The Red Kimono: A Novel

19. Nobu

CHAPTER 19 Nobu APRIL 2, 1942 Nobu needed a place to hide. He walked into his bedroom, slammed the door, and stood in the middle of the darkness, holding his breath as he tried to cast away the anger he felt. Nothing took away his rage. It danced around him, hot and wild as the flames he’d just watched in his backyard. Sweat beaded on his forehead, dripping off his bangs. His shirt, damp from perspiration, felt cold against his back. But his face still burned. How could Mama burn all of their pictures, her letters from Ojiisan and Obaasan, Mama’s own parents, that she’d managed to keep hidden from the government men? Did she really believe tossing the mementos of their past into the fire would change who they were today? The bluish glow from a street light shone through the window blinds. He held his hand under the lines of light, turning it over and looking at the stripes across his skin. If only he were a different color . . . He pulled the chain on his desk lamp. When the light blinked on the stripes vanished, returning his skin to the color of a Japanese man again. A small stack of books lay on the corner of his desk—books he planned to take with him when they were relocated. The damn government called it an evacuation. For your own protection, they said. The books were all that remained on his desk. The pictures he’d had there— Mama and Papa before they were married, his grandparents in front of their home in Hiroshima—all of it was gone. Burned. He pulled his journal from the bottom of the stack and opened it. The desk lamp cast a circle of light onto a blank page. Hands trembling, he began to write. The Red Kimono 73 April 2, 1942 Today, I reported to the Civil Control Station as head of my family. I stood in line, looking at the other Japanese and wondering if they, too, would spend their last few days here selling their belongings and trying to find friends who might store property for them. After hours of waiting, I finally sat in front of the desk of a hakujin—a damn Caucasian—so busy processing paperwork, he barely looked up. He asked our name, how many in our family. Didn’t even look at me as he jotted down the information. He gave me several tags and told me to attach them to each family member and to each piece of baggage. Then he reminded me that we could only bring what we could carry. “Next,” he said. Then he stamped our papers and added them to the pile. I looked at the tags. A small blank space for our name, then in large, bold letters, “Family No. 13754.” To the right of our family number were instructions: Report ready to travel on Tuesday, April 7 at 8:00 a.m. So Family No. 13754 replaces our family name on our ID tags. The same tags we will put on our suitcases. To the hakujins, we are little more than baggage. I’ve just watched Mama burn our family pictures, old letters—anything of our Japanese heritage. Earlier tonight, I was reading in my room, trying to forget what’s been going on in the last few days: The Civil Control Station and the idiot behind the desk who wouldn’t even look at me. Selling our belongings—practically giving them away. I hated having strangers—leeches—in our house. Handling our personal belongings and arguing with Mama about what they were willing to pay. I hated seeing all that Mama and Papa had accumulated over the years, in the hands of greedy people; so anxious to steal from us for their homes, yet they wouldn’t even look us in the eyes! Then, I smelled something burning and went downstairs to see what it was. An orange light flickered through the kitchen window. I ran out the back door. In the center of the backyard, Mama’s face glowed above a fire that burned in a steel drum. She stared into the flames, and I saw light reflecting in the tears that fell down her cheeks. When I called to her, she wiped her face. I asked her what she was doing. “Nothing, Nobu. Go back inside.” But I didn’t listen, instead, walked over to her. I noticed scraps of paper 74...