Nobu
Tule Lake, California
July 31, 1943
July 31, 1943
Here I am in Tule Lake, California—Camp Disloyal. Like cattle, we’re moved from place to place at the whim of the American government. Maximum security. No way could it ever come close to feeling like home. Especially without Mama and Sachi here.
I thought summers in Arkansas were unbearable. Hot and steamy. Mosquitoes and invisible bugs that made my body itch all the time. Snakes. And the endless buzzing of cicadas, night and day. But this place is hell on earth. Someone told me the camp was built on a lava bed. I can believe that, the way dust swirls and practically splashes up wherever I walk. The landscape is flat, except for a mound they call Abalone Hill, half a mountain that looks as though its top was blown off a million years ago. Worst of all is the heat that radiates off of everything, so dry it makes me thirsty just to look at it.
Tule Lake is an angry-looking place, full of people like me—who marked no-no and are now called “disloyal.” Some have even applied for repatriation to Japan. The anger makes this place feel even hotter.
Funny, as much as Mama and Sachi got on my nerves sometimes, I never realized how they added a kind of softness to my life.
I have a roommate here. His name is Ichiro. He looks to be maybe five years older than me. He’s sitting in the room with me now. Kind of quiet, but he’s never still. His leg bounces up and down, like he’s always got something on his mind. He’s got a bandana tied around his head. It reminds me of the day I found Papa cutting down a tree in the backyard. I couldn’t have been more than six or seven, and I thought it looked silly for a man to wear such a scarf, so I asked him why he was wearing it. In a gruff voice, he told me it was called a hachimaki, and it was worn by samurais. Then he laughed and said, “It will take the strength of a samurai to battle this tree.” I’d forgotten about that day, until I saw Ichiro’s hachimaki. My new roommate may be quiet on the outside, but with that hachimaki tied on his head, the look in his eyes tells me he has a lot to say.
I’ve got a lot to say, too. But not to a stranger.
I should write a letter to Sachi and Mama. But heck. What’s the use? Who knows if I’ll still be here by the time they receive it?
“So where are you from, anyway?” Ichiro’s voice vibrated with the cadence of his jackhammer leg.
“Berkeley.”
Ichiro rolled his eyes and adjusted his hachimaki. “No, I mean what camp did you come from?”
Besides the fact this guy appeared to be a smart-ass, Nobu wasn’t in the mood to carry on a conversation. He scribbled another sentence into his journal, attempting to look occupied.
Ichiro’s trying to strike up a conversation. Not interested though.
“Hey. What was your name again? No-no?”
Nobu put his pencil down and glared at Ichiro. “No-bu.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s right. So, I asked you a question, Nobu. Where did you come from?” Ichiro rocked back and forth in his chair.
“Rohwer.”
“Where’s Rohwer?”
“Arkansas.”
“And before that?”
Nobu’s heart beat as fast as Ichiro’s damn jackhammer leg. This guy was getting on his nerves.
“And before that?” Ichiro asked again.
“Hey, what’s the deal? Why are you being so nosy? I don’t hear you telling me where you’re from.”
Ichiro shrugged. “All you have to do is ask. Before here, Topaz. Before Topaz, Tanforan. And before that, Sacramento.”
“We were supposed to go to Tanforan, but when we got there they sent our bus on to Santa Anita.” Nobu stared out the window. So they’d both lived in horse stalls.
“We? Who’s we?”
Nobu had had enough and was not in the mood to talk about his family with this wisecracker. He shoved his journal into his pocket. “I’m going out for a while.”
When he walked out the door, heat blasted him, followed by a gust of wind full of stinging dust. He tried to protect his eyes from the bright sun and gritty wind, but it did little good, so he turned around and walked backwards. A tumbleweed swiped his leg as it barreled past. He watched it skip down the row of barracks, the wind chasing behind it. He’d seen tumbleweeds in Westerns before, but never thought he’d see one in real life. They seemed more fitting for a science fiction movie than a Western; they were aliens skittering along the surface of a barren planet.
Turning the corner, he found a building that provided shelter from the wind and sun. From there he watched armed guards in the towers. Armed guards outside the barbed wire. Everywhere he turned, armed guards.
He leaned against the side of the building, then slid to the ground, and pulled at his shirtsleeve to wipe the grit from his face, out of his eyes. But his shirt was too full of dust and dirt. His eyes watered and he blinked them hard, until he could see well enough to continue writing in his journal.
I have no country.
That’s what I realize here at Tule Lake. This place has a different feel than the other camps I’ve been in. At least in those places, they tried to tell us it was for our own good to be there. Here, they make no secret that this is a prison, a place to keep those they believe to be a threat to this country.
Thinking about it still takes my breath away. A threat to this country? All because I answered “no” to two questions? Did they expect us to be like whipped dogs, loyal to those who kick us? Not me!
Still, I wish nobody harm, though they think I do.
He heard shouting in the distance, a group of men calling something out in rhythm. But he couldn’t make out what they were saying. The uproar grew louder, until finally, he could understand the words.
Wah shoi! Wah shoi! Heave ho! Heave ho!
The ground rumbled in a cadence. The noise grew louder. Just as he stood to see where the commotion came from, the group turned the corner. There must have been a hundred of them, marching like military men. All wore the same hachimaki that Ichiro had worn.
Wah shoi! Wah shoi!
The strange energy fed his curiosity and he decided to follow, staying far behind, hidden in shadows.
Marching through row after row of barracks, the formation grew as more men in hachimakis rushed out of their apartments, feeding an entity that grew larger, louder.
They stopped in a large area near the gate, each man like one cell in a huge organism.
Precise. Uniform. United.
Push-ups. Sit-ups. Jumping jacks.
All in unison, all the same.
Five straight lines of men. Two stood at the front to lead.
One was Ichiro.
Pairing up, they began a choreographed sequence of karate moves. Clench-fisted stances. Blocks. Kicks. All accompanied by strong, guttural cries.
A powerful dance.
Like the tumbleweed that whipped around Tule Lake, Nobu felt pushed toward these men, chased by the winds of injustice. What was it that drew him? Their shouts? Their cadence?
No. It was their cohesiveness. Their brotherhood.