"Why don't you tell her yourself?" Mrs. Okabe pointed to the back of the line.
Keiko peeked her head through the crowd, smiling and waving.
"Thank you, I will. Is there anything you need? Anything your family needs? I can sometimes bring stuff into the camp, stuff that's not normally allowed."
"That's very sweet of you, Henry, but I think we'll be just fine for the moment. At first some of the men wanted tools, but some of that's coming in now. Just a hammer would have been a priceless treasure only a few weeks ago. Now there's so much hammering and sawing going on each day, it's a wonder why they go through the trouble
..."
"What trouble?" Henry asked, not understanding.
"They're just going to move us anyway--this is only temporary. Can't sleep in a horse stall for the duration of the war, can I? I hope not anyway. One month is bad enough. In a few months they're sending us to permanent camps that are being built farther inland. We don't even know where we'll go. Either Texas or Idaho--probably Idaho, that's what we're hoping for anyway, since it's closer to home, or what used to be home. They might even split off some of the men--those with job skills needed elsewhere. They're making us build our own prisons, can you believe that?"
Henry shook his head in disbelief
"How's the old neighborhood?"
Henry didn't know what to say. How could he begin to tell her that Nihonmachi was like a ghost town? Everything boarded up--a disaster of broken windows and doors, as well as other vandalism.
"It's fine" was all he could muster.
Mrs. Okabe seemed to sense his hesitation. Her eyes glossed over with sadness for a moment, and she wiped the corner of one eye as if there were a mote of dust bothering her. "Thank you for coming here, Henry. Keiko's missed you so much ..."
Henry watched her smile bravely, then take her tray and disappear into the crowd.
"Oai deki te ureshii desu!" Keiko stood across the serving pans, smiling, almost glowing. "You came back!"
"I told you I would--and you look beautiful too. How are you?" Henry looked at her and found himself feeling light-headed and slightly out of breath.
"It's so funny. They throw us in here because we're Japanese, but I'm nisei--
second generation. I don't even speak Japanese. At school they teased me for being a foreigner. In here, some of the other kids, the issei--the first generation--they tease me because I can't speak the language, because I'm not Japanese enough."
"I'm
sorry."
"Don't be, it's not your fault, Henry. You've done so much since I've been here. I was afraid you might forget about me."
Henry thought about his parents. About how they hadn't spoken a word to him in nearly a week. His father was stubborn, and traditional. He hadn't just threatened to disown him--he'd gone through with it. All because Henry couldn't stop thinking about Keiko. His mother knew, somehow she knew. Maybe it was the loss of appetite; mothers notice those things. That distracted longing. Feelings can only be hidden so long from those who really pay attention. Still, his mother obeyed his father, and Henry was alone now. All because of you, he thought. I wish I could think of something else--someone else--but I can't. Is this what love feels like? "How could I ever forget you?" he asked.
An old man behind Keiko began tapping his tray on the steel railing of the counter and clearing his throat.
"I better go," Keiko said, sliding her tray down as Henry filled it.
"I have those things you asked for--and a birthday present for you."
"Really?" Keiko smiled with delight.
"I'll meet you at the visitors' fence an hour after dinner, okay?"
Keiko beamed a smile back before disappearing into the crowded mess hall.
Henry went back to work, serving meal after meal until everyone had been fed. Then he carried the serving pans to the dish pit, where he hosed them down with icy cold water, thinking of how Keiko would be leaving again--going to someplace unknown.
Keiko walked past a different set of guards this time and met Henry at the visitors'
area of the fence, just like they'd planned. There were three or four other clusters of visitors along the fence line, with five or ten feet between them, creating intimate spots to converse through the barbed-wire fencing separating the internees from the outside world.
It was getting late, and a chilling wind had rolled in thick storm clouds, replacing the normally bleak, overcast sky. Rain was coming.
"They just canceled our record party--bad weather."
Henry looked at the darkening sky, disappointed more for Keiko than for himself.
"Don't worry," he said, "there will be another time. You can count on it."
"I hope you're not disappointed." Keiko sighed. "You came all this way. I really did want to sit here along the fence and listen with you."
"I ... didn't come for the music," Henry said.
He rubbed his eyes, trying to forget the news that she and her family would soon be leaving again. Everything felt so serious--and final. He interrupted the moment with a smile of his own. "This is for you. Happy birthday."
Henry handed Keiko the first of the two presents he'd brought, slipping it carefully between the rows of barbed wire to keep from snagging the wrapping paper.
Keiko took it graciously and carefully untied the ribbon, folding it into a neat bundle.
"I'm saving this. Ribbon like this, in camp, is like a present in itself." Henry watched as she did the same with the lavender wrapping paper before opening the package, the size of a small shoe box.
"Oh, Henry ..."
She took out the sketchbook, the tin of watercolors, and the set of horsehair brushes. Then a set of drawing pencils, each of a different softness of lead.
"Do you like it?"
"Henry, I absolutely adore it. This is so wonderful ..."
"You're an artist. Seemed like it would be a shame to be here, away from what you're so good at," Henry said. "Did you look inside the sketchbook?"
Keiko set the small box down on a dry patch of dirt; the mud from the previous week had hardened, creating a desert of textured soil. She opened the small black, hand-bound sketchbook and read the price tag. "A dollar twenty-five."
"Ooops, here ..." Henry reached in and peeled off the price tag from the stationer where he'd bought it. "You weren't supposed to see that. Look on the next page."
Keiko turned the page and read the inscription aloud. "To Keiko, the sweetest, most beautiful American girl I've ever known. Love, your friend, Henry."
He watched her eyes moisten as she read it again.
"Henry, that's so sweet, I don't know what to say."
He had felt awkward writing the word love in the sketchbook. He must have stared at that blank page worrying about what to write for twenty minutes, before he finally just wrote it in ink. No turning back then. "Just say thank you and that'll be fine."
She looked at him between the wires. The wind picked up and blew her hair away from her face. Thunder could be heard rumbling somewhere over the foothills, but neither looked away. "I don't think 'thank you' is enough. You've come a long way to bring me this. And I know your family ... your father ..."
Henry looked down and exhaled softly.
"He knows, doesn't he?" Keiko asked.
Henry
nodded.
"But we're just friends."
Henry looked her in the eye. "We're more than friends. We're the same people.
But he doesn't see it--he only sees you as a daughter of the enemy--he's disowned me. My parents stopped speaking to me this week. But my mother still sort of acts like I'm around." The words came out so casually, even Henry was surprised at how normal it felt. But communication in his home had been far from ordinary for almost a year; this was just a new, final wrinkle.
Keiko looked at Henry, shocked, with sadness in her eyes. "I'm sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen. I feel terrible. How could a father treat his son--"
"
It's all right. He and I never talked that much to begin with. It's not your fault. I wanted to be with you. When you first came to the school, I was shocked and a little surprised. But going to school without you, it just hasn't been the same. I ... miss you."
"I'm so glad you're here," Keiko said as she touched the pointed metal of the fence. "I miss you too."
"I brought you something else." Henry offered her the other package through the barbed wire. "It's just a little surprise, might not be too handy now, with the poor weather and all."
Keiko unwrapped the second package as carefully as she had the first. "How did you find this?" she whispered in awe, holding up the Oscar Holden record in its faded paper sleeve.
"I couldn't get into the Panama Hotel, and they were sold out in town, but Sheldon gave me his. I guess it's from both of us. Too bad you can't play it tonight, with the concert canceled and all."
"We still have the record player in our building. I'll play it anyway, just for you.
Actually, just for us."
That made Henry smile. Parents, what parents?
"You couldn't possibly know how happy I am to have this. This is almost like having you here with me--not that I'd want to subject you to a place like this. But we've had no music. I'll be playing this every day."
Thunderclaps struck overhead, turning what had become a drizzle into a cloudburst, first in a few, spare droplets, then widening into a thick, drenching downpour.
Henry gave Keiko the last bag, the one from Woolworth's, with stationery, stamps, and fabric for blackout curtains.
"You'd better go," he insisted.
"I don't want to leave you. We just got here."
"You'll get sick in this weather, living in a place like this. You need to go. I'll be back next week. I'll find you."
"Visiting hours are over!" a soldier barked, wrapping himself in a green raincoat as he gathered up his files. "Everyone away from the fence!" The rain was rippling the ground, the sound drowning out their voices.
To Henry, it seemed to go from six o'clock to nine o'clock as the dark clouds dimmed the skyline, hiding the sun altogether. A dull gray glow illuminated the surface of the ground as it transformed back into the muddy, soggy field it had been earlier that week.
Keiko reached through the fence and held Henry's hands. "Don't forget about me, Henry. I won't forget about you. And if your parents don't want to speak to you, I'll speak to them, and tell them you're wonderful for doing this."
"I'll be here, every week."
She let go and fastened the top button on her coat. "Next week?"
Henry
nodded.
"I'll write to you then," Keiko said, waving good-bye as the last of the visitors filed away from the fence line and back toward the main gate. Henry was the last to leave, standing there soaking wet, watching Keiko as she made it all the way back to a small outbuilding near the livestock pavilion that had become her new home. He could almost see his breath, it was growing so cold, yet inside he felt warm.
As it grew darker, Henry noticed the searchlights in the machine-gun towers torched to life. The tower guards shone them up and down the fence line, illuminating Henry and the other visitors as they puddle-jumped their way back past the main gate.
Henry turned down the hill toward Mrs. Beatty's truck. In the dark, he could see her massive outline strapping down empty fruit crates in the back, her face illuminated by the cherry red embers of her lit cigarette, dangling from her mouth.
Through the slosh of the rain, Henry heard music from the camp. The song grew louder and louder, straining the limits of the speakers it came from. It was the record.
Their record. Oscar Holden's "Alley Cat Strut." Henry could almost pick out Sheldon's part. It shouted at the night. Louder than the storm. So loud a guard near the gate started hollering, "Turn off that music." The searchlights swept down on the buildings in Area 4, beaming down a menacing eye, searching for the source.
Moving
(1942)
Henry finally received the news he'd been dreading all summer. He'd known it was only a matter of time. Keiko would be moving farther inland.
Camp Harmony was always intended to be temporary, just until permanent camps could be built--away from the coastlines, which were seen as a vulnerable target for bombing or invasion. In these coastal communities, every Japanese citizen was a potential spy--able to keep track of the comings and goings of warships and ocean-based supply lines. So the farther inland the Japanese could be sent, the better. The safer we'll all be--that was what Henry's father had told him, at least back in the days when he actually spoke to him. It didn't matter. The words still rang in his ears, even in the awkward silence of their little Canton Alley apartment.
Keiko had taken to writing him once a week. Sometimes she'd include a wish list of items that he and Mrs. Beatty could smuggle into the camps. Small things, like a newspaper, or big things, like forgotten records and copies of birth certificates. Other times it was practical things, like tooth powder and soap. There was a shortage of everything inside the camps.
Henry wasn't sure if he'd even get Keiko's letters at first. He was certain his father would tear up any letter or note coming from Camp Harmony. But somehow Henry's mother, sorting the mail first, found the letter each week and slipped it underneath his pillow. She never said a word, but Henry knew it was her doing. She did her best to be an obedient wife, to honor her husband's wishes, but to look out for her son as well. Henry wanted to thank her. But even in private, expressing his gratitude would have been bad form---just acknowledging that she was bending the rules set by Henry's father would be taken as an admission of guilt, so he too said nothing. But he was indeed grateful.
Keiko's current letter said that her father had left already. He had volunteered to go to Camp Minidoka in Idaho, near the Oregon border. He'd offered to be part of a work detail--to help build the camp, the mess halls, the living quarters, even a school.
Keiko had mentioned that her father used to be a lawyer but now was working alongside doctors, dentists, and other professional men--all were now day laborers, toiling in the hot summer sun for pennies a day. Evidently their efforts were worth it. The men who volunteered all wanted to stay as close to their original homes as possible. Plus, they were promised that their families could join them as soon as the camp was ready.
Other families had been split up, some to Texas and others to Nevada. At least the Okabes would be together.
Henry knew he didn't have much time. This Saturday would probably be his last visit to Camp Harmony. His last chance to see Keiko for a very long while.
Henry had been inside Area 4 almost a dozen times now, in the kitchen, in the mess hall, or up at the visitors' fence, talking to Keiko, and occasionally her parents, through the barbed wire, lost among the half dozen other groups of visitors who usually populated the fence during the day. But he'd never been into the camp itself, the large common area, the parade grounds that once were the heartbeat of the state fair. Now it was a dusty (occasionally muddy) field, beaten down by the thousands of footsteps of restless internees.
Today would be different. Henry had become used to the strangeness of the place.
The guard dogs that patrolled the main gate. The machine-gun towers. Even the sight of men everywhere with bayoneted rifles slung across their backs. It all seemed so normal now. But today, during the normal routine of his Saturday in the mess hall, Henry planned to visit Keiko. Not at the fence. He was going into the camp. He was going to find her.
So when most of the prisoners had been served their dinner, when the crowd began to thin, Henry excused himself to go to the latrine. The other kitchen helper could handle the small crowds that trickled in late. He hadn't seen Keiko come through yet. She tended to come late; that way she'd be able to spend time talking to Henry without holding up the line.
Henry returned to the kitchen and left through the back door, right past Mrs.
Beatty, who was out smoking a ciga
rette and talking to one of the supply sergeants. If she noticed him, she didn't say a thing, but then again, she rarely did anyway.
Instead of heading for the latrine, Henry looped back around the building and blended into a crowd of Japanese prisoners heading to the large trophy barn that had become a makeshift home for what he guessed were three hundred people. He stuffed his
"I am Chinese" button into his pocket.
If I'm caught, Henry thought, they'll probably never let me come here again. Mrs.
Beatty will be furious. But if Keiko is leaving, I won't be coming back anyway, so what does it matter? Either way, this is my last weekend at Camp Harmony--Keiko's too.