As a seaport, Vancouver Harbour bustled with ships and boats of all sizes and types. All the activity distracted Chisato from the strange, foreign country; she stood in anticipation of meeting her husband, even if a stranger, and beginning a new life.
The water was green and flecked with whitecaps as the ship created waves. It took a while but eventually the ship docked safely. The gangway lowered, and the three women began to organize their belongings to disembark. Each was dressed in a Western-style black coat with matching hat. Others wore the traditional haori, a short jacket, over a kosode, a flowing kimono.
As soon as Chisato stepped on the wooden pier, she experienced a shift in her perception. Japan, her homeland, was behind her; Canada was her new home. As she felt Pier 21 move slightly, a physical change came over her. The cloudless sky seemed bluer; the green of trees and plants more intense; the noise of the shipyard subsided to a whisper.
A tall white man in uniform directed them to a nearby building where they lined up to answer questions by other uniformed men.
After dealing with some immigration matters, Chisato was delighted to receive a small pile of letters from Japan. Her sister had written her!
She savoured every word as she started to read the first one where she stood.
Chisato-chan,
Welcome to Canada. I hope all is well and that the trip was not rough. Hiroshima is as you left it: peaceful but bustling with War talk. An odd contrast.
There’s a lot of talk about the war with China. Two strangers in the street actually came to blows over Japan’s involvement. Neither was hurt badly.
No one we know has enlisted or has been drafted (a new government edict), except, of course, our brother.
Hideki Oniisan is still in training though I suspect he will be in the army soon. I don’t mind telling you, he and Otousan had a tremendous argument about his joining the military. Though they didn’t think I heard, I did. I was hiding nearby…
Okaasan still worries about you. At least, she has stopped crying. Father pretends like he doesn’t care, but I know he does.
I won’t write more since the censors have started to ink out words and sentences. Inaba-san, the grocer, complained and was taken away. To where I don’t know. Have not seen him since. I’ve probably written too much.
Write when you can.
Cheimi Oneesan
No “inked out” words. Chisato guessed a letter between sisters was not much of a concern. For now.
***
Soon she had to stop. She, her companions, and all the others were directed back to the dock where a Japanese man met them. He hustled the crowd onto a bus, a green and yellow one with comfortable enough seats. They left without their luggage, the man assuring them their belongings would follow.
The bus moved easily through the city streets. As she clutched her letters, Chisato viewed the change of scenery; the urban setting reminded her of her hometown, yet it was different. The buildings were imposing (probably because she didn’t know what they were), and the businesses sat in shadows. Everything in fact seemed rundown. The signs were all in the alien English language.
What she hadn’t expected was the Immigration Building, a black, concrete mass in the middle of what appeared to be a railroad maze, tracks crisscrossing and leading everywhere before passing in front of the building’s entrance. The building itself was five-storeys-high with bars on all the shuttered windows. As she approached it on the transport bus, she felt the building glaring at and awaiting all the new immigrants.
She wasn’t intimidated by large buildings; after all, Hiroshima was full of them. The Hiroshima Prefectural Industrial Promotion Hall for one with its impressive dome. Inside, it housed a wide and high rotunda with well-lit hallway tributaries with shiny linoleum and waxed floors leading to various government offices. An abundance of light came in through the multitude of windows. Her father had taken her inside once when she was a little girl, but she had walked by it several times as she grew.
The Immigration Building, by contrast, contained shadowy hallways that twisted and turned away from the entranceway to unknown and thickly dark areas. Stairs were everywhere ascending and descending to pools of ominous shadows.
Several hulking guards moved Chisato and her fellow immigrants to a downstairs staircase. At the bottom, the building opened to a large area with minimal and subdued lighting and a segregated room. Inside it, obese white women in nurse uniforms stood, waiting for them. Another Japanese man, short with round glasses and greasy hair plastered against a balding scalp, stepped forward. He introduced himself as simply Kawasaki the Translator and commanded everyone to strip down to their underwear. Everyone hesitated, so outrageous was the order. He repeated his command but in a much louder and angrier voice. Some complied.
The guards then began grabbing at the garments of those nearby. They ignored the screams and words of complaint as they resorted to ripping the Western and Japanese jackets, robes, and dresses, and kimono off them. Material tore in the rising melee. Soon everyone obeyed the command.
Chisato felt her own light blue dress tearing away. Her letters were ripped away in the process and discarded somewhere. Standing in her undergarments, she gripped the rags in her hands as tight as she could. She glared defiantly. A sadness came over her as if she lost her sister, again.
The nurses then walked around, pulling down or opening the undergarments, and examining by manipulation everyone’s intimate parts. Chisato soon went through the humiliation. Her face turned red, especially when one nurse smelled her fingers afterwards. Her stomach and throat filled with bile and disgust.
Once everyone had been inspected, Chisato led a chorus of protest, nearly screaming her objections. But then the men dragged out hoses and aimed them at the women; several gasped. A gushing sound emitted, and a white powder sprayed, covering the women, caking their faces, hair, and bodies. They tried to stop it by uselessly extending their arms with open palms in front of them. Some squealed in surprise, shame, and pain. Some fell to their knees and then the floor. Chisato closed her eyes as she turned her head away, holding up her tattered dress as protection against the onslaught. In the aftermath, the sounds of crying and rough coughing rose to the ceiling of the room.
Kawasaki’s voice rose above the din, explaining that they had been deloused.
After a much-needed shower and dressing in their soiled clothes, torn in some cases (their possessions had yet to be delivered), the women sat and waited for what humiliation was to come next. Chisato’s face turned red with the thought of meeting her husband looking like a poor wretch. She wept over the state of her pretty dress with the blue flowers all over it. The women soon endured seemingly endless interviews, interrogations more like it. Kawasaki and a small army of anonymous interpreters facilitated.
That night, she lay on a cot exhausted in a large upstairs common room known as the Dormitory. No one had eaten and not one of the guards or nurses cared, ignoring the complaints and protests. Chisato was too tired to grieve. She felt herself being dragged into a dreamless sleep.