I wish the two of us were back in your apartment, if you catch my drift. When I get home, baby, we’ll never leave the bedroom.
Loads of love, Joe
Topaz War Relocation Center
June 24, 1944
Helen!
You’ll never guess what came in the mail today—a letter from Lee Mortimer, the night-life editor for the New York Daily Mirror! He wrote, All the Japanese dolls are vanishing, leaving playful gentlemen like me to fend for ourselves— Funny, right? Turns out he’s quite fond of Oriental girls— He’s already married and divorced a couple of them— He wrote that he’s long been an admirer, thanks to Life, and complained that I’ve been too far away for him to enjoy the pleasure of my company. He’s going to sponsor me and bring me to New York right away. Right away in camp lingo could mean months, but I’m excited!
Please forgive me for sounding like I’m only thinking about myself. Here’s the most important question— How’s Eddie? Have you heard anything from him since D-Day? I know he’s all right— He has to be— He’ll dance around any and all bullets! Yes, I’m making light, but it’s the only way I know to get through these days.
Yours till the kitchen sinks, Ruby
Somewhere in the Pacific
June 27, 1944
Dearest Grace,
Have I told you how hot it is in a P-38? HOT! The guys and I strip down to our skivvies, tennis shoes, and parachute packs to fly at low altitude. We can’t outrun Zeroes when we’re close to the ground, but we’ve got superior rate of climb and our firepower is hands-down better and more effective. Grace, I want you to trust that if an engine fails or I take flak, I can drop fuel tanks and outrun the Japs all the way back to base. What I’m saying, baby, is don’t worry about me. But I sure as hell worry about you out there on the road. What if you meet some guy who didn’t get called up or maybe has flat feet? I bet you have tons of rich guys lining up to see you too. Just don’t forget about your old boy out here. Every flight I take, I’m carrying you in my heart.
Loads of love, Joe
P.S. I’ve received all your letters and packages. You sure know how to remind a guy what we’re fighting for.
Train to St. Louis
July 10, 1944
Dearest Joe,
I’ll take your heat and raise you some. I had to sleep in a tornado shelter the other night. I’d forgotten the Midwest’s humidity. Yuck! You must have forgotten it too, or is it really hotter than blazes flying over the ocean? Seems crazy to me, but what do I know? I miss you. I pray that you’ll be careful. Promise you’ll come back to me.
Forever yours, Grace
Train to Chicago
July 12, 1944
Dear Helen,
Is there anyone besides you and Tommy left in San Francisco? I’ve run into George Louie, the Lim Sisters, Jack and Irene Mak and their two kids— I hate to say it, but our friends are still doing a bang-up job of putting the chill on me. The Merry Mahjongs and the Lim Sisters mostly ignore my presence, but George has become the road king of spite. (He’s sleeping his way across the country, just in case you want to know. The guy goes bananas for that you-know-what place between a girl’s legs. I’ve seen him arrive in town, date one, two, three girls, and then hit a dry patch, so to say, which means the gossip mill has gotten going and he’s plumb out of luck. He doesn’t worry about it, because a new crop of girls is just a town and a gig up the track.) Anyway— He can’t decide which accusation he likes more—that I ratted out Ruby or that I hid two Japanese in my apartment. I’ve tried to wave him off. “Aw, tell it to someone who cares.” If he blabs on, I say, “Run along now, Georgie. Your mother’s calling you.” Jack and Irene tolerate me, though, because I’m a good babysitter. Thank Tommy for teaching me the ropes!
You haven’t written to me. What’s up?
Your gal pal, Grace
Somewhere in the Pacific
July 13, 1944
Grace, baby,
I only have a few minutes. I had a wild day! Shot down two Zeroes! Lots of great pilots out here. I need to measure up. I miss you like mad. Why didn’t I have you meet me in Winnetka when I visited my folks? We could have borrowed my dad’s car and gone to Niagara Falls. You never know what can happen in this world. I miss you, baby.
I love you, love you, love you, Joe
Train to Cedar Rapids
July 23, 1944
Dearest Joe,
The words you wrote make my heart soar. Maybe that sounds corny, but that’s how love is supposed to sound. I love you too. I’ve loved you from the moment we first met. Then we went through all that rigmarole— So much wasted time— But now I’m yours and you’re mine— Niagara Falls! Oh, Joe! I’m so happy!
I just finished a gig in Omaha with Dorothy Toy—the first, and still the truest, Chinese Ginger Rogers. Did I ever tell you she’s my idol? I used to watch her in the movie theater back in Plain City. Her partner—Paul Wing—was called up four months ago and is in a tank in Europe, so Dorothy and her sister came out on the Chop-Suey Circuit to kill time—just like me. I told her, Even though we never met, we lived in the same apartment building in San Francisco. I should have said something about what an inspiration she’s been all these years. She’s the nicest gal. Dorothy has encouraged me to broaden my act to incorporate some patter and a couple of songs. I now start with “I came from a town so small it didn’t even have a Chinese restaurant.” That always gets a chuckle.
I’m blabbing on like a fool when all I want to do is kiss you and tell you how much I love you. I LOVE YOU! I think of you every minute of every day.
Love, Grace
Train to Cedar Rapids
July 23, 1944
Dear Helen,
Joe loves me and I love him, but I’m not being totally honest with him. He can’t understand what it’s like for me out here. I’m alone most of the time—traveling from club to club, city to city, sometimes playing shows near military bases. I’ve come across a lot of Victory Girls, who’ll sleep with any man in uniform. I’m not one of them, but I worry that Joe might start to take what I’m doing the wrong way—
I don’t have much in the way of companionship, so I have loads of time to read magazines and go to movies. I see a lot of ads begging women to work for the war effort while remaining feminine for when our men come home. Don’t those magazine people know we’re changing? I’ve watched movies that praise brave widows. If, God forbid, something happens to Eddie, I know you’ll be brave, but what will happen to your heart after all you’ve already been through? Those movie people don’t think about that. Then there’s the battle against Victory Girls. It’s led by another bunch of men—this time in Washington—and it’s downright sneaky. Women—like us—who work in clubs and bars that cater to our boys, are being accused of being patriotic amateurs. They accuse us of staging orgies in the barracks. That’s ridiculous, and a long way from being labeled a Khaki-wackie! And it makes me sick. Rumors have been circulating that some Victory Girls average fifty or more encounters a night. (Come on!) And did you see that Life article? The reporter wrote that a diseased Victory Girl can do far more damage than a 500-pound bomb dropped right in the middle of an Army camp. It’s not fair, and it makes me fighting sore every time I think about it, because aren’t our boys making love too? They’re the instigators for heaven’s sake! You think they get in trouble or in trouble? No! They’re told they need sex to be good soldiers! But if a girl is rounded up and found to have a venereal disease, she can be held for the duration. Exactly how long might that be? Months? Years?
So that’s one thing. The other is that I kind of lied when I wrote to Joe about Dorothy Toy. (Yes! I finally met her!) I left out that the Chinese Ginger Rogers isn’t Chinese. She’s Japanese. She and Paul were doing a show in New York when Ed Sullivan, a gossip columnist at the New York Daily News, broke the news— You know, ratted her out— She’s hightailed it to the Chop-Suey Circuit, playing towns and cities where, she says, they haven’t met many Chinese or Ja
panese. She’s just Oriental. I never could have written that to Joe, but I never want him to consider me a liar like Ruby either.
Max called to say that he’s having a hard time getting me good bookings. (Cedar Rapids and Des Moines are up next. I ask you!) After I pestered him about why, he finally spilled the beans. Turns out George Louie’s bad-mouthing about me has moved from our dressing rooms to the front office. Club owners have enough to worry about without entertainers fighting backstage. I said I didn’t do anything. Max said, Yeah, yeah, yeah, and then he hung up on me! If I can’t work in San Francisco and he can’t get me bookings, what am I going to do?
I keep writing to you, but you never respond. What have you heard from Eddie? And Monroe? He also promised to write, but I haven’t heard from him either.
Sorry to make this so darned long, but I sure could use your advice.
Your gal pal, Grace
Topaz War Relocation Center
July 30, 1944
Helen!
You wrote to me not that long ago that a tree may prefer calm, but the wind will not stop. Things will take their own course regardless of what I want. The thermometer hit 120 degrees yesterday! I spent the afternoon lying on the cement floor in the latrine. It’s the coolest place in the camp— The little girls like to hang out there too— They got me to play jacks with them, if you can believe it. (Believe it!) When you want to do your business, it’s a good idea to kick the toilet first. Scorpions! I’ve tried every mess hall, looking for something decent to eat— No luck— We’re served things that make no sense— Spaghetti and rice at the same meal. People around here are gaining weight, but not me. I can’t eat that stuff.
Sometimes I go to the fence and stare at the desert. There’s nowhere to hide out there, no place to go, and no way to survive, even if I got out. I ask myself, why do they hate us so much? What did I do that was so dreadful or unforgivable that they need to lock me up in a place like this? There is no lower helplessness than realizing you’ve lost control over every aspect of your life— And you want to hear something? When I walk by the schools in the morning, I hear the kids saying the Pledge of Allegiance and singing “God Bless America.” But if we ask the authorities how long we’ll be in here, the answer is NO ANSWER! (Go ahead, Mr. Censor, black that out!)
Yours till the toilet bowls, Ruby
P.S. Thanks for the Pond’s cold cream, Camay soap, and petroleum jelly! They’re going to do a lot for my beauty regimen. You’re a pip.
San Francisco
August 4, 1944
Dear Grace,
I’m sorry to be the one to inform you, but I’ve got bad news about Monroe. He caught lobar pneumonia—the worst you can get. He’s dying, bed-slow, at Walter Reed Hospital. The Army doctors are experimenting with him—giving him something called penicillin. They’ve written to Mama and Baba that there’s little to no hope. And it could take months for him to die, even with that new drug. All we can do is pray—
The mood in the compound is very sad. We are a large family, but the idea that Monroe won’t be coming home— I— We— Baba stays at his office. Mama is out all the time. Since there’s nothing she can do for Monroe when he’s so far away, she’s taken my place as a Gray Lady. Caring for other mothers’ sons gives her faith that there’s a mother out there taking care of Monroe.
Best, Helen
Topaz War Relocation Center
August 6, 1944
Helen!
GREAT NEWS!!! I finally got my release from camp after seventeen months in this pit hole! Lee Mortimer has sent money for my train ticket, and he’s lined up an agent for me in New York. Everyone here is full of advice and warnings. Don’t speak Japanese when I leave the camp. Not a problem! Don’t gather in groups of two or more Japanese. Really not a problem! Don’t call attention to myself and ruin it for others. Well, they got me there. I plan on calling plenty of attention to myself, but I hope I don’t ruin it for others. Want to know what I’m thinking about? New clothes! Making real money again! I’m getting out of here!
Will write from the BIG APPLE!
More soon, Ruby
Fox Theatre, Detroit
August 10, 1944
Dear Helen,
Your first letter finally reached me, and it contains such sad news. I’m very sorry to hear about Monroe. I feel just terrible. And it seems so unfair. Monroe was always so full of life. And opinions! Remember when he took me to the protest against sending scrap metal to Japan? At the time, I thought he was stuffy, but he was right. Now I wish the whole country had paid more attention to what Monroe and others like him were trying to warn us about. You’re surrounded by your family, but please write to me if there’s anything I can do.
You’re in my thoughts, Grace.
San Francisco
August 14, 1944
Dear Ruby,
That is great news. I’m happy for you.
Did you get my note about Monroe? Maybe it got lost in the mail? Or have you already left the camp? If so, you won’t even receive this. Monroe’s got lobar pneumonia. They say he won’t make it. I keep thinking about the word worse. Is his pneumonia worse than if he’d been maimed or died alone on a battlefield somewhere? Is it worse that I’m more worried about Eddie than I am about my own brother? Is it worse that I want to stay home, get all the kids off to school, and make sure they complete their homework than go back to volunteering with the Gray Ladies with Mama? I just couldn’t take it anymore. I’d seen too many boys who’d lost limbs or had been burned.
I’d better quit now before I feel too sorry for myself.
Helen
Train to Buffalo
August 15, 1944
Dear Helen,
I suspect this is going to be another long one. Sorry about that. But I have so much to ask you and tell you. I wish you could know how lonely I get out here by myself. I wish even more that I could come home to San Francisco, the Forbidden City, my friends, and YOU!
First things first. I still haven’t heard back from you. I don’t know what that means. Is there something more about Monroe you haven’t told me yet?
All right. On to me and my problems. It didn’t seem appropriate to ask in my last letter, but I was really hoping you could give me some advice about what I should do about Joe. You weren’t too happy when he proposed to Ruby. I’m Oriental too, and he’s still an Occidental. Are you upset that our kids will be mongrels? (Your word!) Maybe you worry I’ve turned into a no-no girl. As you can see, I’m feeling very insecure.
Last night didn’t help me any— The last straw— I just finished my gig at the Fox in Detroit. I was exhausted after the show and didn’t bother to remove my stage makeup before I left for my hotel. As I walked, I heard someone following me. I haven’t been that scared since Ray came out of Ida’s room holding the bloody knife. Petrified! Every time I stopped, the person following me stopped too. I pulled my guts together and ducked into an alley. I hid behind some garbage cans and prayed no dogs would start barking. I waited until the man ran past, and then I waited some more. I took off my heels and sprinted barefoot to the hotel. When I got to my room, I locked the door and wedged a chair under the knob. I checked my whole body to make sure I wasn’t injured. The man hadn’t touched me, but I ached everywhere, and my feet were cut pretty bad. I didn’t sleep a wink, and I cried buckets.
Sorry my writing is so squiggly today. Bad stretch of track. The train is nearly empty. Makes me feel even more alone.
Anyway, this morning I packed to shuffle off to Buffalo. I ran into George Louie in the lobby. He was coming in to play the Fox as I was leaving. I was still so upset that I told him what happened. I wanted sympathy, but he blamed me! “It’s your own damn fault for leaving the theater in your stage makeup. If you look like a Victory Girl, a guy will treat you like a Victory Girl.”
My own damn fault? I’ve heard some version of that my entire life. When my father apologized for beating me, he used to say I made him do it. Did I ask him to kick and hit me
? Did I ask to be punished for something I didn’t do to Ruby? George is an ass. He doesn’t know anything about me or my life. Still, I pledge right here and now on this train never to leave a club in stage makeup again, even though that won’t protect me from someone like my father, Ray, or even—God help me—if Joe ever loses his temper again. (You see why I need your advice?)
We’re pulling into the station. Gotta go.
Here I am again. Checked in to my hotel. Just did an interview with a kid from the local paper. He was sweet, but he asked the same question I get at every stop—what’s it like for a young woman like me to be on the road, away from my family and friends? Usually, I answer that this is my way to help build unity on the home front, but I told that kid that every night is a job. I go out there. I start the show. It goes well. The next night, I lay a bomb. I forget things. But how can I forget my routine when I’ve done it night after night for weeks? I forget because I’m anxious about the train I have to catch tomorrow and that I need to wash my undies before I go to sleep. I think about my mother, who I haven’t seen or spoken to in years, the war, or how nice the gown the woman sitting at the second table on the right is wearing and how much it might cost. I just forget. Then the next night I go out there, start the show, and maybe it’s great. I told that kid I can’t worry about it too much, because if I did, I wouldn’t last long in this business—
I’ve been thinking a lot about my mom, though. I’m spending so much time in the Midwest, how can I not think about her? I wonder if she might like to see me, but what about my dad? I don’t want to be hurt— Makes me sad—