Читать книгу Fall Down Seven - C. E. Edmonson - Страница 4

The steamship we took from Honolulu was named Clear Skies, but the morning clouds that hovered over San Francisco seemed low enough to touch as we walked down the ship’s gangplank to the long, wooden pier.

It was April 8, 1942, and a thick fog penetrated by a slow, steady drizzle gripped us as tightly as we gripped our few suitcases. Forty-degree temperatures are unknown in the Hawaiian Islands. Even on the coldest January nights, the thermometer rarely dips below sixty degrees, while the average high tops eighty. So the Arrington family—what was left of it since Dad was at sea—found itself entirely unprepared. Within seconds the cold and the wet penetrated my light jacket and blouse to jam a thousand icy needles into my neck and shoulders.

Next to me the Whizz shivered. “It’s cold.”

Charlie had a gift for the obvious. On another day I might have laughed or rolled my eyes. But not on that April day. With Pearl Harbor only four months in the past, we’d lost control of our lives, as if some troll from a Grimm’s fairy tale had opened an invisible door, sucking the Arringtons into a nightmare that wouldn’t end.

“Come,” Mom said.

Mustn’t complain. Another of my mom’s constant reminders. Burdens, according to Mom, were there to be borne. Not Dad though.

“Nana korobi, ya oki,” Dad had told me only a few hours before he’d shipped out. This was one of his favorite Japanese proverbs. He had learned it from Mom, but he said it a lot to me and the Whizz. It means “fall down seven times, get up eight.”

“Fate doesn’t hang around, waiting for you to grow up. I need you to take care of your little brother.” He had put his arms around me then, pulling me in tight. “Mom too,” he had said. “I won’t be able to sleep unless I know you’re taking care of your mother.”

At the time I hadn’t considered exactly how I’d care for the woman who was supposed to care for me. I’d been too busy holding back the tears. Bad enough that Charlie had been bawling his eyes out.

Now, as we marched along the wooden pier, Mom seemed small and frail. Everything she’d been taught or learned—every strategy—had failed her. Somehow, after a lifetime of playing by the rules, she’d been transformed into a fugitive.

We crossed the Embarcadero to enter the streets of a city that had already driven out every one of its Japanese residents. The government in Washington, D.C., had decided all Japanese living on the West Coast were potential traitors, ready to collaborate with the Japanese military or sabotage the American war effort. To protect the nation, every Japanese citizen, every single one—including men and women who’d been living in America for generations—were rounded up and shipped to internment camps a hundred miles inland. They would live in long barracks, six families to each, one twenty-by-twenty-foot room to a family, with army cots the only furniture and a bare bulb dangling from the ceiling the only light. No running water, no stove, no heat. And no privacy. The walls separating families were only seven feet high.

I knew this because Mom’s uncle, Hideki Yamura, had gone through the entire process. First, he’d been placed under a curfew that confined him and his family to their home from eight o’clock at night until six o’clock in the morning. Then their bank accounts had been frozen. Then they had been given three weeks to sell their little grocery store. Then they had been hauled away like so much cargo.

Back in Hawaii there’d been a few arrests, but no general roundup of Japanese-Americans. Most of us, though, including my dad, thought the order would come soon enough. That’s why, before he shipped out, Dad had secured passage for us all the way to his sister’s house in Gardner, Connecticut. Nobody was talking internment in Connecticut, most likely because very few Japanese-Americans lived east of the Rocky Mountains. Once we got there, we’d be safe.

But we had to get there, and San Francisco was our first stop after six days on an ocean liner. We’d be another six days crossing the continent by train. Our family might have taken an airliner—the industry was up and running in 1942—but the cost, half as much as a new car for a one-way ticket, was well beyond our means.

The only trip that interested me at that moment, however, was the one to the Southern Pacific Railroad depot. We knew the station was on Third Street but had only the faintest idea how to get there. The fog didn’t help either. From the deck, as our ship sailed into the harbor, the city looked no more than a vague silhouette behind a dirty, gray curtain.

After two cabs refused us, Mom got the hint. The first cabbie made an excuse. He told us he had to return the car to the yard. The second didn’t mince words before driving away.

“No Japanese.”

“What made him think we’re Japanese?” I asked my mother. “How could he tell we weren’t Chinese or Filipino?”

“I don’t know,” Mom said, “but we need to get going.”

A man carrying a duffel bag over his shoulder, a shadow in the fog, approached us. I only recognized him when he came within six feet. His name was John, and he’d waited on our table at meals aboard the steamship.

“You folks look lost,” he said.

Mom bowed her head. Intruding on someone’s business called for an act of contrition in the form of a ritual head bow. We were upsetting John’s personal harmony. Unforgivable.

“We have to get to the train station,” the Whizz piped up. “We’re going to Connecticut.”

John smiled at Charlie. He’d been pleasant to us throughout the voyage. Now he dropped his duffel bag to the ground and asked, “Which station?”

“There’s more than one?”

Mom put her hand on the Whizz’s shoulder. “The Southern Pacific,” she finally told John, “on Third Street.”

“That’s less than a mile away. See that street? That’s Market Street. Walk down there until you get to Third Street and then make a left turn. The station’s a few blocks away.”

As John picked up his duffel bag, his eyes grew troubled. “You might want to keep moving, though. This close to the waterfront, San Francisco’s pretty rough.”

I took the Whizz’s hand and found it icy cold. Just a few months earlier, he’d have pulled away, but now his fingers tightened around mine.

“Thank you,” Mom said.

We started off through a neighborhood of small shops, warehouses, and factories. A tavern stood on every corner, or so it seemed. Workmen lounged in the doorways, clutching mugs of beer while they ate their lunches. They were rough-looking men, all of them white, dressed in canvas pants, flannel shirts, and heavy, black boots. I found myself wishing I could fly—every nerve in my body screamed “trouble!”—but there was no way to avoid them. We would have to walk past.

I tried to keep my head down like my mother, to appear humble and harmless, but I couldn’t avoid the deeply suspicious looks as we passed the Blackstone Tavern. I didn’t have to guess how they felt. Across the street, in the window of a dry-goods store, a sign written in large, black letters made the general attitude clear: JAPS KEEP MOVING. THIS IS AN AMERICAN NEIGHBORHOOD.

Well, that’s exactly what we were doing. We were moving, and didn’t intend to stop until we reached the railroad station. Forget that Mom had money put aside to buy heavy coats. The fog and the cold would have to be endured.

I don’t know why, but I somehow fastened on the stupid idea that everything would be all right if we only got to the depot. Maybe I thought we’d walk through the doors to find our old lives on the other side. I began to walk faster, almost pulling Charlie and Mom along. Hurry, hurry, hurry. I think I might have started running if a man hadn’t stepped away from a tavern doorway to block our path.

“Well, well. What am I lookin’ at here?” he said. “Japanese or Chinese?” Behind him his two companions laughed.

“Please,” Mom said, “excuse us.”

The man wore a thick, black mustache that curled around his mouth to hang down on either side of his chin. He plucked at one end, then glanced at his companions and said, “Get Wong. I’m gonna try a little experiment.”

Mom tried to walk around the man, but he moved into her way. I could smell the alcohol on his breath, and I turned my head only to find a poster tied to a lamppost: NO JAPS IN OUR SCHOOLS. The poster was weathered and frayed, put up at a time when there had still been Japanese-American children in San Francisco to go to school.

A small, Asian man wearing a soiled cook’s apron stepped out of the tavern. He wore a button on his breast: I AM CHINESE. Now I knew how the cab drivers had identified us as Japanese. We weren’t wearing labels.

“Say somethin’ to ’em,” the man with the mustache said. “Let’s see what they’re made of.”

Hawaii is a land of minorities. Polynesians, Japanese, Chinese, Filipinos, Koreans, and Malaysians all mingle together, especially the kids. I knew a few words of Cantonese—not enough to understand whole sentences, but enough to figure out that the little man, when he used the words gwailo and gouzazi, wasn’t paying these bullies any compliments. Gwailo means “white ghost” and refers to white people in general, while gouzazi means “dog.” Plus, he finished with the words bao quian, which translates to “very, very sorry.”

Sorry or not, the man who blocked our way seized on our obvious ignorance. “See what I mean?” he asked his companions. “They’re Japanese.”

“Ain’t supposed to be no Japs in San Francisco,” another man said. “What do ya think they’re up to, Frank?”

Up to? Me, Mom, and the Whizz? I wanted to laugh in his face, and I wanted to cry. Both at the same time. Only before I had a chance to do either one, a police officer approached from the opposite side of the street. Big enough to dwarf Frank, he wore a blue overcoat with his badge and a nameplate pinned to the front. A long, black nightstick dangled from a hand big enough to cover my entire head.

“What’s the trouble here?” the policeman asked.

“They’re dang Japanese,” Frank said.

“Is that right? Are you Japanese?”

Mom couldn’t bring herself to raise her head or speak. But somebody had to say something, and I had the biggest mouth in the family.

“We’re on our way to Connecticut,” I said. “From Hawaii.”

“Then what’re you doin’ on Market Street?” Frank said. “I mean, the waterfront’s only two blocks away, so figure it out for yourself.”

The policeman scowled. “Ya know somethin’? That’s exactly what I intend to do. Without your help.” He glanced at Mom, who refused to look up, then he turned to me. “You’re a long way from home, girl.”

“We have a letter of authorization to travel from—”

Frank cut me off. “A letter of what?”

I didn’t have to answer, because the policeman slapped his nightstick against the palm of his left hand and stepped to within a yard of Frank. “Move on. You and your buddies,” he said. “Inside the bar or down the street. I don’t particularly care which one.”

The policeman’s voice was filled with menace and I took a step back. Naïve child that I was, I’d only heard that tone in movies like Each Day I Die and Angels with Dirty Faces. In real life it was a lot scarier. Frank managed a scowl, then he and his cronies quickly retreated into the tavern.

The policeman waited until the door closed behind them before returning to us. “Here, come with me.”

He led us twenty yards along the sidewalk, to the shelter of an awning over a notions store. A sign in the window read NO JAPS SERVED.

“Now, tell me about this letter.” There was no menace in his voice, which surprised me. “I’m Officer Mackley, by the way.”

The Whizz suddenly recovered the ability to speak. “My dad’s a navy pilot,” he said. “He’s out on the ocean with a big fleet. When they find the enemy, he’s gonna have to fight.”

“Is that so?”

“It is,” I said. “Dad’s a lieutenant commander. He’s on an aircraft carrier that left Pearl Harbor a month ago. We’re trying to get to my Aunt Ellen’s house in Gardner, Connecticut. We’ll be staying with her until—”

I stopped as a little wave of panic threatened to take hold of me. I’d watched the attack on Pearl Harbor, seen the flames, heard the explosions, watched the ambulances rushing by. No, I couldn’t fool myself. There was a big fat if out there. Still, I finally completed the sentence. “Until he comes back after the war.”

“I’ll need to take a look at that authorization. Being as the entire West Coast is off limits to Japanese, and I’ve never seen or heard of such a document.”

Mom finally looked up at him as her hands went to her purse. “I’m very sorry to trouble you,” she said. “Here, please.”

I don’t know exactly how Dad had secured the letter, but it was signed by Admiral Nimitz, the commander of the American fleet in the Pacific, and it authorized the Arrington family to travel from Hawaii to Connecticut. Officer Mackley read it slowly, taking his time. Just as he finished, a black Ford with a round police light on top pulled to the curb.

“That would be Sergeant Carnahan,” Officer Mackley explained. “If you’ll wait right here, I’ll just have a word with him.”

By that time I’d pretty much come to expect things to go from bad to awful. The Whizz too, because he squeezed my hand and said, “Are they gonna take us to jail?”

“Of course not,” Mom said.

But I wasn’t so sure until Officer Mackley returned and I saw the smile on his face.

“The sergeant tells me I should escort you to the station and put you on your train.” He winked at Charlie. “See, once you’re out of San Francisco, you’re someone else’s problem. Sergeant Carnahan, he prides himself on being a problem solver.”

I closed my eyes for a second as a sense of relief flooded through me. I felt Mom straighten, heard her release a long sigh. On the other side, Charlie suddenly discovered his zip and became the Whizz again. He was practically dancing.

“So,” Officer Mackley said, “shall we be off?”

He made good on his word. He waited with us for two hours before escorting us to the platform where we boarded the train. Along the way he told us a story that explained a lot of things, although I didn’t sort them out at the time.

“I live in a little house just outside of the city,” he told us as we approached the train station. “Me, my wife Molly, and our two boys. It’s not much of a house, I’ll admit, but it’s ours, and we take pride in how it’s kept. That’s not true for everyone. Our neighbors across the street? You can barely see their front door for the weeds. But my closest neighbors? Well, they had a trellis of roses in the backyard that was a sight to behold when it was in bloom. You could smell ’em from a block away. Now, Mike Watanabe tended those roses himself. Wouldn’t let his wife—her name was Risa—anywhere near ’em. They were his pride and joy.”

The policeman opened the door to let us into the station, then followed us inside. A Japanese woman, her half-Japanese children, and a cop as big as a truck? Every eye turned toward us. But Officer Mackley didn’t appear to notice. He continued on with his story.

“Mike Watanabe owned a landscaping business he inherited from his father. Hardest-working man I ever met. Out by six o’clock every morning except Sunday. Didn’t come home before sunset. On Sunday he’d take the family to church, then work all day on his house. Mike could fix anything. Plumbing, wiring, roofing, painting—you name it. And he did it himself.”

Officer Mackley stopped us on our way to the ticket counter. “They gave Mike three weeks to sell his house and his business. I know for a fact that his home sold for a quarter of its true value because I spoke to the man who bought it. And Mike never did sell his business. Just closed the door and walked away. Now, I’m only a dumb copper, so maybe I should keep my opinions to myself. I’ve been told that by Sergeant Carnahan on more than one occasion. But for the life of me, I can’t see the justice in takin’ away everything Mike Watanabe and his family worked so hard to get and then sending them to an internment camp. This is a man who in his entire life never did anything to harm his country.”