Paper Wishes (2 page)

“Something is wrong,” I say.

“Nothing is wrong, little one,” says Grandfather. “We are all here. Together.”

“I can feel that something is wrong,” I insist.

“Everything is fine, Daughter,” says Father. “Have your tea.”

“Mother?” I ask.

“All will be well,” she says.

I look at Yujiin and he looks at me. He knows something is wrong, too.

For the first time in my life, I wish it was a school day. Then I remember. It is a school day. Just not for me.

After breakfast, Mother sends me to my room to change into my blue gardening dress.

Outside, I pull every single weed.

Mother inspects the garden and hands me a basket. “Harvest all that you can,” she says.

“There is nothing to harvest,” I tell her, which she knows better than I do. There will be nothing for at least two months.

“All the herbs,” she says. “Gather them and wrap them in cloth. Dig up the garlic and onions. Put them in a pillowcase with dirt.”

I cut down herbs, their green juice soaking into the soil. I wrap them and pack them, just as Mother says. I rake up garlic bulbs and onions that are too small for even one person, leaving broken mounds and dirt clods in my wake.

When I finish, Mother calls me inside for lunch—fish stew.

Then she has more work for me.

We wash shirts and skirts and dresses and pants.

We fold towels and sheets.

Mother lays out envelopes of seeds on the table. “Throw out empty envelopes. Stack everything else here,” she says.

I am tired of this work. I want to ask, “Why so much work?” But I don't.

We stop again for dinner—more fish stew.

“Off to bed,” Mother tells me.

“But—” I start to say.

“Please, Manami,” Father says.

In my bedroom, I try to hear what Mother and Father and Grandfather are talking about. But I cannot. Ron's dictionary catches my eye, and I look up a word.

Evacuate:
to leave a place, a dangerous place or a military zone.

That word rolls around inside my head:
evacuate, evacuate, evacuate.

After a while, I am too tired to think or worry. My shoulders and arms ache, but I sleep well.

*   *   *

When I come into the kitchen the next day, I find Mother sitting at the table alone. She motions for me to eat.

She combs my hair in long, strong strokes and twists it into two tight braids.

“Something is wrong,” I tell her.

“Yes.”

I wait, but she doesn't say more.

I have been patient. But I can't be patient anymore.

“Tell me.”

“We must leave in four days,” she says after a moment.

Evacuate:
to leave a place.

“Why?”

“I do not know,” she says.

“Where will we go?”

“I do not know.”

“For how long?”

“I do not know.”

These are not good answers.

I wait, but these are the only answers I get.

“We have to go into town today to register and have a medical examination,” Mother says.

“But I am not sick.”

“Everyone must be checked.”

*   *   *

Father and Grandfather and Mother and I walk into town.

We pass many buildings: the courthouse, the police station, churches, the library.

When we pass the school, I twist my neck to try to see inside the window of my classroom. My classmates' heads are bent over their desks. I wonder what they are reading.

Others are walking into town, too.

Others with dark hair and dark eyes.

Others like us.

It is easy to see where we should report. Even without the soldiers and their guns. The sidewalk is so crowded that people line one side of the street and wrap around the corner.

Ahead of me, Father and Grandfather join the line.

Mother tugs my hand. “Quickly,” she says.

I see Kimmi sitting on the post office steps.

“Can I play over there with Kimmi?” I ask.

“Families must stay together,” Mother says.

An hour later, we are still in line. Still on the sidewalk. But at least we have reached a table where a soldier is seated.

“Name?” the soldier asks.

“Tanaka,” Father says, pointing to himself and Mother and me.

“Ishii,” Grandfather says.

“We are together,” Father says.

“Your family number is 104313,” the soldier says. He hands Father paper tags with strings attached to them. “Place these on all of your luggage. Each family member must wear a tag, too. Maybe tie it to your coats.”

Father gives the tags to Mother and she puts them in her purse.

“Move to that line,” the soldier says, pointing. “After your medical exams, you'll be done. Be ready for transportation early Monday morning.”

Inside the building, we are shown to a large room.

We sit for a long time on cots.

“This is worse than standing!” I say.

“Don't fidget,” Mother says.

Finally a doctor comes.

Healthy.

Healthy.

Healthy.

Healthy.

I could have told him that.

Then we walk home.

*   *   *

Mother sets an open suitcase on my bed.

“Let's see what fits,” she says.

We fold and pack all of my clothes: four dresses, two pairs of pants, two nightgowns, four shirts, my coat, underclothes, and shoes.

The suitcase doesn't close.

“Sit on top,” Mother says.

With me sitting on it, Mother is able to snap it shut.

“We can't take it all,” she says. “You can wear your coat. But we still have to fit sheets and a blanket and dishes.”

“We need another suitcase,” I say.

“We cannot carry another,” she says.

We empty my suitcase and set it next to the other open suitcases.

I watch Mother fit things inside like pieces of a puzzle: dishes, bedding, clothes, seed envelopes, the bag of onions and garlic, a photograph of Grandmother, Father's small box with fishing gear and tools, Grandfather's tiny sand rake, Mother's gardening tools.

The pieces do not fit.

“Go play,” Mother says. Then she begins unpacking the suitcases again.

*   *   *

The day before we are to leave, I find Mother sitting at the table. She is wearing her best dress and hat. She is wearing stockings, which I did not know she had, and high heels, which I have secretly worn myself. She is wearing lipstick, bright red. I want to wipe it off, to see if, underneath the red, Mother is still there.

She looks at me with sad eyes. “Put on your best dress,” she tells me. “Today, we say goodbye to our friends.”

Grandfather and Father and Mother and I go to the church. Pastor Rob holds a special service. All of our friends are there. Our Japanese friends, like Mr. Matsuo, who grows the best strawberries. Our American friends, like my teacher, Mrs. Brown. And our friends who are like me and Kimmi. Japanese and American. Both at the same time. Or maybe neither one.

Our American friends cry after the service.

“This will be over soon,” they tell us.

*   *   *

Early the next morning, early before I am ready, Mother wakes me.

I get up and see the four suitcases by the door. Three are closed. One is open.

While I put on my clothes, Mother takes my nightgown, folds it neatly into the open suitcase, and shuts it.

We eat breakfast without speaking.

We eat breakfast in a hurry.

“It is time,” Father says.

Grandfather fills a bowl with water and a bowl with rice. He sets them on Yujiin's food mat. He picks up Yujiin and holds him against his face. He puts Yujiin on the ground near his mat.

“Pastor Rob will come for you later this morning,” he says. “Goodbye, dear friend.”

Then Grandfather picks up his suitcase and walks out the door.

“Mother!” I say.

Tears run down her cheeks. She picks up her suitcase and follows Grandfather.

“Father?”

He picks up his suitcase and waits for me outside.

I want to shout. I want to kick and scream at them. Instead, I whisper, “Yujiin!”

He jumps into my arms, and I hide him under my coat.

“Down!” I tell him.

He crouches low in my arm.

I lift my suitcase, go outside, and watch Father lock the door. Then we join Mother and Grandfather at the side of the road.

A truck stops in front of us.

An army truck.

Soldiers jump out and pick up our suitcases. They help Mother and Grandfather into the back. Father joins them, and I hurry behind him before anyone tries to help me.

Others are there in the truck.

Neighbors.

Friends.

People with Japanese faces and Japanese names.

Just like me.

Two soldiers sit in the back of the truck, too.

I squeeze into a corner.

The truck is noisy and everyone has worried eyes.

That is good because they don't notice me and Yujiin.

It doesn't take long to drive to the port.

When I step out of the truck, there are people everywhere. Walking, sitting, rushing, waiting. And so much noise. Talking, shouting, stomping, honking. I see Pastor Rob. Arms wave goodbye. Hands wipe tears from cheeks.

“Stay near,” Mother tells me.

“Each person may only bring what they can carry!” a voice shouts above the crowd.

Father has tied our number tags on our suitcases. We join a long line.

Mother holds Grandfather's arm. At the front of the line there is commotion. A child has wandered off. A suitcase has burst open. Suddenly, it is our turn.

“104313,” Father says, and points to the tags we are wearing. He speaks loudly. His shoulders are back and his head is high.

A baby starts to fuss behind us.

Yujiin whines. I pinch his leg. I am afraid Grandfather will hear him.

“Leave your suitcases there,” the soldier says. He points to me and starts to say something, but then the baby screams. The soldier shakes his head and waves us toward the ferryboat.

I am grateful for the screaming baby.

Father and Mother and Grandfather take seats on the lower deck. I pretend to need fresh air so that Mother will let me stand a few steps away near the rail.

When I peek inside my coat, Yujiin stares up at me. He is panting, and I know he is hot. But I do not dare take him out. I try to angle my coat to let cool air blow inside.

The boat begins our journey, and the island shrinks smaller and smaller until it has disappeared in fog. If I cannot see the island, is it still there?

I watch for the mainland. It grows out of nothing, bigger and bigger until it is all that I can see.

Such a short trip. Less than an hour.

But such a long trip, too. Far from home.

Mother calls to me. I pull my coat close over Yujiin again and return to my family. As soon as she sees me, Mother fusses with my hair, my cheeks, my collar. Her eyes go to my arm that is clutched against my side.

“What is under your coat?” she asks.

Yujiin pokes his nose through the opening between two buttons of my coat.

“Manami, what have you done?”

“Mother,” I say, “I could not leave Yujiin.”

“Shh,” she says. “We will hope.”

I see Grandfather watching us, a frown on his brow. Mother catches my eye and shakes her head.

When we get off the ferry, we do not have to wait so long in line as before. The soldiers who accompanied us on the boat lead us to buses that will take us to a passenger train. A new soldier stands next to the bus, checking numbers as people board. Mother holds me close to her, Yujiin squeezed between us.

The new soldier motions for us to board the bus. As we walk past him, his eyes linger on me. On my arm. On Mother's arm.

“Wait!” he shouts. Everyone freezes. Father, Grandfather, Mother. Even the other people in line.

“What are you hiding?” he asks me.

Father looks at me and then at Mother.

I look down. I press my lips closed.

“Girl!” the soldier says. “What is under your coat?”

Mother unbuttons my coat, revealing Yujiin sitting on my forearm, pressed against my side.

I look up.

“Manami!” Father says. “No!”

Mother is crying.

“No dogs!” the soldier says. He points to a crate.

I will not put Yujiin in that crate.

Mother covers her face with her hands. Father's face turns red.

Grandfather stares at me. He takes Yujiin and puts him in the crate. When he stands again, his shoulders sag and tears run down his cheeks.

This time, I shout. I kick and scream.

 

APRIL

For two days, we ride on a train. I remember very little of the first day.

Yujiin, his nose pushing through a gap in the crate.

Father, his arms holding me to his chest.

Mother, her hand resting on Grandfather's shoulder.

But that is all.

Now I keep still so that no one will notice that I am awake.

Father sits next to me, his head resting against the back of the seat, his eyes closed.

Mother sits across from Father, also sleeping.

Grandfather stares at a blind that covers a window.

Across the aisle, others sleep. Ryo, though, peeks behind a corner of the blind covering his window.

A soldier walks toward him, his boots heavy even over the loud rumble and clack of the train. Mother wakes and leans forward to tap Father's knee. Others wake up, too.

When Ryo sees the soldier, he drops the edge of the blind.

“Good morning,” the soldier says. He lifts the blind and moves to the next window, raising blinds one after the other.

Another soldier brings a cart loaded with boxes of food.

“Breakfast!” he calls.

The soldiers sit among my neighbors, eating and talking with them. My neighbors do not look afraid of the soldiers. And the soldiers do not look afraid of us.