32
EVERY DAY SUMIKO TOLD HER AUNT THAT SHE WAS NOT leaving, and Auntie just said, “Don’t be silly.” Sumiko did not even begin to pack. Also, every day for the next week and a half Sumiko went to search for Frank with Bull’s papers, but Frank never showed up. The corn was already tall, and the bean plants were thriving. She felt as lonely as she used to before camp. One day she actually fell asleep in a bean tunnel. She awoke to see Frank sitting a couple of feet away, just watching her. Of course she had forgotten the papers that day!
“What are you doing?” she said.
“Listening to you snore.”
“Ha-ha.” But he didn’t smile. “I thought you had abandoned me.”
He looked insulted. “Why would I do that?”
“Well, where have you been?” she asked.
“Mourning.”
“Morning?”
“M-o-u-r-n-i-n-g.”
“Oh … who …,” she said. She watched while he coolly blew a bubble and popped it as she waited for an answer. Then his eyes seemed to grow completely black, and very sad.
“My brother Henry,” he finally said. He lay on his back and stared upward. “He was killed in battle … in the Pacific. We already got his remains back.”
“I’m sorry!” If Henry was killed in the Pacific, that meant he was killed by Japanese soldiers. She felt guilty as if his death were her fault; and she felt defensive, in case he really thought it was her fault.
She lay beside him, and together they gazed through the leaves at the sky. Just when she’d decided he wasn’t going to talk about it, he said, “Mohave funerals last all night. They sing the old songs for hours.” He spoke as if dreaming. “We cremate the body.”
“So do we,” Sumiko said. “What are the songs about?”
“About the land and the river and the beginning.” He suddenly turned toward her and touched her face. “How come you’re still here?”
“What do you mean?”
“I thought you said some people were leaving.”
“My aunt is going to get a job in Chicago. I don’t want to go. Auntie may let me stay.”
He didn’t speak for a long time, and she saw a few tears trickling down his face. Then he said, “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For saying it was better for the Indians if more Japanese stayed. I was wrong.”
“But you’ll get more land cultivated.”
“It doesn’t matter. The more people who are free in the world, the better it is for Indians. It’s better for everyone. You should leave. You shouldn’t live here.”
“You live here.”
“My future is here,” he said impatiently. “Yours is somewhere else.”
Tears still fell slowly down his temple and into his hair. He wasn’t crying explosively the way she had after the birthday party. So very long ago she had cried over a stupid birthday party! And he was crying because his brother was dead.
He turned to her. “So you’re leaving, aren’t you?”
“I don’t want to. Anyway, you’re my friend, right? So you should want me to stay.”
“You don’t know much about friendship, do you?”
“I’ve had friends before,” she lied.
“Then you should know I’m trying to help you.”
“I didn’t ask for your help!”
He pushed himself up suddenly. He looked annoyed. “I’m going home.” He scrambled out of the vines, leaving her lying on her back alone.
She sat up. Now she was annoyed. She pushed through the vines. “Frank!” she called out. But he was gone. It didn’t matter; she did not know what she had planned to say to him. She lay back down and tried to figure things out.
She felt annoyed with Frank for wanting her to leave.
She felt terrible about his brother.
She felt responsible for his brother because he was killed by a Japanese soldier.
She felt worried about her cousins.
She felt torn about what she should do. Stay or leave?
33
AT HOME LATER SUMIKO BORROWED MR. MOTO’S shovel and started digging on the edge of her garden to extend it. The dirt was so hard, she made slow progress. She kept working even after the sun rose and the May afternoon grew sweltering. Sometimes her feelings were all jumbled together into one huge mess of sadness and fear, and sometimes her thoughts became orderly and she studied each thought in turn. And sometimes she was only gardening, only thinking of all the flowers she would grow that year.
She planned to cultivate up and down the entire length of the barrack. Maybe Mr. Moto would agree to extend the pond, and maybe they could get a tree somehow. Maybe she could live with Mr. Moto! Or maybe she could hide in the boiler room while the bus left with Auntie.
Her palms grew blistered, and she did not even eat dinner that evening, just worked and worked, though she could scarcely see in the dark.
When she finally stopped, she leaned the shovel against the barrack and sat down among her weedflowers.
If she left the camp, she would not have any friends at all. No more Frank. No more Sachi. No more Mr. Moto. A flock of snowy egrets flew low over the ground beyond. She didn’t know what to do. If she left camp, it would be just exactly as if all the years Jiichan had worked and all the years her parents had worked and all the years her aunt and uncle and cousins had worked were gone; they’d be starting all over again to make their way in a hostile land, just as Jiichan once had. And yet Jiichan had found a type of success. She realized suddenly that he had been a happy man. And a brave one.
She spotted a weed and jumped up and pulled it out. Then she saw another one and yanked that out.
She kept thinking of Jiichan on the ship to America, desperately trying to avoid the ultimate boredom. When he got here, all he’d known was hard work. What kind of freedom was that? Then she thought of what Frank had said, about his future being here and hers being elsewhere. And she realized that it had not been freedom that Jiichan came to America for, but the future. And not his future, but hers—the future of his unborn grandchild. That’s why he had left Japan. He had loved her even before she was born.
“All right, I’ll leave,” Sumiko said suddenly. But there was nobody around to hear her decision.
That evening Sumiko sat in the bean fields for several hours, waiting for Frank to show up so she could tell him good-bye. He never did show up, but the next day she went out there again. And the next and the next and the next.
One day as Mr. Moto was planting new cuttings, she moseyed up to him.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi.” He stopped working.
She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and back again. “Ummm.” Her gaze moved to the best carving in the garden: a samurai so realistic, he looked like Issoumbochi, the miniature man of Japanese fairy tales. You wouldn’t think a man with one eye could carve like that. “See … um … I have a friend.”
Mr. Moto nodded as if he understood.
“Annnd, I was wanting to give my friend a special present before I leave.”
“Ahhh.” Now he definitely understood. “So you’re leaving after all.” He grunted as he lifted himself from the ground and walked over to the samurai. Then he looked thoughtful. “But do you think the garden will be able to win a prize without this?”
Sumiko tried to think of the most truthful answer. “Yes, but it might be harder. That’s why the samurai is so special. But the most important part of a garden is the things that live and die.”
“Oh! A gardening philosopher!” Mr. Moto said, laughing. “Here, then. For your friend.” He placed the samurai gently in her hands. “For my friend, to do with as she wishes.”
Sumiko resisted a ridiculous urge she felt to curtsy. “But I haven’t got anything for you.”
“You’ve helped me create the next first-place garden,” he said.
Frank didn’t show up again that day, and finally she left a box in the tunnel. In the box wer
e the papers from Bull, the samurai statue, and a note telling Frank what time she would be leaving in three days.
Those final days passed quickly. Sumiko talked Auntie into giving her enough money for a candy bar at the canteen, and she gave it to Kenji. So that obligation was taken care of. When the morning of their departure came, the glare from the sun was so intense that Sumiko could hardly keep her eyes open. It was the hottest day so far that year. Mr. Moto helped the family load their things on the bus. But there was no sign of Frank.
At least Sachi was there. “You’re my second-best friend, next to Jeannie,” Sachi said. “I wish you were staying. My parents think your family is crazy to leave.”
“Maybe,” Sumiko said. “I can’t say yet.”
“Someday when I get out, I’m going to dig up some money I buried before camp.”
It was possible. Sumiko knew that some people had buried things. “All I buried was a knife,” she said, thinking about her knife for the first time in months.
“I buried seven thousand dollars.”
And for the first time Sumiko noticed some things in Sachi’s eyes. Sadness. Fear. Loneliness. And then Sumiko knew. That was why Sachi lied.
Miss Kelly walked up suddenly.
“Hi!” Sumiko said, surprised. Miss Kelly just smiled. “Will you be staying, Miss Kelly?”
Miss Kelly nodded. “Until the war ends.” She shook hands with Sumiko.
People began to board the bus. Tak-Tak walked up with his crickets slung over his shoulder. Sumiko started to step up the stairs, but she stopped. “Go on up, Tak-Tak,” she said. “Save me a seat.”
She walked back to Mr. Moto. “Do you know you have to get new cheesecloth every year?”
“Yes, I’ve already ordered more.”
“Oh. Okay,” she said. She turned to go, then paused and turned back to Mr. Moto. “Well, do you remember how to collect the seeds? Because my uncle developed that strain of stock, and if you don’t save the seeds, the strain will die out and my uncle’s work will be wasted. I’ve brought some of the seeds with me, but you have to keep it going too.” She believed these seeds could literally be the future of stock in America. That sounded conceited, but she decided she had to say it out loud. “Those seeds may be the future of stock in America!”
He nodded, smiling a bit. “I remember everything you’ve told me. I had the best teacher in the world.” He patted her head fondly.
“I guess that’s it, then,” she said. He stuck out his hand and shook hers in that aggressive way he had. Suddenly he seemed to have a tear in his eye, and he hugged her. “I always wanted a daughter!” he said.
She took a last good look at the camp, at the violet-tinged mountains in the distance, and at the darkness moving quickly toward camp. A dust storm. Then she saw something else on the horizon, a small form growing larger, kind of like when she had arrived and she had seen the man on a horse. Even before she could actually make out what it was, she knew: It was a boy on a bicycle. She ran toward the bicycle.
The bus driver called out, “Hey, where you going?”
“Just a second!” she called back.
Several people hollered out at her to hurry. “Come on. Well miss the train in Parker!” one woman called.
The driver yelled, “Get on the bus or well leave without you.” Sumiko knew that wasn’t true and kept running toward Frank.
When Frank rode up, he was exhausted. He dropped his bicycle and hurried over. “Sorry I’m late,” he said. “I brought you something. It belonged to my mother. She said I could give it to you.” It was a bracelet, silver and lacy. He put it on her gently, as if her wrist were something precious like a baby bird or a newborn pup.
“I can still stay,” she said, but even as she said it she knew she couldn’t stay and she knew he didn’t want her to. He looked gaunt and sad.
“I won’t have time anymore to see you, anyway.” His voice broke momentarily. “I’m the man of the house for now.”
He slipped a scrap of paper into one of her hands. “Here’s my address. If you write me, I’ll try to write back.”
“I’ll write you!”
He seemed older and much lonelier than he had just a few weeks ago. He did not seem like a young boy anymore.
“All right, that’s it!” called the bus driver. He made as if to close the door.
Frank smiled, but weakly. “Bye, Weedflower.”
She threw her arms around his neck, and they hugged tightly.
Auntie and Tak-Tak started calling to her from the windows.
She rushed onto the bus but stopped on the steps to shout. “Hurry or you’ll get caught in the dust storm!”
Frank nodded. She ran to the seat in front of Auntie and watched him from her window. He wasn’t hurrying! She opened the window and shouted, “Hurry!”
As the bus drove off she could see him waiting with his bicycle, staring at her. The bus picked up speed. She leaned far out her window, calling, “Hurry! Hurry!” She screamed, “Hurry!”
The dust descended on the bus, and she needed to close her window. After a short time the tires got stuck and the bus stopped. She looked back toward the camp, half hidden by the swirls of dust. The world outside seemed drained of color, like a brown-and-white photograph. For a moment there was a hole in the swirls, and she thought she saw Frank huddled under a blanket. He looked so small.
She opened up the paper he’d handed her. It was damp with her perspiration, but she could still read it.
He did have an Indian name that just his family called him. The name was Huulas; which meant “lightning.” His last name was Butler.
She started crying. “He didn’t hurry,’ she said.
Auntie reached over the seat to pat her shoulder. “He’ll be fine,” Auntie said.
“He won’t.”
“He’s a smart boy.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he came to see my little silly.” Sumiko was so surprised to hear Auntie call her “my little silly” in an affectionate tone that she stopped crying for a moment. Auntie did not like to show affection. Auntie suddenly blurted; “Thank you for the six dollars you set on the table for Uncle and Jiichan!” Sumiko was flabbergasted—she’d given the money so long ago. Then the moment passed, and Auntie settled back and sat stiffly in her seat. Sumiko leaned her nose against the window.
“I’m going to write Frank and Bull once a week,” said Sumiko. “I have to write to Frank, Bull, Ichiro, Jiichan, and Uncle. And Mr. Moto. Four relatives, two friends.” She thought about Sachi and her lying ways. “And Sachi. Even if she lies, she’s my friend.” The bus lurched forward suddenly. Sumiko kept watching for another opening in the storm, but none came. When the storm finally died down, she was too far from the camp to see anything—except for a lot of bright green, growing in the middle of the desert.
This is what it felt like to be leaving camp:
Like you didn’t know if people would let you into their grocery store.
Like you were a pioneer in the country you were born in.
Like you didn’t know if you would ever see your cousins again.
Like you had lost a friend.
Like maybe you might own a flower shop … someday.
End Note
THE 442ND REGIMENTAL COMBAT TEAM, COMPOSED mostly of Japanese Americans, went on to become one of the most decorated combat units in American history. They’re a legend among Japanese Americans today In what were known as reverse AWOLs, wounded 442nd soldiers began to escape from hospitals to return to combat. While many of their families remained imprisoned, the members of the 442nd suffered what many experts agree was a 300 percent casualty rate.
During World War II, thousands of Indians left their reservations for the first time to serve in the armed forces or work at war-related jobs. It was the biggest single-event exodus from tribal lands in American history. According to John Collier, then Commissioner of Indian Affairs, if all Americans had volunteered for the military at the s
ame rate as American Indians, there would have been no need for the Selective Service.
At war’s end, as the last Nikkei internees were vacating Poston, Hopi from another reservation began moving into the barracks. Japanese and Hopi lived together briefly in the camp. Unused barracks were sold locally for fifty dollars apiece, mostly for residents of the reservation to use for building themselves better homes. Arizona granted Native Americans the right to vote in 1948.
Today the Poston area is rich farmland.
Cynthia Kadohata, Weedflower
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