Foundlings, p.15
Foundlings, page 15
“Stop it, kid!” the soldier said, his voice sharp and menacing now. “This is a restricted area, and if you don’t move on we’re gonna have to call the police to get you out of here.”
Kichiro took a breath. “If I could just…talk to you superior. Whoever’s in charge…They’d understand I really belong in here. I’m not an American like you are. I’m…I’m Japanese.”
The soldiers looked at each other again, Kichiro trying to discern their thoughts. “Wait here,” the older one said. To Pete, he said, “Keep an eye on him.”
He turned and walked to the gate. Another sentry on the other side had been watching, and the two met now, the older soldier talking out of earshot for a moment and then the soldier inside the gate turning away. He headed to a wooden box that had been attached to the fence and pulled out a telephone receiver. Kichiro felt his heart begin to pound at the possibility they were calling the police. He had known coming in here that there was a chance the military wouldn’t let him in, not even if he shouted in Japanese and swore loyalty to the Emperor, but he hadn’t thought they’d call the police on him. At worst, he’d expected a lecture and then to be sent packing, at which point he supposed he would start on his way back to the Paxtons’.
The sentry who had left came back now. He pointed to a spot along the edge of the road. “Go over there,” he said. “And wait. Someone’s coming out to talk to you.”
“Thank you,” Kichiro said.
He took his suitcase and did as he’d been told, finding a spot beside the curb to set his case down and wait. Not five minutes later, he heard a Jeep approaching from inside the compound. It parked, and a soldier even older than the sentry got out and approached the gate. Unlike the sentries, this one wore no helmet, and Kichiro could see he had gray hair.
It must be the man in charge, he thought, expecting that age and experience would go a long way in the army.
Seconds later, the gate was opened and the old soldier passed through, walking up to Kichiro with a kindly smile. “Good morning, son,” he said, his voice was smooth and with a slight southern accent. “I’m Lieutenant Holloway. How can we help you?”
They shook hands. “I just want to get in to see my family,” Kichiro said. “I know it…doesn’t seem likely, but…do you know about the Japanese fishing village on Terminal Island?”
“Can’t say as I do. I know the folks in here have come from all over.”
“Well…the village…our village, it’s small and peaceful, just fishermen and cannery workers. I’ve lived there my whole life. The Nakamuras…my family…they found me when I was a baby. Look.”
He pulled his wallet from his back pocket and removed the letter his father had given him, the note he’d been found with in the milk crate.
As the lieutenant read it, Kichiro noticed the little crosses pinned to the lapels of his uniform. He wasn’t the man in charge, Kichiro realized. The sentries had summoned a chaplain to deal with the boy at the fence. The realization angered him, made him feel dismissed by the soldiers, not taken seriously.
“This is very interesting,” Holloway said. “I can’t say I’ve ever heard of this kind of thing between a white boy and a Japanese family like this. But, of course, this kind of thing does happen. Young girls get in trouble, and…” He shrugged. “I see your concern, son, and I’m sure you want to be with your family. If they’re even here, of course. You know there’s another center out at the fairgrounds in Pomona and…well, a few others. It might take some effort to find them. But even if we did…well, son, there’s no way we can let you in.”
“But I’m Japanese!” Kichiro said, his anger rising.
“Now you calm yourself down, son. There’s no use in getting fired up.”
“I’m Japanese!” Kichiro said again. He repeated it in Japanese, “Watashi wa nihonjin!” and then he continued in Japanese, telling the chaplain the names of his parents and sister and brothers and ending by saying he was glad the bombs had fallen on Pearl Harbor. Kichiro could have told him he was an ambassador from Venus, and it wouldn’t have mattered; the chaplain could understand none of it, and Kichiro knew this. He just wanted the man to see that he was telling the truth and that he should be locked away with everyone else of Japanese descent.
Holloway turned and nodded to the sentry on the other side of the gate, and Kichiro saw him walk back to the phone box.
“What’s he doing?” he asked in English, alarmed again.
“Don’t you worry about him,” the chaplain said. “We’re just gonna get somebody else out here who can talk things over with you and see if we can’t get some help for your situation. Now…do you mind if I give you some advice, son?”
Kichiro just stood there for a few seconds, breathing hard after his outburst.
“I’ll take your silence as a ‘no’ and proceed then. Now, you’re a young man, maybe…sixteen or so?”
“Seventeen.”
“Seventeen then, yes. When I wasn’t but two years older than you, I put on this uniform to serve my country, and they shipped me off to the Philippines. The war with Spain was done by then, but there were still conflicts with a group of people called the Moros, Muslim guerilla fighters who gave us a hell of a time. They were ambush fighters, and they’d come out of the jungle or the grass or…out of nowhere it seemed with these short, double-edged swords that would just…” He shook his head. “You could get maybe one shot off with your .38 the second you realized one was on you, but if it wasn’t a heart or a head shot, they wouldn’t go down, not even if you got lucky and hit ‘em a few times. They might’ve died later, but…those swords. A lot of boys didn’t come home.”
The chaplain had spoken with a faraway look in his eyes, but now he paused and looked straight at Kichiro. “Those Moros…they believed in something greater than themselves, more than we did, I expect, and it drove them to do things that didn’t seem possible. Now, I can see that you believe in something, too, something big, something that’s driven you to walk up here and make a fuss in front of men with guns who are just itching to save their country from its enemies. It’s a brave thing you’ve done, but you can’t let your bravery or your beliefs get out in front of your good common sense.”
“But you’re a believer in something,” Kichiro said, nodding toward the older man’s collar. “You’re a chaplain, right?”
“Yes,” he said with a little smile. “I’m a chaplain. I went into the war a fighter and I came out wanting to save people from suffering. When I walked out of those jungles, I wasn’t the same man who’d gone in. War changes you. I’ve spent the last forty years giving comfort to those who were about to risk their lives and praying with dying boys who just want their mothers. And while I believe in my God and I believe in the beauty of this country, I don’t believe that war is a godly thing. It destroys, even when it’s righteous. Son, I have the strong feeling you’re at war yourself. Not with Japan or Germany but…with these fences and gates. Maybe even with me and those guards and everyone else who’s wearing this uniform while our Japanese friends are locked up inside. It’s not a war you can win.”
Kichiro had listened politely, not allowing himself to be rude enough to argue with the older man. He had not thought of himself as being at war with America, but now he realized that the chaplain might be right. How many times had he silently sworn allegiance to the Emperor of Japan since Pearl Harbor and the talk of “Japs” had begun? He agreed that Holloway was right about one thing—he was a believer, in himself if nothing else, and in the idea that these fences and all the suffering of the Issei and Nisei, the taking away of boating licenses, the removal from Furusato, the slashed wrists of Sayuri Kunishima…all of it was wrong and needed to be made right. He wished he could become a Moro fighter with a two-edged sword, and he wondered if, maybe, he already was.
“I don’t want to win a war,” he said after a moment. “I just want what’s right.”
“Which is?”
“For my people to be set free. We don’t deserve this.” He waved his hand toward the fences and gate.
“You’re right. I’m sure of it. But, you know, given the circumstances, they’re doing all right in there. They’ve got a theater group, and a few baseball teams. There’s even talk of a camp newspaper. It’s…not right what’s happened, but war brings with it so many things that aren’t right.”
The chaplain turned at the sound of a vehicle approaching from the city street. “Don’t let your passions run away with you, son. You don’t always have all of the facts. And beliefs…can sometimes be wrong.”
“I don’t understand,” Kichiro started to say. But then Kichiro turned to follow the chaplain’s gaze, and the words never made it to his lips. He had been wondering how long it would take for the arrival of the “somebody else” whom Holloway had promised him. Now he saw that he had been tricked. The person who’d been summoned to help with his entreaties to be let into the camp wasn’t coming from anywhere inside the racetrack, wasn’t going to be anyone wearing a military uniform, and he felt panic rising in him.
A black and white police car was rolling to a stop before the gates.
Kichiro wanted to run, and he would have, would even have bolted with his suitcase still on the ground at Holloway’s feet, but the older man had put his hand on Kichiro’s elbow now, and his grip was like a vice. Kichiro knew there would be no running.
Worse, the police car was not the only vehicle slowing before him. Behind it was a white panel truck, a large red cross emblazoned on it.
He felt Holloway’s hold on his arm tighten even more, realizing only then that he had tried to flee without even deciding to.
Chapter Ten
Camarillo, January 2014
Derek sat at his desk, the computer screen displaying a roster for the new semester. He had only three courses to teach this time around and although the load was still relatively light, there was more to do than he’d had the previous semester. Any spare time he had would need to be put to good use, making up for everything he had poured into the mystery of Kichiro Nakamura. He saw no point in going on with it now that he knew the boy had not been ethnically Japanese but probably an adoptee, maybe even a foundling. There was no way to know for sure about the boy’s origins, but at any rate, it didn’t matter: it would be tough to convince the academic community that the manuscript hidden for years inside these walls was of real cultural and scholarly significance. He wondered how many thousands of amateur short stories had been written in the 1940s alone, never sent in for publication, just sheets of paper that had gathered dust and eventually been thrown away as dreams of fame faded with maturity. It had just been his luck that this particular manuscript had ended up in a bizarre place; beyond that, it was unremarkable.
He was still glad to have had the distraction. He saw Lacey less often now, and when he did, it didn’t hurt as much as it had. He had even managed to socialize with some of his colleagues over the winter break and was beginning to feel that he fit in at the university and in his department, his every thought no longer taken up with his lost wife or the mystery of Kichiro Nakamura. The distraction had also taught him a few things, opening his eyes to the worlds of science fiction and tattoo parlors and the Japanese internment, any one of which would make for more suitable research than the social history of braces and orthodontia. His biggest jobs now were deciding which avenue he should pursue in order to satisfy his tenure committee, and doing all the grunt work that came with a new semester: tweaking his syllabi, adjusting his calendar, setting up grading spreadsheets, and matching the names on his roster with his new students’ faces.
His desk faced the open door, his bookshelves behind him. Since it was still too early in the semester for students to start coming with questions and proposals, he wasn’t expecting to be bothered while he worked. So it came as a surprise when he heard someone say, “Professor Chandler?” from the doorway.
Michelle Wilson stood in the corridor, looking tentatively into his office. It was the third time he had seen her, and once again she presented herself in a way entirely different from her previous incarnations. She was not the brash, tattooed Yuki Kamikaze all decked out in leather bikini top and dripping with attitude, nor was she the conservative Michelle Wilson, dutiful granddaughter with tightly bound hair and an expensive suit of clothes. Actually, she looked not much different from his students, wearing old jeans and a gray t-shirt with Jimi Hendrix’s face across the front of it. Her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, and she wore almost no make-up.
“Michelle,” he said, standing. “This is a surprise.” He smiled at her and waved her into the office. “Come in. Here, have a seat.” He pointed to the chair on the other side of his desk.
“Thanks,” she said, coming inside. She did not sit though, just looked around the room, almost in awe. “So this is it?” she said, taking in the walls and the barred window, fancy wrought iron scrollwork used to keep inmates inside in the days of the California State Hospital, now kept in place for historical and aesthetic considerations.
“This is it,” he echoed, not sure what she meant. Surely she wasn’t all that impressed by a professor’s office.
She looked at him, an eyebrow raised. “My grandmother’s…cell? Quarters?”
“Ah,” he said, finally understanding. “Yeah, I…guess. I mean, I was never able to nail the facts down one hundred percent, but…” He turned and pointed at the bookshelves behind him; it was all books, no photos of Lacey the way he had originally planned. “I still don’t know if it was your grandmother or Kichiro who put it in there, if he was even here at all.”
Michelle nodded and continued looking around the room. She walked to the window and considered the bars outside. “Kinda creepy?” she asked.
“I suppose. If you think about it like that.”
“The whole place…” she said, turning from the window now to come back to the desk and sit across from him. “The buildings are beautiful, but…the history. It’s so…”
“Dark?”
She nodded.
“I try to remind myself that people were kept here because they needed help. That doesn’t really change anything, though.”
Another nod. Then, without any more pleasantries, she opened her purse and took out an envelope and a small gift bag with pink and lavender flowers on it. It would have been the kind of bag someone would use to present a gift of jewelry or something else small but significant. She placed the envelope and bag on the desk and said, “I’m sorry to tell you that my grandmother died in December.”
Derek’s eyebrows rose at her words, and for a second he did not know what to say. “I’m so sorry,” he finally managed. “Was it…expected?”
She shook her head. “No. She went in her sleep. All very peaceful. The family considers it a blessing that it wasn’t some lingering disease.”
Derek nodded. “And you?” he said.
She shrugged. “They’re right. It would have been awful to see her waste away. At the same time, to have had some warning…to be able to say goodbye…”
“I understand,” he said. “When it’s…sudden like that, it’s…hard to process.”
“Yes,” Michelle said. “It’s been extremely difficult, especially when you add that she named me her executor.” She shook her head. “There’s been so much to do. I haven’t been in my shop more than two or three times since it happened.”
“It’s okay, though?”
“Yeah. I have good people working for me. It just kinda sucks that I have to let down all the people who want me doing their ink and not one of my employees.”
“You’ll be back to it soon?”
“Yes. Most of the estate is settled now. Escrow’s closing on her property, and the rest is just about finished with.” She picked up the envelope she’d set on his desk and tapped its corner against the wood. “This is one of the last loose ends.” As she slid the envelope across the desk, Derek saw his name printed on the front. “My grandmother had her will changed a few days after we met you on Terminal Island. I don’t know what’s in the envelope, but she wanted you to have it.”
Again, Derek’s eyebrows jumped up, and he felt a surge of emotions—surprise, confusion, excitement, and trepidation. Rather than speculate on the envelope’s contents, he found himself wondering if Michelle was angry about the bequest. He had hated the idea that Michelle had been suspicious about his desire to connect with her grandmother, and he had regretted both her need to protect the old woman from the emotional turmoil his investigation might cause and the fact that Michelle must have been right. The memory of Sayuri Nishio’s sad eyes in the rain had joined the chorus of things that haunted him.
“I hope our trip to the island didn’t…” he began.
“No,” Michelle said. “She was fine afterwards, really. By the time I got her home that morning, she was in a completely different mood, chatty. And, honestly, she seemed happier in the few weeks that remained to her than I’d seen her in a while. There were times when I thought about bringing Furusato up again, just to see if she was in the mood to talk about it, but…”
“You never did.”
“No.” She looked down at her hands for a moment. “Regrets are tough to process.”
“I know.”
He picked up the envelope. “Do you mind if I open it now?”
“I’d be pissed if you didn’t.”
She smiled, and he returned it. Then he got a fingertip under the edge of the sealed flap and tore it as gently as he could. The envelope held a handwritten letter, and when he unfolded it, a black and white photo fell to his desk, a group shot of several children. His heart suddenly racing, he picked up the photo, the obsessive curiosity he’d felt about Kichiro Nakamura now rekindled after having been snuffed out in the rain on Terminal Island.
He guessed it was a school photo. Maybe twenty-five Japanese children of varying heights and ages were arranged in two neat rows, all with smiles on their faces, along with a single light-haired boy just to the left of center in the back row.
