The Red Kimono Read online

  The Red Kimono

  JAN MORRILL

  The University of Arkansas Press

  Fayetteville

  2013

  Copyright © 2013 by The University of Arkansas Press

  All rights reserved

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  ISBN-10: 1-55728-994-8

  ISBN-13: 978-1-55728-994-0

  eISBN-13: 978-1-61075-518-4

  17 16 15 14 13 5 4 3 2 1

  Designed by Liz Lester

  ∞ The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of the American National Standard for Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials Z39.48-1984.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Morrill, Jan, 1958–

  The Red Kimono / Jan Morrill.

  pages cm

  Includes bibliographical references.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-55728-994-0 (casebound : alk. paper)

  ISBN-10: 1-55728-994-8

  1. Japanese American families—California—Fiction. 2. Japanese Americans—Evacuation and relocation, 1942–1945—Fiction. 3. World War, 1939–1945—Japanese Americans—Fiction. 4. World War, 1939–1945—Concentration camps—California—Fiction. 5. World War, 1939–1945—California—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3613.O75545R43 2013

  813'.6—dc23

  2012041617

  Though every effort has been made to present an accurate representation of history, this is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, and all characters, with the exception of well-known public figures, are fictitious and are not intended to be construed as real. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Dedicated to my mother

  and the entire Sasaki family,

  from whom I learned the meaning of gaman.

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1. Sachi

  Chapter 2. Sachi

  Chapter 3. Nobu

  Chapter 4. Sachi

  Chapter 5. Terrence

  Chapter 6. Sachi

  Chapter 7. Terrence

  Chapter 8. Sachi

  Chapter 9. Sachi

  Chapter 10. Sachi

  Chapter 11. Sachi

  Chapter 12. Nobu

  Chapter 13. Nobu

  Chapter 14. Nobu

  Chapter 15. Terrence

  Chapter 16. Sachi

  Chapter 17. Nobu

  Chapter 18. Sachi

  Chapter 19. Nobu

  Chapter 20. Terrence

  Chapter 21. Sachi

  Chapter 22. Nobu

  Chapter 23. Sachi

  Chapter 24. Nobu

  Chapter 25. Terrence

  Chapter 26. Sachi

  Chapter 27. Terrence

  Chapter 28. Sachi

  Chapter 29. Nobu

  Chapter 30. Terrence

  Chapter 31. Nobu

  Chapter 32. Sachi

  Chapter 33. Terrence

  Chapter 34. Sachi

  Chapter 35. Nobu

  Chapter 36. Terrence

  Chapter 37. Sachi

  Chapter 38. Nobu

  Chapter 39. Sachi

  Chapter 40. Terrence

  Chapter 41. Nobu

  Chapter 42. Sachi

  Chapter 43. Nobu

  Chapter 44. Terrence

  Chapter 45. Sachi

  Chapter 46. Nobu

  Chapter 47. Terrence

  Chapter 48. Sachi

  Chapter 49. Nobu

  Chapter 50. Sachi

  Chapter 51. Terrence

  Chapter 52. Nobu

  Chapter 53. Sachi

  Chapter 54. Nobu

  Chapter 55. Terrence

  Chapter 56. Sachi

  Chapter 57. Terrence

  Chapter 58. Nobu

  Chapter 59. Terrence

  Chapter 60. Sachi

  Chapter 61. Terrence

  Chapter 62. Sachi

  Chapter 63. Terrence

  Chapter 64. Sachi

  Chapter 65. Sachi

  Chapter 66. Nobu

  Chapter 67. Sachi

  Chapter 68. Sachi

  Chapter 69. Nobu

  Chapter 70. Sachi

  Chapter 71. Sachi

  Suggested Reading and Resources

  Acknowledgments

  Certainly without the history of my family, this story might never have been told. My mother, her family, and her family’s family were Japanese American internees at Tule Lake, California, Topaz, Utah, and Jerome and Rohwer in Arkansas. From their history came the themes of judgment and isolation.

  When my parents married, only thirteen years after the end of World War II, I know my father’s family must have expressed concerns that he married a Japanese woman. But upon getting to know my mother, they accepted her with open arms and loved all of us equally. From my father’s family came the theme of acceptance without regard to color.

  Countless people have helped me on my long and winding path to publication. Without their help and support, this book might not have been written.

  First, thank you to Dusty Richards and Velda Brotherton, the tireless mentors who began the Northwest Arkansas Writers Workshop more than twenty-five years ago. What a blessing it was for me when, six years ago, I found the group of writers they lead. Though I’ve always loved writing, it was on the first night I attended this critique group that I became a serious writer. For most of those six years, the fine writers of the NWA Writers Workshop patiently listened to and critiqued what was to become The Red Kimono, five pages each week. Their encouragement and motivation were invaluable to me.

  Within that group, I also found a sisterhood—four women who have given me encouragement, critique, and friendship. Writers are a different breed and, although each of us in the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pen is different from the other, our love of writing bonds us. With Linda Apple, Pamela Foster, Patty Stith, and Ruth Weeks by my side, I have never felt alone on this journey.

  Thank you to Ned Downie for his insights into growing up in southeast Arkansas and for originally suggesting I submit my manuscript to the University of Arkansas Press, though it took me two years to listen to him. Thanks also to Rosalie Gould, former mayor of McGehee, Arkansas, who graciously shared her incredible knowledge of the internment camps with me. She later donated her priceless collection of documents and artwork that she had let me peruse to the Butler Center for Arkansas Studies in Little Rock.

  Two words from author Jodi Thomas changed my writing life: “What if?” From this simple question, dozens of scenes and characters have been born in The Red Kimono.

  Thank you to my beta readers, Marsha Davis, Paul Stevenson, and Maria Tillman, for sharing critique on the story as a whole. They told me what worked—the scenes that made them laugh and cry. As important and perhaps more difficult, they told me what didn’t work. For that honesty, I am very grateful. A very special thank you to Maria White Tillman and her sister, Starlina “Nina” White Reid, who, as neighbors during my childhood, were the inspiration for Jubie Lee Franklin.

  A huge thank you to everyone at the University of Arkansas Press. I couldn’t have been happier when Lawrence Malley requested a meeting upon receiving my query, and I have thoroughly enjoyed working with Melissa King, Brian King, and everyone involved as we prepared my manuscript for publication. A special thank you to Pamela Hill, whose sharp eyes and focus helped me polish and fine-tune my manuscript.

  In everything I do, I save the best for last. So, my biggest thank you goes to my husband, Stephen, for his patience, faith, persistence, and love; for carrying my load for so many years; for listening to my readings time after time after time; for trying to understand why I edited and re-edited an
d re-edited. I said earlier that writers are a different breed. So are their spouses.

  Chapter 1

  Sachi

  Berkeley, California

  December 7, 1941

  Like a broken record, Papa’s words played over and over in Sachi’s mind.

  Remember gaman, Sachi-chan. You must learn to be patient.

  But Christmas was still eighteen days away. Be patient? It was like asking a bird not to fly.

  She tiptoed into her parents’ room and opened the closet door, hoping the squeaking hinges wouldn’t tattle on her. Pushing her mother’s dresses apart, she searched for presents that might be hidden in the darkness. Anticipation tingled in her hands. Finally, Papa had convinced Mama it would be okay to celebrate Christmas. Sachi giggled to herself, imagining how he must have convinced her.

  “Sumiko, I doubt Buddha would have a concern with our family celebrating Christmas the way most Americans do.”

  Pearl Harbor … surprise attack … sinking ships …

  Sachi jolted at the words that came from a scratchy voice that drifted in from the living room radio and grabbed at Mama’s dresses to regain her balance. Several fell from their hangers.

  Taro is in Pearl Harbor!

  Images of her oldest brother, surrounded by explosions, flashed in front of her eyes as she ran downstairs. “Papa! Mama!”

  Her parents sat across from each other in front of the radio, so still they reminded Sachi of mannequins she’d seen in department store windows. All that moved was the steam rising from the hot tea on the table next to Papa. His eyes looked strange as he stared at it.

  She couldn’t even see Mama’s eyes. Her hands covered her face.

  Words blared from the radio and pounded like a drum against the tension in the room.

  “The surprise attack has destroyed a large part of the US Naval Fleet, and the casualties are expected to be in the thousands.”

  “Papa? Is Taro-nisan okay?”

  The lines in Papa’s brow softened and his eyes crinkled the way they always did when he smiled. He reached for her, and she ran to him and snuggled into his arms, comforted by the scent of cedar incense on his shirt.

  “We have not been able to reach him yet,” he said.

  Mama rose from her chair and walked to the window, her eyes sad and dark, her lips pressed tight. She straightened and took a deep breath. “Michio. She must practice. Sachiko, please go and practice your dance lessons now. Mrs. Thompson will be here soon.”

  Sachi slumped in Papa’s lap and whined. “Dance lessons? On Sunday?”

  “Do not argue,” her mother scolded. “Mrs. Thompson was kind enough to let you make up the lesson you missed last week.”

  Mama turned away, but not soon enough. Sachi could see the look in her eyes, too. Sadness. Anger. Fear. It reminded Sachi of how she felt all those times kids at school called her slant eyes. She had wanted to cry. But there was no way she’d let them see a single tear fall. Not one, single tear.

  Papa gave Sachi a squeeze, tugged at her ponytail, then nudged her off his lap. “Do not argue with your mother. Off to practice your dance now.”

  Stomping out of the living room, she grumbled to herself, quite upset that she couldn’t stay and listen to the news about Pearl Harbor.

  She trudged up the stairs. At her bedroom doorway, she paused to look at the three dolls on her shelf. Silent and still in red kimonos that shimmered in the light from her window, their black eyes spoke what their lips could not.

  A porcelain mask

  Though inside, a heart beats strong

  Even the oak breaks.

  She acknowledged their whispers and shuffled toward the dance room. Mama might as well have banished her to a prison cell.

  The scent of incense from the Buddhist altar near the doorway greeted her when she entered. A row of tall windows cast a dance of sunlight and shadows onto the dark wood floor and reflected off mirrors that lined the opposite wall. She had to admit she loved the room. It was practice she didn’t like.

  She walked to the tall, teak bureau in the corner of the room and opened the doors to flowered kimonos and colorful obis, the belts that were sometimes tied so tightly she could hardly breathe. She touched the cool, smooth silk of each kimono and pulled out her two favorites. Which should she wear? The blue one with yellow monarchs? Or the pink one with white cranes? Mrs. Thompson once said her favorite color was blue, so Sachi dressed in the blue kimono with butterflies.

  Her teacher was a pretty Nisei—second generation—whose dark eyes sparkled when she smiled. She wore her long, shiny black hair pulled back in a barrette. In June, she’d married a navy captain, just before he had left for Pearl Harbor.

  Sachi remembered the afternoon she’d overheard Mama telling Papa she couldn’t believe her teacher had married outside her race. “I do not care that she loves him,” she’d said. “Love is not everything.”

  But Sachi liked Capt. Gregory Thompson from the day she first met him, so what difference did it make if he was not Japanese? Besides, the way he and Mrs. Thompson looked at each other reminded her of those pictures in books that ended “happily ever after.”

  Dressed in her kimono, she stood in front of the mirrored wall and posed like her geisha dolls, mimicking the expressions on their porcelain faces. Perhaps her hair was black like the dolls. Perhaps she had eyes the color and shape of theirs. But no matter how she tried, she could not copy the gentle grace of the dolls.

  A leaf rattled against her window, shivering before falling from its branch. Mesmerized, she watched it spin, swirl, dance in the wind, until the doorbell rang and she ran to the front door.

  Mama and Mrs. Thompson stood in the hall, holding hands and nodding quietly to each other. She strained to hear their hushed conversation.

  “No, I haven’t had any news from my husband,” Mrs. Thompson whispered. “Have you heard from Taro?”

  Mama shook her head.

  They embraced, then parted.

  Sachi bowed to her teacher. “Konnichiwa.”

  Mrs. Thompson smiled, but Sachi noticed the tear glistening at the corner of her eye.

  “Konnichiwa, Sachi-chan,” her teacher replied. “Are you ready for your lesson?” She wiped her cheek.

  “Yes. I just finished practicing, even though today I didn’t really want to.”

  Mama scolded. “Sachi-chan!”

  Sachi shrugged her shoulders. “Well, it is Sunday, and … and, you know, because of the attack. But Mama said I had to make up last week’s lesson.”

  “Your mama is right. You must practice, even if there are times you don’t want to practice,” Mrs. Thompson said. “Shall we go to the dance room now?”

  The lesson began like every other. Her teacher pulled a record from its jacket and placed it on the phonograph; hands so graceful, even as she lifted the needle and placed it on the spinning album. The crackling sound before the music always reminded Sachi of rain pattering against leaves on the ground.

  She took her place in front of the mirrored wall. When the music started, she began her dance. Her small hands peeked through long, colorful sleeves that drifted like kites in a breeze as she dipped and rose to the music.

  Such a fine dance she performed! In fact, why did she even need to practice? She was sure her teacher would be proud. But Mrs. Thompson wasn’t watching. Instead, she stared at the album turning on the phonograph.

  Sachi slowed her movements, then stopped. “Mrs. Thompson? Are you okay?”

  Her teacher’s eyes darted back to Sachi. “Oh, of course. I’m sorry.”

  “Are you thinking about Captain Thompson?” Sachi hesitated. “Is he also at Pearl Harbor, like Taro-nisan?”

  “Yes. He is.”

  “I am worried, too. I hope they are both okay.” Such useless words, but what else could she say?

  Mrs. Thompson blinked and smiled, but her lips quivered. “Are you ready to continue dancing?” she asked. Something in her eyes still looked far away.

 
Wasn’t there anything Sachi could do to make it better? Maybe if she danced better than ever before, Mrs. Thompson’s sparkle would return. “I will do my best for you today.”

  “That would make me happy—”

  The front door slammed, rattling the windows. Startled, Sachi bolted to the hallway to see what all the noise was about. She rolled her eyes. “It’s just Nobu.”

  Yelling echoed from the kitchen.

  “Yeah, I heard about the attack,” Nobu shouted, breathless. “You want to know how I found out?”

  Papa spoke next, so quietly Sachi couldn’t hear all of his words. “Nobu! Calm … do not speak … mother … like that.”

  But her brother’s voice boomed louder. “A bunch of us were shooting baskets at Danny’s. Then, his dad comes out and tells us Pearl Harbor’s been attacked.”

  She couldn’t remember ever hearing Nobu yell at Mama and Papa like that.

  His voice cracked as he continued. “Then, Danny’s dad looked at Kazu and me and said, ‘You Japs get home now.’ Don’t you get it? He called us Japs in front of our friends.”

  “Nobu!” Papa never raised his voice.

  Nobu’s voice broke again. “How can you two just sit there? And what about Taro? Have you heard from him? He could be dead for all we know.”

  Mama scolded. “How dare you speak of your brother like that!”

  Papa spoke, calm again. “Sumiko. Nobu. Stop. We must be patient. I am sure we will hear news soon.”

  Nobu pounded up the stairs.

  At the top of the stairway, he stopped and glared at Sachi. “What are you looking at?” he asked, his face nearly as red as the varsity letterman jacket he wore. Taro had given it to him for safekeeping before he left for Hawaii. Nobu wore it everywhere, even though Sachi always teased him that it was too big. But something in Nobu’s eyes warned it was best not to tease this time.

  He wiped his bangs from his eyes. Or maybe it was a tear.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  “Just leave me alone.” He pushed past her and ran into his bedroom. When he slammed the door, the windows rattled again.

  Chapter 2

  Sachi