The sun came up and the first bright rays came through the windows and found me lying on my mattress on the floor. I could have rolled over and pulled the covers up over my head, but there wasn’t any point. Whatever was going to happen was going to happen. And besides, it wasn’t like the light had woken me up anyway. My sleep had been so broken and interrupted and disturbed that I doubted I’d put together any more than fifteen consecutive minutes of sleep through the whole night. And while I was worried about what was going to happen next in our lives, it wasn’t just worry that had kept me awake. It was the sounds of the night.
I had become more than used to the noises of the boat — sounds of rubbing ropes, water and waves, and creaking boards. What I wasn’t accustomed to were the sounds of the city that surrounded us. There seemed to be a constant rumble that filled the air: car engines softly purring, the deep growl of trucks, the occasional backfire of a motor, military airplanes with their landing lights glowing in the darkened sky as they roared overhead, and the long, low, call of ships’ horns, announcing their locations as they passed each other in the dark and foggy narrows.
I’d drift off for a few minutes then be awoken by one of the sounds. Sometimes I’d just lay there listening. Other times I’d be so startled that I’d sit bolt upright. And twice I got right up and, carefully stepping around the sleeping members of my family, went over and stood by the windows, looking out, trying to attach a sight to the sound.
The planes were easily visible — actually, impossible to miss — as they glided across the night sky, their lights blazing out a path for them to follow as they passed overhead and then touched down, somewhere just out of sight, but not far away. The sources of all the other sounds were lost from view, hidden by the buildings, darkness and fog.
I’d heard that fear heightens your senses. I didn’t know for sure, but it did seem like every little noise registered deep inside my skull.
My father provided his own background noise — a high-pitched whistling sound as he breathed in and out in his sleep. He always seemed to sleep solidly through the night. The first few nights on board, the sound had disturbed me, annoyed me. Now it wasn’t just that it didn’t bother me anymore, but that I found it reassuring. The whistling made me feel better, safer, knowing he was close. It was good to know he was right there when I woke in the middle of the night, in the pitch black, and for a few brief seconds couldn’t remember where I was. Or, worse still, woke up and knew exactly where I was.
Both my mother and grandmother were light sleepers and I was sure that they would have been woken up last night too. But neither got up or moved around or even made any sounds. They wouldn’t have wanted to risk waking anybody up.
Once, just as I was getting ready to climb back under the covers after gazing out the window, I was startled to see Yuri sitting up in bed, staring at me. Just enough light trickled into the boat from the lampposts on the wharf for me to see her. Silently she waved to me and then held aloft two of her dolls. I saw a smile crease her face, white teeth glowing in the dim light, and couldn’t help but smile myself. I gestured for her to stuff the dolls back under the covers and she instantly responded.
That certainly wasn’t the first time she’d flashed the dolls or said something to me when she thought nobody else was around. She tried to be subtle, but she was only seven years old, and wasn’t so good at keeping secrets. I knew my grandmother was aware of the dolls and suspected my parents knew as well. But I also knew that if things weren’t too obvious — if she didn’t pull them out right in front of my father’s eyes, so that everybody would know he’d been disobeyed — he might just pretend he didn’t know they were there. That way we were all okay.
My father yawned loudly, sat up and stretched his arms. That was the signal to everybody that the day had begun. Instantly my mother got to her feet and began to prepare morning tea. Midori was soon at her side to help, and even my grandmother got up on unsteady feet and went to offer assistance.
Activity had also started on the wharf. A half a dozen men, a couple of whom I knew, were gathered together, talking and smoking cigarettes. My father had noticed them as well. He pulled on his jacket and went over to the door, removed his slippers and put on his boots.
“Tadashi,” he said, motioning to me with his hand. “Come.”
I didn’t need any further encouragement. I grabbed my jacket and pulled it on as I rushed over to the door. I kicked off my slippers and pushed my feet into my boots. I didn’t even bother to tie them up, just stuffed the long laces back into the boots. Opening the door, I was hit with a blast of cold air. The bright sunlight, which had already burnt off the fog from the night, had fooled me into thinking it was much warmer than it was. I buttoned up my jacket quickly as I crossed the deck of the boat and bounded up onto the wharf.
My father had already joined the group of men and I quietly glided up behind them. There was an argument going on between two of the men, and I was even more determined to be silent.
“So we’re here! What now?” one of the men demanded. He wasn’t from our village and I didn’t know his name. He was younger than the other men, maybe closer in age to me then he was to my father.
“You have to be patient,” one of the others, an older man named Tanaka, said quietly.
“I’m tired of being patient!” he snapped angrily.
“Patience is for old women! I want to know what they have planned for us next!”
“Mind your words,” Mr. Tanaka said angrily. “You’re so young you still have eggshell stuck to your bottom!”
The man’s face flashed with anger as the others laughed at the joke made at his expense. He looked like he was going to say something, but thought better of it. Young people had no right to speak disrespectfully to their elders. Still, I wanted to know the same thing — what now?
“We all want to know the next step,” my father interjected, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “But getting angry, especially at each other, will not help.” Although the words were said quietly, they were said in that tone of voice that I knew meant business.
The younger man opened his mouth like he was going to blurt something out, but again thought better of it. “Yes,” he said softly, looking down at the ground.
“We’re all upset,” Mr. Tanaka added. “We all want to know the answer to the question you’ve asked. But we must wait.”
The group became silent. I imagined that each man was thinking about the possible answers — what was going to be happening to us and how long we’d have to wait to find out. They started talking in Japanese, discussing the weather and what sort of day it was going to be. I listened in for a while. The younger man, the one who had been so angry, spoke Japanese, but not very well. He continually threw in English words, or the wrong endings to words. Lots of Japanese his age didn’t speak Japanese that well. My Japanese was better than his.
My parents, like most Japanese parents, insisted that we all spoke Japanese in the home. But I guess because I was in a village where everyone was Japanese, we also spoke it when we were outside, talking to the neighbors or playing with the other kids.
Not that my Japanese was perfect. Sometimes I found myself having to work harder to understand things when the older Japanese spoke. It wasn’t just the dialect, or the words, but the way they put those words together.
Two of the men dropped their cigarette butts to the ground and stubbed them out with their boots. They immediately lit up two more cigarettes. A cigarette was offered to my father, which he declined. He didn’t smoke. I decided I’d wait a few minutes, to be polite, and then head back to the boat. There was nobody here who knew anything, and I’d only come out so eagerly hoping somebody had some information.
The Japanese are big on things like waiting, being patient and accepting fate. I’m no good at any of those things. Maybe my blood is Japanese, but I guess having only breathed Canadian air in my lungs my whole life has made me as impatient as any other Canadian. I hate waiting. I think I’d rather get bad news and at least know than wait around hoping things will turn out. At least once you know, you can stop worrying and get on with doing. After all, how much worse could it get?
I’d started to slowly sidle away when my attention was caught by the sound and sight of a large, gray truck, an army truck. It had appeared from behind a warehouse, its engine rumbling, black smoke bellowing out of twin smokestacks over the cab. The engine protested noisily as it ground through the gears to slow down before passing through the gate that marked the entry point through the high wire fence that ringed the wharf.
I recognized the type of truck — it was nicknamed a butter box because it was used to transport supplies. It then clicked on me that its arrival, undoubtedly with a large quantity of supplies, meant only one of two possibilities: either we were being restocked to continue our journey elsewhere by boat, or we would be given more food because we weren’t going anywhere. We were staying here at wharfside and going nowhere … maybe for a long time.
My heart started to sink when my eyes caught sight of a second truck. How many supplies would we need? Then a third truck appeared, and a fourth, and a fifth … and a sixth. The column just kept on coming, truck after truck. The second and third vehicles had already come through the gate and joined the first coming along the actual wharf.
All along the dock at each boat, people had come out of their cabins, alerted by the noise and attracted by the unspoken promise that something was going to happen. But what? My father, along with the other men, moved to the side, allowing the truck a clear passage. There was a rhythmic thumping as the wheels of the trucks passed over the rough, loosely fastened planks of the dock. The truck rumbled past us, leaving behind the lingering smell of smoke and diesel fuel. It continued down toward the very end of the wharf, flashing brake lights and squealing brakes bringing it to a stop beside the very first boat.
The second and third trucks passed by where we stood before coming to a stop farther down the wharf,
spaced out behind the first vehicle. A truck came to rest directly in front of us. I looked way up into the cab and saw two soldiers, one at the wheel and a second sitting beside him. Letting my eyes run down the line of trucks I started to count. Twelve. All along the length of the wharf, the people who had been standing on their boats watching had now come onto the dock.
They formed a thin line, knotted in places by groups, clumps where a mother and father stood surrounded by a clutch of children, or four or five men pressed together to discuss what they were seeing.
I was struck by the sight of hundreds of people … children, fathers, mothers, old people … all different but all the same … all Japanese faces peering out from beneath hats or caps … watching. Nobody was making a sound. It was like every single person was holding his breath. Waiting.
And then came the sounds. Heavy boots against the wooden dock, the slamming of doors, men’s raised voices, the loud crash of metal as the heavy tailgates were untied and let drop.
From the back of the truck directly in front of me leapt three men in sailor uniforms. Then two more sailors jumped out.
“Attention!” screamed out a loud mechanical voice.
My head snapped around to see a man, a soldier in an army uniform, an officer, standing there holding a bullhorn.
“Attention! The head of each family and the captain of every boat is ordered to assemble to receive further instructions concerning evacuation!”
Evacuation! Were we leaving our boats now? That might explain those sailors. Were they here to pilot our boats when we left?
My father silently started to file away toward the man with the bullhorn. Other men joined in until he was lost to my view in the midst of a crowd. I was certain I could walk over and hear what our fate was going to be, but I was just as certain that I already knew the answer. Those sailors were here to take charge of our boats, and all those trucks, far too many to deliver anything, were here to move us and all of our possessions. The only question in my mind was, where?