Dust of Eden Read online

  Dust of Eden

  MARIKO NAGAI

  ALBERT WHITMAN & COMPANY

  CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

  To DW and JNW.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Part I. Seattle, Washington

  Part II. “Camp Harmony”

  Puyallup Assembly Center, Puyallup, Washington

  Part III. Minidoka Relocation Center

  Hunt, Idaho

  Part IV. Minidoka Relocation Center

  Hunt, Idaho

  About the Japanese American Internment

  Imprisoned in here for a long, long time,

  We know we’re punished tho’ we’ve committed no crime,

  Our thoughts are gloomy and enthusiasm damp,

  To be locked up in a concentration camp.

  Loyalty we know and Patriotism we feel,

  To sacrifice our utmost was our ideal

  To fight for our country, and die mayhap;

  Yet we’re here because we happen to be a JAP.

  We all love life, and our country best,

  Our misfortune to be here in the West,

  To keep us penned behind that DAMNED FENCE

  Is someone’s notion of NATIONAL DEFENCE!!!!!

  DAMNED FENCE!

  — Unknown poet from Minidoka Concentration Camp

  Prologue

  We held our breath for three years.

  We did not have anything to call

  our own except for the allowed number

  of bags: two. We did not have anything

  except for a rose garden my grandfather

  made from hard earth and spit.

  We lived behind a barbed wire fence

  under a stark blue sky that could break

  your heart (as it did break my grandfather’s).

  We lived under a sky so blue

  in Idaho right near the towns of Hunt and Eden

  but we were not welcomed there.

  Through Sears & Roebuck catalogs

  we lived outside of America.

  Dust came through Eden, dust went

  through our barracks, toward the sky,

  westward, back to our home by the sea

  in the city by the sea, in Seattle.

  Part I. Seattle, Washington

  October 1941

  The house is surrounded by roses

  of all names: Bride’s Dream, Chicago

  Peace, Mister Lincoln, Timeless, Touch

  of Class. The house is surrounded by hues

  of red and white: red like an azure-sun,

  red like the sunset over the Pacific Ocean,

  red like Grandpa’s fingertips,

  white so transparent they call it Tineke,

  the kind of white that looks like Seattle on a rainy day.

  The living room is a mixture of East

  and West: Grandpa packed a little of Japan

  when he came here across the sea—a sword,

  a photograph of himself as a small boy,

  dolls for future daughters he never had—

  memories of his once-ago life.

  Grandpa is a rose breeder.

  He calls roses bara; he calls them his kodomo—children.

  My father sometimes helps out Grandpa,

  though most of the time, he works in an office

  downtown writing articles for a newspaper.

  Mother sits in the kitchen, always singing.

  My room upstairs is All American: a bed,

  an old desk, white lace curtains my mother sewed,

  pictures of Jamie and me on the wall.

  My brother Nick’s room next to mine is filled

  with trophies he won in track races.

  Grandpa calls me by my middle name, Masako,

  and he calls Nick Toshio. He never speaks

  English; says that he lived longer in Japan

  than he has in America, and that there’s no more

  space for another language or culture.

  He speaks to us in Japanese, my parents speak

  to him in Japanese, and Nick and I speak

  some words in Japanese, but mostly in English.

  Just like our breakfast, rice and pickled

  plums with milk and potatoes, they all mix together.

  December 1941

  I was singing with the Sunday school

  choir, practicing our Christmas carols,

  all our mouths opening and closing as one

  to sing the next note.

  We were singing “Silent Night, Holy

  Night,” and just as the boys hit

  their lowest key, the door burst

  open like a startled cat dashing.

  The next note lay waiting

  under Mrs. Gilbert’s finger; our mouths kept

  the O shape, when a man yelled, the Japs bombed

  Pearl Harbor. The world stopped.

  The next words got lost. Oh, oh, oh,

  someone wailed, until I realized that it was

  coming out of my mouth,

  my body shaking, trembling.

  And the world started again

  but we were no longer singing as one.

  December 1941

  Jap, Jap, Jap, the word bounces

  around the walls of the hall.

  Jamie, my best friend, yells out, “Shut your

  mouth!” but the word keeps

  bouncing like a ball in my head.

  As soon as I get to my Language

  Arts class, the entire class gets quiet.

  Mrs. Smith looks down

  like she’s been talking about me,

  or maybe she doesn’t see me.

  She clears her voice; she calls

  out our names, one by one; she pauses

  right after Marcus Springfield.

  She clears her throat, calls out Mina Tagawa.

  And instead of calling out Joshua

  Thomas, she starts to talk

  about what happened yesterday.

  My face becomes hot and heavy; I look

  at my hands, then at the swirling

  pattern on the desk. I look at my hands again,

  yellowish against the dark brown

  desk, and Jamie’s hair, golden,

  right near it. Jap-nese, Mrs. Smith

  starts. Jap-nese have attacked Pearl

  Harbor. Jap-nese have broken

  the treaty. Jap-nese have started the war.

  Even the newspaper that Father works for screams in

  bold letter headlines: Japs. Japs. Japs.

  I feel everyone’s eyes on me. I hear

  Chris Adams snickering behind me, whispering

  Jap Mina. I’m not

  Japanese, I want to yell.

  I am an American, I scream

  in my head, but my mouth is stuffed

  with rocks; my body is a stone, like the statue

  of a little Buddha Grandpa prays to

  every morning and every night. My body is heavy.

  I don’t know how to speak anymore.

  December 1941

  We are not Americans, the eyes tell us.

  We do not belong, the mouths curl up.

  We are the enemy aliens, the Japs,

  the ones who have bombed

  Pearl Harbor, killing so many soldiers

  who were enjoying their Sunday

  morning in Hawaii, who were waking

  up to their breakfasts of oatmeal and toast.

  Death to Japs, they say. The voice

  from the radio says Jap-nese,

  a pause between Jap

  and nese, just like Mrs. Smith.

  Mother walks down Main Street with her head

  up, her back straight, though

  men spit at her and wom
en hiss

  at her. Masa-chan, Onnanoko rashiku

  sesuji o nobashina-sai.(Masako,

  keep your back straight like a

  good girl), Mother says as she pulls

  on the whitest kid gloves,

  one by one, stretching her fingers

  straight to sheath each finger.

  Masa-chan, tebukuro

  hamenasai. Amerika-jin wa

  sahou ni kibishii kara. (Masako,

  put on your gloves. Americans

  are strict with manners), Mother says

  as she straightens her jacket.

  We pass by the stores that sell

  oatmeal and toast and go to Mr. Fukuyama’s shop:

  Patriotic Americans, says a sign on the window.

  She buys a bag of rice and umeboshi and bonito

  flakes. If I could, I would keep

  only my first name, Mina, my American name,

  and tear off Masako Tagawa like the

  pages of journals I tore out when I found

  out that Nick Freeman liked Alice

  Gorka. I would change my hair color into a honey

  blond that changes into lighter

  shades of almost white during the summer,

  just like Jamie’s. If I could change

  my name, if I could change my parents,

  I could change my life: I would be an American.

  But I already am.

  December 1941

  We’re best friends, no matter what, Jamie

  says as we sit under the Christmas

  tree together. We’re best friends until

  we die, I say.

  She hands me a small packet wrapped

  in a bright red wrapping paper.

  Open it, open it, she urges. Mr. Gilmore’s humming

  drifts in from his workshop in

  the backyard, and Mrs. Gilmore’s baking

  smells of cinnamon and nutmeg.

  We sit under a big Christmas tree lit by small twinkling

  lights like lost fireflies late in summer.

  A package the size of my palm, so light like a butterfly;

  Jamie chanting, Open it, open it!

  I undo the ribbon gingerly, then unfold the red

  paper, one corner at a time. In the middle,

  a jagged half of a heart. She pulls her sweater

  down, See, I have half a heart, too.

  And whenever we are together, we have a whole heart.

  Only then do the two halves become one.

  December 1941

  When I come home, the house is quiet.

  Basho is outside, looking confused.

  Mother is not home, where she always is,

  waiting with a cup of green tea between

  her hands and a glass of milk for me.

  Everything is turned inside

  out, rice scattered all over the kitchen

  floor, all the drawers wide open

  with cloth strewn all over the floor

  like garbage the day after the circus

  left town. A note, I will be back soon,

  in Mother’s beautiful and careful handwriting

  pinned to the door like a dead butterfly.

  It is only later, too late for dinner,

  too late for a glass of milk and cup of tea,

  when Mother and Grandpa come home

  looking like they are carrying the night

  on their backs, their bodies heavy

  from the weight they drag through

  the door. Men came this afternoon,

  they said they are from the government;

  your father had to go with them so he can

  answer some questions, Mother says quietly

  as she sits down on the sofa, heavily

  throwing her weight down. When is he coming home?

  I ask. Basho mewls, climbs next

  to Grandpa, pressing his body so close that his tail

  curled around the bend in Grandpa’s

  skinny body. I’m not sure, honey, I’m just

  not sure, Mother says quietly.

  Grandpa takes his owl-like glasses off slowly,

  presses his eyes with the palms

  of his hand like he was pressing down the dirt

  around his rose trees, and leans back

  on his rocking chair. Mother leans back, too.

  I sit, the word war ringing

  through my head, forgetting about milk,

  forgetting about dinner, forgetting about

  history homework, thinking only about Father

  in prison.

  January 1942

  This year, there wasn’t a

  Christmas tree, or dinner with

  our neighbors.

  There weren’t any New Year’s

  festivities this year,

  no mochi—sticky rice—

  no giving of money or playing games.

  Without Father’s face red as a beet

  from sake, and Grandpa

  singing as he plays

  the shamisen—the three

  stringed lyre made out

  of a skin of virgin cat—

  there is no laughter, no joy.

  Mother hurries from the dining

  room to the kitchen,

  sleeves of her kimono

  fluttering

  like a humming bird’s

  wings. All is quiet in this

  house, with its small

  ornament of bamboo

  and pine branches

  Grandpa left hanging

  on my door.

  Happy New Year it is not.

  January 1942

  Father looks small

  sitting behind the bars,

  surrounded by

  soldiers towering

  over him. He smiles,

  then coughs, once,

  twice. He asks me

  how I am, whether

  I’ve been a good girl,

  and have obeyed my elders.

  He squints his eyes,

  his eyes bigger without

  his glasses.

  Mother gives him nigiri

  —rice balls—and he smiles,

  saying that the food

  they serve him is too oily,

  too American. I ask him

  how he is, a stupid question,

  I know, but he looks so small,

  and so tired,

  that’s the only thing

  I can think to ask him. Fine, he whispers,

  Everything is going to be fine,

  they’ll figure out, soon, that this

  is unconstitutional.

  We are led away

  only thirty minutes later,

  our footsteps echoing in the hallway,

  the door banging,

  then locking behind us,

  my father left alone

  in prison like a caged bird.

  January 1942

  Every time I walk down the hall

  at school, kids hiss Jap

  Jap. Every time I walk home

  from school, I feel eyes as heavy

  as handcuffs around my wrists and ankles.

  Every time Mother and I go downtown

  in our Ford to shop at Mr. Fukuyama’s

  grocery store, every time Mother says

  Konnichiwa, I look away.

  Every time I see the word Jap in newspapers,

  I become hot. Every time Mother cooks

  miso soup and rice for dinner, suddenly

  I am not hungry. Every time I see

  myself in the mirror, I see a slant-eyed

  Jap, just like they say, my teeth protruding

  like a rat’s. Every time I look away,

  Jamie holds my hand.

  February 1942

  Dear Father, I hope

  everything is okay

  and that you are

  doing well.

  From the letters

  you sent us
,

  the parts we can read

  that haven’t been

  blacked out, it seems

  that they are treating

  you well. Here, at home,

  Grandpa’s been

  pulling us together,

  saying now that you are

  in Montana (or North

  Dakota, or wherever

  they took you), we have

  to listen to him.

  Don’t tell Nick I told

  you this, but a week ago,

  Grandpa found out Nick’s been

  breaking the curfew,

  and without saying a word,

  as soon as Nick came home,

  Grandpa raised his cane

  and hit him hard, once,

  twice, over the head.

  Nick just stood there,

  angry, with his fists raised,

  but he didn’t say or do anything

  as Grandpa kept hitting him

  again and again with his cane.

  Mom was crying, and shouting,

  Oto-san, yamete, yamete

  —Father, stop it, stop it –, and

  I was frozen, right there.

  I’ve never seen this

  Grandpa, who was like a stranger, angry

  and spiteful. But as soon

  as Nick apologized (for what?),

  Grandpa stopped.

  Okami o okoraseruna – Don’t anger the government –,

  Grandpa said slowly.

  But we didn’t do anything wrong, Nick shouted.

  We’re American, just like everyone else.

  Grandpa shook his head,

  ware ware wa Nipponjin demo naishi,

  Americajin demo nai—we are neither

  Japanese nor American. His words stung me,

  stronger than bee stings, even stronger

  than the news of Pearl Harbor.

  I went up the dark stairs

  holding Basho in my arms

  and shut my door and shut my eyes.

  Most of the time, we are

  doing okay, but Seattle’s changed.

  Chinese kids walk around with buttons

  that say, “I am Chinese.”

  Then there are all these signs:

  We don’t serve Japs. Japs go home.

  The entire country hates

  Japan. And they hate us.

  No one seems to like us

  anymore, except for Jamie

  and her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Gilmore.

  Nick doesn’t say

  it, but he’s having a really

  hard time, I can tell.

  He comes home with bruises

  and cuts, and when Mother asks