CHAPTER FIVE

From Olive to Johanna

April 20, 1944

Dear Johanna,

Glad the stay in your hometown hasn’t killed you, dear. Didn’t I tell you you’d be just fine?

I laughed so hard when I got to your comment about Clive/Chive that I nearly tipped my chair. He would think it’s funny too. You’d just adore his sense of humour. It set me to thinking of alternate names for my younger siblings. Here they are, in order of age.

Tom: Tomato, naturally.

Rachel: Radish

Aubrey: Aubergine (Or “eggplant” to you Yanks.)

Charlie: Celery, maybe?

As for university news, one of the fraternities hosted an ice-cream social last week, where I finally got to meet GB (you must remember him, after all I gabbed about him to you). We got off well enough. I told him what I was studying, and he smiled broadly. Just when I thought I might have stumbled upon the only chap in America who wasn’t surprised that a woman might be interested in chemistry, he said, “Have you thought about studying the molecular structure of dish detergent?”

Dish detergent, Johanna. As if the only possible application of my field of study must be squarely within the realm of domesticity. I fumed silently, all the while thinking, If I were Johanna, I would tell him to his face just what I think of that. But of course, I only smiled. Then I spent the next half hour hearing him recount victories on the athletics field. So that was a failure on all fronts.

Speaking of men . . . Peter (your Peter—I can never remember his last name) asked me over dinner last week if you’d said anything to me about a Captain Stefan Werner. I quite honestly said no, but it makes me wonder. Should I be concerned? Is there some sort of forbidden romance I should know about? Do tell all.

All the best,
Olive

The POW Potato Brigade column in the Ironside Broadside on April 22, 1944

Translator’s note: Throughout, the game Americans refer to as soccer will be called by its German name, “football.” Helmut insisted on this, because “you kick the ball with the foot . . . what other name would it have?”

From what we hear from the radio (there is one in the camp recreation hall now, near the record player), Americans love their baseball, boxing, and basketball. We listen to descriptions of games, though we know only some of the English words. You can tell by the announcers’ voices when someone has scored a point or landed an impressive hit, but that is all the excitement that happens.

Football is about more than scoring or beating another man senseless. It is the only bloodless war.

Before the war, the football club in my town had been run mainly by Jews, so when they were sent away, I was worried it would close down, but the Reich Committee for Physical Education took control. To join the new club, you had to have two recommendations to prove you weren’t a Marxist. (Maybe Marx liked football? I’m not sure, but they were very worried about Communists.) To be honest, I don’t know what it means to be a Marxist, but I don’t think I am one. Back then, none of it mattered. I just wanted to play.

Here, we are permitted to practice all kinds of sports at the camp during our time off. Since many of us are from Hesse, my team calls ourselves the Hessian Foxes, a mascot that is fast and clever and light on its feet. Our main rivals are the Rhineland Stallions. Sometimes we jeer at them about slaughterhouses and how their animals are destined for glue.

It’s a well-known fact that the Stallions cheat, and also that they stole the cigarettes I hand-rolled from tobacco I bought at the canteen, only none of them have admitted to it.

The guards often take bets on who will win games, each having their favorites, and they watch us on Saturday nights, cheering and booing. We Foxes started with long odds after tryouts but are now winning more often than we lose.

I play defense, unless our goalkeeper, Dieter Bormann, gets stolen away by his orchestra practices. Most of the time I am good at it. But whenever a man doesn’t know the power of his kick and the ball sails out of the field, I freeze. Even if I’m the one nearest the ball, someone else has to go fetch it, because I remember the day a man in the camp I was at before this one ran to retrieve the ball that fell between the warning fence and the outer fence of the compound.

The guard shouted at him once, twice, and then shot him dead. I watched it happen.

They told us he had been warned before, several times, about going near the fence. There would be an investigation. But that didn’t change the fact that a man had died for no reason.

You might think that would make it hard for me to love football again, but it hasn’t. I never leave the bounds, though, not even one centimeter.

I’ve been distracted from my argument. Here are more reasons football is a superior sport:

Football encourages teamwork. In other sports, one player can outshine all the rest and win nearly single-handedly, but not in football. We must all win together, united.

It is also a good remedy for stress and boredom. There are not many amusements for men inside a barbed-wire enclosure. Before we got a football, Hans, the man in the bunk next to me, carved an entire chess set out of soap, he was so bored. (He got very angry when I washed my hands with one of the rooks.)

Also, football is much more interesting to watch than baseball. I apologize to your Joe DiMaggio, but it’s true.

In conclusion, football is the best physical activity outside of dancing, but since they don’t even like the camp secretary to speak to us socially, the chance of us getting permission for a dance is low. Although there are many pretty girls here in America.

Hessian Foxes forever!

Helmut Arnold

Note from Stefan Werner to Johanna, left on her desk after English class

April 24, 1944

Excellent lesson today, but your constitution has a number of blind spots, as I see them. Should we have a class debate sometime? There is nothing officers enjoy more than a spirited argument.

I heard the men talking about Saturday’s article, all of it very positive. They could hardly believe it was in a real newspaper, not a mimeographed bulletin like the Des Moines men make just for those in the camp. Helmut is puffed with pride, but the Stallions are plotting their revenge for the next football game.

–S

From Johanna to Olive

April 24, 1944

Dear Olive,

No, you shouldn’t be concerned about Captain Werner. Forbidden romance? I hope that’s just your embellishment to get a reaction from me and not what Peter actually told you. Either way, it’s nothing but pulp-novel nonsense. The captain is very intellectual, and we sometimes have good-natured debates during and after English class about the freedom of the press during wartime, or whether America was right to send athletes to the 1936 Berlin Olympics. That is all.

Sometimes I can hardly tell he’s German at all, other than a faint trace of an accent; his English is that good. He attributes it to the dozens of American movies he’s seen—apparently the Nazi government prefers German-made films but allows approved Hollywood pictures as well. For example, All Quiet on the Western Front was banned (strong antiwar message), while Laurel and Hardy films are acceptable (they’re favorites of Hitler’s, who is quite the movie buff). All very fascinating.

But most of our conversations relate to business around the camp. I can’t very well ignore the camp’s spokesman just because an overprotective friend in Minneapolis disapproves of him.

I’m surprised to hear you had supper with Peter—I didn’t know he was thinking of taking you out. Of course, you met when we went to that movie together last fall, but he so rarely comes up to the Cities.

Anyway, don’t let him encourage you to snoop on me from a distance, especially as you study for your exams. I hope they go well, and be sure to greet your Victory Garden–catalog family for me when you visit your uncle for the summer.

Sorry to write so briefly. It’s been quite busy lately, partly because the POWs are headed out for the first week of farm labor today (soil preparation, mostly), but also because of a new scheme of mine to help public relations with the town. I’ll write you a longer letter later.

Your friend,
Johanna

From Peter to Johanna

April 22, 1944

Dear Jo,

Good to hear from you, as always.

You might get annoyed at me saying so, but I think it was perfectly reasonable for people to object to the POWs’ Easter ham dinner. I know the army isn’t on the same ration rules as the rest of us, but thinking of enemy soldiers enjoying a treat you can’t have yourself would make anyone annoyed. Maybe it doesn’t do any good to complain about it, but be careful that you don’t take the POWs’ side right away without thinking things through.

I don’t know how you thought of a column after reading my letter, but it’s a swell idea. I only wish I could come up with something helpful myself, because morale is getting low around Camp Savage. Not a sudden drop, just a slow, limp weakening, like soba noodles in boiling water.

Military Intelligence Service’s higher-ups have been asking why, and we keep trying to tell them it’s a 9066 problem. That’s Executive Order 9066, the relocation act that moved the coastal Japanese Americans to the camps. Most still haven’t released our family members—something about “orderly process” or “administrative difficulties.”

Instead of promising to exercise pressure on the relocation centers to move things along, the army decided to deal with flagging morale by sending us a guest speaker. Yesterday Staff Sergeant Dye Ogato stepped smartly at attention before an assembly of all our students. He graduated from our program back in 1942 and then served in the Pacific. As soon as he was introduced, I noticed the Purple Heart pinned to his lapel. A genuine decorated Japanese American veteran, paraded in front of us like a zoo animal.

Ogato told us about transcribing captured diaries and reports on the island of Bougainville, writing propaganda to be scattered in enemy territory, and searching downed planes for any scraps of writing that might provide a clue to the Japanese army’s plans. He sprinkled in everyday stuff too: the humidity that made your uniform cling to your back; the way he and his fellows tried to imitate the accents of the New Zealand troops sent in to reinforce them; how he’d sleep lightly in his jungle hammock, ready to roll out and into the nearest foxhole at the first sound of gunfire.

“The island was so quiet after sundown that you could hear the slightest sound,” he said, and the room got quiet as death too, all of us listening to his every word. “I could actually hear the bombs released from the low-flying planes . . . including the one that nearly got me.”

He managed to dive into the ditch air-raid shelter just as the bombs hit. Most destroyed the divisional headquarters, but one hit just in front of Ogato, and the ground caved in around him.

The only air he had was the tiny pocket he’d captured by putting his hands over his head before impact. So he started to dig frantically, clawing on all sides, until even that air was gone, filled in by falling dirt. “All I knew was the sky was up there somewhere, and I was going to do everything I could to see it again,” he told us.

It took an hour before anyone came close enough to hear his cries for help and dug him out. They’d all assumed he’d died in the direct strike, like others had. That’s what got him the Purple Heart . . . and a few bruises and broken bones. His commanding officer called him “the luckiest man on Bougainville.”

After another year of service and a more serious wound, they discharged him from active duty to teach at a Japanese language school for Canadian troops, much like ours. That’s where he was headed after speaking to us.

Don’t get me wrong, Ogato told a great story, and it’s always good to know our graduates are making a difference. Still . . . I don’t know. Maybe I’m too sensitive (not getting much sleep these days with all the work they put on us), but it felt like we were being manipulated.

I’m telling you, Jo, the boys leaned forward like they were watching the final shootout in a John Wayne movie, picturing themselves in Ogato’s place. Now all they can talk about is coming home with a medal pinned to their uniform.

Meanwhile, the Hakujin students (the non-Japanese Americans) clustered together in a group as they usually do. You could tell they knew it was all a ploy to convince the Japanese Americans that the United States would treat them fairly. They of all people know that’s not true.

But it worked, and that’s what matters, isn’t it? The day after the speaker, my students attacked their studies with new energy. Propaganda again. It’s a powerful thing, whether used for good or evil . . . or something in between.

Speaking of good or evil, I’m keeping up with the ukulele lessons. Do you have a favorite song? Hopefully a slow, simple one. If you say “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy,” I think I’ll cry. Makoto’s been very patient in teaching me, maybe because he likes laughing at me, but still, that’s something. Every time I get ready to junk the whole thing, I make a little improvement, and then I can’t give it up. I guess the only direction is forward!

Your friend,
Peter

P.S. Ogata told us there was an Associated Press article about him after his decoration, but it only said the Purple Heart had gone to “an army specialist whose name and work is unmentionable because his job is a military secret.” It made me realize . . . I’ve shared more with you about the training school than I should have. Civilian mistake, I guess. I’ll have to be more careful now, and you can forget all the things I’ve told you about our classes and the MIS and fieldwork.

From Johanna to Peter

April 26, 1944

Dear Peter,

The column’s out! So far it seems like the gamble paid off. Oh, there are a few who are upset—Mr. McHenry forwards those letters on to me like a Hollywood diva’s fan mail—but my first column writer was a baby-faced twenty-year-old named Helmut, as obsessed with sports as he is uninterested in politics.

My main interaction with Helmut has been explaining to him that he can’t construct a beer garden because the camp store will not be selling alcohol. (“But, Fräulein Berglund, they let them drink at the camp in Texas. I have read it in letters!” To which I responded that there are a lot of things they do in Texas that are barely legal in the rest of the country.) He’s stubborn but so cheerful and charming about it that you can’t help but smile. I hope he had the same effect on those who read his column.

Dad has always been my barometer of the town’s general mood, and he’s cautiously optimistic that the days of protest are over. “The news of the hour only lasts sixty minutes” is a truism he’s been repeating lately. I overhear the occasional disparaging remark while in line at the post office, but for the most part, Ironside Lake is back to discussing the weather, or when strawberry-picking season will start, or why mothers are protesting the Golden Palace Theater’s showing of Double Indemnity. (Answer: adultery, murder, and a scene with Barbara Stanwyck wearing nothing but a towel and a terrible blond wig.)

Which means I can spend any free time I wrest away from Major Davies catching up on my reading—Le Morte Darthur, which I’ve always heard of but never actually read—instead of reassuring Mother or preparing statements for questions Dad will face at the next city council meeting.

Inside the fort, my work continues to go as planned. Yesterday one of the guards drove me around in an army-issue truck to meet the farm management at each location that requested labor from the camp, some with fewer than a dozen workers, the largest employing thirty-seven. Though I realize it’s only been a few days, it was encouraging that morale seems to be steady, and only one of the farmers, Old Man Lundquist, had any complaints (accusing one man of “making eyes” at his granddaughter when she came to bring them water in the afternoon). The POWs, it seems, work at a slower pace than most Americans, but they follow orders and work together well.

The men have been clamoring to see the latest movies, and Captain Werner has tried to persuade Major Davies that it would be good for morale. Things have been so calm lately that I tend to agree. I might write to Dr. Hong at the YMCA to see whether he thinks it’s a good idea. Major Davies certainly won’t do it; he has an irritating habit of taking weeks of hemming and hawing to consider even the slightest change. Better to take matters into my own hands.

Back at the camp, it’s comforting to see the prisoners building and filling bird feeders with seed, constructing picnic tables, and lining the barrack walls with family pictures—and the occasional pinup girl. It’s starting to look slightly less barren here.

Have our roles reversed at last? It seems I’m feeling more optimistic, and you less so. I can see why morale might be flagging, but I’m glad the speaker was helpful, though I can’t imagine your boys being excited by the reminder that they might be bombed and buried alive. What a horrible thought. I’m grateful you’re a civilian instructor here in Minnesota instead of curling up in a South Pacific foxhole.

I don’t recall you mentioning before that you had any Caucasian students. How many of them are there? Are they mostly university students? I can’t imagine there’s no tension between them and the rest of the students. Or is the mainland-Hawaiian divide so sharp that everything else fades into the background? Tell me all about it.

As for music, I heard more than my fair share of big band while running the dance hall. Sinatra’s “I’ll Be Seeing You” seems simple enough. Actually—you’ll think it’s silly—I bought the record to play when I went to Minneapolis, because the way it goes through all the “old familiar places” made me think of it as my good-bye song to Ironside Lake. Before moving in with Olive, I would play it almost every night, humming along before drifting off to sleep. That was when I thought I wouldn’t be coming back, of course.

If you want a challenge, try “Lili Marlene,” a favorite of all the men here. There’s an English translation, but it was originally a German poem from the Great War. It’s cloyingly sentimental, probably even more so than your teenage somonkas:

Underneath the lantern

By the barrack gate

Darling I remember

The way you used to wait

’Twas there that you whispered tenderly

That you loved me.

And so on and so forth, love and loss and longing and everything that makes a song climb the charts. I’m told Radio Belgrade would play it every night to sign off its broadcast, and the troops in Africa, both Axis and Allied, would listen to it before they went to sleep. Maybe they still do.

I’ve got a stack of letters to censor tonight, so I’ll leave it at that.

All the best,
Jo

P.S./Appendix: So you’ve been feeding me military secrets? No cause to worry on my account; I haven’t broadcasted them far and wide. My parents have always known the vague outline of what you do. They’re quite proud of you, particularly because they also know about your family in the camps. (Dad is always going on about how it’s “unethical and unfounded.”) And I’ve mentioned you a few times to Captain Werner, but he was only fascinated that the United States would trust Japanese immigrants, so it was a good opportunity to explain the citizenship process. No one else even knows I have a friend in MIS, and I’ll be sure to keep it that way.

From Rose Schlitter to Dieter Bormann Translated from German and censored by Johanna Berglund

March 17, 1944

Dear Dieter,

I have received your latest letter. Actually, I have received three of them this week, all from early winter. Please, why must you use such flowery language? You know Mama reads my letters before delivering them to me, and it’s humiliating to answer her questions. I’m very fond of you, but as I recall, there was no understanding between us when you left other than my promise to write.

Not much news. The war goes on, and we try to go on with it. I was quite a sensation last week at the Heldengedenktag celebration in Mama’s pearls and my green crepe dress that perfectly matches my eyes—not to mention the meat pie I made, decorated with a plaited pastry swastika. Everyone went on and on about it as if it was actual art. It was almost embarrassing, the attention I got all night, when Arland was the real hero. He secured us the beef—not even from a can. I didn’t ask how. He’s such a dear for giving it to us for the party. Meat has been so rare these days that I’d almost forgotten what it tasted like. My mouth waters just thinking of it: tender and full of flavorful juices.

Which reminds me: I won’t stand for you mocking Arland like you do. Yes, he’s older than I, but he’s an industrious man and invaluable to the war effort—the Reichsbank is the largest financial institution in Germany, you know. On top of that, no less than Walther Funk himself visited Arland’s office last week to commend them for working extra hours, melting gold rings into bullion. (Arland said there were thousands . . . I wonder where they got them?) Imagine, meeting the minister of finance, shaking his hand! Besides, he’s quite distinguished and wealthy, and an excellent conversationalist. I quite enjoy his company.

I hope you’re in good health and that you hear from your family often. Keep soldiering on.

Rose

From Otto von Neindorff to his wife Translated from German and censored by Johanna Berglund

April 24, 1944

My love,

What joy it brings to hear news of home, however far away! I’m afraid my letter won’t be so homey, but I’ll do my best. This one is all right to read to Christa. I know some of my letters from the front were frightening for her, and I’m sorry. War is a hard thing for anyone, but children should never have to know its horrors.

In fact, let me write my latest news as one of the stories I’d tell her each night before she fell asleep. We will call it “The Mystery of the Phantom Music.”

Once upon a time, there was a locked, walled city with a little chapel in the center. The men who lived in the city could not leave, and they were so brokenhearted about losing their freedom that they abandoned all music.

But there was one man, a soldier, who stole away to the chapel on Sunday nights to play the battered piano. Sometimes it even pushed away the nightmares he had when he closed his eyes to sleep.

One night, as he stood at the chapel door, he heard music coming from the piano already, different than any he’d heard before, haunting in places, bright and sprightly in others. For a long moment, he stood in the doorway, listening. Then he stepped inside and called, “Who’s there?”

The music stopped, and by the time the soldier found the light, the door in the back slammed shut. Puzzled, the soldier decided it must have been another prisoner, perhaps one who was timid about his ability. He practiced as usual, but the mystery kept him awake late into the night, until he arrived at an idea.

The next Sunday, the soldier came early to the chapel and hid inside the confessional in the back, watching, waiting. Soon, a stranger entered. His skin was very dark, and he was not wearing the uniform for the walled city. But he sat down at the piano like a king on his throne, and the music that followed was like a magician casting a spell, so real and fresh that it came alive.

When the soldier left the shadows of his hiding place to tell him so, the dark-skinned musician startled. “Don’t go,” the soldier said, even though he could tell they spoke different languages. The musician stopped and stared, trying to understand. “Keep playing,” the soldier said, pointing to the piano.

And that was when the magic began. Because when they played the piano, each demonstrating their favorite songs, they found that they could both understand the music, which said all they needed to say. And that night, the soldier slept peacefully, his dreams filled not with gunfire and death, but with jazz and Mozart mingled together.

It is a good story, I think. The happiest I could find from my time here so far. The musician, Raymond Harrison, works in the kitchens here. I had seen him clearing away dishes to be washed, but I never guessed what a gift he had.

Now I am out of room, though I have tried to write as small as I’m able. I am glad to have a friend here, and music, though I miss your lovely soprano to sing along.

Give Christa all my love since I can’t be there myself. This fairy tale might not have the ending we would choose, but you are both princesses to me.

Yours always,
Otto

From Olive to Johanna

April 27, 1944

Dear Johanna,

For your sake, I’ll banish the torrid German-American romance I was about to send to a producer. (Only joking, dear—don’t get upset. You’re always far too serious.)

Though I have to say, it’s not so baseless as you seemed to think. You may be prickly, but you look after the outcasts, Johanna. I expect that’s why, out of all the people in Minneapolis, you became friends with Peter, the almost enemy, and with me, the lonely, unwilling expatriate. In this case, though, someone could easily misinterpret your softheartedness toward this Werner character. (Is he handsome? I bet he’s handsome, and that’s even more trouble.)

As to your worry that Peter and I were on a date (don’t deny that’s what you were after), there hasn’t been a social gathering less like a date and more like the regional conference of a scientific journal. You know I can read intentions like a Piccadilly Circus billboard, and while Peter’s a nice enough fellow, he clearly asked to meet me to talk about you.

Which, come to think of it, worries me. I know he’s your friend and you like to talk about linguistics—thank heavens, as he has probably spared me from a half dozen conversations about gerunds—but remember: If he begins to want more than friendship, you will only hurt him. You’re going to Oxford as soon as you graduate and can afford the steamer ticket. He’s going back to his family in California once the war is over. That means in a few years, there will be 5,000 miles between you, not to mention the racial difference. (You should see how people stared at the two of us at the soda fountain. My word, I’ve never felt so much like a criminal.)

You were right about one thing, though: Exams loom, and I must get back to organic chemistry. It’s in moments like these that I want to be back in the sunny breakfast nook with Mum, reading the Times out loud to each other and spreading a thick layer of butter and marmalade on toast (no need for rationing in a daydream). Somehow, I’ll forge ahead.

Oh, and don’t write to me again here—I’ll be at the farm soon and will send you a letter from there so you’ll have my new address.

All the best,
Olive

From Annika to Johanna

April 29, 1944

Jo,

The Lutheran Daughters of the Reformation asked if I’d extend an invitation to you to speak at next Tuesday’s meeting. Or more specifically, Cornelia Knutson did. She thinks you’re the Good Samaritan incarnate and that the rest of our charity projects are wastes of time compared to the opportunity “on our very doorsteps.”

You probably don’t care what I think, but I’m going to tell you anyway.

It made sense to me, you taking the translator job. I even hoped that once you came home we might . . . well, things might go back to where they were before. But I don’t know what you’re trying to do by making the Germans seem sympathetic and kind.

How can you do it, Jo, knowing what happened to Erik?

If he knew what you were doing here, it would break his heart. And you already did that once, when he was alive. Erik gave his life for his country. For you. Against those men in the camps.

That’s probably not fair, but I won’t take it back. I’m tired—so very tired—of letting you be the outspoken one, the one who always gets the final word and speaks her mind and expects the rest of us to meekly agree.

I know you’re only doing it because you want to be free to return to the university. But for once in your life, Jo, think about how this will affect someone other than yourself. Think about how it feels for me to read that column every week knowing it’s making celebrities out of our enemies.

Please let me know what you think about speaking at the LDR meeting, but I’m sure you’ll understand why I won’t be in attendance.

Annika

From Johanna to Annika

April 30, 1944

Annika,

I would—maybe should—have this conversation with you in person, but this way I can be sure to keep my temper in check and say only what I mean.

I never wanted to hurt Erik. I certainly never wanted him to die so far from home. But don’t think for a moment you can blame that on me or say that my current work with the prisoners of war is somehow insulting his memory.

These men are brothers too, Annika. Most of them are around Erik’s age, and some of them write regularly to sisters and mothers and girlfriends back home. I want Ironside Lake to view them as human beings and to treat them accordingly.

Yes, I want to go back to the university. I’ve never pretended otherwise. But that’s not the only reason I’m doing this, and if you can’t read the column, no one’s forcing you to. Use it to line Augustine’s litter box or even out your crooked coffee table leg for all I care.

Please send Mrs. Knutson and the rest of the LDR my regrets. I don’t wish to speak to them. If this is the kind of hostility I should expect from the people who are supposed to be on my side, then maybe I’m better off with the enemy.

Johanna

EVIDENCE FOR THE PROSECUTION

FROM PETER ITO TO HIS FATHER, THOMAS ITO, ENEMY ALIEN INTERNED AT GILA RIVER WAR RELOCATION CENTER

 

April 23, 1944

Dear Father,

All is well at Camp Savage. My students are improving, but I don’t know if it’s happening fast enough. Between the long runs and the hours of study needed to keep up, some fall asleep with an open textbook as their pillow. They can’t stand the thought of shaming their family or their country.

Are you still headed home next month? I wish I could take leave to help you move, but it’s unlikely. Fort Snelling is cracking the whip, adding to our coursework while cutting our time till graduation, and still expecting the assembly line to work as fast as ever—like the Bible story of the Israelites in Egypt making bricks without straw.

To help, they’ve recruited more Hakujin teachers as enrollment rises, professors from the University of Michigan and Harvard who have only a head knowledge of the language. I should be grateful for the new forces, but it’s hard knowing the good ol’ USA could do so much better if they’d just listen to us.

Roosevelt canceled the executive order to relocate. Why not let the elders from the internment camps teach? The ones who are native-Japanese speakers, not second-generation slack-offs like me who dozed through Japanese classes as kids. “Stuck in the past,” we kids would mutter before running off to baseball practice with our “real American” friends. Well, now the past has become the present, but Issei still aren’t allowed to teach at our MIS school. No exceptions. The army refuses to trust someone born in Japan. Most of the time, they don’t even trust us.

And maybe they have good reason not to. With all of the favoritism and red tape, it’s enough to make us question our loyalties. I’ve talked about this with Jo too, the one person I know will understand and even sympathize, even though her situation is different from mine. Writing to her is the main thing keeping me sane.

When you get back to San Francisco, if you find my old gum company baseball card collection, use it for a fire starter. All of that seems silly now. But keep your love letters to Mom, the ones you wrote during the year you and Baba Yone immigrated to America ahead of her. That’s family history—and no one should ever throw away letters to someone they care about.

Give my love to Mother, Baba Yone, and Marion. (Is she still seeing that scrawny, pomade-greased kid from San Diego? Remind her again that he’ll be five hundred miles away once you all go your separate ways. And also that her big brother hasn’t approved him yet.) Don’t pass on all my worries and frustration. I’m sure they’ve got plenty of their own.

Your son,
Peter