She looked so peaceful lying there, like she was just asleep. She’d always liked to have a nap in the afternoon. That’s all that was happening … she was just lying down and in a little while she’d get up and then come with us for supper. If only. I turned and left the stall. My father stood there quietly talking to Dr. Izumi. My mother had taken my sisters to be with Mrs. Miyazaki in her stall in another building. She and my grandmother had been friends as far back as childhood in Japan. She said Mrs. Miyazaki would need them there. I think they needed to be with her as well.
I stood just behind my father.
“Thank you for everything, Doctor,” my father said quietly, bowing slightly.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t expect this. She was getting better, stronger.”
“It was … her time,” my father said, his voice cracking over the last words. While everybody else had cried, he had tried to stand strong. I could see the tears were there, just beneath the surface, but he needed to be brave. I expected it. I even knew he might expect me to remain stoic too, but I couldn’t help but let loose some tears, despite trying my hardest to contain them.
“Is your mother … was your mother a Buddhist or Christian?” the doctor asked.
“Buddhist,” my father answered.
“Then I imagine you’ll want a cremation.”
My father nodded solemnly.
“When I advise the camp authorities, I’ll make sure they know the body is to be cremated.”
“Thank you,” my father said.
“I’ll have them wait until after supper before removing the body,” Dr. Izumi said.
“What do you mean, remove the body?” I asked, stepping forward.
“She must be removed in order for the cremation to take place.”
“Moved to where?” I asked.
“To the crematorium, of course.”
“What’s a crematorium?”
“It’s a special facility where the cremation takes place.”
“It’s a building … in the city?” I asked.
“Yes. And then they return the ashes for the family to dispose of them in accordance with the wishes of the deceased —”
“No,” I said loudly, surprising myself not only with the force of the word, but the way it echoed around the silent and empty building.
The doctor took a step forward and placed a hand on my shoulder. “Tadashi, I know it is hard. Hard to believe she’s gone and hard to say goodbye … but you must.”
“That’s not it,” I said, shaking my head. “She’s not leaving. Not to some building surrounded by strangers.”
“The camp authorities will allow family members to be present and even hold a small ceremony with a priest and —”
“You don’t understand! She didn’t want that; she told me. She wanted all her family and friends to be there.”
“Perhaps there can even be some sort of blessing arranged back here at the camp when they return the ashes,” the doctor suggested. “I’m sorry, I don’t know much about such things … I’m a Christian.”
“No,” I said. “She wanted to have the cremation in the woods, like her husband, my grandfather. Where we come from, there is no special building to do it … we just go into the forest … that’s what she wanted.”
My father gave me a questioning look, wanting to know how I knew what she wanted.
“She told me,” I said, my voice hardly a whisper.
“She told me a lot of things when we talked at night in the infirmary.”
“I understand,” the doctor said. “Often older people make requests, things they want, and then the family feels so guilty because they can’t possibly fulfill that last request. Surely you understand the authorities won’t allow you to travel up north to —”
“We don’t have to travel anywhere. There’s lots of open spaces here in the park —”
“You can’t be serious,” Dr. Izumi interrupted. “That just isn’t done … not just because we’re in this camp, but because we’re in the city. The Japanese here in Vancouver, in all the cities, use the crematoriums … it just isn’t allowed … there are laws!”
My father nodded to the doctor. “May I take a moment to speak with my son?”
“Certainly … thank you … thank you very much, Mr. Fukushima.”
The doctor suddenly looked relieved, like he was happy to be free of this … that he was sure my father was going to talk some sense into me … and, of course, that was what he was going to do.
My father motioned for me to follow him into the stall. Seeing my grandmother lying there startled me — almost as if I had forgotten she was there. Part of me wanted to look away, but I couldn’t. It was almost like if I looked hard enough, there’d be something — a slight movement, her chest rising, the sound of her breathing or coughing — that would signal that none of this was real, that somehow she was still alive.
“Tadashi … speak.”
I took a deep breath. “We talked, a lot, those nights we spent together at the infirmary. She told me about grandfather and how he was cremated and how she wanted the same thing. It wasn’t like the doctor said; she didn’t make me promise or anything … it’s just what she wanted.”
My father slowly nodded his head, rubbing his face with his hand.
“Trouble … for the family. The authorities will object… maybe try to stop us … maybe punish us.”
“How would they do that?”
“Send us away. Send me away. Possible.”
“They can’t do that!” I pleaded. “We have to stay together … we have to! Grandmother will understand if she has to go to a crematorium … I’m sure she’ll understand.”
He placed his hands on my shoulders. “Thank you for telling. Now it is my decision to make.”
“Yes, Father,” I mumbled, feeling like I was a little boy again. I realized that what I was suggesting hadn’t been realistic … we couldn’t jeopardize everybody because of something my grandmother had said … she said a lot of things, and I knew that she wouldn’t have wanted anything that could have caused problems for us.
“Come,” he said, and I trailed after him.
The doctor was at the far end of the aisle and came back to meet us.
“Well?” he asked.
“My mother … Tadashi’s grandmother … will be cremated … here in the park with her family.”
“But you don’t understand how —” The doctor stopped himself in mid-sentence. “It doesn’t matter what I say, does it? You’ve decided.”
My father nodded his head.
“I think you better speak to Mr. Wakabayashi,” Dr.
Izumi said.
“He’s not going to convince us to do anything differently,” I stated defiantly.
“I didn’t think he would even try to dissuade you,” the doctor said. “But you’ll need help, his help, to do this, and mark my words, there will be trouble.”
“Are you sure this is the plan you wish to pursue?” Mr.
Wakabayashi asked my father.
He nodded.
“And that you are acting in accordance with the wishes of your mother?”
“Yes,” I answered, stepping in since I knew better than anybody what she wanted, what she had said to me.
He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat from his brow. It wasn’t hot in here at all … he looked uneasy … nervous. Then I realized why he was talking so much. Mr. Wakabayashi might be a powerful man and own half of the Japanese businesses on Powell Street, but even he was having second thoughts about what we were doing. That thought got me even more worried.
“The site has been prepared,” he said.
It was the place I’d thought of earlier. It was a fairly large clearing, away from the buildings, beside the railroad tracks, partially hidden by bushes from the main part of the camp. It had one other feature that I liked — it was at the far end of the park, away from the administration building and the guard house. It wasn’t the most pretty spot, but when the trains weren’t rumbling by it was almost peaceful. I hoped my grandmother would understand it was the best we could do.
“And the body … is it ready?” Mr. Wakabayashi asked.
Again my father nodded.
My grandmother’s body had been bathed, and then she was placed in her best clothing. It was a dress and shawl that were her favorites, and little slippers. At first my mother wanted to put shoes on her, but Yuri had said she knew grandmother would rather have on her slippers because she always said they were more comfortable, and my mother agreed.
In her hand had been placed six coins. Those were to help pay for her passage into the next world. A clean white sheet had been placed underneath her, wrapped all around tightly and then sewn in place. Her head peeked out the top of the sheet.
“It’s almost five o’clock,” Mr. Wakabayashi said.
“That means we have a little more than four hours until sunset. If the authorities don’t notice before that, they’ll certainly be able to see the flames then. By that time, though, I hope it’ll be too late for them to try anything.”
“What could they even try?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I don’t know … maybe they might try to put out the funeral pyre.”
“They can’t … we won’t let them,” I said defiantly.
“We’ll do everything we can,” he said. “I’m prepared to talk to the commander at that time, reason with him, and try to convince him to allow it to continue.
But you have to remember the circumstances under which we are living.”
There was a silence, time to allow his words to sink in. Of course, what he said was right. What could we do if the soldiers, armed soldiers, tried to stop the proceedings?
“Could the family please proceed to the site?”
My father nodded and followed Mr. Wakabayashi out of the stall. I took a step to follow and then stopped.
I looked back at my grandmother. She still looked like she was just sleeping. There was a peaceful look on her face, and I imagined she was having a pleasant dream.
A dream about home, about Sikima. Or maybe she knew what we were doing and approved of it.
All around her were flowers, real ones taken from the gardens and ornate, delicate paper flowers that had been crafted as an offering. On the wall was a picture, one I’d never seen before yesterday, of my grandmother. Beside her was a man, my grandfather, also impossibly young, and a little boy, my father.
The picture was grainy and gray, taken when they were preparing to leave Japan. That was so long ago and she looked so young, and unsure and scared. It would have been a frightening trip, coming to a new country, having to learn a new language, not knowing anything. It was only in the past few weeks that I could even begin to understand how scary that journey into the unknown would have been.
I looked down at her again, lying there, looking almost serene. She looked so much more sure of this journey.
“Goodbye, Grandmother,” I said softly, then turned and left the stall.
My father, mother and sisters were waiting.
Everybody was dressed in their most formal clothing.
I felt uncomfortable in mine — the collar of my shirt pinched my neck and the shoes just seemed a little smaller than the last time I wore them. My father motioned for me to come to his side.
We started walking. I was beside my father; my mother, with Yuri on one side and Midori on the other, walked behind us. Passing by each stall, I was aware of people standing there — silently. The whole building was so silent that I could hear the soles of our shoes against the cement floor as we walked.
I felt a sense of relief as we left the building. It was good to feel the warmth of the sun and the gentle breeze against my skin. I turned slightly to look over my shoulder and was shocked. A dozen paces behind us a procession of people had formed. It had two branches, one of which extended back into the building, while the other stretched along the entire length of the building and then disappeared around the corner! My mother and sisters had also looked back, and when my mother turned toward me I could tell by her expression that she was as surprised as me. Surprised but pleased. We continued to walk.
“Tadashi,” my father said as we came to a junction in the path.
I knew without him asking that he was unsure of which way to go. I subtly motioned to the left and we proceeded. I knew a shorter way to get there — cutting between some buildings — but I thought it was better, somehow, more formal and proper, to stay on the path. Besides, was it right to lead all these people on a shortcut?
I turned around again to look at the people following behind us. I couldn’t even see the end of the procession. How many people were there … and what would the authorities think when they saw it?
And how could they avoid seeing it … a long thick parade of people snaking across the park? Suddenly I wanted them to all just go away. I was still hoping that somehow we wouldn’t be discovered by the soldiers — or, at the least, discovered when they couldn’t do anything about it. But now …
We reached the last of the buildings. The railroad tracks were still hidden from view, but I could hear a train rumbling by. We moved through the bushes and entered the clearing. In the center was a large pile of wood, the funeral pyre. In the middle of the pile of wood was a green picnic bench, positioned so the body could be placed upon it. As we got closer, I detected a strong smell of gasoline and realized that the wood had been doused with gas to ensure that it would catch fire. We stopped about a dozen paces in front of the pyre, and my mother and sisters came up beside us.
I could hear people gathering behind us. I looked over my shoulder. The crowd was quickly filling the clearing. It was a fairly large opening, but it couldn’t possibly hold all the people I’d seen in line behind us. As I watched, the crowd parted and two whiterobed priests appeared. They were quietly chanting, saying prayers, and one carried incense. The smell was brought to us by the gentle wind, replacing the strong smell of the gasoline.
Close behind the priests came the men carrying my grandmother, still wrapped in the white sheet.
The procession crossed the short open space between the edge of the crowd and where we stood. My father and I moved just off to the side to allow them to pass.
The priests separated, one moving around the pyre in one direction, the second in the opposite way.
Carefully, almost delicately, the men placed my grandmother on top of the picnic table. As the four men retreated, the two priests began chanting again, this time louder. Their voices were trapped by the crowd and echoed back at us. There wasn’t another sound — not a whisper or cough, or the faint distant rumble of traffic, or a train, or even the call of a bird. It was like everything in the entire world had paused and was holding its breath, waiting, watching.
“Who is to light the fire?” asked one of the priests.
He had already lit a small torch and was holding it at his side.
My father came forward and took the torch from the priest. As my grandmother’s son he would be the chief mourner, and it would be his role to put the torch to the pyre and ignite it.
The priests retreated, leaving my father standing alone beside the pyre. He motioned for me to come to his side. I stepped forward, aware that hundreds and hundreds of people were watching my every move.
“Here,” my father said, holding out the torch to me.
“But you should do it,” I said. “You’re her son.”
“And you are her grandson. She would be honored … we both would be honored.”
I nodded my head and carefully took the torch from his hand. I could feel the heat of the flame against my arm. I took a step forward and then hesitated. I looked back. My mother was standing with Yuri and Midori, an arm around each, their faces buried into her. There were tears streaming down her face. My father nodded his head, ever so slightly, but enough to let me know what I had to do. I turned and tossed the torch into the pyre.
Instantly there was a “whoosh,” and a rush of heat pushed me back a step. I put my hand up to shield my eyes. The pyre was ablaze, fire shooting up everywhere. Fingers of flame were starting to lick up and over the edges of the green picnic table, but had not yet reached my grandmother. Above the fire was a thick black column of smoke. I followed it with my eyes. It soared high above us, straight up into the clear blue sky. There was no wind to disperse it, or clouds or darkness to disguise it. Anyone anywhere in the park would be able to see the smoke. It wouldn’t be long until somebody came to investigate.