The Red Kimono Read online

  December 8, 1941

  Sachi stood in front of the mirror and watched her reflection as she slowly buttoned her sweater. Moving close, she opened her eyes wide. What would they look like if they weren’t slanted? Would the world look different through big, round eyes? And what if they were blue? Would she see colors differently?

  Mama called from the kitchen. “Sachi-chan, hurry up. You will be late for school.”

  I don’t want to go to school today. I have a stomachache.

  Excuses never worked with her mother. She huffed and picked up her books from her desk. “I’m coming. I’m coming.” She stomped downstairs to the kitchen, where she found Mama and Papa sitting at the table. The radio in the living room was turned up.

  “Morning,” she said, pulling a chair from the table. “Where’s Nobu?”

  Papa turned to the next page in his newspaper. “He already left for school.”

  “Why is the radio so loud?” Sachi asked.

  Folding his paper neatly, Papa placed it next to his tea. “President Roosevelt is going to speak this morning.”

  Mama’s slippers swished as she walked to the stove.

  “What is he going to talk about?” Sachi asked, twirling her chopsticks through her fingers.

  “We will have to wait and see,” Papa said. “Are you ready for school?”

  “Yes.” She placed her chopsticks beside the bowl Mama placed in front of her. “Papa, can we go to the park after school today?” She cringed, waiting. Like always, Mama would probably answer for Papa.

  No park today. Sachi must practice her dance and o-koto lessons.

  But her father answered first. “The park? Perhaps. We will see.”

  “Seems like forever since we’ve been,” she said between bites of rice.

  Mama clucked her tongue. “Sachiko, do not speak with your mouth full. And no park today. You must practice your o-koto lessons after school.”

  There they were. The words she had dreaded.

  “But Papa said we could.” Her retort drew a stern look from her father.

  Mama leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “How do you expect to master the o-koto if you do not practice?”

  “I know,” she grumbled. Who cares if I don’t master the o-koto? Maybe I’d rather master the swing set.

  Mama checked the clock above the stove. “Time to go, Sachiko. Get your coat.”

  Papa stood. “I have a meeting at the bank this morning, Sumiko. I will take her to school. Hurry and get your coat, Sachi.”

  She huffed as she put on her coat and stomped to the car. Though happy Papa was taking her instead of Mama, she couldn’t help pouting about the way the morning had gone. Why was Mama so grouchy?

  They pulled out of the driveway. Maybe Papa would drive slowly past the pretty Christmas trees in the front windows of the houses on Peralta Street. That would cheer her up.

  One by one, she judged the tree in the window of each house they passed. Some had ornaments of different colors. Some had all green. Some had all red. She had to admit, none were as pretty as the tree in her window. But even Christmas decorations couldn’t make her forget how angry Mama made her sometimes, making her practice, practice, practice.

  They stopped at the intersection. Gilman Street was always busy and speeding cars zipped back and forth, replacing the parade of pretty lights and Christmas trees on Peralta. Papa glanced back and forth, waiting to turn left.

  “Why does Mama make me practice all the time?” Sachi asked. “All of my friends get to play whenever they want to.”

  He stopped watching cars and raised an eyebrow at her. “All of your friends?”

  “Well … maybe not all,” she whispered.

  Not even Papa is on my side.

  Papa didn’t say a word as he turned onto Gilman. It wasn’t unusual for him to be quiet, but this kind of quiet made her stomach feel as tangled up as her hair when Mama combed it. When at last he smiled and patted her knee, all the tangles went away.

  “Sachi-chan, practicing your music and dance is your mother’s way of making sure you do not forget your Japanese heritage. Remember gaman, Sachi-chan. Patience. You will understand when you are older.” He turned into the parking lot of Jefferson Elementary.

  She looked away and out the window, rolling her eyes. She was tired of trying to be patient.

  The school yard was crowded with kids waiting for the bell to ring and she hesitated to get out of the car.

  They will all stare at me.

  That was just one of the things she hated about fourth grade. She also didn’t like homework. Or grumpy Mrs. Nelson. And she especially didn’t like the kids who called her slant-eyes.

  One day at lunch, a boy in her class had moved to another table, all because she sat next to him. Snickers and whispers had surrounded her like moths around a porch light. She left her tray on the table and ran out of the cafeteria. But those moths flitted and batted around her all the way out.

  Even the oak breaks.

  She opened the car door.

  “Are you not forgetting something?” Papa leaned over and turned his cheek toward her.

  Why did he always have to do that? She glanced around to see if anybody was looking, then gave him a quick peck on the cheek—even if he was on Mama’s side. “Bye, Papa.”

  “Bye-bye. Have a good day.”

  She shrugged. How good a day could it be with all the kids teasing her about being Japanese?

  She hugged her satchel and hurried toward the red brick building, wishing to be anywhere but walking past those kids. She hurried through the crowd of stares and whispers. Those darned moths flitted around her again, especially when a boy—probably a sixth-grader—yelled at her.

  “Hey, girl! You look just like the enemy.”

  The enemy? What did he mean by that? Ignore it! Ignore it! All she wanted to do was hide. Where were all the other Japanese girls? Hiding?

  When the bell rang, she ran to class. That morning, running had nothing to do with being late and everything to do with being Japanese.

  The rest of the day she tried to concentrate. But thinking about looking like the enemy took up so much space in her head, it left no room for learning. She might as well have stayed home.

  At last, she watched the minute hand of the classroom clock click to the six, and the last bell of the day rang. Three-thirty at last. She grabbed her satchel and hurried out the door, hoping to get out ahead of everyone else.

  Once outside, she searched for Papa’s car and found him at the end of the parking lot. Running to the car as fast as she could, she’d quit counting how many times someone called her Jap that day.

  “How was your day?” Papa asked.

  She wanted to let everything that happened burst out, but how could she tell him without hurting his feelings? She didn’t want him to feel like the enemy. So, instead, she mumbled, “Fine.”

  “Oh?” he replied. “It does not sound like your day was fine. Is everything okay?”

  She leaned her head against the door. “Yes, Papa. It’s just that I hate math.”

  He smiled, and they were quiet the rest of the way home.

  When Papa pulled into the driveway, she said, “I wish you didn’t have to go back to work today.” She wasn’t in the mood to hear Mama tell her to practice again.

  “I’ll be back in about an hour,” he replied. “Perhaps we can take a quick walk to the park then.”

  “Really?” She kissed him on the cheek, smiled, and rushed inside. With her whole day being ruined by that sixth-grader, she was especially excited about going to the park.

  “Mama, I’m home,” she called, tossing her books onto the kitchen table.

  “Go upstairs and change your clothes. Then, please start your practice,” Mama called from the living room.

  Okay. Okay. Okay!

  She knelt beside the long wooden harp on the floor of the dance room. Gently plucking its strings, she tried to mimic the music playing on the record album. Her fi
ngers began to throb, but Mama said she needed to toughen them up. But today she didn’t feel like it. She lifted the needle and turned off the phonograph.

  Maybe listening to different music would help. She turned on the radio and heard a saxophone blaring “In the Mood.” She giggled. How would that sound on the o-koto?

  As the trombones entered the arrangement, a voice broke in:

  We now interrupt our regular programming to repeat in its entirety, the speech made earlier today by President Roosevelt to the Congress.

  “December 7th, 1941—a date which will live in infamy—the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan … “

  The words the boy yelled at school echoed in her head again.

  Hey girl! You look like the enemy!

  She ran to the mirrors on the wall and forced herself to look at her reflection. She touched her black hair. Stared at her slanted eyes.

  The Japanese attacked the United States.

  I do look like the enemy.

  She couldn’t stand to look anymore and ran back to her o-koto.

  “ … I ask that the Congress declare that since the unprovoked and dastardly attack by Japan on Sunday, December 7th, 1941, a state of war has existed between the United States and the Japanese Empire.”

  As her eyes began to burn, she watched the strings of her instrument blur. A tear fell onto the o-koto.

  The wood floor in the hall creaked with the flip-flop of Papa’s zoris. He stopped in the doorway. “Sachi-chan, I’ve been thinking. Perhaps we should not go to the park today,” he said softly.

  She rose from her knees. “Because the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor?”

  Papa looked into her eyes. “Why are you crying?”

  “I heard the President … on the radio.” She wiped her nose. “Why did we do it, Papa? Now, President Roosevelt says the United States is at war with the Japanese. And what about Taro-nisan? Was he one of the ones who attacked Pearl Harbor?”

  Her father’s eyes widened. “What? We did not attack Pearl Harbor.”

  “But … today a boy told me … I look like … the enemy. Are we the enemy?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “Sachi-chan—”

  “You said Mama wants me to remember my Japanese heritage. And the kids at school tease me. Today they called me the enemy.”

  He sighed. “Your heritage is Japanese, but you are American. It does not matter who you look like. We did not attack Pearl Harbor, the Japanese did—those who live in Japan. Do you understand the difference?”

  She thought about how different she felt when she was with her Caucasian friends. They had dolls to play with. She did not. She took dance and o-koto lessons. They did not. She prayed at a Buddhist altar. They had no altars in their homes.

  Papa held her face in his hands. “It is very important—especially now—that you remember we are Americans.”

  “But I feel Japanese. I feel different from my American friends.”

  “Every person in America is different. This is a land of immigrants—people from all over the world, all mixed together in one country.”

  “What are immigrants?”

  He pulled his wallet from his back pocket. “I have a picture to show you,” he said, opening the worn leather. “This is Mama, the day I first saw her.”

  “Why is she standing by that ship?”

  “She had just arrived in the United States from Hiroshima, Japan. It was 1920. The year before, I had finished college and came to America to live with my older brother, your Uncle Hisao.” Papa smiled. “After a year of courting Mama by mail, I was very happy to see her at last.” He brushed a strand of hair from Sachi’s face. “So, you see, your mama and I are immigrants. We emigrated—came from Japan. But you and your brothers were born here. You are citizens.”

  “So, I am an American?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Taro-nisan didn’t attack Pearl Harbor?”

  “No! And you must never ask that question again. Taro is working in the sugar cane fields in Hawaii. He would not attack Pearl Harbor. He is an American.”

  Something still didn’t make sense. “Papa, if Taro—if we—didn’t do anything wrong, why can’t we go to the park?”

  “Perhaps later. Let us wait and see.” He stared at the altar, where cedar-scented smoke drifted into the air, then disappeared.

  Chapter 3

  Nobu

  December 12, 1941

  The clang of the school bell echoed in the emptying halls of Berkeley High School. Nobu couldn’t put off going to class any longer. Hissing whispers hushed when he entered homeroom, but his classmates’ stares followed him to his seat.

  He gritted his teeth, trying to heed Papa’s words. Do not cause trouble. Nothing to draw attention.

  Papa had even used that word again after the Feds confiscated Japanese customers’ accounts and he lost his job at the bank.

  Gaman. One can endure more than one thinks.

  Angry thoughts scattered feverishly, resistant to being controlled by his father’s sentiments. How could Papa not get mad about being fired? Ready to explode, his heart raced, face flushed. But this wasn’t the time or the place.

  When he tossed his books onto his desk, the loud clap silenced murmurs that breathed again, like a beast that refused to die. Before sitting, he nodded at Kazu, who sat in the desk behind his. Did his friend feel as angry?

  Chalk screeched as Mr. Bailey scribbled math problems on the blackboard. He wore the same thing he always did—a white shirt and brown cardigan. The only part of his teacher-uniform that ever changed was his bow tie, and on this day, he wore a black one.

  After covering the board with a jumbled mess of algebra problems, he turned to the class. “Good morning, students,” he said, opening his roll book. “Sarah Andrews,” he called.

  “Here.”

  Nobu and Kazu snuck notes back and forth to each other, while Mr. Bailey continued roll call.

  Kazu: Joe and Terrence are coming over to shoot some baskets after school. You coming?

  Nobu: Why’d you ask Joe? He’s a troublemaker.

  Kazu: Best guard on the team.

  Nobu: That’s if he can manage to stay on the team without getting kicked off. Okay. Guess I’ll be there.

  “Nobu Kimura?”

  “Here.”

  Bailey scanned the room over his wire-rimmed reading glasses. “Nobu Kimura?”

  “I’m here!” What was the deal with calling his name twice? Didn’t Bailey hear the first time? Or was it his way of drawing attention to a Jap?

  Bailey continued through the list, ending with Steve White, then announced, “And now, class, please stand and join me in saying the Pledge of Allegiance.”

  Books slapped shut and chairs scooted as everyone stood and faced the flag hanging at the front of the class.

  Nobu put his hand over his heart. “I pledge allegiance, to the flag …” They were words he’d always recited mindlessly, until a phrase caught in his throat. “… one nation …”

  One nation? Yeah, right.

  He couldn’t help notice Kazu’s silence when the rest of the class said the words, “with liberty and justice for all.”

  The end of the day couldn’t come soon enough. When the last bell rang, Nobu rushed down the crowded hall toward doors to the outside. The passage was a gauntlet of words that punched like fists.

  “Hey, Nobu. Japs aren’t the only ones who can carry out an unprovoked and dastardly attack. Better watch out!”

  Another snickered and said, “Yeah. Watch out, all right. The President has declared war. That means open season on Japs.”

  The taunts were suffocating. He had to get out—had to get away from the bumping and pushing.

  “Hey,” someone yelled from the crowded hall. “Isn’t your brother at Pearl Harbor?”

  Nobu turned to find the voice. Dozens were gawking, but he couldn’t tell who had spoken.

  “Jus
t think,” the same voice called again. “One day Taro Kimura is our star player on the ball team, the next day he’s a Jap attacking Pearl Harbor. Maybe you should think twice about wearing your traitor brother’s letterman jacket.”

  Someone grabbed him. The last straw. He turned around, fist clenched, ready to belt the jerk who called Taro a traitor.

  “Hey, hey. It’s just me,” said Kazu, holding up his hands in defense. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Yeah. Let’s.”

  Joe and Terrence were sitting on the porch steps when Nobu and Kazu arrived to shoot baskets.

  “What took you guys so long?” Joe asked, rising from the top step.

  “Yeah, yeah. We’re here now.” Kazu said. “I’m just going to put my books in the house. Be right out.”

  “Hurry it up,” Terrence said, dribbling to the driveway. “I got to take my sister to choir practice in an hour.” He tossed the ball through the hoop.

  The screen door slammed and Kazu ran out to join the others on the driveway court. “Okay. Me and Terrence will take on you two,” he said, grabbing the ball from Terrence.

  It felt good to shoot baskets, even if Kazu and Terrence were twelve points ahead.

  Terrence grabbed the ball from Nobu. “Too bad you white boys can’t play basketball.”

  Nobu wasn’t quite sure how to respond to Terrence’s joking around. White boys? Is that how Terrence saw Nobu and Kazu? It seemed they’d been called yellow plenty lately.

  Terrence shot a basket, then left the driveway court. “Sorry, man. That’s all for me. My momma’ll bust my butt if I’m late getting my sister. See you guys tomorrow.” He ran off, bouncing the ball down the sidewalk.

  Kazu, Joe, and Nobu had started shooting baskets again when two black sedans pulled up to the curb. Four men piled out of each and slammed the doors.

  A man in a long tweed coat approached. “This the Sasaki house?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Kazu.

  Nobu moved closer to his friend.

  “We have a warrant to inspect this house for contraband.”

  “Contraband? What do you mean, contraband?”

  The man ignored the question and signaled his cohorts to follow.

  Kazu ran ahead to the front door. “Mom, Pop! There are some men here to see you.”