"Mr. Ishida's Bookstore" by timschochet- starts post #181 (1 Viewer)

[timschochet]

Chapter Eleven

That winter, during the long hours in which I lingered inside the apartment building, terrified to leave, Mr. Ishida taught me calligraphy and the art of writing Japanese poetry.

“It is a dying occupation, Mariko-chan” he explained to me when we started. “In the days when I was a child, there were professional calligraphers who were paid by the word. Even after we as a people adopted the mass printing techniques of the gai-jin, it was still considered a great honor to receive a message in this manner. Did you know the Emperor only reads letters that have been handwritten? It is true. But it is difficult to master, and these days there are fewer and fewer who know. And yet it is not something I would want forgotten. There is something very personal about poetry done by hand, Mariko-chan. Some people say it is the poetry kami that will always appear in calligraphy but never on the printed page. In any event, it is a directness that cannot be achieved otherwise. So I would like to teach you what little I know of it.”

Kami were one’s personal gods in the Shinto tradition. A rock, a tree or even a book had it’s own kami. I don’t know how much Mr. Ishida believed in this, he was nominally a Buddhist. But he enjoyed the conceit. And so I learned how to write properly. It took much practice, because I had a clumsy hand. Mr. Ishida was a stern taskmaster, in some ways as hard a teacher as sensei. But he was also patient, and in time, I learned to be at least competent.

The thought of my sensei made me wonder what had become of him. I had not seen my Japanese teacher since the school had closed down; I knew that he lived in an apartment building a few blocks away. I also had not seen Todd or any of the other students since that day on the trolley. Were they all right?

It was a closed world we were in. Few people left the building. It was like a sort of limbo, everyone was scared to move. We read the newspapers, and the talk of relocation grew more and more forceful. President Roosevelt had appointed a General DeWitt to handle all affairs regarding Japanese currently residing in California. This included foreigners, as well as the Nisei, and those who had been born in Japan but were now American citizens. We were all grouped together according to General DeWitt. The photograph in the newspaper showed an old man with a thin lined face, and a mouth in a tight line that betrayed little mercy. He made all kinds of comments about dealing with the “internal threat”; as yet, no action had been taken.

Mother had recovered, but she seemed morose. She took care of baby Richard and did little else. She acted defeated and depressed. Sometimes she would snap at me over nothing, only to hug me as tightly as she could. I felt sorry for her, but had no idea how to help her.

On the other hand, my grandmother seemed serene and not a little bit disdainful of my mother. Now that Grandfather had returned, she appeared to have no worries. Whatever happened to us, the family would be together, and what else was there? Like Mr. Ishida, my grandmother had never expected nor sought equality with white Americans, and she seemed the least surprised of any of us by our mistreatment now. She was a tough old woman, and I thought she would have little trouble surviving whatever was to happen.

My father was harried as usual. He spent his time trying to collect rents which were no longer being paid, and complaining to Grandfather that if this continued they would be unable to pay the mortgage. Grandfather promised to contact the bank. Father also spent time badgering Uncle Tommy, who seemed to lay around all day, smoking cigarettes and listening to Jazz music on records and radio. Tommy ignored Father’s jibes, as he seemed to ignore everyone. He was indifferent to the news and everything else that was happening around us.

Of course, Grandfather was the busiest of anyone I knew. He spent his time writing letters to the newspapers on behalf of his Japanese-American Friendship Society, which was now effectively a defunct organization, all of its funds dried up. Still, my grandfather persisted. The letters all basically contained the same message: that the Japanese of Los Angeles were as patriotic as anyone else; that they could make great contributions to the war effort, and that we as a people were being treated unjustly, which was not in the grand American tradition.

None of the letters were ever published. The Los Angeles Times sent a note back that they would not print what was termed, “seditious materials”. After this initial reply, all of Grandfather’s further letters were returned unopened. Then he sent letters to other newspapers, all with the same result.

Grandfather also wrote to the FBI on behalf of Mr. Ishida. He asked repeatedly for the books to be returned, and for permission for the bookseller to reopen his shop. Again, there was no response, at least at first.

When my grandfather was not engaged in letter writing or otherwise occupied, he spent his time playing chess with Mr. Ishida. Both old men were very adept, and their games would end in draws more often than not. I would watch these matches, fascinated, not only for the chess but because of the endless debate that went on between the two men.

It was a time of Japanese triumph, and Mr. Ishida did not need to rely on the Tokio for the news about victories: it was everywhere. Hong Kong had fallen. Singapore was on the brink of surrendering. The Japanese Navy had won a decisive victory against American and British battleships in the South Pacific. Wake Island had surrendered, despite a ferocious defense by American marines. And the worst news of all for the U.S.A. came from the Philippines, where General MacArthur’s forces had retreated from Manila to the Bataan peninsula, there to make a final but hopeless defense.

“At first, I believed the war would last a long time,” Mr. Ishida confided to us during one of the chess matches. “Now, I don’t think so. Everywhere, we are victorious. It won’t be long before the Americans seek some sort of accommodation. A few weeks, maybe more? Then things will be normal here again, you’ll see.”

My grandfather shook his head. “They’re winning victories, old friend, because they have greater numbers in the Pacific for the time being. But do you really suppose that will last? You have no idea of the American industrial capacity. It is gigantic, I tell you. Japan has nothing compared to it. Soon all of the battleships lost will be replaced, and many more besides. And the Americans will take it all back. To me it is such a great tragedy! So many young men will die on both sides. And in the end, it will all have been for nothing.”

And so the argument would continue. Mr. Ishida was ever the optimist about Japanese chances for victory, while Grandfather invariably took the opposite position. But it was ironic that whenever they discussed the fate of our own future here in California, they again took opposite sides.

Here, it was my grandfather who was the optimist: “We have been treated badly so far, yes, but that is only to be expected. Soon, things will normalize, and we won’t need your Japanese victories for that. They will realize that we are patriots, and we can contribute to the war effort. All this talk about relocation will dissipate, Mary here will be able to return to school, and all of the other children, as well.”

Mr. Ishida would laugh at these comments and shake his head. “You are the naïve one, my friend. With every victory, they will hate us here more. Soon it will get worse, much worse, and we had better be prepared as best we can. You should pray to your Christian God for the Emperor’s forces to win quickly, that’s the only way we here can survive.”

A few weeks into January, a letter from the FBI finally arrived, addressed to Mr. Ishida. He gave it to Grandfather to read, and his face remained impassive as he learned the fate of his book collection.

…upon a careful examination of the materials, nothing of a seditious nature was found, and therefore the return of all of your books and manuscripts was authorized on December 27, 1941…

…however, due to a series of bureaucratic errors, all materials including books and manuscripts were destroyed, and can therefore not be returned. We regret the inconvenience, but ask that you appreciate that all of these actions are being taken during wartime conditions, and therefore, no recompense is available…

When my grandfather finished reading, Mr. Ishida actually smiled. He took the paper from his friend and tore it up. “Well,” he said, “at least I have the hundred books, thanks to you. I’m very tired; if you will excuse me…”

Mr. Ishida went to his apartment, and refused all visitors. All calligraphy lessons and chess games stopped. In fact, I did not see the bookseller for several weeks.

 

[timschochet]

Chapter Twelve

The California Los Angeles Bank had been used by my grandfather exclusively since its inception at 1923. He kept several accounts at CLA, as it was known, and through his influence, it became a favorite among members of the Little Tokyo community. CLA had staggered during the first few years of the Depression, but now it was on the upswing again, Western Shipping being one of its main clients (again, thanks to Grandfather.)

In early March, with very little revenue coming in, my grandfather contacted the bank. He was no longer able to pay the mortgages out of cash flow, but would have to use his savings, which would be quickly depleted. Grandfather requested an extension on the payments, or better yet, a new set of loans which would see us through these bad times.

He was confident he would get it. The three apartment buildings Grandfather owned had an appraised value of $150,000 each, and that was bound to go up given the wartime boom everyone was predicting. The land the buildings were on, in the heart of downtown Los Angeles, was priceless and could not be reproduced. Grandfather’s current mortgages totaled no more than $60,000.00, so there was tons of equity. Moreover, this was one case where he was not at all concerned about prejudice against Japanese. “For bankers,” my grandfather would tell us often, “there is only one color: green.”

He was therefore pleased and excited when we received a phone call from the bank, saying that a Mr. Willard Thompson, vice-president of the loan department, would come to our building to visit us personally. The fact that no one had ever met or even heard of Mr. Thompson was of no concern; the bank was dealing with a vast shuffle of employees, as several executives had either volunteered for the war effort or received their draft notices. My grandfather took the news that the banker was coming to us as a sure sign of his willingness to do business.

My father was not so sure. He was aware of Uncle Prescott’s private visit to my grandfather a few weeks back, and he associated this visit with the same idea: whites were embarrassed to meet publicly with Japanese. For my Grandfather to visit the CLA headquarters on Grand Street would have raised all sorts of questions that the bank could not afford. My grandfather dismissed this idea by saying to Father, “You are nearly as suspicious as Mr. Ishida!”

Once again, I sensed this would be an important meeting, and since I was bored out of my mind with being shut in the apartment building all day every day, I prepared to hide in the closet again. But it turned out not to be necessary this time. My grandfather surprised everyone by suggesting I be present along with my father, and no one seemed to object to this.

“Listen, Mary,” Grandfather told me by way of explanation, “You are the smartest member of this family next to myself, and that is the simple truth. Someday I will be gone, and you might as well know about our affairs right now, so you can aid your father in their management.”

He did not add, but I knew, that he did not trust Uncle Tommy or my mother to be responsible for the family fortunes. Also, while he did rely on Father, Grandfather considered him unimaginative and perhaps too conservative. He was counting on me to take over some day, I realized! I was only eleven, but I could feel the weight of responsibility being thrown about my shoulders. But I told him I was determined to learn what I could.

Mr. Thompson was a short little man with thinning black hair and a slim mustache. He wore a neat black suit, and I noticed that his hands were beautifully manicured. He appeared ill at ease and devoid of small talk, and got right to the point.

“I’ve reviewed your request for a new loan, and I’m afraid the bank’s response is negative at this time,” he explained. “With the lack of income you’re currently receiving, a larger loan would only exacerbate the problems with your situation.”

My father and grandfather stared at the banker, and then each other. “It’s just temporary, of course,” my father replied. “You obviously are aware that Pearl Harbor has changed everything for our community here. Things have come to a total halt; no one is working. That is why we are not receiving income, because no one is able to pay rent. But we see the situation improving over the next few months and if the bank would just bear with us-”

“I don’t share your optimism,” Mr. Thompson cut in, and I could tell that underneath his smooth demeanor, here was a tough customer, indeed. “I seriously doubt that for the duration of the war at least, the condition of affairs for Japanese-Americans will improve at all. In fact, I have some information which causes me to believe, I daresay, that it will get much worse. But I’ll get to that in a moment. First things first. It would be irresponsible of us to give you a loan at this time, and therefore we must say no. And I can assure you, that is our final, irrevocable decision.”

“Well, there are other banks in town,” my father began hotly, but Grandfather put his hand on Father’s arm. “Mr. Thompson,” my grandfather asked, “I am quite certain you did not come all this way and visit us in our apartment simply to turn us down. You could have done so easily, by phone or letter, and avoided an unpleasant confrontation. So, I must presume you have something else in mind. Kindly tell us what it is?”

Mr. Thompson nodded. He stared at me pointedly, and my grandfather said, “I have invited Mary because, to be frank, she is the smartest one in my family. Be assured she has a closed mouth.”

The small banker studied me for a moment longer, then nodded to himself. “To the matter at hand,” he said. “What I must tell you now is unpleasant news, but it must be said. I will leave it up to you to decide whether or not it will be repeated. That is none of my affair, or concern.”

My heart was pounding in my chest with fear as Grandfather nodded for the man to continue. Somehow I knew that what he was about to say would be very bad, indeed.

Mr. Thompson continued: “I have it on the utmost authority that General De Witt will order the resettlement of all persons of Japanese descent in the State of California to resettlement camps in outlying areas, for the duration of the war. The public announcement will be made in ten days from now.”

So there it was, what we had all feared for so long. “Where?” Grandfather asked, his face impassive. “Where will we be moved to? How will it be done?”

The banker shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t have any of the details. You’ll know soon enough, I suppose. All I know is that it will happen.”

“Rumors!” my father sneered. “We’ve heard them for months. I don’t believe it. Such a thing is unconstitutional. President Roosevelt would have to be involved- it’s all lies.”

Mr. Thompson held up a smooth white palm. “About the legality or unconstitutionality, I venture no opinion. About the President, I can tell you this: three days ago, President Roosevelt signed Executive order 9066, which gives General DeWitt total authority to do as he sees fit in these affairs. Now the President is out of it; everything’s up to the General. And the orders for the relocation have already gone out, as I say.”

“How do you know all this?” my grandfather asked.

“It’s my duty to protect the bank,” the small man explained. “Besides yourself, sir, we have hundreds of accounts with members of your community. And other properties are involved. I have to look after CLA’s investments. I can assure you, everything I say is absolutely true.”

Father continued to look skeptical, but to my surprise Grandfather, who had always sworn up and down that such a thing could never happen in this country, nodded slowly. “All right, I believe you,” he said simply. “What is your motive for telling us this?”

With those few words of my grandfather’s, I suddenly realized that it was all true, we were going to be “relocated”. In my mind, I saw lines of buses taking all of us to some shadowy place, to live in darkness. I could not help shuddering. Father stared at me with annoyance, but Grandfather wrapped his arm about me.

Mr. Thompson seemed oblivious to all this. The man seemed like a calculator, with no emotion whatsoever.

“Well of course,” he said, “it’s a question of what will happen to your properties once you have gone. We have looked into this issue very carefully, of course, but the problem is that the government has made no decisions yet. On the one hand, there is the possibility that they will take no action at all, in which case being unable to collect the mortgage payments from you, we would simply be forced to call in our loans.”

“And you would take over ownership of the properties,” Grandfather finished.

“Well, yes, of course that would be terribly unfair for you, but we would have little choice, and you realize it would be a boon for the bank. But frankly speaking, I can’t count on this happening. Another possibility is that the government will put a halt on collecting all mortgages until this war is over. That would be to your benefit, but it would be terrible for the bank, and we would fight such a decision. But the most likely possibility is that the government will simply seize all properties owned by Japanese-Americans, and if that happens, then we’re all losers, are we not?”

I was barely listening to what the man was saying. We were all going to be forced to leave our homes, and here was this little banker prattling on and on about whom was going to own the buildings and who was going to pay the mortgages. At that moment, I didn’t care about any of it. I stopped paying attention all together and concentrated on my family. My father wasn’t really concentrating either, I could tell. His mind was lost in thought as he also was contemplating having to leave Los Angeles. But Grandfather was completely focused. It suddenly occurred to me he had foreseen this long ago, despite his words to us to the contrary. Then Mr. Thompson said something about a “fourth possibility”, and I began to listen again.

“It is really the only solution that would make sense to both of us, Mr. Nakamura,” the banker explained. “Neither of us can afford the risk of having the government seize the properties. Therefore, the answer is for CLA to purchase the buildings from you.”

“How much?” Grandfather asked; obviously, he had foreseen this as well.

The banker nodded. “Good,” he said, “Now we can get down to business. I am prepared to make a most generous offer to you on behalf of the bank. First, we’ll of course retire your existing loans. Then we’ll pay you an additional $120,000 total for the three buildings. You could keep this in our bank, and we’ll make sure you have as much funds as you need when you are sent to-er- wherever it is you are going.”

It was very easy to do the math in my head. The current mortgages totaled $60,000; by retiring these, the total offer was therefore $180,000. Or $60,000 each for three buildings valued at $150,000 each. In essence, the bank was attempting to get possession of the buildings for nothing.

I could tell my father and grandfather realized it, too. “That’s generous?” my father stormed. “That’s highway robbery. Those buildings must be worth a half a million dollars all together. And that’s before a property boom which is sure to come now with wartime!”

Again, Mr. Thompson nodded. “Yes, the properties are most likely valued higher. But we’re all taking a gamble here, Mr.Nakamura. I owe it to the stockholders to be as frugal as I can in making any offer to you. And the property values may decrease once you’re gone; who knows? It is a risk, so I must act accordingly. But the real gamble is yours. You may refuse this offer, but if General De Witt decides to seize your properties, you’ll have lost everything without recompense. Can you really afford that risk?”

“Mr. Thompson,” my grandfather said with quiet dignity, “I have used your bank and no other for the past three decades. I have always been treated well there, and because of that, I have recommended your services to other members of my community. It has been a fruitful relationship for both of us.”

He paused, seeming to struggle to find the words. “But I must tell you now that I find your actions this day to be reprehensible. I don’t think you care about who will pay the mortgage; that’s an excuse. And I don’t think you are concerned whether or not the property is seized. If it was seized, you would simply sue the government for the amount of your mortgage, and you would collect it, too. And you certainly do not believe for one moment that property values will decrease.”

I could hear the rising emotion in my grandfather’s voice. All of the indignation that he had kept hidden from the FBI men, and from Uncle Prescott, he was now willing to let loose on this little banker.

“What you want, Mr. Thompson, is to use this tragedy to rob us of our properties. You offer us less than one third of their current value, and you know that value will only increase. That is thievery, sir, and you should be ashamed.”

To my surprise, the banker showed no visible reaction to this statement, not even a hint of nervousness or irritation. Quite calmly he replied, “I’ve never met you before, Mr. Nakamura, but I’ve been informed of both your eloquence and your tendency to see matters through an emotional lens. Now I understand what they meant. So let me respond by telling you that there is much truth in what you have said, although you reach conclusions which I find to be incorrect.

“I dispute that the offer I made to you is less than one third of the value of the properties. Were this a normal transaction, I would order an independent appraisal, so that we could ascertain the truth of this matter. But that could take weeks, and we don’t have the time to do so.

“But you are correct that I am offering less than market value. I am a banker, Mr. Nakamura, and I could not do otherwise and be faithful to my profession. It’s a hard fact of life that banks take advantage of situations like these. Banks that don’t will not stay in business very long. And I would remind you that this same institution which you are accusing of thievery has been involved in providing most of the business loans in your community.”

He paused expectantly. For a long moment, no one said anything. Then the banker added, “But I’ll tell you what I will do, in the interest of goodwill and reaching an agreeable solution. I’ll raise my offer to $50,000 per property. If you add that to the $60,000 mortgage, that’s a total of $210,000 dollars. That’s really a very good offer. In any case, it represents the absolute limit or my resources.”

Another pause. Then Grandfather said, “We’ll have to consider it.”

“Good,” Mr. Thompson said, standing. “I’ll give you three days. After that, time will run out, and we’ll have to seek other solutions. Rest assured that if we do proceed with this sale, we will not evict any of the current tenants; we’ll leave them alone until the government steps in.”

As he reached the door, the banker turned to us and added, “Remember that neither I nor the bank had anything to do with the government’s decision. Have a good day.”

When he was gone, we stared at each other in further silence. Then my father said heavily, “Well, I don’t believe all that about relocation. It’s just more rumors. We would have heard something official; we can discount that.”

“Don’t be a fool,” Grandfather snapped; it was one of the few times I had ever seen him lose his temper. “Do you think the man would come here and make us this offer if he wasn’t sure of what he was saying? Of course it’s true! He would know we would have the means to discover the truth for ourselves before we sold the properties.”

“But grandfather,” I said, suddenly full of hope that Father was right, “Why wouldn’t Mr. Thompson make it up in order to force us to sell?”

“That kind of man doesn’t make things up, Mary,” he replied. “I think we have to accept the fact that relocation will happen, and try to prepare ourselves the best we can. About the rest of it, the government seizing the properties, I’m not sure.”

“I don’t understand you,” Father said. “How can we prepare for something like relocation? Even if it’s true, we don’t know when or how it will happen.”

“We’ll know shortly,” Grandfather answered. “If the government means to go through with it, they’ll need the cooperation of community leaders to calm people down. Which means they will be contacting me, I expect.” He sighed heavily. “That is not something I am looking forward to. But meanwhile, we need to make some decisions. Should we accept this man’s offer, yes or no?”

Father looked amazed. “But you said yourself it was robbery!”

“It is, but he might be right. The properties may be seized. Or we may be unable to pay the mortgages. Unfortunately, I’m not sure we have much choice. The man is right, we will need money where we are headed. How else are we to get it?”

They continued to talk for another hour. Father kept arguing to ignore the banker, that they could go to other banks, that there was little chance of relocation actually happening. Grandfather listened, but ceased disagreeing after awhile. He seemed withdrawn, lost in thought. I knew he was going to accept the banker’s offer. And that meant that all he had built up over a lifetime of work would be lost.

“Shigata ga nai” he kept saying over and over. “It cannot be helped.”

All I could wonder about was how much time we had left.

 

[bostonfred]

I admire guys like tim who don't give Ishida bout criticism. They just keep on keepin on.

 

[timschochet]

Chapter Thirteen

On the morning after the relocation notices were posted, Mr. Ishida killed himself. He did this by swallowing poison, and they discovered him a day later in his bedroom. At first it was thought that he was just asleep. Then the awful truth was known.

The news passed almost unnoticed among us. Everyone was busy that day. We had twenty-four hours left to pack everything we wanted to bring, two suitcases per body. Anything that couldn’t fit would have to be left behind, and in all probability, lost forever. How to choose from a lifetime of memories? Was there room for photographs, books, records? Would we need cooking and cleaning utensils where we were going? No one knew. No one even knew where we were going.

Grandfather was very busy trying to keep our spirits up, and keep us all organized. He had sold the buildings to CLA, and he had set up a banking system with some of the proceeds so that those in the most need could receive emergency funds. As he had predicted, General De Witt’s people had met with him and other leaders, in order to gain quick obedience and action from the Japanese community. Apparently the General feared an ugly revolt when we were sent away. He needn’t have worried. Aside from a few rebellious mutterings, we were docile towards our fate.

Grandfather spoke to as many crowds as he could. “We will be safe,” he told them. “Safer than here, as we will be far away from the danger of mobs who might attack us if the Japanese continue to win battles. There will be food where we are going, and proper sanitation. We’ll be able to set up schools, and there will be hospitals nearby for the sick. And very soon we will return to our homes.”

The truth was, my grandfather did not know if any of this was true. The government wanted his cooperation, but they would not confide in him where the Japanese would be sent, and what conditions there were. This information was “top secret” and could only be revealed when it took place. For now, all we knew for certain was that in two days we were being forced to board buses that would transport us to the Santa Anita racetrack, where temporary shelters had been provided. We would wait there until trains came to take us to our final destination, wherever that was.

“But why tell everyone this?” I asked him when he revealed all of this to me privately. “Why are you lying to them?”

“I’m not lying,” he replied calmly. “I believe I’m telling them the truth. I certainly hope so, Mary. But what purpose would it serve me to say, I don’t know what’s going to happen? You see how nervous our people are. Anything to make them feel better about what’s happening to them is well worth it.”

There were supposed to be two suitcases for me, but my parents were mixing everything up, and my mother had taken charge in deciding what would go with us. The news of relocation had seemed to snap Mother awake from her lethargy. She seemed active, cheerful, as optimistic as Grandfather. Mother had been resilient her entire life, and when she suffered failures she would always rebound. My father acted relieved that my mother had once again taken responsibility for the family.

Grandmother seemed the same as she had been ever since Grandfather had returned from the FBI headquarters. She was content that the family was together, and whatever else happened made no difference. But she was worried as we all were about Uncle Tommy, because he was the one who had been altered the most by the notices.

Prior to the war, Tommy had been the most happy go lucky of all of us. Even that time he had been left out of the swing band, he had maintained a cheerful if detached attitude. After Pearl Harbor, he did little except smoke cigarettes and listen to music. While this annoyed my father, my grandparents didn’t seem to mind.

But from the moment we first heard the news about internment, Uncle Tommy’s attitude had changed. He was angry all the time now, and he scared me.

“They have no right to do this,” he would say to whoever would listen. “They have no right at all. We’re Americans, too, aren’t we? Or has that been a lie all along? If I’m not an American, why should I obey their laws and just accept what they say? If they believe I’m their enemy, then that’s just what I’ll become.”

No one was sure what this language meant, but it wasn’t good, that much we knew. Other young men Tommy’s age were seen with him muttering together in hallways. But as of yet they showed no signs of defiance other than words.

It was Grandfather, of course, who told me about Mr. Ishida. I hadn’t seen the bookseller much in the past few weeks since he had become so reclusive, but the news still rocked me to my core. I ran to my room and cried for what must have been hours, while Mother found time to hold and comfort me. Finally, Grandfather asked to come in; he told me that Mr. Ishida had left a sealed envelope for me. This news somehow was frightening.

“Have you opened it?” I whispered.

“No, of course not, Mary, the letter was addressed to you. But I am very curious as to its contents.” He handed the envelope to me.

Inside was a single page letter. Slowly, with what felt like the greatest reluctance of my life, I began to read:

Dear Mariko,

I have in me the heritage of my forebears. My Samurai ancestors died bravely, and when they were ordered to, slit their bellies open as a sign of loyalty to their Daimyos (feudal lords) and to Japan. My grandfather was hung for killing a gaijin, but this also was a form of seppuku (suicide). And my father killed himself in the old fashioned method, out of shame of dishonor. The act of choosing death instead of waiting for its inevitable arrival is in my blood. And though I myself am not brave enough to die as my ancestors did, I am brave enough to die. And I have decided to do so.

I tell you this not to shock or horrify you, but so that you might come to accept the truth about me. I have never been a happy man, Mariko, but I was raised to believe that happiness was nothing of consequence compared with duty. I came to America because I could no longer fulfill my duty to my homeland, and this was the tragedy of my life.

There was a time, even after the accident which prevented me from being a whole man, that I thought I could find a small bit of happiness for myself. I know that you have heard the story of my wife from Mrs. Myagi; she never would have told you that tale without first obtaining my permission to do so .And so you know how, before we were to be married, my bride leaped to her death into icy cold waters. I could withstand the death of my father, but not of this woman whom I never met. When I learned all those years ago that she had killed herself, and the reason why, I was ready to die then too, and I have been prepared ever since.

That I have not done so up to this moment is a testament to my own cowardice. As the years passed, I would say to myself, “Wait and see”, but nothing got better. The books were important, and I cherished them, but they were not enough to give me peace. And then you came along.

It is no exaggeration to suggest, Mariko-chan, that the months we have spent time together were the best of my existence. That a little girl could provide so much contentment to an old man was something I would have scoffed at hearing from anyone else. But, ironically, it has been your presence that forced me to finally do what I knew I eventually would all these years.

Because I do not have the strength to witness what will become of you now. Your cherished grandfather believes all will be well; I never have. Well, that debate is over. Since the day I was informed my books were taken away, I knew that the time had come. I will not be forced by people I do not respect to go where they tell me to. This is my answer to them.

I understand, Mariko, that you will not know what to make of this letter, anymore than you know what to make of me. That is all right, there are things you still are not aware of. But you shall be.

So I close this letter and my life with two instructions: first, the box of books that you and I preserved is in safekeeping with my friend Mr. Watanabe; you know him, he lives on the second floor. Those books are yours. Find a way to hide them, or take them with you wherever you are going, if you can. They were the product of my life’s work; do not lose them, I beg you. When you are free, cherish them as I would have. I trust in you.

Second, tell your grandfather the time has come to tell you the truth about him and me. If you tell him this, he will do so. He will be reluctant, but he will do so. It must come from him.

Please do not think ill of me. You are braver than I ever was.

Sayonara

Mr. Ishida was right, I did not understand this letter, anymore than I understood him. Such an odd, complex man. It was beyond me to comprehend why anyone would ever kill himself. Yet Mr. Ishida’s whole life seemed to be filled with suicides. It was all very sad. And though he had been such a friend, and I cared for him so, I did not realize he had been so attached to me. I wanted to cry all over again. Instead, I handed the letter to my grandfather and urged him to read it. He sat down and did so.

Grandfather’s face turned white as he read the letter. Finally he was finished, and he stared at me for a long moment. In his lined, wrinkled face I saw emotion I had never seen before. He said, “I did not know that you were aware of what happened to Mr. Ishida’s wife. I remember you asking me about that. Mrs. Myagi finally told you?”

I nodded. “I asked her, I’m sorry. I was so curious.”

He seemed lost in thought. He said, “We never talked about that, and we talked about everything, he and I. We could never discuss that, though, because the guilt would be too strong between us. I could not help but feel responsible…”

“Responsible?” I said, startled. “How were you responsible? Whatever did you have to do with it?”

“I had nothing to do with it,” he said. “I did not know that woman; I never met her. I never even heard what happened until many months later.”

“But then why-”

“Not now, Mary. I know he asked me to tell you all about us, so I suppose I’ll have to, but not now. That is a long tale, and there is simply no time. The question we must deal with now, is what are we to do with those books? Mr. Watanabe won’t want to keep them now, and we simply don’t have the room to take them with us. But we can’t leave them behind, either. The authorities might find them and that could get us all into trouble. I will have to think about this.”

In the end, of course, he solved the problem. My grandfather had many Caucasian friends even now. One of them was a man named Sidney Greenberg, who ran the Los Angeles offices of the American Civil Liberties Union. Sidney was a labor lawyer who had spent his life fighting for social concerns; he had joined Grandfather in several battles on behalf of Japanese farmers. Sidney also worked on behalf of Latinos, Blacks, and migrants. He was fighting a never ending battle against the authorities, who were suspicious of him because he had in his youth belonged to the IWW and the Socialist party.(It was rumored that he secretly belonged to the Communist party as well, but I did not know the truth of this.)

After the relocation orders were issued, the ACLU filed a lawsuit on behalf of one of Grandfather’s acquaintances, Robert Hashimoto. We knew, however, that this suit might take years to get though the courts, and in the meantime the relocation would not be stopped. Still, the ACLU stood up for us when no one else would.

Grandfather found time during those rushed days to meet with Sidney, and he agreed to take possession of the books during the duration of the war, after which they would be returned to me. Sidney Greenberg was not a man who cared about wealth or possessions, and so we knew he could be trusted. This was a great relief to me; I felt like I was at least fulfilling what Mr. Ishida wanted: the books would be safe.

 

[timschochet]

Chapter Fourteen

The “temporary shelters” at the Santa Anita Racetrack turned out to be horse stalls. There, under guard by armed Army privates, several thousand people huddled and shivered in the cold for three days while we waited for the trains to arrived. My grandfather protested loudly at our mistreatment; there were not enough bathrooms or food for us, and it was freezing at night. There was not enough room to sleep, and I had trouble sleeping anyway what with all the babies crying and general misery. Of course Grandfather got nowhere with the authorities; they seemed confused by their orders, and not sure how to handle us.

But it was during that three day nightmare that I finally learned the truth about my grandfather and Mr. Ishida. Grandfather had found a little corner outside one of the stalls, where, amazingly enough in all that humanity, he could be alone for a few moments. In the middle of the second night, after making sure my grandmother was asleep, I saw him leave her, and I followed him to his hiding place. He lit up a cigarette before he noticed me, and grinned. I was astonished; I had never seen his smoke before.

“Keep your voice down,” he whispered. “There are plenty of people still awake at this hour, and I would not have our privacy disturbed.” He motioned to a soft place on the ground beside him, and we sat down together. Grandfather had brought a blanket with him, and now he wrapped it around us. However, I was still cold. I had been cold for days now, and I wondered if I would ever be warm again.

I asked him about the cigarette. “I used to smoke them more often years ago,” he admitted. “Now of late, I’m returning to it. Tommy is of course a constant smoker, so I cadged some off of him. A bad habit, one you shouldn’t start.”

“How long will we be here, and where are we going?”

He ground out the cigarette and replied, “I don’t really know. I can’t imagine it will be more than a day or two, but they’re not very well organized, are they? I don’t think the fact we are in horse stalls is on purpose; I think these people just had no plan of action. And as to where we are going…” he hesitated.

Suddenly I was angry with him. I remembered how Mr. Ishida always considered my grandfather to be naïve, and now I agreed with the bookseller. “How can you say it’s not on purpose?” I demanded, my voice rising in spite of itself.

“Keep your voice down,” he said, “You promised.”

“How can you say it’s not on purpose?” I whispered. “Uncle Tommy says everything that is being done to us is a deliberate slight. He says that neither German-Americans or Italian-Americans are being relocated like this, and if they were, they would not be kept in horse stalls.”

“Your uncle has become very opinionated lately,” he replied. “Well, I can’t disagree that we were singled out, that much is true. And that is certainly bad enough. But Mary, there will always be people who when being wronged will try to expand that wrong to make matters seem even worse than they are. Tommy has not had direct dealings with the authorities, and neither have you. I have, and I can tell you that they are thoroughly disorganized and have no idea what they’re doing. So that is why I suspect we are sleeping in horse stalls as a result of bureaucratic bungling. That doesn’t make it any easier, but I still believe it’s an important distinction.”

“But why?” I demanded, still a little angry. “Even if you’re right, why should it make a difference?”

“It just does.” He smiled at me. “Remember that in life, intention is not as important as action, but it is important, and should not be discounted.”

I thought about this a long time as the cold seeped into my bones. Grandfather seemed content by the silence.

Then I said, “Will you please tell me now about Mr. Ishida?”

He sighed deeply, and replied, “What do you wish to know?”

“I want to know whatever it is he wanted me to know. And I want to know what sort of debt you owed to him, and why you felt guilty when his fiancé killed herself, and why he left me the books. Why me?”

Grandfather chuckled softly. “Is that all? Well, that is a lot. To fully explain, Mary, I must tell you secrets that no one else knows. Not your parents, or Tommy. Grandmother…she knows some, but not all. Had she ever asked me for details, I would have certainly told her, but she is not curious like you, so she did not ask.”

He turned to face me fully, and I saw that all traces of humor had vanished, and his eyes were grave. “I do not mind telling you. I thought I would, but I don’t. Perhaps it is everything that has happened to us that make certain things less important to me, I don’t know. But listen, Mary, before we start this, you must promise never to repeat what I have told you tonight. Many people could be hurt by it, you included, and I will not have that. So if you refuse to make this promise, I will not tell you anything, no matter what Mr. Ishida asked me to do. So what do you say?”

I hesitated. I could not fathom what he might say that in any way could be construed as a danger to me, but my heart was beating rapidly. However, I knew that there was simply no choice; I had to know.

“I promise,” I said, and waited breathlessly.

He nodded, unpacked another cigarette, and reached for a match. It seemed that lighting that cigarette would take forever, but finally it was lit, and Grandfather took a deep inhale. After blowing out smoke, he finally spoke again:

“As to your last question, why he left you the books. I think you should have realized that already. Mr. Ishida was very fond of you, Mary. In the last couple of years, you were the brightest light in his life. Why shouldn’t he give you his most prized possessions?”

I nodded, and felt the tears form in my eyes. I did not know what I had done to deserve the bookseller’s affections, but my grandfather told the truth. Oh, how I missed Mr. Ishida.

“But there’s more,” Grandfather said, and his voice grew quieter still. “Mr. Ishida loved you as one would a close relative, and indeed, that’s what you were, Mary. You were his great-niece.”

I stared at my grandfather open-mouthed. “Great-niece? How can that be?”

He sighed again, then said, “Because, Mary, Mr. Ishida and I were first cousins.”

It took me a full moment for this news to sink in. It was so stunning that I almost didn’t hear my grandfather continue to say that his mother, my great-grandmother, the one who had sold her hair to buy passage for America, was Mr. Ishida’s aunt.

It was then that I remembered what I had been told about the bookseller’s family. “But that can’t be!” I insisted. “Mr. Ishida’s aunt married a- a-” I stopped, because suddenly I knew.

“She married an eta.” Grandfather said flatly. “My father was an eta, yes, Mary. Burukunim. In Japan, and by many here in these stables, I would be considered eta, and so would you, if the truth were known. We are cursed, Mary, the lowest of the low. It is this secret that I am now sharing with you.”

And then, in the cold spring night, he explained everything to me.

Eta. Had I thought I knew about them? It turned out I knew very little. The Burakunim had been around for centuries, and had survived all of the struggles of medieval Japan: the feudal wars, the invasions by China, the rise of the Shoguns. Eta had been there the whole time.

But as Grandfather said, they were considered the lowest of the low. There was not a merchant or peasant or even an actor (considered the second lowest rung of Japanese society) that would ever trade places with eta. My ancestors were forced to live apart, in ghetto-like conditions, not able to commingle with the rest of the Japanese. After terrific battles in which thousands of Samurai slaughtered each other, Eta were assigned to remove the dead. This grisly chore made them more hated than ever, as they were considered grave-robbers as well as disgusting.

Eta were instantly beheaded for talking back to a Samurai, or seeming to. Periodically, Samurai would enter Eta communities and slaughter whole families for the fun of it. Yet my people somehow survived.

The worst of it was, once you were born to Eta, you were an untouchable forever. There was very little social mobility in Japan, and none for Burakunim. A normal Japanese who even shared a meal with an eta was considered disgraced for life. Marriage between us and any other group was unheard of, and even its accusation caused killings among Samurai.

“During Samurai times,” Grandfather explained, “an eta was legally worth one-seventh of a ‘normal’ Japanese. But the Meiji revolution changed all that, supposedly. Suddenly everyone was equal under the law. Of course, it did not turn out that way.”

Freed from being trapped in the ghettos, the Eta attempted to enter into Japanese society. Everywhere, they were shunned. Landlords refused to rent to them, and they were prevented in practice from buying land. In the end, they moved into slum areas on the outskirts of cities that were not much removed from where they had lived before. So very little actually changed.

Grandfather had not told me truth before about my great-grandfather, Goro. He was Eta, and had not been thrown off the land, but left of his own free will. When he got the job at the hat factory, he decided then to invent a new persona for himself. He gave himself the surname Nakamura, because it was a well known Japanese name, not associated with Burakunim. (Nonaka had been our family’s surname, but that was well known to be an ‘eta’ name.) Goro told anyone who asked the story of the peasant who had been thrown off the land, and apparently no one questioned this, at least at first.

It was at the factory that he met Mr. Ishida’s aunt, Fujika. She was not working there, as I had been told, but was being given a tour by the factory owner’s son, a friend of Fujika’s father. This son, named Nagami, was interested in the girl, and actively courting her. A marriage between them would have provided great funds for Mr. Ishida’s father, Ishida Ito, who was at the time a rising soldier but had no money due to his father’s execution after the assassination of the British ambassador. It was all arranged until Goro and Fujika unarranged everything by falling in love. They met by accident, and how they got to know one another, I have no idea, because my father didn’t either. But within two weeks of touring the factory, Fujika told her brother that she would not marry Nagami, but was engaged to a penniless farm worker instead.

This news enraged Ishida Ito, who lectured her about family duty. Mr. Ishida, who at the time was twelve years old, agreed with his father, and begged his aunt to be reasonable. But Fujika was a product of the changing times, without any father to raise her. She was rebellious, and the Meiji Revolution seemed to promise different roles for women, as well. She married Goro.

Ito went along with this, but hired a private detective to learn about Nakamura Goro’s background. He was to regret doing so, because of course it ruined his life. The detective revealed to the world that Goro was eta.

“And you know part of the rest,” Grandfather told me. “My mother would not renounce her marriage, and so she was disowned by the Ishida family. And Mr. Ishida’s father, unable to live with the shame after it became clear that he would never be promoted, killed himself. But that came later.

“In the meantime my parents lived at a poverty level. They had two children who died young of tuberculosis because they could not afford a doctor. When I was born, they were determined to escape from a life of misery. America was the obvious answer, but they needed money to pay for the passage.”

“And that’s when your mother sold her hair,” I said.

He sighed. “Not exactly.”

What Nakamura Fujika decided to do was visit her family, whom she had not seen in four years, and beg them to give her the money to pay for the passage to America. She reasoned that perhaps they would be eager to see her vanish from Japan. In this she was correct. But Ito was so enraged to see her that it was he who cut off her hair. After he did so, he beat her up. Then he raped her, his own sister. He would most likely have murdered her, but it was at this moment that Mr. Ishida came home from school and discovered them, his father laying over his naked, bleeding aunt, with his samurai sword in hand.

Young Ishida Takeo rushed to his aunt’s defense, and his father stormed out of the room, then returned with a fistful of money which he thrust at his sister. Fujika got dressed, took the money and left. It was two days after this that Ishida Ito killed himself.

I was horrified by this story. It had happened over fifty years ago, but it was a nightmare I could not really comprehend. I was only eleven, and while I had seen many terrible things in the last few months, this story seemed the worst of all. Yet I could not stop listening; I had to hear the rest of it. I no longer noticed the cold, or where we were. All of my attention was completely focused.

“My only memories were of California,” Grandfather explained. “But- I knew we were eta. My parents felt it was important I know the truth of this, because although we pretended to be just like everyone else, there was always the risk that we would be discovered, just as Goro had been in Japan. I knew, but I never said a word about it.”

If the truth had been revealed, the Nakamuras would of course have been ostracized within the Japanese community. They would have become outcasts again, only this time in a strange land of which they knew very little. But as the years passed, this threat seemed to shrink. Grandfather became a child prodigy, and my great-grandparents were popular in the hard-working farming community. All of the horrors of their time in Japan had been forgotten. Until the day Ishida Takeo arrived.

“I was already in high school, about to enter college, when he visited my parents,” Grandfather explained. “I was seventeen then; he was twenty nine, and already a very solemn figure. I had never met Mr. Ishida before, and I was petrified. My parents were too. You see, Mary, if he had decided to expose us, we would have been ruined. I was a good, perhaps great student, that is true, but if it had been known that I was of eta blood, it wouldn’t have made any difference. I would have been shunned, and unable to count upon the Japanese community for support. And for my parents of course, it would have been even worse.

“Those were dark days, Mary, when eta were revealed all of the time. We were not the only ones to escape Japan of course, and the whole community was suspicious. Detectives were hired to weed out the defilers, as we were known. It was an accepted fact that eta were sneaks trying to contaminate pure Japanese blood. There was no tolerance, no call for understanding about this issue. The truth is, there is very little today, though things have gotten somewhat better. And so my parents and I were staring at the end of our lives, and it all depended upon what Ishida Takeo decided to do.

“And what reason would Mr. Ishida have for sparing us? After all, my mother’s decision had destroyed his father, caused his father to killed himself, and had ruined any chances for Mr. Ishida’s own happiness. And worst of all for a Japanese, my mother had abandoned her duty to her family, which was the worst crime one could commit. And of course, he had witnessed…what I told you about earlier. And now here he was, a grown man, come to start a new life.

“My parents would have given him anything they had, though of course they didn’t have very much. They would have done anything for him to preserve his silence. But as it turned out, we did not need to. I can still remember that day, Mary. He said very quietly that he was glad to see us, that he had missed his aunt, and that it was nice to have family here in this strange land. And then he added that it would be better for all of our sakes to pretend that we were just friends, and not to talk about the past. It seemed a miracle to us.”

Mr. Ishida stayed close to my grandfather throughout the years, and as adults they became friends, but they never discussed the past, except once. It was a few days after Mr. Ishida’s finance died. As my grandfather had told me, he felt responsible. Deep down, he also was afraid that this new shame might cause Mr. Ishida to break his silence about the past.

“I visited him in his rooms, though I knew he did not want to speak to me. But I had to know. I asked him, ‘Do you blame what happened on the past, on who my father was?’

“He looked at me for a long time, and I could see both sadness and resignation in his eyes. He said, ‘You have become a fine lawyer and a credit to all of us. Whatever burden I have as a result of memories, it is mine alone.’ And that is all he would say.

‘And so, Mary, he was not only my friend, but I felt a great debt to him. As I told you once, it was because he did nothing all those years, and that is the reason why. When he hurt his foot, I loaned him the money for the bookshop. And now you understand the answer to that. But the truth is, even though we saw the world very differently, we did become close friends, Mary, especially after my parents died.

“He wasn’t particularly anti-American back then, although in truth he always preferred Japanese people, Japanese ways. It was only after the laws passed preventing him citizenship that he became bitter. Not that he would have become a citizen anyhow; I think deep down he always imagined he would someday return to Japan, though under what conditions I cannot say. But the law outraged him, as it would anyone who discovers that they are deprived of a right, even if they never really considered having the right before.”

He sighed, he had been talking for over an hour, and I could tell he was tired now, though I myself was wide awake. But I knew he was almost done. I was very quiet as I listened.

“And so over the years, Mr. Ishida turned cynical. We would argue a lot; you heard it. I always felt his views were affected by his inner demons. But as time went by, although he was never happy, he seemed at peace with himself, and that at least seemed enough.

“Then he came to know you, Mary. You were his niece, of course, though you did not know it. He was never close to his two nephews, Fred and Tommy, and they did not know the secret, either. But you were different. Perhaps because you were a girl, but I think it’s more than that. As he wrote in the letter, you were a spark in his life, Mary. I think that at least in part in he left us at this time because he couldn’t bear to see what he thought would happen to you. But you mustn’t blame yourself. Mr. Ishida’s life was a coda from the moment his fiancé died; do you understand this? I hope that you do. In any case, you know it all know. I’ve always said this family owed the man a great debt, and now you know why.”

I could feel the tears coming again, but I fought them back and muttered, “Perhaps he wasn’t so cynical after all. Perhaps he was just telling the truth.”

He looked at me sharply. “What do you mean?”

“Well, look where we are, Grandfather! Look where we’re sitting. Look where we’re going! Wasn’t Mr. Ishida right all along?”

He laughed a low chuckle. Then he said, “Child, you haven’t understood what I am trying to tell you. Not just tonight, but all of these years, as well. But tonight should have been the final piece of the puzzle. We are eta, Mary! Don’t you understand what that means?”

“Yes, but what does that have to do with-”

“Do you think I could have become a lawyer back in Japan? Do you think I could have come to own buildings, and live well, and most importantly of all, do you believe we could live in freedom anywhere else? America is the most wonderful country on Earth. All of this” he waved his hand at the horse stalls “is temporary. All of our mistreatment is temporary. That was what poor Takeo could never understand. Listen, you want to know what makes America different from other countries? It’s not that bad things don’t occur here. Of course they do. This country wiped out the natives, and they held African-Americans in slavery. This nation has mistreated every immigrant, from the Irish, to the Jews, to the Germans, Chinese, and especially us. No, this does not make America different.

“What separates America is that when bad things happen, America becomes introspective. They are remorseful over what they have done. And then they are determined not to repeat the same thing again. This is not because Americans are naturally better people, that’s not it at all. It’s because freedom makes them better people, do you understand? Freedom demands the best out of all of us. It is a gift from God that brings responsibility with it. And this country is the freest one on Earth.”

I was unconvinced. “I don’t see a lot of remorse,” I commented.

“You will. Long before this is over, you will. And for years afterward, people will apologize to you over this, Mary. People who are total strangers, and had nothing to do with the decisions. They will feel guilty, and they will try to make amends. Such is the beauty of this country.”

I pondered this for a moment, then asked, “But even if that happens, Grandfather, even if all you say comes true, how will we know that the rest of it is true, that they learn from their mistakes, and that it will never happen again?”

He thought about this for some time, and then he replied, “Someday, not in my lifetime, but perhaps in yours, there will be another incident like Pearl Harbor. There will always be such events, because this nation is a target for all the hatred and envy and evil in the world. And when that happens, Mary, there will be another group, not the Japanese most likely, but someone else who will be blamed. And you know what will happen? Despite the anger and resentment, most Americans will say, ‘Let’s not do this again. Let’s not do what we did to the Japanese.’ And when you hear those words, Mary, you will know that everything I have said to you tonight, the greatness of America that I love and dream about and hope for, all of it will have come true.”

 

[timschochet]

Epilogue

On September 15, 2001, I thought about my grandfather’s words for the first time in years and decided that he was right after all.

It was four days after 9/11, and the horror of the Twin Towers being destroyed was of course fresh in all of our memories. At the time, I made no connection in my mind between that event and Pearl Harbor. World War II was so long ago, in another century both figuratively and literally. I was a retired grandmother, far, far, removed from the young girl that I had been then. In the words of one of my favorite writers, Stephen King, “the world had moved on.”

And I was fully focused on the events of the day, like most Americans. My eyes were glued to the television, which I switched between CNN, MSNBC, and Fox News, never once leaving these three channels. Until the concert, that was.

The Concert for 9/11 was broadcast on the major networks; I watched it on CBS. There were no commercials, and interspersed between the performers were famous actors and celebrities urging the audience to call the number on the bottom of the screen and support the victims. I donated one hundred dollars.

Several musicians that I enjoyed, even as an old lady, performed songs, including Paul Simon and Billy Joel. And then, in the middle of the program, the African-American actor Will Smith appeared, alongside the man he was currently portraying in a movie, the former World Champion boxer, Muhammad Ali.

Ali’s head and body trembled; I was somewhat aware, like most people, that he suffered from Parkinson’s disease, though I had never really followed his career, not being a fan of that particular sport. But it was Will Smith’s words that caught my attention, and have stayed with me ever since:

“This man, Muhammad Ali, is a Muslim, and he loves America. He is a patriot,” Smith said. “There are millions of Muslims who live here in the United States, and who love this country as much as my friend Muhammad. Let’s not make the mistakes we sometimes have in the past.”

Let’s not make the mistakes we sometimes have in the past. And just that suddenly, my mind went back through the years to that freezing night behind the horse stall at the Santa Anita racetrack, when my grandfather whispered to me all of the dark secrets of my family, and expressed his sincere optimism for the future of America. And I knew, that had he been alive to witness the show I was watching, he would have pointed to the screen and said, “You see, Mary? That’s what I was talking about. They won’t do it again. They learn. Do you understand? They learn.”

I did understand. I hadn’t before, not really, not when all the books about Manzanar and Tule Lake were written. Not when, in my early twenties, they made a movie about the courageous Japanese troops that fought in Italy, Go For Broke. Not when the United States government under Ronald Reagan sent me a written apology and a check for $20,000. And not even when the California Los Angeles Bank decided in 1991 to make restitution and returned to me and my brother ownership of the land that my family had sold to them under duress fifty years earlier.

All of these events caused me a good deal of emotion, but they did not convince me that Richard Nakamura had been right in his prediction. It seemed to me that Japanese were the enemy before World War II, and now they no longer were; that was the long and short of it. Whatever good treatment we received now, whatever expressions of remorse were made, had nothing to do with how others might be treated under similar conditions. And so during those rare times when I considered my grandfather’s words, I doubted that he was anything but a naïve dreamer.

But now I knew he had been right after all. The Muslims could live in America in peace. While there would be some incidents, and the FBI became overaggressive in some instances, they would not be relocated. They would not lose their property, or money. They would not be blamed. And I felt a very old weight lifted.

My grandparents did not survive Tule Lake, the relocation camp we were sent to. Grandmother died in November of 1942, and my Grandfather was unable to survive her very long. He stayed with us until March of 1943, when he finally succumbed to pneumonia. Practically his last words to me were, “Believe in your country.” I was twelve then, and I didn’t.

Many of the older people I had grown up with did not survive the camp. Mrs. Myagi was another who died, my old sensei as well. My parents made it through just fine, however, and my brother, who was four years old when the war ended, has no memory of that time. Uncle Tommy continued to be sullen and withdrawn. When the war ended, he left us for Seattle, and he was killed in car crash three years later.

The rest of us returned to Los Angeles and attempted to resume our lives. But my grandfather’s fortune and properties were gone, so my father had to go to work. Grandfather’s old friend Sidney Greenberg from the ACLU found my father a position in that organization, but the income was small, and so we lived frugally, paying rent to the bank that now owned the building my family used to own.

It was Sidney Greenberg who also returned to me two boxes of rare books that had once belonged to Mr. Takeo Ishida. The awful truth was, I had forgotten all about these books. I had been given a great responsibility, but it had not been on my mind during the war years; surviving was.

Much has been written about Tule Lake, Manzanar, and the other camps where the Japanese-Americans were sent. Many people have compared these camps to Dachau or Treblinka. Given that I was in Tule Lake, I will say this: there was nothing in common with the German death camps, or Soviet Gulags, or Japanese POW camps. We were adequately fed. We were not bothered so long as we obeyed the rules. We were not beaten.

Still, this is the United States of America, and we should be held to a higher standard. The very fact that our rights were taken away and we were forced to leave our homes is an unforgivable crime against humanity; it can only be remembered and hopefully never repeated. My grandfather was confident it would not be; now, I was as well.

I kept the books all through UCLA, and all through medical school, and also through my first ten years as a surgeon at the Cedar-Sinai hospital. I rarely looked through them. Then, when UCLA opened up an Asian American Studies series of courses in 1973, I decided to donate these books, where they formed the cream of the collection that is now considered one of the world’s finest. I figured this would have pleased the old bookseller, even though he might have preferred the books returned to Japan. But he would have been wrong, because as the years passed, I recognized something about Mr. Ishida that even Grandfather would not have acknowledged: for all of his cynicism, or perhaps because of it, Mr. Ishida was very much an American.

How do I explain this? I can’t. It is impossible for me or I think anyone else to truly define what it means to be an American, but to paraphrase the words of an old Supreme Court justice, I know one when I see one.

There was one book from Mr. Ishida that I kept; it was his birthday present to me from 1941, the collection of ancient Japanese poems that he copied by hand himself. The night I watched the concert, I went into my study, and after some time searching pulled down the slim volume from the bookshelf. I couldn’t read it very well, it had been many years since I had read Japanese, and I had forgotten most of it. But as I used my old, wrinkled fingers to trace the beautiful lines, it occurred to me that what the poets said was true: life was really a circle, if one can only recognize it. Except for me, I had always believed that during my eleventh year my own circle had been broken. Now however, I realized that it was complete.

The End.

 

[timschochet]

I have now completed the posting of my novel. For those of you who have bothered to read it, I am very grateful. If you have any comments or criticism, I would be delighted to hear it. Thanks.

 

[Cliff Clavin]

I have now completed the posting of my novel. For those of you who have bothered to read it, I am very grateful. If you have any comments or criticism, I would be delighted to hear it. Thanks.

You should have made everyone die at the end.

 

[timschochet]

I have now completed the posting of my novel. For those of you who have bothered to read it, I am very grateful. If you have any comments or criticism, I would be delighted to hear it. Thanks.

You should have made everyone die at the end.

Did you read any of it?

 

[timschochet]

My novel is still here! If you haven't read it, try it out and let me know what you think. In retrospect, it's not good enough to publish; I don't really have what it takes to be a novelist. My narrative skills are weak. But I had fun doing it.

 

[jon_mx]

Glad to s

Chapter Thirteen On the morning after the relocation notices were posted, Mr. Ishida killed himself. He did this by swallowing poison, and they discovered him a day later in his bedroom. At first it was thought that he was just asleep. Then the awful truth was known. The news passed almost unnoticed among us. Everyone was busy that day. We had twenty-four hours left to pack everything we wanted to bring, two suitcases per body. Anything that couldnt fit would have to be left behind, and in all probability, lost forever. How to choose from a lifetime of memories? Was there room for photographs, books, records? Would we need cooking and cleaning utensils where we were going? No one knew. No one even knew where we were going. Grandfather was very busy trying to keep our spirits up, and keep us all organized. He had sold the buildings to CLA, and he had set up a banking system with some of the proceeds so that those in the most need could receive emergency funds. As he had predicted, General De Witts people had met with him and other leaders, in order to gain quick obedience and action from the Japanese community. Apparently the General feared an ugly revolt when we were sent away. He neednt have worried. Aside from a few rebellious mutterings, we were docile towards our fate. Grandfather spoke to as many crowds as he could. We will be safe, he told them. Safer than here, as we will be far away from the danger of mobs who might attack us if the Japanese continue to win battles. There will be food where we are going, and proper sanitation. Well be able to set up schools, and there will be hospitals nearby for the sick. And very soon we will return to our homes. The truth was, my grandfather did not know if any of this was true. The government wanted his cooperation, but they would not confide in him where the Japanese would be sent, and what conditions there were. This information was top secret and could only be revealed when it took place. For now, all we knew for certain was that in two days we were being forced to board buses that would transport us to the Santa Anita racetrack, where temporary shelters had been provided. We would wait there until trains came to take us to our final destination, wherever that was. But why tell everyone this? I asked him when he revealed all of this to me privately. Why are you lying to them? Im not lying, he replied calmly. I believe Im telling them the truth. I certainly hope so, Mary. But what purpose would it serve me to say, I dont know whats going to happen? You see how nervous our people are. Anything to make them feel better about whats happening to them is well worth it. There were supposed to be two suitcases for me, but my parents were mixing everything up, and my mother had taken charge in deciding what would go with us. The news of relocation had seemed to snap Mother awake from her lethargy. She seemed active, cheerful, as optimistic as Grandfather. Mother had been resilient her entire life, and when she suffered failures she would always rebound. My father acted relieved that my mother had once again taken responsibility for the family. Grandmother seemed the same as she had been ever since Grandfather had returned from the FBI headquarters. She was content that the family was together, and whatever else happened made no difference. But she was worried as we all were about Uncle Tommy, because he was the one who had been altered the most by the notices. Prior to the war, Tommy had been the most happy go lucky of all of us. Even that time he had been left out of the swing band, he had maintained a cheerful if detached attitude. After Pearl Harbor, he did little except smoke cigarettes and listen to music. While this annoyed my father, my grandparents didnt seem to mind. But from the moment we first heard the news about internment, Uncle Tommys attitude had changed. He was angry all the time now, and he scared me. They have no right to do this, he would say to whoever would listen. They have no right at all. Were Americans, too, arent we? Or has that been a lie all along? If Im not an American, why should I obey their laws and just accept what they say? If they believe Im their enemy, then thats just what Ill become. No one was sure what this language meant, but it wasnt good, that much we knew. Other young men Tommys age were seen with him muttering together in hallways. But as of yet they showed no signs of defiance other than words. It was Grandfather, of course, who told me about Mr. Ishida. I hadnt seen the bookseller much in the past few weeks since he had become so reclusive, but the news still rocked me to my core. I ran to my room and cried for what must have been hours, while Mother found time to hold and comfort me. Finally, Grandfather asked to come in; he told me that Mr. Ishida had left a sealed envelope for me. This news somehow was frightening. Have you opened it? I whispered. No, of course not, Mary, the letter was addressed to you. But I am very curious as to its contents. He handed the envelope to me. Inside was a single page letter. Slowly, with what felt like the greatest reluctance of my life, I began to read: Dear Mariko, I have in me the heritage of my forebears. My Samurai ancestors died bravely, and when they were ordered to, slit their bellies open as a sign of loyalty to their Daimyos (feudal lords) and to Japan. My grandfather was hung for killing a gaijin, but this also was a form of seppuku (suicide). And my father killed himself in the old fashioned method, out of shame of dishonor. The act of choosing death instead of waiting for its inevitable arrival is in my blood. And though I myself am not brave enough to die as my ancestors did, I am brave enough to die. And I have decided to do so. I tell you this not to shock or horrify you, but so that you might come to accept the truth about me. I have never been a happy man, Mariko, but I was raised to believe that happiness was nothing of consequence compared with duty. I came to America because I could no longer fulfill my duty to my homeland, and this was the tragedy of my life. There was a time, even after the accident which prevented me from being a whole man, that I thought I could find a small bit of happiness for myself. I know that you have heard the story of my wife from Mrs. Myagi; she never would have told you that tale without first obtaining my permission to do so .And so you know how, before we were to be married, my bride leaped to her death into icy cold waters. I could withstand the death of my father, but not of this woman whom I never met. When I learned all those years ago that she had killed herself, and the reason why, I was ready to die then too, and I have been prepared ever since. That I have not done so up to this moment is a testament to my own cowardice. As the years passed, I would say to myself, Wait and see, but nothing got better. The books were important, and I cherished them, but they were not enough to give me peace. And then you came along. It is no exaggeration to suggest, Mariko-chan, that the months we have spent time together were the best of my existence. That a little girl could provide so much contentment to an old man was something I would have scoffed at hearing from anyone else. But, ironically, it has been your presence that forced me to finally do what I knew I eventually would all these years. Because I do not have the strength to witness what will become of you now. Your cherished grandfather believes all will be well; I never have. Well, that debate is over. Since the day I was informed my books were taken away, I knew that the time had come. I will not be forced by people I do not respect to go where they tell me to. This is my answer to them. I understand, Mariko, that you will not know what to make of this letter, anymore than you know what to make of me. That is all right, there are things you still are not aware of. But you shall be. So I close this letter and my life with two instructions: first, the box of books that you and I preserved is in safekeeping with my friend Mr. Watanabe; you know him, he lives on the second floor. Those books are yours. Find a way to hide them, or take them with you wherever you are going, if you can. They were the product of my lifes work; do not lose them, I beg you. When you are free, cherish them as I would have. I trust in you. Second, tell your grandfather the time has come to tell you the truth about him and me. If you tell him this, he will do so. He will be reluctant, but he will do so. It must come from him. Please do not think ill of me. You are braver than I ever was. Sayonara Mr. Ishida was right, I did not understand this letter, anymore than I understood him. Such an odd, complex man. It was beyond me to comprehend why anyone would ever kill himself. Yet Mr. Ishidas whole life seemed to be filled with suicides. It was all very sad. And though he had been such a friend, and I cared for him so, I did not realize he had been so attached to me. I wanted to cry all over again. Instead, I handed the letter to my grandfather and urged him to read it. He sat down and did so. Grandfathers face turned white as he read the letter. Finally he was finished, and he stared at me for a long moment. In his lined, wrinkled face I saw emotion I had never seen before. He said, I did not know that you were aware of what happened to Mr. Ishidas wife. I remember you asking me about that. Mrs. Myagi finally told you? I nodded. I asked her, Im sorry. I was so curious. He seemed lost in thought. He said, We never talked about that, and we talked about everything, he and I. We could never discuss that, though, because the guilt would be too strong between us. I could not help but feel responsible Responsible? I said, startled. How were you responsible? Whatever did you have to do with it? I had nothing to do with it, he said. I did not know that woman; I never met her. I never even heard what happened until many months later. But then why- Not now, Mary. I know he asked me to tell you all about us, so I suppose Ill have to, but not now. That is a long tale, and there is simply no time. The question we must deal with now, is what are we to do with those books? Mr. Watanabe wont want to keep them now, and we simply dont have the room to take them with us. But we cant leave them behind, either. The authorities might find them and that could get us all into trouble. I will have to think about this. In the end, of course, he solved the problem. My grandfather had many Caucasian friends even now. One of them was a man named Sidney Greenberg, who ran the Los Angeles offices of the American Civil Liberties Union. Sidney was a labor lawyer who had spent his life fighting for social concerns; he had joined Grandfather in several battles on behalf of Japanese farmers. Sidney also worked on behalf of Latinos, Blacks, and migrants. He was fighting a never ending battle against the authorities, who were suspicious of him because he had in his youth belonged to the IWW and the Socialist party.(It was rumored that he secretly belonged to the Communist party as well, but I did not know the truth of this.) After the relocation orders were issued, the ACLU filed a lawsuit on behalf of one of Grandfathers acquaintances, Robert Hashimoto. We knew, however, that this suit might take years to get though the courts, and in the meantime the relocation would not be stopped. Still, the ACLU stood up for us when no one else would. Grandfather found time during those rushed days to meet with Sidney, and he agreed to take possession of the books during the duration of the war, after which they would be returned to me. Sidney Greenberg was not a man who cared about wealth or possessions, and so we knew he could be trusted. This was a great relief to me; I felt like I was at least fulfilling what Mr. Ishida wanted: the books would be safe.

It is sad the upgrade did nothing to fix run on sentences and still lacks a paragraph feature.

 

[jon_mx]

Are there any paragraphs in this novel? And so far, you need an editor more than you need an agent. And seriously, why not go talk to a creative writing teacher at some community college. They might have some connections or ideas for agents.

Apparently about 14. One for each chapter.

 

[bushdocda]

I think you typed this out again and didn't copy/paste it.

 

[IvanKaramazov]

PIN IT.

 

[timschochet]

I don't know what happened here- I guess that at some point when they updated the boards, all the paragraphs got squished together like that. It didn't look that way when I first posted it. What a mess.

 

[Zow]

How much free time do you have? Jesus.

 

[Cliff Clavin]

I have now completed the posting of my novel. For those of you who have bothered to read it, I am very grateful. If you have any comments or criticism, I would be delighted to hear it. Thanks.

You should have made everyone die at the end.

Did you read any of it?

Seriously?

 

[Aerial Assault]

I quite liked it, tim.

 

[timschochet]

How much free time do you have? Jesus.

It took me about a year to write that. I wrote about a page a night while my wife and I watched TV. I can't watch TV without doing something else at the same time: playing a game or typing an email, posting, working out on the treadmill etc. I can never just sit there.

 

[timschochet]

I quite liked it, tim.

Thanks. Nobody can like it in its current form though.

 

[wikkidpissah]

a li'l stiff, a li'l stilted, but a MIB's a good snapshot of an interesting time.

 

[Aerial Assault]

I quite liked it, tim.

Thanks. Nobody can like it in its current form though.

No. I read it about a year ago, BACK WHEN THE BOARD WORKED. I must have forgotten to mention that I liked it, though, for which I apologize - or maybe the NEW AWESOME BOARD SOFTWARE!!!!!!!!!111JUAN ate my props post.

 

[Spin]

I know it's been asked a few times, is it available in PDF?

 

[timschochet]

I know it's been asked a few times, is it available in PDF?

i haven't but I can. I have it on word.

 

[Spin]

I know it's been asked a few times, is it available in PDF?

i haven't but I can. I have it on word.

If you have it, I'd like to read it. It seems interesting but impossible to read on this board.

 

[Zow]

How much free time do you have? Jesus.

It took me about a year to write that. I wrote about a page a night while my wife and I watched TV. I can't watch TV without doing something else at the same time: playing a game or typing an email, posting, working out on the treadmill etc. I can never just sit there.

Gotcha. This makes sense.

 

[SWC]

How much free time do you have? Jesus.

It took me about a year to write that. I wrote about a page a night while my wife and I watched TV. I can't watch TV without doing something else at the same time: playing a game or typing an email, posting, working out on the treadmill etc. I can never just sit there.

Gotcha. This makes sense.

it would be funny if you messed up because the tv was on and typed in a hemoroid commercial without thinking about it or something take that to the bank brohan

 

[timschochet]

[SIZE=medium]Reposting![/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]Chapter One[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]Los Angeles October 21, 1941[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]The first thing I noticed was the crowd of people who were engaged in loud whispering outside the door to the bookshop. There was my friend Dorothy Iyami, and her parents, and Mr. Kuroshima and his sister. All of them were neighbors; we lived in the same building. They looked nervous; what was happening?[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]I walked right up to Dorothy. At thirteen, she was a couple of years older than me and liked to flirt with boys. She was bright and pretty and normally had a saucy smile. But now her face was tight like the grownups around her. [/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]“Gai[/SIZE]-[SIZE=medium]jin” [/SIZE]she whispered, and pointed in the window. I looked, astonished. Caucasians almost never went into Mr. Ishida’s shop. All of the books inside were either Japanese or Chinese. Also, Mr. Ishida did not like white people.

[SIZE=medium]Through the glass, I could see the vague shapes of two strangers in brown coats and hats, staring and gesturing at old Mr. Ishida, who had a blank look on his face. “I’d better go in there,” I said to no one in particular. “Mr. Ishida doesn’t speak English.”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]Hurriedly, I pushed through the door and the familiar odor of old books hit me, which I loved. It had been two years since Grandfather had persuaded me with his typical gentle logic that I should spend a few hours each week helping out at the bookshop. The experience had proven worthwhile to me.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]By entering, I interrupted the two newcomers. One of them was tall, with spectacles, and he had been nearly shouting at Mr. Ishida. I’ve noticed gai-jin[/SIZE] do this from time to time with those who can’t understand them; they think that somehow by raising their voices, they will get their message across. Now he stopped, and stared at me. The other one stared also: he was shorter, and held out a pad of paper and a pencil. The men both looked very irritated.

[SIZE=medium]“He only speaks Japanese,” I said, pointing at the bookseller. “My name is Mary and I work here sometimes. May I help you?”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]“This is official business, Miss,” the tall man said. “I’m trying to locate Mr. Takeo Ishida.”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]“That’s him, “I answered, “Please, what do you want with him? And who are you?”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]As I was asking this, Mr. Ishida limped out from behind the counter. As usual, he was dressed all in black, like an undertaker. I knew he was only in his mid sixties, yet today his face looked lined and ancient. As he walked, dragging his right leg behind him, I could not help but notice how he studiously ignored looking at the two intruders; his eyes were only on me.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]“Mariko-chan,” Mr. Ishida asked me in Japanese, “would you be so kind as to fetch your honorable grandfather? He is in the building, and if he is made aware of this situation, he will come.”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]“Hai, dozo,[/SIZE]” I answered automatically, and said to the two men, “Mr. Ishida has requested my grandfather to interpret for him. I will be right back.” And I left the bookshop as quickly as I had come.

[SIZE=medium]When I got outside the light of day hit my eyes; the bookshop was always kept dim. Why was that, I wondered suddenly? I pushed through the crowd and spoke directly to Mr. Kuroshima. “He has asked for my grandfather,” I said. “Please, do you know where he is?” If anyone would know, it would be Mr. Kuroshima; he seemed to know everything that was going on in the neighborhood.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]“I think he is with Mrs. Myagi, child, at her apartment. It’s number four oh-”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]“I know the one!” I interrupted, and rushed into the side door which led into the building above the bookshop. This building was one of several owned by Grandfather; it was a large, six story affair with many apartments, all of them rented by Japanese. I lived on the top floor, with my parents and my baby brother. My grandparents and my uncle lived in the apartment across from us. [/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]I rushed up three flights of stairs as fast as I could, and I was panting and out of breath when I reached number four oh seven. The door was open; Grandfather stood slightly inside, listening to Mrs. Myagi’s complaints. He turned and saw me and his face brightened.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]My Grandfather was dressed in one of his three piece suits; he must have just returned from his law offices. Except for his head of iron gray hair, you would not have guessed that here was a man in his mid fifties; everything about this small man, from his firm, tough hands to the lack of wrinkles on his strong face suggested youth and energy. With his erect posture and firm sense of command, Grandfather carried himself like a king, and indeed he was our established and rightful leader.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]Mrs. Myagi was what my mother referred to as an “old busybody”; she was always complaining about something wrong; either wrong with her (she had many ailments) or with the building. We all knew she liked to listen through the walls for people having arguments so that she could gossip about it later on. Just now she was telling Grandfather about the hot water situation: either it was too hot (“scalding”, she said) or too cold. Grandfather just listened patiently as he did to everyone, nodding sympathetically and promising to look into the matter.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]“Please,” I interrupted, panting. “There are two gai[/SIZE]-[SIZE=medium]jin [/SIZE]downstairs in the bookshop. Mr. Ishida has asked for you! Please come!” I could not catch my breath.

[SIZE=medium]“Of course,” Grandfather said calmly, reaching for his hat. “If you will excuse me, Mrs. Myagi. I had better go at once, and see what this is about. I promise to have David look into the water problem for you.” David was my father; he managed the building for Grandfather.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]“Of course, of course,” Mrs. Myagi said, “I hope everything is all right is Mr. Ishida. Poor, foolish man, his problem is he never married. Now we all know what happened to his bride to be; so sad, so terrible. But that was such a long time ago, and he should have met someone since then, he would be much happier now; but I’ve never met a man so stubborn...”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]“Yes, Mrs. Myagi, if you’ll just excuse me then.” Even in a hurry, Grandfather managed to stay polite. Yet, he did not seem in a rush as he walked down the stairs. He was not slow, but he didn’t move as quickly as I would have liked.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]“Please, Grandfather,” I urged, “We’ve got to go faster!”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]He smiled, “And what good will it do me, child, if I hurry down these stairs and be out of breath the way you were after you came up them? How can I help Mr. Ishida then? And how can I help him if I trip and fall and injure myself? I am going at a fast enough pace.”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]He paused, and beamed at me. “I haven’t even had the proper chance to wish my granddaughter well on the day she turned eleven,” he said.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]I brightened, and for the moment forgot about what was happening downstairs. “Oh Grandfather, you remembered! I thought everyone had forgotten.”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]“Do you really think I am so absent-minded? I am not so old as that yet! And you underestimate your parents; they are looking forward to surprising you later. It is supposed to be a secret, so you must pretend to be suitably stunned. There is to be a cake, and presents. American style,” he added with faint amusement. “Of course, your Grandmother is ignoring the fact that your mother has baked an American cake; she is making botamochi[/SIZE], your favorite. So the two of them will be expecting you to eat one and reject the other. You must be sure to try equal amounts of both, so that neither woman will be disappointed.”

[SIZE=medium]I sighed, thinking about the competition that had gone on as long as I could remember: Mother with her American cooking and ways, and her mother-in law, my revered grandmother, who was a very traditional Japanese wife from Hiroshima[/SIZE] and who insisted on Japanese cuisine. The truth was, I was quite fond of [SIZE=medium]botamochi[/SIZE], that sweet, oh so tangy mixture of rice and red bean paste. And I really wasn’t sure what I thought of American cake, which I hadn’t had all that much of. But, as usual, Grandfather was right: it really wouldn’t do to prefer one over the other. Most of my mind was still occupied with the thrilling news: they did remember! A secret party, with presents!

[SIZE=medium]The word “secret” brought me back around to something Mrs. Myagi had said. “Grandfather,” I asked, “What was Mrs. Myagi talking about? What happened to Mr. Ishida’s bride?”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]My grandfather’s face sobered. “That was a long time ago; it is not important now. Come; let us see who the strangers are.”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]The crowd was still there, only larger. Several of them bowed to Grandfather as he pushed his way through, with me in tow. Inside, the shop was just as I had left it, except that now there were several books opened and on the floor. The shorter man was grabbing volumes at random, flipping through them, and then tossing them to the ground like trash. Mr. Ishida looked on, his face still expressionless.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]Grandfather wasted no time. Striding forward, he said in clear, firm English, without the trace of an accent, “Hello, there. My name is Richard Nakamura. I’m the President of the Japanese American Friendship Society. I’m also the owner of this building. Unfortunately, as you no doubt have discovered, my friend Mr. Ishida speaks no English. How may I be of service to you, gentlemen?”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]The tall one, the man who had spoken to me earlier, now said, “My name is Phillips; this is Lieutenant DeAngelo. We’re with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, sir.” He flashed us a badge, which my grandfather just stared at.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]Phillips continued: “It’s been reported to us that this man, Takeo Ishida, has been distributing seditious materials; specifically, the newsletter known as the Tokio[/SIZE].” He stared menacingly at us.

[SIZE=medium]My grandfather stared back calmly. “You are quite mistaken,” he replied. “I don’t know where you got this information, but it is not so. Mr. Ishida is a bookseller; he collects and sells fine and rare manuscripts. He has nothing to do with politics.” Grandfather then translated to Mr. Ishida, who nodded and said in Japanese he had never read the Tokio[/SIZE].

[SIZE=medium]They were both lying. Mr. Ishida had copies of the Tokio [/SIZE]hidden in the back room, and he passed them out to select friends of his. Grandfather knew this; we all did. I wasn’t allowed to read the [SIZE=medium]Tokio[/SIZE], but I sneaked a look every so often.

[SIZE=medium]It was a two page newsletter, published in Omaha[/SIZE], [SIZE=medium]Nebraska[/SIZE], but it was all about [SIZE=medium]Japan[/SIZE]. Most of the stories were about Japanese victories in [SIZE=medium]China[/SIZE], which were always described as thorough and absolute. There were also stories about the Axis powers’ great triumphs in the war against Imperialist England and the [SIZE=medium]Soviet Union[/SIZE]. Recently, there had been editorials warning President Roosevelt and the [SIZE=medium]United States[/SIZE] that they had better cooperate with [SIZE=medium]Japan[/SIZE] or “face the consequences.”

[SIZE=medium]My grandfather derided the Tokio[/SIZE] as “trashy propaganda” and “pure poppycock”. He was very much anti-fascist, and he hated the fact that Japan had chosen to ally herself with Nazi Germany and Mussolini’s Italy. He was always arguing with Mr. Ishida about it. Mr. Ishida believed every word in the [SIZE=medium]Tokio[/SIZE], and so did several of the older Japanese men we knew. But here was Grandfather, lying to these two men, in order to protect Mr. Ishida. I said nothing; my lips felt glued together.

[SIZE=medium]The short man introduced to us as Lt. DeAngelo now added sharply, “We think those newsletters are here somewhere. We’d like to search this whole place from top to bottom.”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]“Yes, certainly,” Grandfather said, even more calmly than before. “Do you have a warrant, please?”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]The two men exchanged looks. Then Phillips said, “Are you trying to impede justice, Mr. Nakamura?”
”Quite the contrary,” my grandfather replied, “I am attempting to enforce it. If you don’t have a warrant, it would be quite unlawful for you to search, would it not?”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]“It would be just fine if so long as we had this man’s permission,” Phillips said acidly, his finger pointing at the bookseller. “We wouldn’t need a warrant then. Doesn’t your friend want to cooperate with law enforcement? Ask him,” he snapped.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]Grandfather spoke quietly in Japanese to Mr. Ishida, who shook his head.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]“I am very sorry,” my grandfather said, his hands out wide, “but Mr. Ishida values his privacy. Now if you wish to return with a warrant, I assure you he will cooperate.”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]DeAngelo rushed forward and thrust his face directly into Grandfather’s. “Let me tell you something, Nakamura. We know all about you and your sham organization. We know what’s going on in this street, too, and in this neighborhood. Listen, any day now Japan[/SIZE] might attack us. And you think we’re going to allow a third column of enemy agents right here in [SIZE=medium]Los Angeles[/SIZE]? You’re all being watched very carefully, I can assure you.”

[SIZE=medium]“Your boss, Mr. Hoover, has said that Japanese Americans are completely patriotic,” Grandfather said.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]“Come on,” Phillips said to his partner, “We’re wasting time.” He looked at Mr. Ishida. “We’ll be back,” he said. And they finally left.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]When he was sure they were gone, Grandfather turned to Mr. Ishida and said in Japanese, “You had better get rid of those stupid newsletters. They’ll be back with a warrant; you can count on that.”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]“The Tokio [/SIZE]is not stupid,” Mr. Ishida replied. “But who told the [SIZE=medium]gai-jin [/SIZE]about it? Who among us is the informer?”

[SIZE=medium]“Does it matter?” Grandfather asked. As he spoke, he began to pick up stray books off the ground. I hurried to help him. “They would have discovered it sooner or later,” he continued. “I’ve told you time and again not to distribute that trash- it’s all lies and exaggerated anyhow.”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]“That’s what you say, Goro-san[/SIZE].” Goro was my grandfather’s name at birth, though he had legally changed it to Richard as a young man. No one else, not even my grandmother, still called him Goro. But Mr. Ishida could not pronounce “Richard”, and anyhow he seemed to detest American sounding names as much as everything else about the country in which he resided. He always addressed me, for example, by my birth name of Mariko, though everyone else called me Mary, which was what I preferred.

[SIZE=medium]Now, as the old bookseller limped forward, he went into his usual diatribe regarding the Tokio [/SIZE]and its message. The American newspapers, he said, could not be trusted when it came to what was reported about Japan. The Yankees hated the Japanese, because the Japanese stood up for Asians against the American-British hegemony that was out to dominate the entire world. America was fearful of Japan, and rightfully so, for when the conflict between the two finally came, the Japanese would emerge surprise victors, just as they had done in 1902 against Russia.

[SIZE=medium]Grandfather sighed wearily; of course he had heard all of this before, many times. Still, he took time to reply carefully, as he and I finished organizing Mr. Ishida’s books.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]It would be foolish beyond belief, Grandfather said, for Japan to go to war with the U.S.A. Japan was inferior in industry, weaponry, and sheer population by a large margin. She would be inevitably crushed over time, though it might not start out that way because of the distances involved. Besides, Japan[/SIZE] already had her hands full with the foolish, ill-advised war against [SIZE=medium]China[/SIZE].

[SIZE=medium]“I’ve been fighting my whole life,” my Grandfather said, “for equal treatment for Japanese-Americans. That treatment, particularly here in California[/SIZE], depends on [SIZE=medium]America[/SIZE]’s relationship with [SIZE=medium]Japan[/SIZE]. Can’t you see the two nations are natural allies? If [SIZE=medium]Japan[/SIZE] stopped this military nonsense and engaged in peaceful trade with the [SIZE=medium]United States[/SIZE], we would all be so much better off-”

[SIZE=medium]“So, Japan[/SIZE] is the aggressor?” Mr. Ishida interrupted. “[SIZE=medium]Japan[/SIZE] is the bad one, yes? Tell me, is it Japan who enslaves Singapore, Hong Kong, the Indies, the Philippines, Shanghai, Indochina, and all the rest, or is it the Western imperialists who do this operating under American complicity? Was it Japan who placed an embargo on [SIZE=medium]America[/SIZE]’s supply of oil, or was it the other way around?”

[SIZE=medium]“You don’t listen,” Grandfather said. “You never listen. Those men will be back with a warrant, and if they find that newspaper they will make trouble for you. They might even arrest you, old friend. You are not a citizen, after all. You might be interned.”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]My grandfather had inadvertently mentioned what I knew was one of Mr. Ishida’s main sources of bitterness against the United States[/SIZE]. I did not know much about the bookseller’s background, or when he had arrived in [SIZE=medium]California[/SIZE], but I had been told that he had worked as a farm laborer in [SIZE=medium]Bakersfield[/SIZE] until he had injured his leg and had been discharged. Mr. Ishida had then borrowed the money from my grandfather, his closest friend, to open this bookshop. That had happened many, many, years ago.

[SIZE=medium]In the early 1920’s, restrictive federal laws were passed, as a result of agitation by white California farming interests concerned with growing competition from the Japanese living here. These laws shut down all further emigration from Japan[/SIZE], and also prevented older Japanese already living here from becoming American citizens, if they had not chosen to do so already. The laws were challenged in the courts, and the cases involved went all the way to the Supreme Court, where the restrictions were finally upheld.

[SIZE=medium]Mr. Ishida was one of those who had lost the opportunity to become American, unlike Grandfather, who was naturalized by his parents as a young boy. Since that Supreme Court Decision, Mr. Ishida had spoken angrily against everything American, and was always eager to point out the hypocrisy which he believed existed just below the surface of what he sneeringly referred to as “Yankee culture.”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]Now, he replied to Grandfather, by saying, “Nothing will happen to me that won’t happen to all of us. Internment’s coming, and you know it.”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]Mr. Ishida was referring to something that none of us was eager to discuss. Recently, many of the California[/SIZE] newspapers had been calling for the internment of all Japanese- Americans to distant camps far removed from the coast, should war break out between the [SIZE=medium]U.S.A.[/SIZE] and [SIZE=medium]Japan[/SIZE]. The lead ringleader for this viewpoint was the San Francisco [SIZE=medium]Examiner[/SIZE], owned by William Randolph Hearst, but the Los Angeles [SIZE=medium]Times [/SIZE]and the Sacramento [SIZE=medium]Bee[/SIZE] also printed editorials favorable to the idea. “At a time of great peril,” one of the typical editorials read, “can we afford to allow ninety thousand people who are admittedly on the side of our enemy to exist among us? Should [SIZE=medium]California[/SIZE] be threatened with invasion, is it wrong to demand we do everything responsible to protect our [SIZE=medium]loyal [/SIZE]citizens?”

[SIZE=medium]Some of the editorials had been written by allies of Caucasian farming interests who had fought for the last thirty years to curtail the wealth of Japanese farmers, whose success threatened them. Others behind the movement were ambitious politicians eager to seize on any wedge issue that might gain them power. But the scariest aspect was that a great many white Californians, perhaps even a majority, believed internment might eventually be a good idea.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]The thought of being sent to some unknown place in the middle of nowhere, far from Los Angeles[/SIZE] and my home and everything I knew terrified me. But Grandfather assured us that it was all talk, just newspaper propaganda as a result of the war tensions. My grandfather had been a lawyer for over thirty years, and he pointed out that such a move was unconstitutional, a violation of our civil rights as protected by the Fourteenth Amendment. Besides, he said, [SIZE=medium]America[/SIZE] would never do such a thing. Rounding up innocent people and sending them away was something the Nazis did, not Americans.

[SIZE=medium]“My whole life would be a sham,” he had told us recently, “if such a thing were to come to pass. I have always loved the United States of America[/SIZE], and the whole point of the Japanese-American Friendship Society has been to prove that Japanese-Americans are worthwhile contributors to the ‘American Dream’. People are always prejudiced against what they do not know and can’t understand. If we make ourselves known and understood, all prejudice against us will disappear.” Grandfather was always making optimistic pronouncements such as this; listening to him, you could tell he believed it with all his heart.

[SIZE=medium]Mr. Ishida, of course, believed the editorials. He laughed when Grandfather talked about the Constitution. Mr. Ishida was a well-read man; was Nakamura-san aware of how the American Indians had been treated? How about the way colored people were treated even now in the South, or Mexicans in central California, or the Chinese in San Francisco? Not to mention Hawaiians, Jews, Filipinos, and everyone else who had ever been in the way of the White Christian masters of this country. The Constitution was a sham, a mirage for those naïve enough to believe it.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]“Not that I mind what they’re planning on doing,” the bookseller informed us. “If this was Japan[/SIZE], and there were ninety thousand Americans living there, of course I’d be for locking them all up. It makes perfect sense. No, I don’t mind that at all, except of course I do not wish to be incarcerated, if I can help it. Which I can’t.”

[SIZE=medium]“Nobody’s going to be-” Grandfather started wearily, but Mr. Ishida interrupted him; he was really on a roll now.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]“What I mind,” Mr. Ishida stressed, “is the hypocrisy. The hypocrisy that they practice and you believe, old friend. The idea that freedom is what matters, and their Constitution, and the rule of law. It’s all a lie. If the Americans could just admit they are no better than the Japanese or even the Germans for that matter, I would respect them a lot more.”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]I could never remember seeing Grandfather visibly angry, but I could tell Mr. Ishida’s goading was getting to him. Still, he managed to contain himself, and then said, much to my regret, “And what about Mary? You spout all of this nonsense, and you don’t care what happens to you, but what about what might happen to her? It was my idea that she work here, and perhaps that was a terrible mistake. She could be arrested right along with you if you continue with the Tokio[/SIZE].”

[SIZE=medium]I was shocked. Was Grandfather suggesting that I quit the bookshop? But I loved working there. All of those lovely old volumes and manuscripts, and the beautiful color prints that Mr. Ishida collected. I could not bear to quit now. And old Mr. Ishida was such a helpless old man, really. He had trouble reaching and lifting some of the books, and I was a great help to him, I knew. His limp was always so bad.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]On the other hand, what would happen to me if I was arrested? Like internment, the thought created a dread stone that seemed to materialize in my stomach and just stay there. I never helped him with the Tokio, [/SIZE]I wanted to say. But my mouth stayed shut.

[SIZE=medium]At the mention of my name, Mr. Ishida’s eyes softened. “I would never do anything to harm Mariko-chan,” he said. “Even I don’t think they are barbarian enough to mistreat a young girl. She is in no danger over this.”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]“Perhaps, perhaps not.” Grandfather replied. He had found a ***** in Mr. Ishida’s armor and he meant to press it home. “We can’t know that for sure. I will have to recommend to Mary’s parents that she stop working here, unless you promise to stop distributing the Tokio[/SIZE].”

[SIZE=medium]The two old men just stared at each other. At length, Mr. Ishida said, “Very well. I shall continue to read it, but I shall not distribute it. I shall, however, repeat what the newspaper says to certain friends of mine. Surely you can’t object to that? Isn’t free speech another one of the things you revere about this country?”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]Grandfather nodded his head. “It is, and I’ll accept that compromise.”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]Mr. Ishida laughed again. “Don’t you realize freedom of speech is as much a myth as everything else about America? Else, why would I be in this situation, forced to lie to the police? But I shall keep my word.”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]Mr. Ishida always kept his word. So did my Grandfather. Both men were fond of telling me that even if one lost all of one’s possessions, it did not matter so long as you retained your personal sense of honor. (Yet it was true that both men had [/SIZE]lied to the FBI.)

[SIZE=medium]The books were now all in their proper place, and Grandfather said abruptly, “And now, we must go. There is still a crowd of people outside, waiting to have their curiosity satisfied. We must tell them that Takeo Ishida will not be arrested, at least, not today. And then Mary has a party to attend. It is her birthday today, you see.”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]“Ah! I know!” Mr. Ishida said. I was amazed once again. Had they all known all along? “Yes, I was waiting for you to come from school, Mariko-chan, but of course I was distracted by the gai-jin[/SIZE]. Please allow me to wish you all of my best thoughts for your future health and prosperity,” he said formerly, and bowed low.

[SIZE=medium]I couldn’t help giggling. All of the older Japanese were so formal, and they used such flowery phrases! “Thank you, Mr. Ishida,” I replied.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]“But my good wishes are not the whole of my present to you,” he said, smiling. “Oh no, it would be impolite indeed to simply acknowledge a young girl’s birthday and yet fail to give her something more substantial than mere providential thoughts, neh?[/SIZE]” And he reached behind the counter and handed me a brightly wrapped package, hiding what was obviously a book.

[SIZE=medium]“Oh! Arigato[/SIZE]!” I said. I removed the wrapping. It was a slim volume of poetry, of course in Japanese. The pages appeared to be hand-written, and the calligraphy was beautiful.

[SIZE=medium]“Selections from the Kokin Wakashu[/SIZE]” he explained, referring to the oldest collection of Japanese poems compiled at Imperial request, sometime around the twelfth century in Japan. There were twenty-one such collections, but the [SIZE=medium]Kokin Wakashu [/SIZE]was the most influential, and generally considered one of the wellsprings of Japanese literature.

[SIZE=medium]“Just a few of my favorites that I chose,” Mr. Ishida continued, and suddenly he seemed rather shy before me.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]“That you chose-” I began. “You mean, you did the calligraphy yourself? Oh, it’s so beautiful!”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]He nodded. “Actually, it was a great pleasure for me. It’s been an awfully long time since I have written formerly anything worthwhile, you know. I did it at night for the past two months, preparing for this day. And I do so love the poetry.” He quoted: “‘A confused array of red leaves in the current of [/SIZE][SIZE=medium]Tatsuta[/SIZE] [SIZE=medium]River[/SIZE][SIZE=medium]. Were I to cross, I would break the fabric of a rich brocade’.[/SIZE]”

[SIZE=medium]Impulsively, I hugged him. He was startled, and then patted my back. We left then, my grandfather and me.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]As Grandfather explained some of the situation to the neighbors (he played down the threat issued by the FBI agents,) it occurred to me that I knew so little about Mr. Ishida. How could a former laborer on a farm be skilled in the art of calligraphy, which was a hobby of the upper classes in Japan[/SIZE]? How did he know so much about literature, and about poetry? And who was this bride Mrs. Myagi spoke of? So many questions.

[SIZE=medium]And why were Grandfather and Mr. Ishida such good friends, even though they argued bitterly about everything? This was a question that bothered my father, as well. I knew Father was none too fond of old Mr. Ishida, and when he heard about what had happened today, he would surely ask Grandfather, as he had so many times in the past, “But why do you put up with him?” Father was afraid that Mr. Ishida would get all of us into some kind of trouble eventually with his anti-American talk.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]And Grandfather would reply as he always did, that Mr. Ishida was an old friend, and: “Never forget this family owes a great debt to Takeo Ishida. A debt we can never repay.”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]Another mystery. Once, several months ago, I asked Father about this, but he would not tell me. So, I asked my Grandfather instead: “Grandfather, what has Mr. Ishida done for us that we owe him such a great debt?”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]My grandfather looked at me for a long time, and finally replied, “Nothing, child. The truth is, he has done nothing at all.”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]And he would say no more.[/SIZE]

 

[timschochet]

[SIZE=medium]Chapter Two[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]Dinner wasn’t as much fun as I expected. Everyone attempted to be jolly to celebrate my birthday, and I was suitable surprised and delighted. I ate large portions of both the botamochi [/SIZE]and chocolate cake, until I felt sick, though I kept a smile on my face. I could tell both Mother and Grandmother were pleased. There were nice gifts: a sweater from Grandmother, a pretty dress from Mother and Father, a necklace from Uncle Tommy.

[SIZE=medium]But through it all, I could sense the tension in the air. By now, everyone had heard of the FBI agents who had visited Mr. Ishida. Nothing like this had ever happened before. With all of the newspaper talk about internment, faces were tight and filled with secret dread.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]The subject came up after Grandmother and I cleared the dessert dishes. Mother was staring hard at Father, who said abruptly, “I don’t think Mary should be helping Mr. Ishida anymore.”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]I knew my mother had put him up to saying it. Father was always very quiet, reluctant to give an opinion, and Mother was always pushing him to say things. By having him say it, she kept up the appearance of the demure, proper Japanese wife who allowed her husband to make all of the important decisions. Though certainly everyone at this table knew that exactly the opposite was the case.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]Grandmother looked startled; Father had spoken in English, which she only understood a little. Hastily he translated for her. Grandmother did not reply; no one did. I at least expected Grandfather to come to my defense, but he stayed quiet like everyone else, waiting. Then Uncle Tommy spoke: “Shouldn’t that be Mary’s decision?”
Outside of my mother, Uncle Tommy was the most western of all of us. I secretly had a crush on him, which was shameful, since he was my father’s younger brother, but he was so handsome! He was tall and slim, and he wore such flashy clothes, what they called “zoot suits”. Tommy was good natured and easy going. But he was also considered lazy by the rest of the family. At age 22, he still lived with his parents, but unlike his older brother, he had no interest in helping to manage his father’s properties. He had no interest in anything else the rest of the family might have considered to be serious either, it seemed. Tommy enjoyed going to nightclubs to listen to swing music, and he played guitar good enough to be in a jazz band himself, though he hadn’t managed to find a gig yet. He insisted that when he did, that would be his career. Grandfather was tolerant but considered the whole thing to be a fad that would die out eventually.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]Father agreed it was a fad, but was not so patient. He often scolded Tommy for not living up to his responsibilities. Perhaps this failure by Tommy made my father feel the weight on his own shoulders a bit more heavily. Now, irritated by what he considered my uncle’s flippant response, he snapped, “Certainly not. The girl is only ten! It is up to responsible adults to see that she is not in any danger.”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]The way he said responsible adults [/SIZE]clearly indicated that he did not believe my uncle to be among their number, and Tommy’s face flushed. Before he could reply, I said quickly, “But I’m not ten anymore, I’m eleven.”

[SIZE=medium]It was time for Mother to finally speak. As usual her voice was deceptively soft, but underneath the silk was iron. “Yes, Mary, but even eleven is too young to make your own decisions. If Mr. Ishida is truly in trouble with the government, it would be unwise of you to be further associated with him.”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]“But that was all settled!” I argued. “There won’t be any more trouble. Ask Grandfather!”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]All eyes turned to the old man.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]He cleared his throat and said, “It is true, Takeo-san and I have come to an agreement. He will no longer distribute the Tokio[/SIZE]. When the federal agents come back with their search warrants, there will be no copies for them to find. Mary will not be in any danger.”

[SIZE=medium]I saw my father glance at my mother; she gave a quick shake of her head. Immediately my father said, ‘It’s not enough. How do we know we can trust old Ishida?”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]The words were hardly out before I saw a flash of irritation in Grandfather’s eyes. “Takeo Ishida is a man of honor,” he said sharply. “I will not hear you speak of him so! Never forget, this family owes Mr. Ishida a great debt, which we can never repay.”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]Poor Father. He was in his early thirties, but unlike Grandfather who looked ten years younger than his age, Father looked ten years older. He was a short, thin man, dedicated to my mother, and myself and the baby, Richard Jr., who was sleeping all through this argument. But he was always being pulled one way by Mother and another way by Grandfather, the two dominant figures in his life. Father was always smoking cigarettes; I rarely saw him without one in his hand. Of course, Grandfather, Mother, and Uncle Tommy all smoked as well, though not nearly as often as Father did.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]Father had been a dutiful son. Unlike Tommy, he had never rebelled against the life plan that Grandfather had set for him. He had attended UCLA and received a business degree, and had come back to help Grandfather manage the buildings he had acquired. As Grandfather over the years became more and more involved with fighting for the rights of Japanese Americans through legal means and by public speeches, the my father’s own responsibilities had increased. But he did not enjoy dealing with all of the tenants, I could tell. Father would have preferred a quiet life where everyone just left him alone; but this was not to be.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]It was at UCLA that Father met my mother, at a party given for Nisei[/SIZE] students. He fell in love and within two months of having met, they were married. It was the first move he ever made without the prior approval of his parents, and no doubt it shocked them. They did not approve of my mother when they first met her. I suspected that thirteen years later, my grandmother still did not approve.

[SIZE=medium]My father had failed to win my mother’s argument, so now she spoke up for herself. “It’s not simply a matter of what Mr. Ishida will do anymore,” she said in a reasonable tone. “It’s also the question of what the federal agents will do, as well. They already suspect the bookseller of being a troublemaker; perhaps they will harass him further. Perhaps news of Mary’s involvement with him will reach her elementary school. Do not forget she is the only Japanese girl at that school. Might not this subject her to mistreatment?”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]It was the turn of my grandmother to speak. She would never have been the first woman in the room to give her opinion, but my mother had opened the way for her. Now she said, “It was not the idea of everyone present in this room to put Mariko in that school. Perhaps it is that school, and not honorable Mr. Ishida, which is the real danger for the girl.”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]This was an old argument. We lived on the border of two public schools. Weber was where all of the neighbors’ children attended; it was seventy-five percent Japanese, with a sprinkling of Latino and colored children. In fact, it was the same school my father had once gone to, and Uncle Tommy, as well. [/SIZE]

[SIZE=medium]Brockton[/SIZE] elementary school, on the other hand, was ninety-nine percent Caucasian. (It was less than one percent Japanese, meaning me.) The school had excellent teachers; it was nice and clean, and students from there went to the all-white high school and to good universities. My mother had decided when I was born that [SIZE=medium]Brockton[/SIZE] was where I would attend. My grandmother had always opposed this, as she opposed any move my mother made to “Americanize” me. Typically, Father was torn both ways. But Grandfather, while never revealing his true feelings on the matter, told his wife that it was for my parents to decide, that it was none of her affair. So I went to [SIZE=medium]Brockton[/SIZE].

[SIZE=12pt]Grandmother never argued with Grandfather, at least not in public. She never argued with my father, either. But in a thousand little ways, she let her disapproval be known. She pushed and prodded Grandfather and Father until a compromise was reached: I would attend Brockton[/SIZE] in the mornings and Japanese school in the afternoons. This way, it was explained, I would not forget my heritage.

[SIZE=12pt]Mother at first resisted this move as well; what need did I have of Japanese school? But Father was tired of being nagged on all sides, so it was decided. That I attended two schools was not so unusual; all of my Japanese friends did the same. It never occurred to me that I might have less time to play, or to have fun, or just time to be myself, the way any normal girl of my age might want. It was my life, and I can’t say I was unhappy with it.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=12pt]My mother was visibly irritated with Grandmother’s remark. “Brockton[/SIZE] has nothing to do with it,” she snapped. “We put Mary there so that she would have opportunities in the future. Why should my daughter be deprived because she is Japanese?”

[SIZE=12pt]“Is she Japanese?” Grandmother shot back. “Sometimes I think you would prefer it if you and she were not Japanese, Etsuko-san. You would like to pretend you are white Americans. But the world will not let you forget, and you harm this child by forcing her to succumb to your illusions.”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=12pt]“That’s enough,” Grandfather said sternly, and at once Grandmother bowed her head and was silent. “It is not our decision. Listen, Erin[/SIZE],” he said softly, using my mother’s western name as he knew she preferred, “it would break Mr. Ishida’s heart to lose his time with Mary. He worships the girl. Did you see the gift he made for her? Mr. Ishida is a lonely old man, and Mariko-chan is the light of his life, as she is to all of us. Worse, it would be shameful to remove her now, after he agreed to remove the newsletters. And it would be dishonorable. Please do not force such a decision on this family.”

[SIZE=12pt]My mother made no reply; I could see she was fighting back anger at her mother-in-law, and trying to concentrate on what Grandfather was saying. Once again, Uncle Tommy jumped into the fray.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=12pt]“Why is every decision always about the ‘family’?” he demanded. “All of you have something to say about this, but no one’s asking Mary what she thinks? What about it, Mary? What do you want to do?”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=12pt]“I enjoy working in the bookshop,” I said. “I feel…at peace there. I can’t explain why, really, except that with all the talk of war and everything going wrong around us, it’s nice to have a quiet place, where everything’s in order, everything has it’s proper place.”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=12pt]“What do you mean, ‘everything going wrong around us’, Mary?” My mother interjected, suddenly distracted by my words. “What are you talking about? Has something happened at school?”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=12pt]I hesitated. They all stared at me, and for a moment I thought about telling them. But how could I? It would upset Mother so much, and they might pull me out of Brockton[/SIZE]. Besides, I told myself, things weren’t so terrible that I couldn’t handle them. I hoped.

[SIZE=12pt]“Nothing specific,” I lied. “Just a feeling I get sometimes. But I do so like the bookshop. And I love old Mr. Ishida.”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=12pt]I turned to my grandmother. “And you don’t have to worry about me being Japanese, Grandmother. After all, I go to Japanese school, don’t I? I love being a Japanese girl.”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=12pt]“Then it is decided,” Grandfather said. As usual, he assumed leadership. “For now, Mary will continue to work at the bookshop when she has time.”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=12pt]Later, Mother brushed my hair as I lay in bed in my pajamas. As she did, I watched her face. How I envied my mother’s face; she was so beautiful, with big, dark eyes and such a finely shaped nose and lips. My own eyes were too close together and my nose was too large, and I knew that I wasn’t pretty at all. Even if I became pretty one day, as sometimes adults do, I could never be as gorgeous as Mother; people stopped on the street to stare at her, Caucasians too. [/SIZE]

[SIZE=12pt]I also loved my Mother’s hands; they were so smooth, with fine long fingers. Such a graceful woman! When she moved it was like watching silk pushed along by a slight breeze. Try as I might to imitate her, my movements sounded to me like the stampede of an army of elephants.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=12pt]“Mother,” I said, “you’re not mad about before, are you? I do so want to keep working for Mr. Ishida.”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=12pt]“No, I’m not mad, Mary,” she said, continuing to brush me softly. “Sometimes- sometimes it would be nice if decisions were left to your father and me. It seems like ‘family’ matters always have to include your grandparents as well. That is what I married into, of course, but they’re always so involved.”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=12pt]I did not know how to respond to this, so I said, “I loved the chocolate cake.”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=12pt]She stopped and smiled at me wryly. “As much as the botamochi[/SIZE]?”

[SIZE=12pt]“Well, but I’ve had that before.”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=12pt]There was just a hint of annoyance in her voice as she said, “Nothing is good enough for your Grandmother. She knew I was baking the cake, but she has to compete with me, always. It really is very tiresome.”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=12pt]“Oh no mother, it wasn’t that!” I replied automatically. “Grandmother just wanted to make me happy on my birthday, that’s all!”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=12pt]Mother sighed. “I’m sorry; I shouldn’t let her get to me. She is a fine woman in her own way; we’re just so very different. I can live with it. Tell me something, Mary. You bothered me earlier when you said you felt safe in the bookshop. Why there? And what disturbs you so in the rest of your life that you should need to feel safe?”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=12pt]“I’m not sure,” I said quickly. “Like I said, it’s just a feeling I get. I really can’t explain any better than I did earlier.”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=12pt]She gazed steadily into my eyes. “If something was [/SIZE]going on in your school, in either of your schools, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you? You wouldn’t keep any secrets from me?”

[SIZE=12pt]“Yes,” I replied. “I mean no. I mean, I wouldn’t keep any secrets from you.”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=12pt]Oh, how I hated lying to my mother![/SIZE]

[SIZE=12pt]Etsuko (Erin) Fujika was born in 1906. My mother’s parents were not farm laborers, as were most of the Japanese who came to California[/SIZE] at that time. Instead, they were hired as a couple for a wealthy widow named Agnes Smith, who lived in a large house in the hills of [SIZE=medium]Glendale[/SIZE]. Mrs. Smith had traveled to [SIZE=medium]Japan[/SIZE] with her husband, a millionaire businessman. He had died there, apparently of food poisoning. Agnes Smith returned to [SIZE=medium]California[/SIZE] in 1904 with her husband’s fortune intact, and two Japanese servants.

[SIZE=12pt]My mother’s father worked as butler and houseboy; my grandmother did the cooking. Agnes Smith had no children and few visitors. Mother was not sure whether or not her parents had been married in Japan[/SIZE], or here in [SIZE=medium]California[/SIZE]. She also knew nothing of what part of [SIZE=medium]Japan[/SIZE] they had come from, although Agnes Smith certainly met them in [SIZE=medium]Tokyo[/SIZE]. Fujika was a common enough name, so my ancestry on my mother’s side would be difficult to trace under normal circumstances.

[SIZE=12pt]As it turned out, it would become impossible for all time to learn more about them. For in 1908, a fire consumed the home of Agnes Smith. No one knows how it started, but when it was over, nothing remained of the house, Mrs. Smith, or either of my grandparents. Two badly burned arms handed the firemen a blanket carrying a two year old baby: my mother. The arms receded and were not seen again by the firemen: were they my grandmother’s? My grandfather’s? Could they have been Agnes Smith?[/SIZE]

[SIZE=12pt](For years, I used to have nightmares about this story. In my mind’s eye, I could see the two darkened arms, thrusting out of the flames, no face behind them, holding the baby. And I also used to have dreams of my mother’s parents. They watched me, faceless, caught in shadow. I was haunted by these dreams.)[/SIZE]

[SIZE=12pt]Mother was put in an orphanage in Whittier[/SIZE][SIZE=medium], [/SIZE][SIZE=medium]California[/SIZE]. She lived the next seven years in that orphanage, and she would not talk about those times to anyone. I overheard Grandfather speculating once that orphanages were terrible places in those days, (not that they were much better now!) and who knows what kind of treatment she received, especially since she was the only Japanese girl there. Naturally, Mother grew up with no memory of her parents, and speaking only English. I suppose her beauty saved her, because at the age of nine, she was adopted by a family named Wilson who lived in [SIZE=medium]Fullerton[/SIZE], in [SIZE=medium]Orange[/SIZE] [SIZE=medium]County[/SIZE].

[SIZE=12pt]Travis Wilson was a contractor who helped build custom homes. He was 52 and Iris Wilson was 47 when they decided together that their childless life was too lonely. So they ended up at the orphanage in Whittier[/SIZE]. They probably wanted a nice white baby to raise, but then as now, those were in short supply for the adoption agencies. So they settled on my mother, who was certainly happy to go with them.

[SIZE=12pt]Now began what my mother described as her “wonderful years”, growing up in Fullerton[/SIZE] with a couple who loved her. Mother attended elementary school and then middle school with all Caucasians, and she was treated like everyone else. She was popular because of her good looks, and had many friends. Of course, Mother knew she was Japanese, but was unaware of what this exactly entailed, not knowing any other Japanese people in her world.

[SIZE=12pt]All of this ended for Mother when she was seventeen. “Really”, she told me much later, “I should have realized it long before. But I was so naïve then, and living with the Wilsons kept me very sheltered. They were such nice, gentle people, Mary. And they loved me so much! I doubt my real parents could have loved me any more.”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=12pt]It was at the end of my Mother’s junior year at Fullerton[/SIZE] [SIZE=medium]High School[/SIZE]. There was a spring dance scheduled for the soon to be seniors, followed by a private party being given by Elizabeth Holding. [SIZE=medium]Elizabeth[/SIZE] was the most popular girl in school, a blond beauty from one of the finest families in [SIZE=medium]Fullerton[/SIZE]. She had always been cordial to Mother, but the two were not friends. Mother expected to be escorted to the dance and party by Jake Knightly, a pitcher for the baseball team who had been her beau for two years. Though not in love with Jake, Mother was fond of him; she described him to me as tall with big muscles and sandy brownish hair, “with a devil may care twinkle in his eye.” They kissed on occasion, but nothing deeper than that. “It was a pleasant, meaningless high school relationship,” she told me with a sigh.

[SIZE=12pt]Seven nights before the party, Jake telephoned the Wilson residence. He told Mother that he could not go with her to the dance, as he had a “family emergency”.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=12pt]“What sort of family emergency do you know about a week beforehand?” my Mother asked.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=12pt]There was a pause on the phone, and then Jake blurted, “Let’s not make this harder than it already is, Erin[/SIZE].” And he hung up the phone.

[SIZE=12pt]During that week, Mother learned the truth from a friend of hers named Sylvia Perlman. Jake had been informed by Elizabeth Holding that he could not bring Erin Wilson to the private party because Elizabeth[/SIZE]’s mother would not countenance a “*****”, as she termed it, as a guest in her house. It did not matter to [SIZE=medium]Elizabeth[/SIZE]’s mother that [SIZE=medium]Erin[/SIZE] was of Japanese descent; to her, they were all one and the same. Jake had been advised to invite someone else to both the party and the dance, and he had quickly agreed, not wanting to face social ostracism. Sylvia had also not been invited, because she was Jewish.

[SIZE=12pt]So there it was. For nearly eight years, during her older childhood and adolescence, my mother had been treated as an absolute equal by her peers. But suddenly when the first “adult” event occurred, she was smoothly separated out as not an acceptable race.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=12pt]“I didn’t know what to do,” Mother told me, and even now, eighteen years later, I could see the deep hurt and anger in her eyes. “I was embarrassed to go to school. How could I stand in the hallway day after day with those people, with Jake and Elizabeth, pretending to be nice to them, knowing all the while they had rejected me? With Sylvia, it was different. She was raised Jewish, you see, and she never expected to be invited to those parties. She seemed indifferent to the crowd that mattered. But I? I was always part of that crowd, and I know this will sound foolish and unbelievable to you Mary, but I never knew there was any bigotry. I had never heard talk against Japanese, I didn’t even think of myself that way.”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=12pt]She gave herself over to tears then, and hugged me tightly. After she had dried her eyes, she continued: “That night, I hated myself. I didn’t blame them, I blamed me. I hated the fact that I was Japanese, and not some white American. And I decided I couldn’t go back.”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=12pt]She never told the Wilsons[/SIZE] the real reason behind her quitting school that weekend. My mother was always very independent and just did what she wanted. She took correspondence courses over the summer, and graduated from high school early. Mother never saw any of the [SIZE=medium]Fullerton[/SIZE] high school students again. That fall, she enrolled at UCLA.

[SIZE=12pt]“That was in 1924,” she told me. “The Westwood campus hadn’t been built yet. I went to school on Vermont Avenue[/SIZE], where the city college is now. And it wasn’t even called UCLA then! Just the [SIZE=medium]University[/SIZE][SIZE=medium] of [/SIZE][SIZE=medium]California[/SIZE]. Do you know that I was the last graduating class at [SIZE=medium]Vermont[/SIZE]? Your father got his degree a year after I did, and it was in Westwood.”

[SIZE=12pt]Mother was a commuter to the school. Every day, at six in the morning, she would get in Mr. Wilson’s new Model T, and he would drive her for an hour up Highway 5 to reach the campus. Then he would pick her up each evening, and take her back to Fullerton[/SIZE]. “He spent four hours a day driving me back and forth for the first three years of my time in college,” Mother said. “I didn’t know how to drive myself, and we only had one car. So Mr. Wilson did it. And you know what? He never complained, never said one word about it. The whole time in that car I’d talk about my courses, grumbled about teachers, problems I was having. It was always about me. My stepfather was in his early sixties by then, and he was retired. But he put up with me. He didn’t say much; he seemed to just enjoy listening to me talk. Oh Mary, they loved me so, the both of them. I’ve never been loved so uncritically ever since!”

[SIZE=12pt]I wanted to say, I love you uncritically, Mother. But I didn’t say it, and anyhow I suspected it wasn’t true. It probably wasn’t even true of the Wilsons[/SIZE] either, but Mother liked to believe it.

[SIZE=12pt] [/SIZE]

[SIZE=12pt] [/SIZE]

[SIZE=12pt]She was a quiet student; she had no interest in making friends. “I was through with friends,” she said. “I was only seventeen, but I felt old for my years. I wanted nothing to do with their parties and their sororities. Would a sorority have accepted me? I didn’t know, I didn’t want to know. Sometimes white boys would approach me. Some were nice and tried to talk to me, others were more fresh. I was rude to all of them, I’m afraid. I was still so angry back then, and I didn’t fancy the idea of being someone’s exotic flower, the type of girl that you date at school but have no interest in marrying. I didn’t want to be that [/SIZE]type of girl.”

[SIZE=12pt]Mother took up accounting. Her plan was to move to New York[/SIZE] after school, and get a job there. “I had read all about it, and seen it in the movies. It was so cosmopolitan. I was quite sure that a Japanese girl who was an American in every way except how she looked would do fine there. I would be accepted for what I was. That was the plan, anyway.”

[SIZE=12pt]“What about the Wilsons[/SIZE]?” I asked her. “You were just willing to leave them behind; after all they had done for you?”

[SIZE=12pt]“I didn’t even think about it,” she admitted. “I suppose I was so very selfish back then. I was only concerned with what would happen to me. You know who paid for my tuition, don’t you? Travis Wilson. He paid every cent. And Iris made all of my clothing. I just took, took, took, from those people, and never gave anything back. But when I told them about my plans for New York[/SIZE], they never said a word.”

[SIZE=12pt]Luckily for my future existence, New York remained a dream, not the reality. It was at UCLA that my mother discovered other Japanese people for the first time. “I had never known any before,” she admitted to me. “Can you believe it? But the UCLA students, although Nisei[/SIZE], were really very different from me, of course.”

[SIZE=12pt]Nisei [/SIZE]was the Japanese term for second generation Japanese-Americans, those that were born here. Most adults of my mother and father’s generation were [SIZE=medium]Nisei[/SIZE]. Grandfather and Mr. Ishida belonged to the first generation, which we called [SIZE=medium]Issei[/SIZE].

[SIZE=12pt]One day, a pretty Japanese girl approached my mother and spoke to her in rapid Japanese.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=12pt]“I’m sorry,” Mother replied in English, somewhat embarrassed. “I don’t speak Japanese.”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=12pt]“You don’t?” the girl asked, clearly surprised. “But you are Japanese, aren’t you? You don’t look Chinese.”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=12pt]“I suppose I am,” Mother said. “But I don’t speak it- I never learned. I was raised by American parents.”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=12pt]“Really?” the girl said, “How extraordinary! How did that happen?”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=12pt]My mother just stared. “Who are you?” she demanded.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=12pt] [/SIZE]

[SIZE=12pt] [/SIZE]

[SIZE=12pt]The pretty girl just laughed. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry. Let’s start over. My name is Tammy. Tammy Osagi. My friends say I ask too many questions, and I suppose they’re right. But I’ve seen you around, you know. And I keep asking myself, who is this beautiful Japanese girl that doesn’t hang around with the[/SIZE]

[SIZE=12pt]gang, stays aloof from everything, and nobody knows who she is? So I decided I would meet you today, and find out for myself.”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=12pt]Tammy said this all in a rush, which was how she spoke all of the time. She told Mother she was from the area of Los Angeles[/SIZE] known as “Little Tokyo”, where most of her friends were as well. Almost all of them were the children of farmers and laborers from [SIZE=medium]Japan[/SIZE]. There were about thirty of these students at UCLA at the time. They hung out in a “gang” together, generally watching out for each other.

[SIZE=12pt]Tammy Osagi, as it turns out, was dating my father, David Nakamura, when she met Erin Wilson. But it was only a casual thing; neither of them was in love with each other. Or so my mother told me. According to her, when Tammy introduced her to Father, he immediately fell head over heels. Also according to my mother, Tammy didn’t mind. I had no reason to disbelief this, since I knew Tammy. Now she was Tammy Fujinaka, and she lived two buildings away from us. She had three daughters, the oldest one six years old. I thought the girls were bratty. But Tammy remained my mom’s best friend. [/SIZE]

[SIZE=12pt]The combination of Tammy, David, and the “gang” opened up a new world for my mother. Despite the fact that she spoke no Japanese, she felt like she belonged. And this came at an especially good time for her, because she was by herself. Travis Wilson died of a heart attack during Mother’s sophomore year, and his wife died not six months later. My mother inherited their savings and the value of the house in Fullerton[/SIZE]. But she was alone.

[SIZE=12pt]Father swept her off her feet. He was young, good looking, and the wealthiest among them. It didn’t hurt that he was the son of perhaps the most prominent Japanese American in California[/SIZE], the famous Richard Nakamura. And he was attracted to her. It wasn’t only that my mother was beautiful, it was that she was so different from all the other girls he had grown up with. She was of Japanese descent, and yet she was [SIZE=medium]American[/SIZE].

[SIZE=12pt]This is the same reason that my grandmother so disliked her. My grandmother had been born in Hiroshima[/SIZE], and came here as a young adult. She had been trained by her mother in what she believed was proper: be dutiful, humble, work hard, and obey your husband. Grandmother revered my Grandfather and never publicly questioned anything he did. She preferred Japanese foods, Japanese manners, and she wore a kimono. She spoke very little English. In the back of her mind she thought that her husband would one day take her and her two sons back to [SIZE=medium]Japan[/SIZE], their real home. Perhaps she blamed Mother for somehow preventing this.

[SIZE=12pt]She had tried to imbue all of her traditions on David, and the fact that he would marry a girl who was so Americanized that she could not even speak Japanese made my grandmother feel betrayed. She urged him not to do it. She wanted my grandfather to intervene. He would not. Actually, Grandfather was rather charmed by my mother from the first, although he recognized the problems she would cause. He foresaw the inevitably of the pairing and did his best to be cordial to the girl, who reciprocated. Mother was always touched that anyone could treat her with kindness and dignity.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=12pt]They were married in 1927, and my mother put away her dreams of New York City[/SIZE] and settled down to become a good Japanese housewife. Except she had no idea how to do this. Grandmother felt it was her duty to try to instruct her, by my Mother resisted, and the coldness between the two continued.

[SIZE=12pt]It was broken by my birth in 1930, for from the moment Grandmother held me in her arms, she finally accepted that the marriage was permanent. After that, she was much kinder to Mother, although a new competition began, one which I was caught in the middle of: the competition for my very soul. How would I be raised? Mother wanted me to be raised American, as she had been, except she hoped I would one day gain the acceptance that she had lacked. That is why Mother stubbornly insisted I attend the all Caucasian elementary school.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=12pt]Grandmother wanted me to be Japanese. She desired that I would resist the western temptations that this country offered, and grow up what she termed “the proper way.” That is why Grandmother stubbornly insisted, through my father, that I attend the Japanese school.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=12pt]But I had a secret which I hid from both of them: I was determined not to be “too” American, and not to be “too” Japanese. I was going to be somebody different.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=12pt]I was going to be me.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=12pt] [/SIZE]

[SIZE=12pt] [/SIZE]

[SIZE=12pt] [/SIZE]

[SIZE=12pt] [/SIZE]

[SIZE=12pt] [/SIZE]

[SIZE=12pt] [/SIZE]

 

[timschochet]

That's the first two chapters anyhow. If anybody wants to read more let me know.

 

[Encyclopedia Brown]

Show. Don't tell

Show. Don't Tell.

Show. Don't Tell.

 

[Baloney Sandwich]

That's the first two chapters anyhow. If anybody wants to read more let me know.

I'm all set, it sucked the first time and still sucks on a second reading.

 

[timschochet]

Show. Don't tell

Show. Don't Tell.

Show. Don't Tell.

Certainly a flaw of mine.

You know what's funny though? All of my favorite writers- Stephen King, Ken Follett, James Clavell, Leon Uris, Pat Conroy, Herman Wouk (to name a few)- they all do an awful lot of telling. And often that's my favorite part of the book. I really don't care if the narrative is strong. Unfortunately for me I'm not very good at that either.

 

[timschochet]

That's the first two chapters anyhow. If anybody wants to read more let me know.

I'm all set, it sucked the first time and still sucks on a second reading.

I'm glad I lived up to your expectations.

 

[Gr00vus]

Could I get a .pdf too?

 

[timschochet]

I don't know how to convert word to pdf. If you guys pm your email addresses, I'll be happy to send you a word copy.

 

[bushdocda]

If save as PDF isn't a clear option, you should still be able to do a save as and then click the file type drop down to pick .pdf

 

[the moops]

I don't know how to convert word to pdf.

Type those words into a search engine. Voila

 

[fantasycurse42]

"Save as"

The option as a PDF should be readily available.

 

[Fennis]

pdf version (for those who wanted it)

 

[Gr00vus]

pdf version (for those who wanted it)

For most deceptive use of underlining, the award goes to...

 

[ScottNorwood]

It was late at night. I couldn't sleep. Those days I never slept. Luckily this bookstore was open late. I needed something to read, to distract me. I was perusing some 17th century fiction when I heard a whisper in my ear. "Would you like to see my secret collection?" It was Mr. Ishida himself. He was nearly 60 now, yet somehow exuded the virility of a much younger man. At other times, an approach like this would have disgusted me. Maybe it was my state of mind, my need for something unconventional and exciting.... but I meekly nodded. Mr Ishida took me by the hand as I followed him downstairs, to a dimly lit room. His hand crept to my thigh. I knew his intentions, but I was in too deep now... I couldn't turn him away. He kissed me deeply, his tongue in my mouth. I could feel him press up against me. I couldn't stop him... I didn't want to stop him. His fingers played me like a harpsichord, and my moans were his music. I felt like I couldn't hold out any longer.... At long last Mr. Ishida penetrated me.

 

[PatsWillWin]

I just read a couple paragraphs in the first chapter. I feel like you have way to many semi-colons and it's weird that an 10-11 year old girl would use the word Caucasions. I probably won't read any more just because it's not my kind of thing, but I certainly respect when someone writes a novel, so nice job.

 

[timschochet]

It was late at night. I couldn't sleep. Those days I never slept. Luckily this bookstore was open late. I needed something to read, to distract me. I was perusing some 17th century fiction when I heard a whisper in my ear. "Would you like to see my secret collection?" It was Mr. Ishida himself. He was nearly 60 now, yet somehow exuded the virility of a much younger man. At other times, an approach like this would have disgusted me. Maybe it was my state of mind, my need for something unconventional and exciting.... but I meekly nodded. Mr Ishida took me by the hand as I followed him downstairs, to a dimly lit room. His hand crept to my thigh. I knew his intentions, but I was in too deep now... I couldn't turn him away. He kissed me deeply, his tongue in my mouth. I could feel him press up against me. I couldn't stop him... I didn't want to stop him. His fingers played me like a harpsichord, and my moans were his music. I felt like I couldn't hold out any longer.... At long last Mr. Ishida penetrated me.

50 Shades of Ishida. I like it.

 

[Henry Ford]

Tim, I have bad news.

On Friday, Theodore Ishida was arrested and booked into the Kern County Jail after a burglary investigation led police to find  Ishida, who reported the burglary, possessed child pornography that he downloaded from a CSUB computer.