Camp Nine: A Novel

Chapter 9

Chapter 9 Audrey Ryfle started work at Camp Nine the day that Henry left. Through a sea of people waiting along the railroad tracks, from my vantage point atop a ridge, I saw her blue dress grow larger as she approached a guard tower and pulled a folded letter from her pocket. After she and the soldier at the gate had engaged in some small conversation , he gave her entrance and let his eyes follow her down the dirt road. As she disappeared behind the Administration Building, I turned my attention to the unfolding scene. A short, dark train sat on the tracks, and Tom, in a uniform of wool pants and a jacket, hat and gloves, stood beside a chicken-wire fence, his eyes obscured in the shadow cast by the morning sun. Even though it was hot as hell’s front gate, as Ruby Jean would have said, he didn’t seem bothered by the heat. He was on official duty, and his expression betrayed nothing of his thoughts. A young, smooth-faced soldier with a deep Georgia drawl held a clipboard and mangled the exotic names. One after another, a trail of skinny, lanky boys from Camp Nine made its way up to the platform and climbed on board the train. The atmosphere was solemn, but there were no tears. Mothers wore glasses and sensible shoes, and fathers sweated patiently in their suits and fedoras. When goodbye arrived, the fathers dipped their heads, and the mothers wore 97 a grim line on their faces, but they were framed in bright corsages of paper flowers. Mrs. Matsui waited at the gate holding Henry’s senninbari. Another woman stood next to her, pulling a needle and red thread through the white fabric. She twisted the thread in and around itself until it made a knot, and then snipped it with a small pair of scissors. They exchanged quiet smiles and Mrs. Matsui, the senninbari in her outstretched hands, flew to another waiting friend. Henry appeared in the distance. With the high cheekbones and glossy black hair of an Indian brave, he looked older than I’d ever seen him. He moved, tall and pale, through a flower garden, brushing through bobbing pink peonies and against rustling asters, down the gravel path to the train. My heart was breaking with each step he took. I couldn’t explain it, but in the short time I’d known him, we’d formed a connection deeper than any other I’d ever had. It was more than just our shared interests and the depth of his quiet nature. Although he was years older, I believed I was falling in love with him. Henry stopped next to his father, who stood motionless in a gray flannel suit, and they passed between them quiet words I couldn’t hear. I watched their lips move, first Mr. Matsui and then Henry and then Mr. Matsui again. Henry nodded. Mr. Matsui reached into his pocket and mopped at his forehead with a white handkerchief. Another neighbor stitched her wish for good fortune into the senninbari. She snipped off her connection to it with the scissors and walked away. Mrs. Matsui looked around the camp grounds, and satisfied that there was no one left who’d not already touched it, clutched the senninbari close to her, and walked with light, quick steps toward the train. She waited, her head low. Henry kissed her on the cheek and slipped the senninbari around his shoulders. Her lips moved. He smiled. “She put something in the pocket.” The whisper startled me. For a moment, I thought it might have been my imagination, and only then did I realize that I had been holding my breath. 98 — Vivienne Schiffer “Watch.” David stood next to me and I breathed again. Henry reached into the pocket of the white vest and pulled out something small, holding it in his hands. “What is it?” I asked. I watched the side of David’s face, which was a new story in itself. The morning sun reflected off of his golden skin so much that he glowed. “Cherry blossoms. From our house in California.” He told me the story. To the Japanese, the cherry tree was a symbol of how short and beautiful life was because the blossoms lasted a handful of precious days, then fell to the ground while they were still young...