The Red Kimono Read online

  Nobu couldn’t believe it. What the hell kind of contraband would a Buddhist minister have? He hurried into the house after Kazu and the men. Straining to see around the barricade of tall men in hats, he found Kazu standing next to his mother and father in the middle of the small, tidy living room. They watched helplessly while several of the men opened drawers and closets, tearing through the Sasakis’ personal belongings like dogs through trash. One of the thugs slammed a drawer so hard a crystal vase wobbled on its shelf. Kazu lunged for it, but his mother pulled him back. It shattered on the floor.

  Reverend Sasaki addressed the man in the long tweed coat—the one who appeared to be The Boss. “What are you looking for? Perhaps I can help you.”

  Seeing Kazu’s father try to appease the men made Nobu sick to his stomach. He imagined Papa acting in such a conciliatory way to such disrespect and had to force the thought from his mind.

  A man wearing black-rimmed glasses answered. “We’re looking for radios, cameras. Correspondence from Japan. You know, contraband.”

  Mrs. Sasaki spoke up. “But we have already turned everything in to the authorities, as requested.” Her hand crinkled her pleated skirt.

  “Lady, you’d be surprised at what we find in the households of Japanese who say they have ‘already turned everything in.’”

  The Boss fired off questions. “Have you participated in any mass gatherings of Japanese?”

  “Only at the Buddhist temple during our services. I am a minister.”

  He jotted notes between more questions. “How many of you gather at those meetings?”

  Reverend Sasaki thought for a moment. “Oh, I would say maybe a hundred.”

  Boss grunted and mumbled to the man standing next to him. “A hundred, huh? I’d call that a mass gathering.”

  A knot tightened inside Nobu. Papa was involved with the Japanese American Citizens League. Did that mean these men would be paying his family a visit?

  Someone called from the hallway. “I found a box of letters up in this bedroom closet.”

  Mrs. Sasaki’s eyes filled with fear. “Those are only letters from my mother.” She grabbed her husband’s arm, her eyes large with tears.

  Reverend Sasaki patted her hand. “Please, sir. They are personal letters. That is all.”

  Boss lit a cigarette. “Sorry. It’s correspondence from Japan,” he said, smoke billowing from his mouth. “Like I said, contraband.” He dumped the letters out of the box, and they showered down into a large canvas bag. “We’ll have to confiscate them.”

  Kazu rushed toward the green bag and tried to catch the letters as they fell. “You can’t do that! These are personal. They mean nothing to—”

  “Kazu!” Reverend Sasaki grabbed his son’s arm.

  Boss nodded to his gang. A short, skinny man heaved the canvas bag and tossed it over his shoulder. The rest followed him out to the car. All except for Boss.

  “Mr. Sasaki,” he said. “You’re going to have to come with us.”

  “I beg your pardon? Why?” Reverend Sasaki asked.

  “We have reason to believe you’ve been holding secret meetings, thus the warrant. Now, you’ve confirmed it, and we found correspondence from Japan to boot. Please gather some toiletries and a change of clothes and come with me.”

  Mrs. Sasaki’s voice trembled as questions poured from her mouth. “But where will you take him? When will he be back? Can we go with him?”

  “Your questions will be answered later. And no, you may not accompany him.”

  Reverend Sasaki took his wife’s arm, and they walked down the hall to their bedroom. A few minutes later he returned alone, carrying a small suitcase.

  Boss took the suitcase and put it down on the hooked rug, among littered pieces of the Sasakis’ life. He pulled handcuffs from his back pocket.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Kazu’s father whispered.

  Boss’s reply was cold. “Procedure.”

  Reverend Sasaki’s shoulders slumped. He cast his eyes to the ground. “May I place my coat over the cuffs? You know, the neighbors.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I guess.”

  “Son,” Reverend Sasaki whispered, “please take care of your mother.”

  “Sure, Pop.”

  Before Kazu’s father left the house, he drew a breath so deep it broadened his chest and pulled back his shoulders. His head rose in a way that made him look taller.

  Reverend Sasaki had it, too. Gaman.

  Nobu stood with Kazu at the front door, watching until the two cars drove out of sight.

  He wanted to say something to his friend, wished there were some way to make things better. But only two words emerged from a fog of emotions. “I’m sorry.”

  Kazu didn’t look at him. He instead fixed his gaze on where the cars had been. “You should go now. I’d better check on my mom.” He stared at the mess the men had left behind, then shuffled to his mother’s bedroom.

  Nobu stayed for a moment, half-tempted to return things to their proper places. Opened boxes were strewn around the closets. Linens had been pulled from drawers and tossed around the dining room. The Sasakis’ lives. Tossed about and torn apart in only a few moments.

  Kazu’s house felt like a stranger’s. Disordered. Cold. Maybe the house could be returned to the way it had been before, but the home would never be the same.

  Whimpers from the bedroom broke the eerie silence.

  Chapter 4

  Sachi

  December 23, 1941

  Leaves swirling around

  Fall to the ground and lie in

  Eternal slumber

  Sachi sat in front of the Christmas tree and studied the package wrapped in silver paper, mesmerized by the lights of the tree reflecting off of it. If Mama thought she had hidden it, she was wrong. Sachi had found it covered up by other colorful packages the very day her mother placed it there. And she knew by the shape of the box, it was a doll like her friend Kate’s!

  Papa walked into the living room. “Sachi-chan, do you want to walk to the park with me?”

  She jumped up. Finally! After two weeks of begging Papa to take her to the park. “Now?”

  “Yes, now. Get your coat.”

  She ran to the hallway closet and grabbed her coat and scarf.

  He called from the front door, “We’re leaving now, Sumiko. See you soon.”

  A gust of cold wind struck Sachi’s face as she stepped outside, and she pulled her scarf over her nose. At the edge of the yard, she turned to say goodbye. Mama stood in the doorway, wringing a dish towel until it was as tight as her face.

  “See you in a little while,” Sachi said, then caught up to Papa. She took his hand, so warm wrapped around hers. But the cold stung her cheeks and made her eyes water.

  Wispy clouds floated across the gray sky like the incense smoke that had drifted from their altar, while leaves skipped across manicured yards of white stucco houses, racing to stay ahead of Sachi.

  She tugged at her father’s arm. “Look, Papa. The swirling leaves. Over there.”

  “They are dancing for us,” he replied.

  She let go of his hand and spun around and around. She stopped, dizzy, and smiled. “I don’t mind this kind of dancing.”

  As the world stopped spinning, she noticed a car slow down as it passed. The driver stared at them.

  Papa took her hand. “Let’s go.”

  She skipped to keep up and wondered why Papa was walking so fast.

  When they arrived at the park, Sachi ran ahead to the swing set. Empty seats swayed in the wind like unruly ghosts. She grabbed one and sat in it, then pushed her feet against the ground. Back and forth. Back and forth. Too slow! She wanted to swing higher and faster.

  “Papa, come push me!”

  Obliging, he walked to Sachi, grabbed the swing, and pushed.

  “Higher, Papa! Higher!” Her ponytail flew up, and her stomach tickled. She felt Papa’s hand on her back, pushing. Higher and higher.

  He grabbed the chains
on either side of her and slowed her. “We should go now,” he said.

  “Just a little longer,” she pleaded. She jumped from the swing and ran to the slide before he could say no, then climbed the ladder to the top and waved. Sliding down, cold metal stung the back of her legs, but she jumped up and ran to the ladder again, trying to beat Papa’s next call to leave. As she climbed each step, she waved at the paper boy who rode by on his bicycle, and laughed at the little dog who tried to keep up.

  She wasn’t going to wait for permission before climbing the ladder again. “Just one more time, Papa.” Perched at the top, she turned to wave.

  Papa was not alone. Three boys surrounded him, pushing and hitting as he tried to protect himself.

  Panic surged through her and she almost lost her balance. She grabbed the slide rail.

  Why are they hitting him?

  She screamed. “Stop! Papa!”

  But the boys kept bullying, yelling ugly things like the kids at school.

  The fat boy with brown hair threw Papa to the ground like a rag doll, kicked him in the stomach, then tossed his cigarette at Papa.

  Papa’s gaze found Sachi. He drew his finger to his mouth. Shhh.

  The tallest boy, his blond hair greased back, spat at Papa. “Enemy Jap!” He kicked her father in the face.

  Sachi squeezed her eyes shut.

  The two Caucasian—hakujin—boys stepped aside, and a colored boy—kokujin—walked to where her father lay. Kokujin leaned over to say something to Papa and stood over him for a minute.

  Maybe he was going to stop.

  No!

  He plunged his foot into Papa’s stomach. The other two boys patted Kokujin on the back, laughing.

  How could they laugh? Once, she kicked a dog because it was chasing her. But even with a dog, when it yelped and ran away, she didn’t laugh.

  Her father was moaning, but Sachi couldn’t understand what he was saying. She watched, confused, her heart beating hard like it wanted to crawl through her tightening throat. Every part of her body urged her to slide down, run to help Papa. But he told her to be quiet. Still, how could she sit and watch them hurt him? Tears burned her eyes but turned cold on her cheeks. She couldn’t breathe.

  Cars drove past. Someone must have seen what was happening. Why didn’t they stop to help?

  The boys kept kicking, chanting, “Dirty Jap!”

  Papa covered his head with his hands and curled his body.

  She could no longer obey. It didn’t matter that Papa told her to stay and be quiet. Didn’t matter that there were three boys bigger than she was. She’d kick. She’d bite. She’d scratch. Anything to help Papa. At last, she pushed herself down the slide. Her scream erupted. “Stop it! Stop!”

  As she ran toward them, the colored boy looked at her. Hazel eyes.

  He turned to the other two. Was he trying to pull them away? It didn’t matter. They kept kicking and yelling. Over and over and over.

  The colored boy with hazel eyes ran away.

  Papa’s body uncurled, motionless.

  She ran harder than she’d ever run before, but couldn’t get there fast enough.

  “That’ll teach you a lesson,” said the blond. Cigarette smoke puffed from his mouth. “Now get on back to Japan and tell your enemy brothers to leave us alone.” He kicked Papa again.

  Leave him alone leave him alone please leave him alone. The words pounded in Sachi’s head even faster than she ran.

  The boys stepped away and slapped each other on the back, the way Nobu’s teammates did when they’d won a game.

  Almost there. Almost there. They turned and glared at her—the big, blond bully, cigarette hanging from his mouth, and the fat, ugly one with stringy, brown hair and freckles all over his face.

  Someone was screaming. She turned to see through a blur of tears. He was running from across the street. Nobu!

  “What have you done?” her brother cried. “Joe? Terrence? How could you do this to my father?”

  The colored boy looked back as he ran, stopped for a moment, then took off again, stumbling in his haste. The two hakujin boys dashed away, like cockroaches at the flick of a light.

  Sachi dropped to Papa’s side before Nobu reached them. She held his head in her lap and wiped the blood from his face. “Papa, wake up. Papa!”

  Chapter 5

  Terrence

  Berkeley, California

  December 23, 1941

  Early that day, signs of morning stirred Terrence from sleep. Sunlight through the blinds. The smell of bacon. Coffee. Momma humming in the kitchen. He yawned and stretched his arms over his head, feeling his body wake. He smiled, remembering the dream he’d had about that cute girl in biology.

  Momma’s slippers swished down the hall. “Time to get up,” she called. “Y’all come eat breakfast, then we gonna go and get us a Christmas tree.”

  The door hinges creaked as Momma poked her head inside his room, her pink curlers sticking out all over her hair. “Morning, son. Do me a favor and get your sisters up. I got to finish cooking.”

  Momma sure couldn’t wait to get a Christmas tree. She’d been talking about it forever, and now it was only two days left ’til Christmas. He guessed they’d waited long enough, but he couldn’t get excited. It wasn’t gonna be any fun without Daddy home. And there hadn’t been any news from him since the Japs attacked Pearl Harbor.

  Momma kept reminding them, several times a day, matter fact. “You got to have faith.” She said God would look out for Daddy and bring him home safe, especially with the whole congregation of St. Paul’s AME Church praying for him.

  He figured Momma reminding him that God would watch over Daddy was just one way of her comforting herself. No matter. Couldn’t hurt none to think the way Momma thought.

  Any. Couldn’t hurt any.

  How many times had Momma told him she’d have none of his talking like she did?

  “I was born and raised in Mississippi,” she always said, waving her finger at him. “You was born and raised here in California. Maybe I ain’t got no education, but you educated.”

  Momma might not know the right way to talk, but she darn well knew the wrong way. He’d lost count of all the times she’d waved that finger at him, “You ain’t gonna make nothing outta yourself if you don’t learn to speak right.”

  Momma would never say it, but Terrence was pretty sure she wanted him to “get educated” so he wouldn’t have to join the military the way Daddy did. No way could she handle worrying about both her men.

  He’d seen pictures of what was left of Pearl Harbor after those Jap cowards attacked, but blinked them away and tried to think of something else.

  Like the Christmas tree. It was just one of the ways Momma tried to keep their lives normal, as if keeping things normal would make Daddy walk through the front door.

  He groaned and stretched again. Dang. Wasn’t he supposed to get to sleep-in over Christmas break? He dragged himself out of bed and pulled on a T-shirt and jeans, then shuffled to the bathroom. “Missy. Patty. Get up,” he called.

  “Just let us sleep a little longer,” Patty mumbled, rubbing her eyes.

  “Nope. Momma said it was time to get up.”

  Little Missy sat up with a sleepy grin. “We gonna get a tree today?”

  He smiled at his baby sister. “Only if you two get yourselves out of that bed. I’m gonna wash up. You two best be up by the time I get back,” he said, closing the door.

  He stretched in front of the bathroom mirror and groaned to chase away his own sleepiness. A few splashes of cold water might do the trick. He patted his chin with a towel then rubbed his fingers over it. He could get away without shaving.

  He thought about that girl in biology class again—about that afternoon, just before Christmas break, when she’d flirted with him as she passed in the hall. There she was, smiling and winking, all coy.

  “Sure are some pretty hazel eyes you got there, Terrence,” she’d said.

  He leaned over
the sink and looked into the mirror, flashed a cocky wink at his reflection, then rolled his eyes.

  Chicken shit.

  Okay. That was it. He’d work up the nerve to ask her out after Christmas break if it was the last thing he did.

  “You two up?” he called from the bathroom. “I’m on my way in, and you best be up when I get there, else I got cold water to splash on you.” That was how Daddy always got him out of bed.

  Squeals and giggles burst from their room. “Okay, okay! We’re up!”

  “Momma’s got breakfast ready. Hurry on now.”

  Their places were set around the maple table. Steam rose from a mound of scrambled eggs at the center. Terrence could smell the biscuits and bacon that sat on either side. His stomach growled.

  Momma was sitting at the table behind her morning paper.

  He touched Daddy’s empty chair before pulling out his own. “Any news from Daddy yet?”

  “No, baby. ’Spect it’ll come any time though.” She rolled up the newspaper and tossed it in the trash. “They most likely still tryin’ to get everthing cleaned up.”

  Patty dragged herself into the kitchen. It seemed like she got taller and skinnier every day. Her voice still squeaky with sleep, she complained, “I thought we got to sleep late over Christmas break.”

  “You wanna get us a tree today, don’t you?” Momma asked.

  “Yes ma’am. Just not so early.”

  Finally, Missy skipped in, beaming with her usual morning cheer. “Hi, Momma.”

  “Morning, Baby Girl,” Momma said and kissed Missy’s cheek. She tugged at one of her pigtails before scooping scrambled eggs onto her plate, then clasped Missy’s hand on one side, Patty’s on the other. Terrence joined hands, too, and everybody bowed their heads.

  “Dear Lord,” Momma began to pray, “Humble our hearts and make us truly thankful for these and all thy blessings. And please bring Daddy home safe, too.” She opened her eyes and put her napkin on her lap. “Hurry up and eat now. After we get the tree, we got the rest of the day to decorate.”

  A damp breeze blew in with the fog off San Francisco Bay, thickening the scent of pine in the tree lot. Patty and Missy played hide-and-seek through the rows of trees, while Terrence dawdled behind his mother, rolling his eyes every time she touched and sniffed a tree. How in the heck did Daddy keep his patience every Christmas, watching her go up and down every single aisle looking for just the right one? What difference did it make if it was tall or short, fat or skinny? A tree was a tree.