Dr. Harper comes to advise Tamura to stay in their barrack.
“The military police have arrested three men for beating up an informer,” he tells her. “They took him from his bed and almost killed him. We have him in the hospital. Everyone is angry at the arrest, and there is a crowd demanding their release. I don’t think they are going to settle anytime soon. Please stay home, Tamura, keep out of it. And put your light out, no point in attracting attention.”
“It was kind of you to come,” Tamura says, blushing at being singled out by him. “We are all grateful, Dr. Harper.”
“No need for gratitude, Tamura. I am concerned for you, that’s all.” He fights the urge he has to stay, to keep by her side, to protect her. “Well, remember the light,” he says, hovering at the door. “I’ll be in the hospital all night if you need me.”
Hearing Dr. Harper’s advice through the wall, Naomi asks Eriko to leave their light on. “The moon’s on the wane and I can’t bear to sit in the dark. It makes the cold seem worse somehow.” Her voice is wispy, shaking a little.
Naomi has had enough of the cold. Her hand is still bandaged from where it stuck to the barrack’s frozen doorknob, pulling the skin from her palm as she tugged her hand free.
“It’s stubborn to heal,” she complains. “Old age makes the body stubborn.”
She can hardly move these days, and knitting now is out of the question. The bones in her fingers are stiff, frozen into immobility.
Haru, on his way to Sewer Alley, stops Dr. Harper on his own way to the hospital. “It’s nothing much, is it, Doctor? It’ll all blow over soon, won’t it?”
“Hard to say, could go either way, boy.” He puts a hand on Haru’s shoulder. “Look after them,” he says, thinking in the moment only of Tamura.
Haru paces the alley, not knowing what he is looking for, his eyes tracking every movement. He guesses that the informer is a member of his own American Citizens League.
“Japanese Uncle Toms,” the Kibei accuse league members.
“Traitors to America,” the league members retort to the Kibei.
Haru thinks the Kibei mad, troublemakers, out to spoil.
As he paces, the news spreads. Mothers begin appearing at doors, calling their children in from play, worrying about where the older ones might be.
“Have you seen Toru?”
“Where is Yukio? He should be home by now.”
Lights go out, people stop calling to each other. Sewer Alley, lit only by a thin portion of moon, looks dim and ghostly.
Eriko pleads for Haru to come inside, but he doesn’t want to hide indoors like a coward.
“What could this informer have told them that would create all this trouble?” Tamura asks him on her way to Eriko’s. “They already know there is gambling and liquor, they have always looked the other way.”
“It’s more likely to be that he has given them the names of those Kibei who call themselves Japan’s underground. You must have heard their talk, Tamura, seen the way they stir up trouble.”
“Yes, but they are only boys trying to be men.”
“Maybe, but they are not harmless.”
Tamura joins the Okihiros in their room, where Satomi finds her on her return from the orphanage. She has been running and is out of breath.
“I was worried about you. You are very late, Satomi.”
“I came the long way around to avoid the fights. That show-off boy who works with Haru at the school asked me if I was with them or against them. I didn’t know what he was talking about.”
“Is the crowd dispersing?” Haru calls through the open door.
“I don’t think so. I heard them shouting and chanting. I tried to find Lawson to ask him what was going on, but I couldn’t see him anywhere.” She is more excited than afraid, thrilled by the drama, the change of pace in the day.
“We must stay together,” Eriko says. “There is safety in numbers.”
“Yes, and at least only one stove will need feeding,” Tamura says, looking on the bright side as usual.
For once Satomi approves of her mother’s optimism. It’s good to be near Haru, who at his mother’s pleading has reluctantly come inside.
“Just for a moment, just to get warm,” he says.
As they sit close, she attempts nonchalance, as though the salty scent of him, the warmth of his body against hers, isn’t sending a run of pleasure through her. It hurts to love him so much, to be the one who loves more. If only he would lose the desire to reform her she might in turn try harder to please him.
“I wish I could bring Cora here,” she says. “Keep her safe with us. She was so sweet today, clinging to me, not wanting me to leave.”
“She is safer where she is,” Haru says. “No one is going to bother with the orphanage.”
They hear the rioters trawling the camp, seeking out the inu, a word that Satomi has never heard before.
“It’s a special word,” Eriko says. “It means both dog and traitor.”
“Oh, yes, I had forgotten it,” Tamura says. “I have forgotten so much.”
There are bangs and shouts and the sound of running feet, and Mr. Sano comes to tell them that the rioters are smashing up property and beating up those they have named as traitors to their race.
“We are herded here like animals,” he says. “Our administrators have been black-marketing our meat and sugar, and still there are informers, traitors. Damn stoolies, no wonder people are mad.”
“Are they traitors or just good Americans?” Haru is getting more agitated by the minute. “It’s not enough just to say that we are loyal, Mr. Sano. We must prove it.”
Mr. Sano stares at him scornfully. “It’s the young who will be the death of us,” he exclaims, raising his hands in exasperation. “Their blood is always hot, their passions ridiculous.”
Eriko and Tamura can’t meet each other’s eyes for fear they may laugh.
Shortly after Mr. Sano leaves, two wild-eyed young men with baseball bats burst through their door, shouting something about freedom before running off toward the new drainage works by the cemetery.
“We should have listened to Dr. Harper and put the light out,” Yumi says reclaiming her child’s voice. She is shaking with fright.
The shock of the intrusion, along with the rush of cold air entering their barrack, has brought them to their feet. Eriko puts out their light.
“What’s happening now?” Haru shouts after the men. “What’s the latest?”
“We’re taking control, you bonehead,” one of them shouts back. “We’re going to smash up the waterworks. Come with us.”
“I’m frightened,” Eriko tells Haru. “Your sister and grandmother are frightened. You must stay with us, Haru, please don’t go out.”
She thinks that Mr. Sano is right about the young. They want to be warriors, and Haru is no different. If he leaves their barrack, she fears that she might never see him alive again.
But he has had enough of being among the women, and when a burst of gunfire brings a few seconds’ silence in its wake he makes for the door.
“I’m going to find out what is happening. I’ll be back soon.” He pulls his arm away from Eriko’s hold on it. “Let me be a man, Mother,” he insists, and she releases him.
“I’m coming with you, Haru.”
“No, Satomi, stay with your mother. Your place is with her.”
“Don’t tell me what to do. I want to see for myself.” She is out of the door before Tamura can say anything.
He begins to run, long strides that put a distance between them, making it hard for her to keep up. He wants to be with his friends from the league, he wants to find Ralph and talk it over with him. It’s too shameful having a girl tagging along. But when she falls behind he gets worried and stops, looking back to see if she has turned for home.
“You shouldn’t have come if you can’t keep up,” he shouts, catching sight of her. “Why must you insist on acting like a man?”
“Why must
you insist on acting like my father?” she screams back.
As they near the mess hall, a gang of youths wearing white headbands scrawled with toukon, the Japanese symbol for fighting spirit, come toward them, chanting.
“Long Live His Majesty the Emperor.”
They are wielding weapons, kendo fighting sticks, knives, some roughly made hatchets, anything they have been able to lay their hands on.
Satomi stops running, mesmerized by the sight of their brutal arsenal.
“Haru, Haru,” she calls breathlessly, but her voice is thin, lost in the air. Without intent, the chanting youths knock her about in their charge.
The searchlights are tracking the boys and a wide cone of light has them in its sights, catching her in its beam too, blinding her so that it’s impossible to see anything but the glaring white light.
The youths pass, leaving her in the dark as the quaking sound of the guards’ oncoming feet running to catch up with the troublemakers adds to her confusion. She stumbles down the nearest alley, pressing herself against the side of a barrack wall as they pass, kicking up a flurry of dust with their heavy boots.
Her hand goes to her heart as though to stop it from leaping from her chest, her lungs are burning from the effort of trying to keep up with Haru, she can feel her blood pulsing. Haru has disappeared, deserted her. She is alone and frightened in the moments before she hears his shout, hoarse and panicky.
“Sati, where the hell are you?”
“I’m here, over here,” she yells from the shadows, as a man reeking of sweat and potato vodka grabs her arm, ripping the sleeve of her jacket.
“I’ll save you,” he slurs. “Stay with me.”
As she struggles, Haru appears at her side, pulls the man off her, takes her hand roughly, and forces her to run with him.
In front of the jailhouse in the crammed square the searchlights dazzle. Ranks of soldiers have drawn a line three deep in the sand. The thought crosses her mind that next door to the jailhouse Dr. Harper is inside the hospital. He will be soothing his patients, who will be as scared as her, maybe. She would like to join him, but it would take a tank to make a path through the mob.
Corralled in front of the soldiers, who are attempting to hold their ground, the crowd moves like the sea, a huge tide of bodies surging forward. A truck is pushed through the soldiers’ ranks into the jailhouse. Glass shatters, there is a crunching sound, a cheer goes up.
Haru is mouthing something to her that she can’t hear—she thinks he is telling her to stay close, but in the throng’s pitching they are forced apart, so that her hand is torn from his just as a guard takes aim and shoots into the crowd.
In the alarm the gunfire causes she is knocked to the ground, where, among the feet and the dust, things seem to go into slow motion.
In case another round should come and split the air as horribly as the first, she covers her ears with her hands and curls her body tight, knees up, head down.
Through the tangle of legs she can see a boy crouched on the ground like her, but somehow not like her. His body is still, his head twisted unnaturally to the side, his hand open as though it has frozen in the act of waving. As she looks, a spurt of blood wells up through his pale T-shirt, spreading across his chest, a red flower opening its petals. He slumps forward, and drops of blood plop slowly to the ground and mix with the dirt. And suddenly she is screaming, struggling to move, scanning the forest of legs for a space to crawl through. A booted foot treads on her ankle and the searing pain draws a yelp from her. She thinks she sees Ralph’s legs through the stirred-up dust, cotton trousers, the sneakers that have lost their laces. He is too far away to get to.
“I told you not to come,” Haru roars above her head, pulling her to her feet. “Did you really want to see that?”
“No. Did you?” Her body is shuddering, her legs weak, she is covered in dirt, bruises already blooming on her forehead, a dark graze on her ankle.
Acrid smoke fills the air as people begin to cough and splutter and hastily withdraw from the square. Something is happening to Haru, he can’t seem to speak, and just as she begins to choke herself she sees that the whites of his eyes have become bloodshot.
“It’s gas,” he croaks.
Satomi takes his hand and they stagger away from the crowd, hoping to find some good air to breathe.
Three hours later they emerge from under the barrack where they took shelter. Shaken and silent, with each other, they return home red-eyed with the news that things are finally quieting down.
“There was no order to fire,” Haru says angrily. “But they did anyway. There are two dead, and ten more wounded.” He absent-mindedly picks up the sleeping Naomi’s blanket, which has slipped to the floor, and covers her lap with it.
“Two boys dead,” he repeats, as though he can’t take it in himself.
“They used tear gas to calm things down,” Satomi adds in a rush. “It was horrible, it made our eyes burn, and Haru was sick.”
Haru looks embarrassed. “Nothing to make a fuss about,” he says irritably, as Eriko forces him to sit. He is ashamed that he was the one to be sick. Satomi could have kept quiet about it, but she has no sense about such things. She allows him no pride.
“People were dizzy and stumbling all over the place, but angry too, really angry.” She can’t seem to stop talking, the words tumbling out of her as she moves restlessly about. Haru, sitting now, has gone quiet.
The bruises on Satomi’s face have deepened to a livid puce, her clothes are torn and filthy. Pictures of the fallen boy, of his bloody T-shirt, flash horribly at intervals in her mind.
At the sight of Satomi bruised but alive, Tamura suffers the flash of anger that comes after child-lost, child-found, is over.
“You shouldn’t have gone,” she says disapprovingly. “You should have listened to Haru.”
Yumi is picking at her skirt, hopping from one foot to the other. She needs to pee but is scared to go to the latrines on her own.
“You’re sure it’s all over?” she keeps asking Haru.
“Yes, go,” he says. “It’s all quiet now.”
It is past dawn already and none of them, apart from Naomi, has slept.
Tamura goes to their barrack for her toothbrush, for the sliver of soap she is making last.
“I’ll wash at the spigot this morning,” she calls to Eriko.
When she returns she is in a better mood. She never sleeps much anyway, and what can she do about Satomi? The truth is the girl is a copy of her father, another Aaron. She won’t be ruled.
“Should we go to work, do you think?” Eriko asks Haru.
“I think you should. We must help get things back to normal. I will walk my class to school. You come with me, Yumi. I’ll see you into yours.” He is finding relief in taking charge.
“I’ll walk with you and Eriko, Mother,” Satomi says. “Give me a moment to change. I guess they won’t be opening the mess halls for a while, so breakfast will be late.”
She holds Tamura’s hand as they walk. It feels thin, more bone than flesh, as though she is holding a tiny newborn mouse. Eriko tsks at the mess the camp is in, shaking her head at the madness in the world.
There’s a handwritten sign on their mess hall door: BREAKFAST IN ONE HOUR.
“We are fine, you know,” Eriko says to Satomi. “You don’t have to walk us like children. You’re the one who is limping.”
“I want to. I won’t settle until I see Mother through the door. Then I’ll backtrack and take the shortcut to the orphanage.”
“Eriko’s right, there’s no need,” Tamura agrees. “Who would want to hurt me? You go back, I know you want to check on Cora.”
“No point, we’re nearly there, Mama.”
Across the way from the factory two white fire officers from Lone Pine stand beside a fire engine, looking around as though on alert for a predator.
Tamura and Eriko’s supervisor is at the door ushering the workers in.
“It’s on loan fr
om the Forest Service, just in case,” he says archly, nodding toward the fire engine. He has a cut above his lip repaired with four catgut stitches. Like a half mustache, Satomi thinks. It gives him a jaunty air, but no one mentions it. They have passed similar on their way here, closed eyes, cuts, swellings. Already it is bad form to ask what side you are on.
“Hey, little darlin’,” one of the officers calls, giving a long low whistle. “Are you looking for a fight too?”
Tamura lets go of Satomi’s hand and marches up to him. “Do you want to cause more trouble?” she asks as though talking to a child. “Is my daughter never to be left in peace?”
The soldier gives a nasty laugh and turns his back on her. A truck comes toward them slowly, two guards at its side gathering the wood from the smashed-up laundry tubs, throwing it into the back of the pickup as they go.
“Tricky customers, these Nips, go off like fireworks at the slightest thing. Better not to get too familiar,” they advise the Lone Pine officers.
“I was going to wash my mother’s clothes today,” Eriko says placidly to Tamura. “Now what will we do?”
“They can’t all be broken, Eriko. We will just have to share.”
The mess hall bells are ringing in memory of the two dead boys. A strangely playful sound, betraying the sadness in the air.
“One was seventeen, the other twenty-one,” the supervisor says. “Ten more wounded in the hospital.”
On hearing who the dead boys are, Eriko says that she had known one of them.
“I can’t believe it’s him,” she says, sighing. “He was a gentle boy, very polite to his elders. A good boy.”
On her way to the orphanage, Satomi comes across Lawson overseeing a gang of Japanese who are sweeping the debris of the battle into piles in readiness for the truck to pick up.
“There’ll be questions to answer,” he says sorrowfully. “You can’t just fire without an order, not in America anyway.”
“Then why did they, Lawson?”
“The military got nervous, I guess. Things got out of hand, but still we have laws, don’t we. You can’t go around shooting people.”