Paper Wishes (12 page)

We follow Grandfather, and Kimmi swings my hand as we walk. Seal runs back and forth between us and Grandfather.

“Just like the island,” Kimmi says.

*   *   *

That evening, all of the island fathers from Block 3 meet after dinner in the mess hall. Grandfather goes, too.

When they return to our room, Father tells Mother what happened.

Many in Block 3 are unhappy. The beating, the riot, the violence.

Many in Block 3 want to leave this place. They have letters from friends who were sent to Minidoka, Ron's camp.

There is a new warden at our camp. Maybe he will listen.

Father will request a meeting with him. He will ask him if our family can be moved to join Ron at Minidoka. He will ask him if all of the Block 3 families can go to Minidoka.

Mother writes a letter to Keiko.

I draw a picture of Yujiin.

“Perhaps there is a way to send Manami to Keiko,” Father says.

“No, it is not possible,” Mother says. “She is too young.”

*   *   *

The next morning, Father leaves earlier than usual. He carries with him the letter to be sent to Keiko.

Father returns that evening with a glum face.

“I wasn't able to schedule a meeting with the warden,” he says.

Father tries again the next day.

And the next.

On the fourth day, Father returns to Block 3 with a smile.

“There must be good news,” Grandfather says to me when he sees Father's smile.

Father tells us the warden will make arrangements for all of the island families in Block 3 who wish to move to the new camp.

There will be a meeting tonight to discuss the details.

It will take time for the new camp to be ready for so many people.

The warden said that not everyone will move at the same time.

But everyone should be moved by the end of January.

Mother and Father attend the meeting, but Grandfather and I wait in our room. Grandfather carves a block of wood. I brush Seal's short, thick fur.

“The first transport leaves in two weeks,” Father says when he and Mother come home.

I pick up Seal. Will we have to leave him behind?

Mother puts her arm around me and whispers in my ear. “We will hope,” she says.

*   *   *

Mother sends me with another note for Miss Rosalie.

When I find her in her classroom she says, “It's funny to be in class without students, but I don't know what else to do.”

I hand her the note.

“You are really leaving,” Miss Rosalie says after she reads it. Her eyes are bright and I think she is going to cry.

I touch her hand.

“It's all right,” she says. “I want you to go so that Ron is not alone. But I will miss you.”

She takes her hand from mine and hugs me. “It's for the best,” she whispers.

I look around the classroom trying to memorize everything about it.

The pink curtain.

Miss Rosalie's desk, with its collection of pretty things she found. Rocks, seeds, a nest.

Pictures drawn by me and my classmates tacked to the walls. Sailboats, cities, faces.

A square room with four walls.

Her books on a shelf.

When I go home, I start to draw a picture of Miss Rosalie on a piece of paper. It takes a few days before it is right. I want this picture to be perfect. I want to give this picture to Ron.

*   *   *

When she is not working, Mother sorts and folds and packs our suitcases. Kimonos, dresses, pants, shoes, Father's tools. She wraps the seeds she saved from the last harvest, and she washes blankets and sheets. Mother digs into the hard, frozen earth of her garden for tiny onions and garlic. She breaks dirt with a hammer until it is crumbly and fills a pillowcase. She stuffs her onions and garlic into the dirt sack and wraps it in a sheet.

Mother writes letters to Keiko and Ron.

I would like to help Mother pack, but she sends me outside to play with Seal.

*   *   *

The day before we leave, Mother keeps me home. All morning, I help her clean our room.

After lunch, Grandfather says, “Walk with me.”

We walk past our barracks and past Block 1 and Block 2, Seal skipping between our legs. We walk along the fence. We walk until we reach a shrunken puddle of icy mud.

Grandfather unlaces his shoes and steps out of them. He peels off his socks and puts them in his shoes. He steps into the mud.

“Come,” Grandfather says. His smile is wide.

The icy mud is colder than I imagined. It is so cold that I worry whether my toes might freeze and fall off my feet.

“If you close your eyes, you can almost hear ocean waves,” Grandfather says. “Rolling in, rolling out.”

“You can almost smell ocean salt,” Grandfather says. “Tangy, sharp.”

“You can almost feel ocean breeze,” Grandfather says. “Cool, moist.”

I close my eyes and listen and smell and feel. Grandfather is right. My breath rolls in and out like the ocean waves. I feel calm spread from my chest to my head and arms and legs.

When I open my eyes, Grandfather is smiling at me.

“You see?” he asks.

I use Grandfather's handkerchief to wipe and dry my feet before I put my shoes back on.

Together, we walk through the prison-village that has become our home. We stop at the water pump, the mess hall, Mother's garden. When we reach my classroom, I want to see if Miss Rosalie is there so I can say goodbye to her. Grandfather walks home, Seal in his arms.

Miss Rosalie sits at her desk, a pen in her hand and a book in front of her. But she is looking out the window.

When she notices me, she stares for several silent seconds. Then she stands.

“I heard you are leaving tomorrow,” she says. “I was hoping you would come to say goodbye.”

I run to Miss Rosalie and wrap my arms around her waist. She drops to her knees and hugs me back.

“I am glad,” Miss Rosalie says. “I am glad. But I am also sad.”

The layers of dust coating my throat begin to crack as tears wash my cheeks.

“This will not last forever,” Miss Rosalie says. “It cannot.”

Miss Rosalie releases me to get something from her desk. She walks me to the classroom door and puts a book in my hand. “For Ron,” she says. “He likes these poems.” Then she takes the scarf from her neck and ties it around mine. “For you,” she says. Then she gives me a stack of paper.

“The address of my uncle and aunt is on the top paper. I do not know how much longer I will stay here, but you can always reach me through them,” Miss Rosalie says. “Now, dry your eyes. You are brave, Manami. You are strong.”

Then she kisses my forehead.

“I love you,” she says.

I dry my eyes and walk home, my throat aching from the widening cracks.

Seal sits on the steps of our barracks while Grandfather wipes him with a cloth.

“He should be clean when we reach our new home,” Grandfather says.

*   *   *

That evening, Father and Grandfather and I walk to the mess hall. Normal and not normal.

I pour steaming tea into four cups. Normal and not normal.

We sit on a bench while we wait for Mother to finish her shift so that we can all walk home together. Normal and not normal.

Normal would be: Grandfather and me walking into the mess hall alone and Father joining us later.

Normal would be: pouring steaming tea into five cups.

Normal would be: walking home without Mother and waiting for her there while she finishes her shift.

Before we leave the mess hall, Kimmi squeezes onto the bench beside me.

“I will miss you,” she whispers into my ear.

I put my arms around her and hug her tightly.

“Save a seat for me in the new school,” she says before she runs back to sit with her mother.

We hear whispers from our island neighbors as we walk through Block 3 to our barracks.

“We will join you soon,” our neighbors say.

“Find a good spot for a garden,” our neighbors say.

“Travel safely,” our neighbors say.

We do not say goodbye to the other families.

Mother does not lay out our best clothes for tomorrow.

“Sleep,” she says, and sends me to bed.

Seal jumps onto my bed and curls into a ball.

His black nose and black eyes remind me of Yujiin's.

Remind me of the island.

Of leaving the island and coming here.

Of leaving Yujiin.

I snuggle deep under the blanket with Seal in my arms. The cold day has turned into an even colder night.

I think of Mother's words.

We will hope.

*   *   *

In the morning, four suitcases line up in our room.

Dark clouds cover the sun, cover the sky. Dark and heavy and low.

I button Seal inside my coat and drag my suitcase, following Father and Mother and Grandfather down the dirt road to the gate.

We wait while our suitcases are loaded in the bottom of the bus.

We wait with the other families who are on the first bus to Minidoka.

The dark and heavy clouds look ready to burst.

No one speaks.

The door to the bus opens and we start to board.

Just when it is our turn, Seal pops his head out the neck hole of my coat to lick my chin.

“Stop!” says the soldier standing beside the bus door. “No dogs allowed.”

Father freezes, one foot on the bus step, one foot on the ground.

Mother reaches toward me.

Grandfather hunches over.

I unbutton my coat and hold Seal's nose close to mine. He smells of sage and dust. He licks at the tears on my cheeks. I pull him close to my body and our hearts beat against each other.

The cracks in my throat rip wide open.

I remember Miss Rosalie's words: I am brave. I am strong.

“No!” I say. “No!”

I push past Grandfather and Mother and Father. I stand before the soldier who will drive the bus.

“No!”

All of the words I couldn't say are buried deep inside the one word I can speak.

The driver looks at my face. He looks at Seal licking my tears. He waves us on.

I keep walking, past other families, all the way to the back of the bus. I sit on the long seat under the long window. I button Seal's warm body inside my coat and watch as the heavy, dark clouds finally burst.

White flakes swirl, blowing past the window.

Snow.

The bus roars and pulls away from the gate.

Behind me, I see the prison-village waking up. My classmates walking to the mess hall. Fathers and mothers on their way to work. Dogs running, walking, sitting, waiting.

I see sharp barbed-wire fences.

What is ahead of me, I cannot see. I know Ron is there. New classmates and fathers and mothers. New dogs and new fences.

Mother walks toward me, her hands grasping the seats as the bus drives to the highway. She is crying. Father and Grandfather are behind her. They are crying, too.

And they are laughing.

“Manami!” Father says.

Mother wraps her arms around me and Seal. “My sweet girl,” she says.

Grandfather sits beside me and pats my leg.

“I love you,” I say. It is a scratchy whisper in my dry throat. But I say it again, “I love you.” Strong. Like me.

I practice using my voice.

“Seal,” I say.

He pops his head out.

“Seal,” I say.

His mouth opens wide, his tongue hanging off to the side. His ears perk and his eyes blink.

“Seal,” I say. And I laugh.

My throat is open again. I can see and smell and hear.

I can speak.

Strong words.

Brave words.

 

AUTHOR'S NOTE

In the late 1800s, Japanese immigrants came to the United States in large numbers. Most of these immigrants settled in Hawaii, California, Oregon, and Washington. The first immigrants to arrive worked on sugarcane plantations and fruit and vegetable farms. But in the early 1900s, they started buying or leasing their own land.

Through hard work, Japanese American farmers built successful farms, and many non-Japanese farmers in California became angry. In 1913, the state passed a law prohibiting Japanese immigrants from buying land. Eleven years later, the United States passed the Immigration Act of 1924, which banned immigration from Japan.

The Japanese Americans living in the United States were caught between countries. For many of them, returning to Japan was not a possibility. And yet they were not fully welcome in the United States. Consequently, many did not integrate into American society and, instead, lived together in Japanese American communities, holding on to their traditions and culture. They built lives for themselves in their new country. They owned businesses and stores and operated large farms. They raised families, sent their children to college, and made plans for their future.

All of that changed on December 7, 1941, when Japan attacked U.S. warships at a navy base in Pearl Harbor, near Honolulu, Hawaii. After this attack, the United States officially entered World War II, fighting against Japan, Germany, and Italy.

For the next two months, Japanese Americans became targets of fear and suspicion. Newspapers published articles that questioned their loyalty. Community leaders were arrested.

Then, on February 19, 1942, President Franklin D. Roosevelt signed Executive Order 9066, declaring areas along the west coast of the United States military zones. In order to protect these zones from espionage, certain groups of people would not be allowed to live there. The document did not specifically single out Japanese immigrants and their children, but it gave the U.S. Army the freedom to determine who could live in a military zone and who could not. The army decided that Japanese Americans, along with their children who had been born in the United States and who were therefore U.S. citizens, had to leave these zones because they might be spies for Japan.