor and walked to the bedroom door.
Without looking at Sachi, she calmly let her own words escape. “You may choose two books … and one doll.” Then, she walked out and closed the bedroom door.
The next day strangers came to the house, ringing the doorbell early in the morning. Sachi had never seen any of them before, yet Mama let them in. Caucasians. Americans who didn’t have to choose which books to pack, which doll to bring. In walked tall men in overcoats and fedoras, following prissy women with white-gloved hands that touched everything. They opened cabinet doors to look at the dishes. Flipped through pages of books on the bookshelf. Talked about whether or not the pattern on the couch would match their decor.
“How much for the set of dishes?” a lady with red hair asked.
“Two dollars for the whole set,” Mama said.
The redhead took her wallet out of her patent-leather purse. But the bald man with her told her to put it away. “Seventy-five cents,” he said.
Mama touched a dinner plate. “They are from Japan.”
He stared at her. “Precisely. That’s why they’re not worth two dollars. Like I said, seventy-five cents.”
“Very well,” she said, avoiding his eyes when he handed her the coins.
“Hi, Sach.”
Sachi was surprised to see Kate and her mother standing in the kitchen.
“Hi, Kate. What are you doing here?”
“My mom wanted to come over to talk about a few things with your mom.”
Mama walked toward them, putting the coins in her purse. “Hello, Mrs. Cook. Kate. How are you?”
“Fine, thank you,” Mrs. Cook replied. “We wanted to come by to see if there’s anything we can do to help.”
“Arigato. Thank you.” Mama bowed slightly. “But I’m afraid there is not much you can do.”
“Would you girls like a snack?” Mama asked. “I have some omanju if you’d like.”
Kate looked at Sachi, her nose crinkled. “O-man-gee? What’s that?”
Sachi leaned over and whispered, “They’re sweet bean cakes. All kinds of pretty colors. I think you’ll like them.”
“Yes, please, Mrs. Kimura,” said Kate.
Sachi smiled, excited to have her friend try the Japanese treat.
Mrs. Cook stood by the counter while Mama placed the pastel-colored desserts on a white plate. “Mrs. Kimura …”
“Please, call me Sumiko.” She smiled. “Or Sue, if that’s easier.”
“If you’ll call me Nancy,” replied Kate’s mother.
Mama nodded.
“Anyway,” Mrs. Cook continued, speaking softly, “I’m so sorry about what’s happening to you and your family … to all of the Japanese. I can’t imagine what I’d do in your place.”
“Shikata ga nai. We do what we must do.”
“How can we help? Anything we can hold for you while you’re gone?”
Mama looked at Sachi. Moving closer to Mrs. Cook, she whispered. “The notices say we can only take what we can carry,” she said. “We will sell most of our belongings, but some things … are very difficult to part with. Like Sachi’s doll collection.”
“What about my dolls?” Sachi asked.
Mama’s words spilled quickly. “My mother gave them to me when I was a little girl, and when Sachi was born, I gave them to her.”
“Mama? What about my dolls?”
Mrs. Cook touched Mama’s hand. “Of course we’ll take care of them until you return.”
Sachi rose from her seat. “You’re going to give my dolls to them?”
“We cannot take them with us,” Mama said, her voice shaking. “I do not want to sell them. It is the only thing we can do.”
Mrs. Cook walked out of the kitchen, signaling Kate to follow.
Mama pulled out a chair. “Kate and her mother were very kind to offer. You know they will take good care of them until we get back.” She wiped tears from Sachi’s cheeks.
“But it’s not fair.”
“No. Life is not fair. But we must endure it.”
Kate and Mrs. Cook returned to the kitchen.
“I’ll take good care of your geisha dolls” said Kate, placing her baby doll on the table. “And … you can have Susie. I have lots of dolls.”
It was like sunlight peeked through the dark clouds of the last few days. She was letting her keep Susie!
The two women carried each of the glass-cased geishas to the car and put them on the back seat. Mama placed blankets between each, as though tucking them in for a long night’s sleep. She bowed to Kate’s mother. “Thank you, Nancy.”
Sachi held Kate’s baby doll in one arm, and her own doll with the other. When the Cooks’ car pulled away, she wasn’t sure if the tears she blinked away were happy tears or sad ones.
Mama took her hand and they walked up the front porch steps, back to the hard reality of the pack of strangers picking through their belongings.
Sachi wanted to escape the whispers and decided Papa’s chair would be a good place to hide. But she found an old man sitting there, head tilted to one side, cheek smashed against his hand. Loud snores rumbled in and out of his fat lips.
That’s Papa’s chair. “Get out of my papa’s chair!”
Everyone—strangers with blond hair, brown hair, red hair, blue eyes, green eyes—stopped what they were doing and turned to look at her. The old man woke with a look of surprise.
Mama and Nobu ran into the room.
“Please accept my apologies for my daughter’s behavior,” Mama said to the man, bowing as she spoke, pulling Sachi behind her.
He rubbed his thick, nicotine-stained fingers over the arms of the chair. “Pretty comfy. What do you want for it?”
Mama’s eyebrows pressed together above sad eyes.
Mama can’t sell that chair. If that man took it, he’d be taking with it memories of Papa.
“Ten dollars, please,” Mama replied.
Ten dollars? For the chair where I fell asleep while Papa read to me in the afternoons?
“No, Mama! You can’t sell it,” she cried.
Mama paled and looked at Nobu. “Please take your sister outside.”
He placed his arm over Sachi’s shoulder and led her away.
The man’s voice haunted her ears again. “I’ll give you eleven. Give your girl a dollar for some candy or something. Maybe that’ll make her stop crying.”
He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a wallet that bulged at its seams. “Can your boy help me load it in my truck?”
Mama took the money from the man. “Of course.”
Mama was letting him take Papa’s chair—the chair Sachi would have kept forever—if only they didn’t have to leave in three days with only what they could carry.
“Sachiko, come with me, please.” Mama led her to the dance room, closing the door behind her. She lit a stick of incense and knelt in front of the altar. “Sachiko,” she said, pointing to the mat next to her.
Sachi’s prayers hadn’t done any good lately, so what was the use? She’d prayed Papa would get better. Prayed the kids at school would quit calling her names. None of her prayers had been answered. Still, to appease her mother, she bowed her head and closed her eyes.
In the silence of her make-believe prayer, she heard the old man’s truck engine start. It rumbled quieter and quieter as it drove away with Papa’s chair, until she could hear it no more.