Forgiveness (20 page)

The Canadian government was paying its citizens to leave. It was a bribe of the worst kind. Some people agreed to go. They were terrified of being separated from their families or being left homeless. Nobody knew what might happen. They signed in fear.

There would be no signature from Mitsue and Hideo. The letter was neatly folded and put back in the envelope. It was stored with the other government documents. Mitsue’s heart swelled. They were Canadians. They were not going to agree to go anywhere. They had—for the time being—made a decision about their fate. They had said no. It felt good to stand their ground. But it came with consequences. The letter had ended with a terrifyingly banal threat:

These assurances do not apply to persons of the Japanese race repatriated on other than a voluntary basis.

There was no reading between the lines. Agree to go now and we’ll pay for your trip. If we kick you out later, you’re on your own.

A few weeks later, on August 6, 1945, at thirty thousand feet above Hiroshima, Japan, a much less banal event occurred.

William Parsons’s nickname was Deak. He was the chief of the Ordinance Division for the Manhattan Project. He knew “Little
Boy” better than anyone, so the job fell on him to arm the world’s first atomic bomb en route to the target. It took him fifteen minutes.

The sky was clear at 3:02 a.m. As the bomb doors opened, Deak saw below him a city.

Three minutes later, 70,000 lives were lost, their shadows imposed against melted walls. They may have been the lucky ones. The fate of the living was indescribable—their faces simply melted. It was impossible to tell if you were looking at the front or the back of a person—unless you could spot a mouth.

Another 70,000 would die. One bomb, 140,000 souls.

September 2, 1945, marked the war’s end for most of the world. For Mitsue, things went on exactly the same. Nothing changed. They were not free to go. They had no money to go anywhere even if the end of the war had brought them freedom.

After concluding the war with Japan, the Canadian government turned its mind to the Japanese problem at home. Prime Minister King passed three orders-in-council which, together, laid the legal foundation for mass deportation. All told, 10,347 Japanese were on the deportation list, three-quarters of them Canadian-born citizens. Thousands were children. The prime minister hastily wrote General Douglas MacArthur, stating that his government was “anxious to proceed with the repatriation and deportation as soon as this can be arranged without causing you embarrassment. … You will appreciate the desire of the Canadian Government to proceed with these plans as soon as possible. The Canadian Government would be grateful for your advice as to the earliest date on which you would be prepared to have these people arrive in Japan.”

But perhaps the veneer of national security had worn thin with the cessation of hostilities. Whatever the reason, Japanese Canadians finally began receiving some support from their fellow Canadians. It couldn’t have come at a better time.

By December 27, 1945, enough funds had been raised by
Japanese Canadians and other concerned Canadians to retain counsel and issue writs against Attorney General St. Laurent to test the validity of the deportation in a court of law. Astonishingly, this was the first legal action ever taken to protest the years of injustice. Citizens took to the streets and held vigils. Over one thousand people crammed into Toronto’s Jarvis Collegiate Institute to hear Rabbi Abraham Feinberg speak up. He knew only too well what happened when silence prevailed.

“I am here on behalf of six million Jews who were slaughtered … for no reason other than being Jews. … The ghost of Hitler still walks in Canada. The thing for which Hitler stood has been inscribed on the order-in-council which punishes little children for crimes they couldn’t commit.”

The case was heard over two dark and miserable days in January 1946. Canada had yet to adopt the Bill of Rights. The lawyers had only technical arguments. There was no legal way to challenge the justice of the act itself.

They threw a Hail Mary legal argument. It struck at the most basic of legal principles:
habeas corpus.
To banish a citizen for any reason other than conviction of a legal offence debases the most fundamental principle underpinning our society: innocence until guilt has been proven. To deport based on grounds of ethnicity was a crime against humanity. Full stop.

The government lawyers had a much easier case to make. They simply needed to convince the court that the government was within its legal purview to enact the deportation orders. The government lawyers argued that the peace, order, and good government clause of the
British North America Act
gave the federal government full authority to pass the
War Measures Act
and the subsequent
Transitional Powers Act.
Because these acts were legitimate, all attached orders-in-council were to be adhered to and the content of those orders could not be examined by any court.

Without the Charter of Rights, the hands of the highest court in the land were tied. On February 20, 1946, the court ruled in
favour of King’s deportation orders, and the deportation machine heaved into motion. Japanese Canadians still on Canadian soil received gut-wrenching letters from deportees. They had arrived in a devastated country to work in a devastated economy among a devastated people that treated them as the enemy.

The expulsion process went on for a year, during which more than four thousand people were sent back to Japan. Prime Minister King finally repealed the deportation orders.

There was a collective sigh of relief from those who had avoided deportation. With their future secure in Canada, Japanese Canadians turned their minds to their property. So, too, did the government.

Mitsue and her family were free to leave Taber. But where to go? They had no money. They could barely buy food. For Mitsue, the war went on day after day. She wanted to return to Celtic. She longed for the ocean, the parks, the picnics. The life she had led seemed a distant dream. So much had been taken. There was about to be more.

Hanpei got another letter in the mail. It was from the Japanese Property Claims Commission. They were demanding that he go to the courthouse in Lethbridge to show evidence of his claim for property that had been seized and sold. The letter included a form that had to be filled out identifying all the belongings the family had had to leave behind. They did what was asked. It took them the entire evening as they walked through their Vancouver home in their minds, room by room:

2 washstands – $4.50

1 sideboard, base and top – $10

10 cross-cut saws – $100 …

It took the entire page to itemize their losses.

They finished and stared at the foolscap paper. It was their life, in material objects. They did the math.
You took our life as we knew it. Please repay us $818.

Hanpei spent the week readying himself for court. On the appointed day, Mitsue fixed up a shirt and mended the nicest pair of trousers she could find. Hideo went with his father. They walked into the courthouse through the big oak front doors. The whole building seemed to be made of solid wood. It smelled of power.

Hanpei clutched his list. They sat in the chamber and waited their turn. They saw a few familiar faces, but nobody said anything to each other.

The court clerk called, “Hanpei Sakamoto.”

Both men stood up. Hideo walked up to the bar with his father. They felt like they were on trial.

“Provide your list of chattels to the magistrate,” stated the court clerk.

Hanpei handed it over.

“Is this everything?” the judge asked, perched high above them.

Hanpei nodded while keeping his head bowed. “That is everything we left—and a claim for lost wages.”

“Hanpei Sakamoto, claiming eight hundred and one dollars and fifty cents in chattels and six hundred dollars in lost wages,” stated the clerk.

“That is all,” said the judge. “You may go.”

With nothing more to add, Hanpei and Hideo both turned and left the courthouse. It was over in seconds.

Two months later, on August 5, 1947, another letter arrived from the government. The family was eagerly expecting the money. Mitsue dreamed of using it to finally get back to Vancouver, where she belonged. They could start their lives again. They could be free.

Hanpei’s hands were shaking as he opened the envelope. Everyone gathered around the same table where they had made the list. Hanpei opened the letter, careful not to tear it. It was from the Department of the Secretary of State, Office of the Custodian, Japanese Evacuation Section. The letter was four sentences long.

Hanpei read it to himself and then put the paper down.

Mitsue picked it up and read it out loud.

Dear Sir:

Enclose herewith is Custodian cheque in the amount of $25.65.

These funds represent the net proceeds from sale of chattels as your property.

No funds remain to your credit with this office. No property identified as belonging to you remains under the control of the Custodian. Your account is therefore being closed.

Yours truly,

F. Matheson

There must be a mistake. Twenty-five dollars. My God.

Hanpei held the cheque. He looked at the back of it. He blinked twice. He too was looking for the error. He sat down and hung his head.

The next day he took the cheque and cashed it. They were too poor to be proud. It was not enough to get them to Vancouver, but it would buy food. They needed that.

Their file was closed. The government had washed its hands of the ordeal and they were on their own. They were free and they were trapped.

Hideo’s friend Ted Nishimoto had taken agricultural schooling in Japan. He and his family lived down the road in Coaldale. Ted urged Hideo to think about moving his family to Medicine Hat. It had lots of sunshine, and tomatoes, cucumbers, and corn would grow well. The two men would speak late into the night.

Mitsue kept quiet, but after Ted left she let Hideo know what she thought. She did not want to move to Medicine Hat. It felt like surrender. She would be saying goodbye to Vancouver forever. She was not ready for that. Her mother and father, brother, and two sisters had already moved back to Vancouver. Yosuke had gotten some money for the two boats that had been confiscated. But Mitsue and Hideo didn’t have enough to move back.

So, on November 5, 1948, they moved to Medicine Hat.

It had been six years, seven months, and twenty days since they stepped off the train from Vancouver to be claimed as labourers. In Medicine Hat they would still be labouring, but at least now it would be for themselves.

Mitsue and Hideo packed up their family and their few possessions. Mitsue put on her finest jacket—a full-length wool jacket with a fur collar. She dressed Ron is his best sweater, with images of two moose adorning the front. Glory was wrapped in a winter parka with white trim around the hood and collar.

Hanpei and Hideo were also dressed in their finest, topcoats and three-piece suits. Hideo wore a fedora, while Hanpei wore a fur trapper’s hat. They had already packed what they needed in the cab of the Model T that they had bought from Pat after he left for Vancouver. He had sold it to them for a song. They piled in the car and sped away. There were no goodbyes. They were anxious to start the rest of their lives.

They had seventy-eight dollars between them, just enough to rent a small plot of land at the Golden Valley Farm two miles south of Medicine Hat. Hideo squinted as he turned onto the highway. The sun was rising. It was a new day.

But the new day didn’t feel that much different from the day before, or the day before that.

It took two hours to reach the city limits of Medicine Hat, and another hour to find the small road that led to Golden Valley Farm. They drove ninety-four miles south under the great, open prairie sky. The farm was tucked away in a small coulee just west of the South Saskatchewan River. They cautiously pulled up to their new home. It looked much like their old home.

Mitsue wondered if it would ever end—the poverty, the struggle, the hopelessness.

As promised, the door was open. The house was quite dirty, but altogether livable. God knows, they had seen worse. They unpacked and began to clean their new house. Like everything else in their lives for the foreseeable future, it was rented.

But the land was good for farming. Ted Nishimoto said that it was well protected from the heavy prairie winds so not much topsoil would be lost.

The next morning, Hideo took the truck into town. He had a list of the basics Mitsue needed to clean the house and make dinner. He walked into the general store and saw a stack of newspapers. He read the headline. His knees weakened.

FIRST JAP FAMILY MOVES TO THE HAT.

Such was their welcome.