Taichi
Monday, September 28, 1942
Dear Tai,
I don’t know how to write this letter. I’ve been trying to ever since I saw Evalina, but you know I’ve never been good with serious conversations.
I cram Diego’s letter into my pocket. Judging by the opening lines, I’m guessing I don’t want to read it here in the post office.
Squinting against the late afternoon sun, I slip through the crowds of dusty Japanese faces until I happen to come alongside a face that isn’t Japanese. Mrs. Yoneda is also headed toward our block, walking with Lillian, only not with her usual efficient gait, but rather with a limp as she favors her right foot.
As I’m about to say hello, Mrs. Yoneda waves to Lillian and hobbles into her own apartment.
“Hi, Lillian.”
Her face is serious and pinched, but she smiles at me. “Hello, Taichi. Are you headed home?”
“Yes. You?”
“Just trying to get some exercise while the wind is somewhat calm.”
“Did I see Mrs. Yoneda limping?”
“Yes.” Lillian grimaces. “She’s been working at the camouflage net factory, and not everyone cares for the work the women do there.”
My teeth grind together as I think of the careening garbage truck and the flapping flags. “Black Dragons?”
Lillian nods, and the anger that seems much closer to the surface these days flares inside me. “They were throwing rocks today, Mrs. Yoneda said. I have another friend who used to work in there, but her husband made her quit because of being harassed. Her husband was put on some ‘death list’ because of their involvement. What a load of hooey.”
How is nothing being done about this? “Someone needs to tell Mr. Campbell.”
“Oh, he’s been told. Karl Yoneda is off harvesting sugar beets with Ted, of course, but Mrs. Yoneda took it up with him, it sounds like.”
She’s white. Surely he listened to her. “And?”
“He told her she didn’t have to be at camp. That she chose to come here and could choose to leave whenever she liked.”
I snort a laugh. “Never mind her husband and son being here?”
“I guess.” Lillian’s cough has a wheezy tinge to it. “Of course she won’t quit, either. I’ve never met a more determined woman.”
That’s because she hasn’t met Evalina. I coddle the memory of her reaching up to me on the bus. Of her fierce expression when she hugged me goodbye at the end of our visit. My dried-out sinuses prickle when I remember Diego’s letter in my pocket. She probably told him what I did, and he’s going to ream me out for it.
Lillian coughs again, this time even wheezier. “How is your uncle doing? I’ve been meaning to come by, but the wind has been so bad.”
I hesitate. Lillian notices.
I can’t un-hesitate, so I say, “He’s fine. He’s adjusting.”
I think both of these are true statements.
“And your aunt?”
“The same. She’s fine. She’s adjusting.”
Lillian frowns at this. “Okay. If I can help in any way, let me know.”
“I will. Thank you.”
When she coughs once more, she smiles, “I suppose it’s good that we’re at my place. I think it’s time for me to head indoors.”
“Tell Ted I say hello next time you write.”
“Of course.”
I dawdle the remaining yards to my barrack and find Uncle Fuji is outside, puttering about his garden. He offers me something reminiscent of a smile but doesn’t say anything as I head inside.
When he first limped off the bus two weeks ago, a cane aiding him down the steep steps, I hadn’t been able to move. Uncle Fuji had never been a large man, but he’d been as strong as well-woven rope, always quick with a grin and a funny, if crass, comment. The man who got off the bus looked twenty years older than my father, rather than just two. His voice had a grainy quality to it, and his shoulders a stoop.
Aunt Chiyu had just stared at him, her eyes wide and welling, her teeth clenched tight. When Uncle Fuji looked at her, his face softened, and he spoke her name in his new graveled voice. “Chiyu.”
My aunt choked on a sob as she wrapped her arms around him, a shocking display of affection for the two of them. In his two weeks at Manzanar, he’s done little else but fiddle with the Japanese garden and eat the meals Aunt Chiyu brings to the barrack for him.
Though the barrack provides relief from the beating sun and wind, inside is airless and stuffy. I crack open a window, tuck myself into the modest privacy of my cot, and withdraw Diego’s letter.
Dear Tai,
I don’t know how to write this letter. I’ve been trying to ever since I saw Evalina, but you know I’ve never been good with serious conversations.
Evalina came to my farewell party, and I was shocked to hear that you broke up with her. I thought it was some weird joke at first, honestly. I wish you could have seen how much she cried when she told me. I think then you would know—if you don’t already—what a mistake this is, but if not, hopefully I can make that clear in my letter right now.
I know you love her. I’m guessing you’re scared. You don’t know how long you’ll be there, or what life will be like when the war is over. You don’t want to be a burden to her. Maybe your pride stings a bit too, after having her see you there in the camp.
If this is an accurate description at all, it’s only because that’s the way I think I would feel if I were in your shoes. And if I were in your shoes, and you were in mine, here’s what I would need to hear: letting fear and pride make your decisions is only going to lead to regret.
She loves you, and you love her. I think there will be rewards for persevering.
You can thank me by naming your first child after me.
Diego
I stare at the letter, cycling through a range of emotions. Convicted. Shamed. Indignant. Thankful. Lonely. Regretful.
But Diego only has half the story. He doesn’t know that I’m saving Evalina from a life like Mrs. Yoneda’s. From a life of being married to someone who looks like our country’s enemy. From the pain of trying to raise children who aren’t Japanese enough or Caucasian enough to belong anywhere.
This isn’t about my pride or my willingness to persevere. This is about protecting Evalina.
Right?