50
Yamada property * April 30, 1942
The Yamadas might have moved east. Other Japanese families were packing up, selling their land, and heading to Chicago or New York. The prices these families received for the sale of their homes and land were ridiculously low, an example of the banks’ greed and the government’s callous indifference. Kenichi Yamada had enough saved to weather such gouging. But every time he contemplated moving his family eastward, he could not imagine it. He was eighty-one years old and had spent sixty-two years of life on that land, in those orchards. He could not imagine leaving. The Yamadas stayed.
There was hope—for a little while, at least—that the whole business would blow over, that the war would be over quickly, or that the question of Japanese-American loyalty would be settled once the government determined the notion of spies was far-fetched, ridiculous. For a few months, this hope kept Japanese Americans working and living as they normally would. But it was not to last.
Ava was the first to glimpse one of the signs, coming upon it while she was running errands in town.
INSTRUCTIONS TO ALL PERSONS OF JAPANESE ANCESTRY, the signs read. All Japanese persons, both alien and non-alien, will be evacuated from the above designated area by 12:00 o’clock noon Wednesday, May 6, 1942.
Ava was carrying two bottles of sarsaparilla in a brown paper grocery bag. Sarsaparilla was Harry’s favorite—she’d teased him several times over about his corny taste—and when she caught sight of the first sign, she dropped the bag, breaking both bottles. She didn’t move, seemingly frozen as a moment passed. In a daze, she looked down at her wet shoes, covered now in irregular shards of glass and brown-tinged liquid, watching the sarsaparilla drain away into the cracks in the wooden boardwalk outside the general store.
The date named on the handbill—that was only a week from the current date. They were giving Japanese families one week.
Without knowing quite what she was doing, Ava found herself suddenly running. She clambered back into Earl’s old Model A, shifting it into gear and wrangling the steering wheel, gunning the motor and flying over potholes as she headed out of town. The truck raced up the Yamadas’ drive, all the way to just below the house, at which point the sound of screaming brakes rang out, echoing throughout the surrounding orchards.
“Harry!” she yelled, seeing him atop a ladder that leaned against the Yamada farmhouse. Spring had sprung, and there was no better time to do the chores that had been put off all winter. Harry was cleaning the gutters, a good son doing the jobs he didn’t want his parents attempting.
“Ava?” he called back, somewhat puzzled and alarmed. He climbed down from the ladder. “What is it?”
She charged up the wooden stairs to the porch and rushed toward him, out of breath. He opened his arms as though to catch her, wondering if she was sick or injured. She was in some kind of frenzied state, pale and sweating. But before she made it to his embrace, Ava abruptly drew up short. They had never touched each other—not like that. The one time they’d danced together was the closest they’d ever come, and it had been polite, procedural. She stood and stared at him instead; she had no idea what she wanted to say.
“What?” he repeated. “What’s the matter?”
“We could leave,” she blurted out.
He looked at her, wordless, baffled.
“I would go with you,” she impulsively added. She heard it aloud at the same time he did, heard how it sounded. She drew a breath and suddenly looked shy. “If you wanted.”
Harry gave her one of his lopsided smiles. “Oh, yeah? You would go with me?” His tone was friendly, joking. “Where are we goin’?”
She realized that he didn’t understand.
“We could go east, away from all this,” she said, trying to be clearer. “I heard it’s better back East for . . . for . . .”
All at once, Harry realized the word Ava wasn’t saying was “Japanese.” His grin vanished and he swallowed as though he had just been given a sip of something bitter. He gave a slight shake of his head and clenched his jaw.
“What’s happened?” he asked in a low, flat voice.
He knew from the look on her face that things had just gotten worse. His father had warned that they might. They’d heard rumors that evacuation orders had already been given to people in San Francisco and Los Angeles. Harry was suddenly very tired. The fact that he didn’t know how to feel wasn’t relevant, because he remembered his interrogation with the F.B.I. all too well, and in remembering it his heart went cold. He couldn’t feel anything.
“We knew in February this might happen,” Kenichi said.
Once his son had passed along the news, Kenichi knew what must be done. He had called everyone together—his wife, son, and daughter . . . Cleo and Ava . . . and Louis Thorn, from the neighboring property. It was Louis in particular who Kenichi wished to speak to now.
“We knew this might happen,” Kenichi repeated, “when they issued the order.”
Executive Order 9066. It was the official United States executive order signed by President Roosevelt on February 19, 1942, authorizing the relocation of Japanese Americans to internment camps.
“Perhaps it would have been wise to leave California, to leave the—what do they call it?—the Western Military Zone,” Kenichi continued, “but the truth is . . .” He paused, looked around at the faces of his family and at the faces of the people he hoped were their true friends. “The truth is, this is our home, our only home. How could we leave?”
Harry suddenly felt very angry. He clenched his teeth and nodded.
“But now the choice has been taken away from us; we must leave. Which is why we need to appeal again to you, Louis,” Kenichi said, turning to gaze at the young man. “Just as we did with the Stearman.”
Louis blinked, staggered by the news.
“You signed the Stearman over to my name to protect it,” he said, slowly comprehending.
“Yes,” said Kenichi, “and now I would like to ask to do the same as concerns our house and our land.”
“You . . . you want to sign them over to me?” Louis stammered. Louis appeared rattled by this request, and Kenichi knew why.
“The land is technically in Haruto’s name,” Kenichi continued, “as I am issei and he is nisei—born here, a citizen. We were obliged to transfer the deed into his name shortly after he was born.”
This was news to his son. Harry looked at his father in surprise.
“If you agree to help us, Louis,” Kenichi said, “you will have to sign, and Haruto will have to sign—all in the presence of a notary. I have already had the paperwork drawn up. I’m sorry for the rush, but we will have to be swift about this to make certain it is legal. Once we enter those camps . . . we will lose many of our legal rights, and a belated transaction could be invalidated.”
Kenichi was done speaking. Silence invaded the room as everybody pondered the gravity of the situation. No one discussed what was expected of Louis—that, quite naturally, he was expected to hold the land and the house, but return both to the Yamadas if and when they were allowed to resume their old lives. Kenichi felt that to state this directly—to remind him they wanted it all returned—would be to insult Louis Thorn’s honor. You did not ask a man for a favor so large as this and insinuate that you did not trust him.
“I . . .” Louis said, trying to muster an answer. “This is a lot to chew on.”
“I understand,” Kenichi said.
“I oughta at least sleep on it . . .” Louis peered into Kenichi’s face in earnest. “Is it all right if I sleep on it and tell you my answer tomorrow?”
The tension in Kenichi’s face tightened slightly, but only Harry noticed as Kenichi’s right temple twitched. He saw the look on his father’s face as the reality of the situation sunk in: Louis was their only hope.
“Of course,” Kenichi said. “Of course. We thank you for considering doing our family this service. It is a lot to ask, and I am humbled by your listening to my request.”