Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet (29 page)

Henry turned down the hill toward Mrs. Beatty's truck. In the dark, he could see her massive outline strapping down empty fruit crates in the back, her face illuminated by the cherry red embers of her lit cigarette, dangling from her mouth.

Through the slosh of the rain, Henry heard music from the camp. The song grew louder and louder, straining the limits of the speakers it came from. It was the record.

Their record. Oscar Holden's "Alley Cat Strut." Henry could almost pick out Sheldon's part. It shouted at the night. Louder than the storm. So loud a guard near the gate started hollering,
"Turn off that music."
The searchlights swept down on the buildings in Area 4, beaming down a menacing eye, searching for the source.

Moving

(1942)

Henry finally received the news he'd been dreading all summer. He'd known it was only a matter of time. Keiko would be moving farther inland.

Camp Harmony was always intended to be temporary, just until permanent camps could be built--away from the coastlines, which were seen as a vulnerable target for bombing or invasion. In these coastal communities, every Japanese citizen was a potential spy--able to keep track of the comings and goings of warships and ocean-based supply lines. So the farther inland the Japanese could be sent, the better. The safer we'll all be--that was what Henry's father had told him, at least back in the days when he actually spoke to him. It didn't matter. The words still rang in his ears, even in the awkward silence of their little Canton Alley apartment.

Keiko had taken to writing him once a week. Sometimes she'd include a wish list of items that he and Mrs. Beatty could smuggle into the camps. Small things, like a newspaper, or big things, like forgotten records and copies of birth certificates. Other times it was practical things, like tooth powder and soap. There was a shortage of everything inside the camps.

Henry wasn't sure if he'd even get Keiko's letters at first. He was certain his father would tear up any letter or note coming from Camp Harmony. But somehow Henry's mother, sorting the mail first, found the letter each week and slipped it underneath his pillow. She never said a word, but Henry knew it was her doing. She did her best to be an obedient wife, to honor her husband's wishes, but to look out for her son as well. Henry wanted to thank her. But even in private, expressing his gratitude would have been bad form---just acknowledging that she was bending the rules set by Henry's father would be taken as an admission of guilt, so he too said nothing. But he was indeed grateful.

Keiko's current letter said that her father had left already. He had volunteered to go to Camp Minidoka in Idaho, near the Oregon border. He'd offered to be part of a work detail--to help build the camp, the mess halls, the living quarters, even a school.

Keiko had mentioned that her father used to be a lawyer but now was working alongside doctors, dentists, and other professional men--all were now day laborers, toiling in the hot summer sun for pennies a day. Evidently their efforts were worth it. The men who volunteered all wanted to stay as close to their original homes as possible. Plus, they were promised that their families could join them as soon as the camp was ready.

Other families had been split up, some to Texas and others to Nevada. At least the Okabes would be together.

Henry knew he didn't have much time. This Saturday would probably be his last visit to Camp Harmony. His last chance to see Keiko for a very long while.

Henry had been inside Area 4 almost a dozen times now, in the kitchen, in the mess hall, or up at the visitors' fence, talking to Keiko, and occasionally her parents, through the barbed wire, lost among the half dozen other groups of visitors who usually populated the fence during the day. But he'd never been into the camp itself, the large common area, the parade grounds that once were the heartbeat of the state fair. Now it was a dusty (occasionally muddy) field, beaten down by the thousands of footsteps of restless internees.

Today would be different. Henry had become used to the strangeness of the place.

The guard dogs that patrolled the main gate. The machine-gun towers. Even the sight of men everywhere with bayoneted rifles slung across their backs. It all seemed so normal now. But today, during the normal routine of his Saturday in the mess hall, Henry planned to visit Keiko. Not at the fence. He was going into the camp. He was going to find her.

So when most of the prisoners had been served their dinner, when the crowd began to thin, Henry excused himself to go to the latrine. The other kitchen helper could handle the small crowds that trickled in late. He hadn't seen Keiko come through yet. She tended to come late; that way she'd be able to spend time talking to Henry without holding up the line.

Henry returned to the kitchen and left through the back door, right past Mrs.

Beatty, who was out smoking a cigarette and talking to one of the supply sergeants. If she noticed him, she didn't say a thing, but then again, she rarely did anyway.

Instead of heading for the latrine, Henry looped back around the building and blended into a crowd of Japanese prisoners heading to the large trophy barn that had become a makeshift home for what he guessed were three hundred people. He stuffed his

"I am Chinese" button into his pocket.

If I'm caught, Henry thought, they'll probably never let me come here again. Mrs.

Beatty will be furious. But if Keiko is leaving, I won't be coming back anyway, so what does it matter? Either way, this is my last weekend at Camp Harmony--Keiko's too.

If the men and women thought it was odd that a Chinese boy was following them back to their quarters, they didn't say a word. They just spoke to each other in English and Japanese both, talking about the impending move--the conversation that seemed to echo in every area of the camp. It would be this coming week, Henry was certain of it now.

Nearing the large building where most of the families in Area 4 lived, Henry was amazed at how normal life had become here. Grandfatherly old men sat in homemade chairs smoking pipes while small children played hopscotch and four square. Clusters of women tended to long lines of laundry and even weeded small gardens that had been planted in the barren soil.

Henry slipped through the main entrance of the building--a huge, sliding barn door that had been left open to allow cool air to seep into the sweltering interior. Inside were rows and rows of stalls, most covered with makeshift privacy curtains hung by pieces of rope. Henry realized that the lucky ones had windows, bringing fresh air inside.

The unlucky ones, well, they made do the best they could. Henry could hear a flute playing somewhere, among the noise of the crowds, which was surprisingly subdued the farther in he walked. Each stall accommodated one family, but they had evidently been cleaned by the new residents and didn't smell like horses or cows. Not in the slightest, much to Henry's surprise.

Walking down the hallways between the rows of makeshift homes, Henry had no idea how he would find Keiko or her family. Some families had put up signs, or banners--in Japanese, English, and sometimes both. But many more stalls were left bare. Then he saw a sign above a curtain and knew this was where Keiko lived. The banner was written in English and read "Welcome to the Panama Hotel."

Henry knocked on a wooden beam making up one corner of the stall. He knocked again.
"Konichi wa."

"Donata deu ka?"
came from behind the curtain. Henry recognized the phrase as

"Who is it?" The voice was Keiko's. When had she learned to speak Japanese? Then again, when had Henry started saying
"Konichi wa"?

"Is there a vacancy at the hotel?" he asked.

There was a pause.

"Maybe, but you might not like it, the sento bath in the basement is awfully crowded these days."

She

knew.

"I'm just passing through, wouldn't mind staying for a while if you have room."

"Let me check with my manager. Nope, sorry, we're all full. Maybe if you try the pig barn two buildings over. I hear they have some very nice rooms."

Henry wandered off, taking noisy, exaggerated steps. "Okay thanks for the tip, have a nice day ..."

Keiko pulled back the curtain. "For the boy who chased me down in the train station with soldiers running around, you sure give up easy!"

Henry spun on his heel and walked back to where Keiko stood, then looked around the building, taking it all in. "Where's your family?"

"Mom took my little brother to see the doctor about an earache he's been having, and you know about my dad--he left a week ago. He's finishing the roofing at the camp in Idaho. Our next stop. I've always wanted to travel, I guess this is my chance." Henry watched Keiko's face turn serious. "You've crossed some sort of line coming all the way down here, haven't you, Henry?"

He just looked at her. She wore a yellow summer dress and sandals. Her hair was pulled back with a white ribbon from the present he had given her on her birthday.

Strands of black hair fell at the sides of her face, which had tanned quite a bit since she'd been at Camp Harmony.

He shrugged. "I'm breaking a lot of rules to be down here right now, but it's okay

..."

"Of course you know I'm leaving then, don't you?" Keiko asked. "You got my letter. You know we're
all
leaving."

Henry nodded, feeling sad but not wanting to show it, afraid that it might make Keiko feel even worse.

"They're taking us to Minidoka next week. Buses have already taken some families from the other areas. I wish you could come with us."

"Me too," Henry confessed. "I would if I could. Don't tell me you haven't thought about it."

"About you coming with us, or me leaving with you?"

"Either, I guess."

"There's no place for me to go, Henry. Nihonmachi doesn't exist anymore. And I need to be here with my family. And you need to be with yours. I understand. We're not that different, you know."

"I don't have much to go home to. But I can't go with you either, though I've thought about trying to blend in--how easy it would be to just get swept up in it all, to tag along. But I'm Chinese, not Japanese. They'd find out. Everyone would find out. I can't hide who I am. My parents would find out too, and they'd know where I'd gone. We'd all get in a lot more trouble than we'd know what to do with."

"So what brings you all the way down here? Or is Mrs. Beatty with you?" Keiko asked, looking up and down the rows of stalls.

How do I say this? Henry thought. What can I say that will make any difference, to anyone? "I just had to come see you, face-to-face. To tell you how sorry I am for the way I acted that first day at school."

"I don't understand ..."

"I was afraid of you. Honestly. Afraid of what my father might say or do. My father had said so many things--I just didn't know what to think. I didn't have any Japanese friends, let alone any ..." Henry couldn't bring himself to say the word
girlfriends
, but he trailed off in a way that he was certain Keiko knew what he meant.

Keiko smiled and looked up at him, her brown eyes unblinking.

"It's just that, this is probably our last time together--for a very long time. I mean, we don't know when you're ever coming back, or if you'll even be let back. I mean, there are senators that want to send you all back to Japan, win or lose."

"It's true." Keiko nodded. "I'll still write--if you want me to? Does your father know about the letters?"

Henry shook his head no. He reached out and took her hands in his, feeling her soft skin, looking at her slender fingers, slightly dirty from working in the camp.

"I'm sorry I've caused so much trouble in your family," Keiko said. "I'll stop writing if that will make it better for you at home."

Henry exhaled deeply. "I'll turn thirteen soon. The same age my father was when he left home and began working full-time back in the Old Country. I'm old enough to make my own decisions."

Keiko leaned in closer. "And what decision is that, Henry?"

He searched for the words. Nothing he ever learned in English class at Rainier Elementary could describe what was going on inside him. He'd seen movies where the hero takes the girl, where the music comes to a crescendo. He wanted so badly to wrap his arms around her and hold her and somehow keep her from going. But he also lived in a home where the most dramatic display of emotion was usually a nod and occasionally a smile. He'd just assumed all families were that way--all people too. Until he met Keiko and her family.

"I ... it's just that ...," Henry stammered.

What am I doing?
I need to let her go, so she can be with her family-- with her own community.
I need to let her move on.

"I'm going to miss you," he said, letting go of her hands and putting his own in his pockets, looking at his feet.

Keiko looked crushed. "More than you know, Henry."

For the next hour, Henry stayed there, listening to Keiko talk about the little