The Red Kimono: A Novel

18. Sachi

ashamed, even try to hide it. No matter how much I want to fit in—to look and act like the other Americans, I wear my Japanese ancestry like a mask I can’t remove. There is no place to hide. We have done nothing wrong, yet they will gather us and lock us up. Hell, I might as well be Terrence, locked up in that jail cell. We’re no better than prisoners . No better than the bastard who killed my father. Mama wants me to go to the Civil Control Station tomorrow. I don’t want to go. I don’t want to hear an American give me orders about where we must go, when we must leave our home, even what we can bring with us. I AM an American! Mama says this is how we must show our loyalty. Where is the loyalty to us? But I’ll go, no matter how much I don’t want to. It’s my duty as man of the house. I’m tired of it. But just like being Japanese, there’s nothing I can do to change it. He slammed the journal shut and threw his pen across the room. CHAPTER 18 Sachi APRIL 1, 1942 The large suitcase lay open in the middle of her bedroom floor, and Sachi watched Mama neatly arrange sweaters, pajamas, socks, and underwear. But Mama wouldn’t know which books to pack, so Sachi ran to her bookshelf and skimmed her finger over the titles, choosing her favorites. It was not an easy choice. Each of them had taken her to imaginary places she had grown to love. Finally, she made her reluctant decision. “These need to go, too,” she said, laying the books next to Mama. Mama looked at the stack. “You cannot take all of those. The notice said we can only bring what we can carry. Books are too heavy. You may choose two of your favorites.” 68 JAN MORRILL “Two? I had a hard enough time choosing ten.” “Please, do not argue with me. We all have to make sacrifices. Please choose two.” She carried the books to her bed and tossed them onto the pink chenille spread. How could she choose between castles or farms? Princesses or pirates? Witches or fairy godmothers? “Mama, why must we sacrifice? Why do we have to leave our home? All of our favorite things?” She hesitated. Anger strangled her confusion, untilitswelled—grewbiggerandbigger,until,likeaballoon,itburst.“Papa said we are Americans! But do other Americans have to make sacrifices? No! Well, I don’t want to make sacrifices either!” The words spilled from her mouth like marbles, scattered so quickly she knew she’d never get them back. Like a ghost, Papa had returned and slapped Mama with his words. Her eyes reflected shock, dismay, hopelessness, anger. For a tiny moment, it was all right there in the glare Mama blasted toward her. But as quickly as it had fired in her eyes, flushed in her cheeks, it disappeared. She tilted her head down, closed her dark, tired eyes, folded her hands, and straightened her back. In silence, she rose from the floor and walked to the bedroom door. Without looking at Sachi, she calmly let her own words escape. “You may choose two books . . . and one doll.” Then, she walked out and closed the bedroom door. The next day strangers came to the house, ringing the doorbell early in the morning. Sachi had never seen any of them before, yet Mama let them in. Caucasians. Americans who didn’t have to choose which books to pack, which doll to bring. In walked tall men in overcoats and fedoras, following prissy women with white-gloved hands that touched everything . They opened cabinet doors to look at the dishes. Flipped through pages of books on the bookshelf. Talked about whether or not the pattern on the couch would match their decor. “How much for the set of dishes?” a lady with red hair asked. “Two dollars for the whole set,” Mama said. The redhead took her wallet out of her patent-leather purse. But the bald man with her told her to put it away. “Seventy-five cents,” he said. The Red Kimono 69 Mama touched a dinner plate. “They are from Japan.” He stared at her. “Precisely. That’s why they’re not worth two dollars . Like I said, seventy...