7. Summer 1939

At the end of the second week onboard, Chisato stared at the endless ocean behind the Heian Maru and shuddered. How far? She contemplated the unknowable depths of the ocean, the limitlessness of the sky, and the isolating distances in front and behind her. The plumeria in the garden came to mind—the aroma drifting across her thoughts. The cool dark forest surrounding the Akamatsu Compound appeared before her. And she felt the cupola of heat that encased her home and family. She opened her eyes wide and bent her head down watching the waters rush by the boat.

The waves swirled around the ship and in her imagination; she descended into the downward current and fell into an endless emptiness. She tried to put it out of her mind, but when her thoughts were replaced by the events of her recent past, her legs weakened and buckled. When she felt that her legs would give out, she had to grab hold of a railing to steady herself.

The rising and combined scent of fish, seaweed, and brine tickled a memory. The days her parents took her and her siblings to the seaside for a day in the sun and fresh air were the happiest of her childhood. During Obon, the family traveled to the island of Miyajima to express their gratitude to the Buddha. The temple, the torii (its ornate gate), and the various ceremonies were so beautiful. She cherished the time with her sister. She would do the same for her children; Vancouver is a seaport after all. Do they celebrate Obon? she wondered. There are Japanese there, she reasoned. The ocean brought all that back to her. She put her faith in the waves above the Kuroshio, (the Black Current) and the Buddha that guided her to the new land.

Her ship’s cabin was small, perhaps cramped. She had no idea what conditions were like in steerage, though occasionally she spied some wretch who had crawled up from below. He was usually unwashed, scrawny with desperate thin yellow eyes, squinting in the fresh outside air. He raised his hands to block the brilliant sunlight. He would then be quickly chased back to the lower hold by a crisply uniformed crew member. At those times, she grimaced and turned away in disgust. She did not relish mixing with the riff-raff.

Other than the occasional steerage incident, the voyage was uneventful. It rained off and on, but the seas remained calm. She quietly thanked the Buddha. At this point, the clouds conspired to smother the skies overhead.

“Oh, it rains all the time in Canada,” Terumi Takimoto informed.

How would she know? Chisato thought but didn’t say.

She had made friends with a couple of women who were about her age: Terumi Takimoto from Tsuruga in Fukui Province and Sachiko Jikemura from Hiroshima. Both picture brides keenly anticipated docking in Canada. Sachiko loved to show off the photograph of her newly minted husband. Toshio Jikemura was a handsome man, Chisato had to say. With a smart three-piece suit and abundant hair, he looked like a film star, the kind in melodramatic movies seen in the Shingeki-kaikan theatre in Hiroshima. The straight-lined jaw with sharply defined lips, slicked-back hair, and intense eyes made him distinctively attractive.

“You are lucky,” was all Chisato could say while Terumi nodded. She hid her own photograph. She denied she even had one.

Terumi, the know-it-all, had no such pretensions. She just wanted her new life to begin with a man who wasn’t particularly attractive; in fact, he was ugly, by his photograph, with a pudgy body and acne-scarred and red-tanned face. But he worked steadily in the logging industry. She figured he would spend most of his time in the mountains and backwoods, while she kept house in the city or town (wherever they settled). Seemed like a good life, all things considered.

She herself was stocky with thick ankles and bloated arms and, though she said she was from Tsuruga, a substantial city on the Sea of Japan side of the country, she was obviously from the countryside. From a rice farm, no doubt.

Chisato spent most other times in her cabin, reading books or composing letters home. She saw her friends for meals or on deck when she wanted some air. They were forever gossiping, she assumed.

After Kobe, the ship had made a stop at Yokohama before heading out to sea towards Vancouver and Seattle. She looked up the two destination-cities at the library on board, a small cabin with only one row of books on a shelf. A convenient desk and chair allowed her to sit and read at her leisure the atlas and a text she pulled down. Both cities were found in the pages. The black-and-white pictures represented Seattle as being relatively flat with a huge mountain that dominated the distance. She couldn’t pronounce the name Mount Rainier but the image of it reminded her of Mount Fuji, Fujisan. She smiled.

Surrounded by mountains and water, Vancouver seemed prettier, it was most like Hiroshima. Much more interesting landscape with many hills throughout the city. She liked the Japanese section of town. At least, she wouldn’t have to worry about the language.

The white men in both towns appeared unfriendly and rough. She did not look forward to dealing with them, but she steeled herself against the necessary evil. Her husband would be her protector.

***

Despite knowing any letter she wrote would not be delivered until after she landed, Chisato wrote frequently to her sister to pass the time. She talked about her new “friends”, the features of the boat, and her anticipation of her new life in Vancouver. She often expressed curiosity for her family.

How is Hideki-gun getting on with his soldiering? I hope he found his calling. And has Father let me go? Mother? I hope I didn’t cause her too much heartache. I know you understand why I had to leave.

The days and nights of the third week passed slowly but the trip became short when Vancouver came into sight. On that morning, Chisato fussed about her cabin, putting things in order and arranging her luggage for pickup. She especially paid attention to her manner of dress for that day. A Western dress for her new Western life, she thought. A light blue dress with tiny flowers adorning it. That was the ticket. Her hands fumbled with the buttons as she slipped into it.

As the Heian Maru maneuvered under the Lions Gate Bridge and into Vancouver Harbour, Chisato stood on the forward deck with her two friends, eyes watering in the forceful and toxic, acidic wind.

“What is that smell?” complained Sachiko as she plugged her nose and wiped her eyes. “It stings!”

“That’s the lumber-processing plant,” Chisato informed. Her father’s lumberyard smelled like that all the time.

“How do you know that?” Sachiko asked.

“Everybody knows that,” Terumi claimed.

Chisato grimaced and followed the purser’s orders to get ready to disembark.