Nobu
April 8, 1942
Nobu ran out—past Mama and Sachi, down the row of horse-stall barracks.
Mama called after him. “Nobu! Where are you going?”
He didn’t stop, but yelled back to his mother and sister. “I don’t know. I’m sorry. I’ll be back later.”
He had to get away. Run. Run away from that smelly stall. From the look in Mama’s eyes.
He collapsed behind one of the buildings and watched other families tentatively approach their new homes as he held his flashlight and wrote in his journal. They stood at the doorways and stared before walking inside. He listened to whimpers that drifted between the rows, and wondered if one of those cries came from his own mother. Guilt tensed in his shoulders as he held the flashlight to write in his journal.
April 8, 1942 (continued)
Santa Anita! Horse stalls. All three of us will live in a horse stall that is smaller than my bedroom at home.
Each blindfolded step we are led on this path, I think it can’t get any worse. But with every step, it does.
They call them apartments, but they have given us goddamn horse stalls to live in. The smell! Stains of horse piss and shit in the dirt floors. It’s dark—only one bulb hangs in the center. And bed? Ha! The mattresses are wool blankets, sewn together and stuffed with hay.
Four shelves nailed up on one wall. Is that enough for us to place our belongings, such that they are?
And what about all the knotholes, where you can see into the stall next door … and they can see into ours.
They tell us it is temporary, but they can’t—or won’t—say how long we’ll be here.
What will they do with us next? I wonder who asks that question more … the Caucasians who make the plans, or the Japanese who must follow them?