Sharon Hashimoto

—Heart Mountain, 1944

I.

Hanako made her son, Henry, sit next to her at the long table in the Mess Hall. She watched as he hung his head, staring at his lap and obeying her commands: here, sit, eat. Cold and lumpy mush and toast were their breakfast. 

She felt the stares against the back of her neck. Each mouthful was like the lump of retorts she held on her tongue before swallowing them down. No one could see her thoughts and she wasn’t going to make them public. Angry words were no defense. She needed to show Henry and his accusers, to put on a good face. In spite of any table of onlookers, Hanako held her back erect, her head up, both feet on the ground. She scolded Henry for not putting a napkin on his lap and coached him to take smaller bites. Usually children Henry’s age, those second graders, hung out together, but she’d seen one woman stop, point with her chin and murmur “not there” while shooing her boy away from their table. 

Hanako knew her son was bored and lonely since school let out. But Henry needed to earn back his good name. He’d always been an inquiring boy, wanting to know what part of the chicken was the wish bone and who was taking care of their Ten Cent store back home, full of household goods and food stuffs. More recently, he’d begun to whine “how long do we have to stay here” as they stood on their side of the barbed wire fence. As his mother, she was responsible. She hushed him, telling him she’d explain later. Everything, Henry complained, was later. The problem, Hanako knew, was that nowhere was private.

When Hanako stood up to carry her tray to the dishwashers, she saw Mrs. Adachi and Mrs. Fujino glance up at her, their hands not even shielding their mouths, to whisper together. When they saw Henry passing by, they turned away.

Hanako told herself she didn’t care what the people in her block said. Most were strangers from California. Peach and strawberry farmers. The kind who would eventually find something else to gossip about. Some tidbit like the father who went to the Methodist gatherings, the one who was so worried about money. He’d asked his daughter to marry his bachelor friend who was financially better off. Arranged marriages were something the Issei understood. 

But these teenagers! She couldn’t believe how some girls painted their lips bright red and threw themselves at boys. In the middle of the cafeteria, some young people were loudly complaining again about wanting to eat good food like pancakes or waffles. They wanted sweets like strawberry jam from their families’ farms. How they dreamed of hamburgers and ice cream sundaes. The best breakfast stuff, they argued, the maple syrup and bacon was kept for the block managers who everybody knew hoarded goods or sold them on the black market.

Hanako shook her head. For fifteen- and sixteen-year-olds, they knew nothing. She’d seen them reading those gossip magazines like Glamourin the canteen.Most girls were experimenting with pin curls and learning how to jitterbug. One of them giggled, while the others shushed her, pointing to a boy who must have thought no one could see him holding his sweetheart’s hand under the table. The girl then pursed her lips together and made kissing sounds. Most of the group laughed, but one boy had the decency to scold, “Don’t be so mean.”

That’s what a good friend would do. Someone like Aiko who had told her just last night, “I know he’s a good boy. Henry didn’t mean any harm. And nothing happened.” Hanako raised her head, nodding to an elderly woman she didn’t know well except when crossing paths in the lavatories. In their old store, she’d been polite and patient to her customers.

The old lady gave her a small dip with her chin and continued on past to another table where each female was busy with a vest, taking their turn and sewing their one French knot in red thread. The other women gestured ‘come over,’ and Hanako pointed to herself, mouthing ‘Me?’ She gathered Henry to go join them. Some young man, she learned, had enlisted. He was going to fight to prove his allegiance to the United States. His mother had painted a tiger on lightweight white cotton for his senninbari. How soon, Hanako wondered, before he would be shipped out to boot camp in Camp Shelby. 

One Issei woman pulled Henry close. “If only they stay this young.”

Hanako narrowed her eyes, pressing her lips together. She watched as the boy sighed, allowing the woman to pat him on the head.

“No worry,” another said in Japanese. “Tiger always return home.”

But everyone there already knew that wasn’t true. When the vest was passed to Hanako, she looped the thread twice around the sewing needle, piercing the cloth to draw the red through. “Almost finished,” she told the others, pointing to her knot in the lowest row.

“Saa,” they murmured as a group. “You, nine hundred fifty-six knot.” Then they started looking around the room for any other female stragglers to wave over. 

Hanako sighed. They had her knot; they didn’t need her any more. To be polite, she told Henry to wave good-bye.

II.

Today, she and her son were going to the library—a walk past the hospital and administrative buildings. There weren’t that many books but maybe she would reread her favorites. First, they would stop at the canteen to see if anything new had come in. Her husband, Shinzo, badly needed new razor blades. Hanako wouldn’t let him grow a beard. 

“You don’t want to look bimbo,” she’d lectured him. But Hanako had had to agree when Shinzo threw up his hands and told her in whispered Japanese that everyone in camp already looked poor and broken down. The whisper wasn’t necessary since everyone could hear through the barrack walls, their voices rising through the knotholes and the spaces in the ceiling where the walls didn’t meet. Twice every day, she swept their quarters but the wind kept blowing dust inside through the uneven boards and leaving little piles in the corners next to the pot belly stove. Even wetting the floor down didn’t help. Still, Hanako felt that their family needed to maintain appearances. They had been shopkeepers only two years ago. She gave her husband credit though, at least, for spending more time with Henry. Yesterday, the two had gone swimming in the waterhole to cool down. The summer’s temperatures were well into the nineties. And Henry’s older brother who worked as mechanic in the camp’s auto repair was teaching him how to change a tire. Hanako knew her son and daughter-in-law were fighting about whether or not enlisting into the army was a good idea. His pregnant wife kept her mouth shut when it came to Henry. And there was her own teenage daughter Lillian, who was too busy with boys and dances and the Hi-Jinx Club. She’d been the most dramatic, refusing to be seen in the same room at the same time as “that boy.” Lillian always waited fifteen minutes after Henry left their room before going out.

Hanako guided Henry past their barrack row towards the main road where the washrooms and lavatories stood. She’d made sure to wear a scarf around her neck—something she could cover her head with against the heat or block the wind that suddenly kicked up the dirt. It was a long walk. Along the way, Hanako noted again how hard it was to tell any of the apartments apart. Some families had put up planks with their names carved into them. “Good for us to walk,” she told her son. “And maybe we can find a better cook in a different Mess Hall. One that might have otskemonoand rice every day.” She’d heard this rumor, but no one had actually found such a place.

Hanako drilled Henry from an old homework assignment. The paper was worn at the creases where it was folded into quarters. What is eleven plus forty-three? What is thirteen minus four? Sometimes Henry would stop to draw the numbers in the sand to see the problem before he answered. She wanted to keep his mind busy. This way, Hanako thought, Henry wouldn’t have a chance to ask embarrassing questions she couldn’t answer. 

They passed a lone man sitting among the sagebrush, reading a letter. They passed families on the steps of their apartments and two men carrying a large plank from a wood pile. They passed people with both hands gripping sloshing buckets of water for their victory gardens.

At least the further away they walked, there would be less chance of knowing someone. On these trips, Hanako hoped maybe she could find another boy Henry’s age who would play with him. A stranger who knew nothing about a little boy, some girls, and the root cellar. 

Hanako shaded her eyes, scanning the way ahead. Someone had told her that there were twenty blocks, twenty block managers who reported to administration. That was a lot of people at Heart Mountain and everyone had a set of two ears and one busy mouth. 

III.

How fast did it take for news to spread, Hanako wondered as she walked. With the sun directly overhead, she and Henry had almost no shadow. The Heart Mountain newspaper had reported that everyone should be aware of rattlesnakes. Henry said that he had seen one under the porch at school. He’d been careful, so he had said, hands behind his back, as he edged further away while some firemen volunteers pinned its head before killing it with shovels. “It didn’t rattle,” Henry said.

Hanako’s thoughts drifted. What else could she tell her son? The Allies had invaded Normandy on June 6^th. Everyone knew that almost as soon as it had happened—bulletins had come from the hakujinswho ran the camp. But General Eisenhower hadn’t said where the troops had landed. They couldn’t hear President Roosevelt’s speech because radios weren’t allowed. People had to guess what was going on. They learned only later the landing took place in Normandy, France. Hanako reasoned, old rumors only died when they were replaced by juicier or more up-to-the-minute news, especially when every day seemed the same.

The air felt hot on her face. It had felt hot on the day when the three mothers had marched their three daughters up to her apartment steps. Later, she bit her knuckle whenever she overheard others talking. How had she heard it? It had been old Otani-san who had described the group as swinging their arms as if marching. The children were being herded before them like chicks. She imagined dust clouds rising up with every step of the group like the way thunderheads roiled up in the sky.

It had been that summer hour after dinner. She’d been sitting on her cot, using the waning light to let out the trouser hems of Henry’s pants. The boy was growing so quickly. Her door had been open to let out some of the heat.

Her silver needle kept slipping between her fingers. Hanako had felt the sweat from her scalp run down the back of her neck. Already, her seven-year-old stood up height high to her shoulder. She had pushed her damp bangs out of her face with the back of her hand, hair falling out of the knotted bun she’d put up that morning. Maybe she should wear pants like some of the other women who’d decided the heat was better than being bitten by horseflies and mosquitoes. Still, it didn’t seem right. She’d heard the other Issei women gossiping about baggy bottoms, shaking their heads at the sight of frayed suspenders or even worse, the patch sewn right at the seat of one’s rear end. 

It shouldn’t matter, Hanako told herself, what one looked like. How could anyone be neat and clean in Heart Mountain. The latrines and laundry rooms were often out of hot water. Their G.I. issued clothing and catalog orders made everyone look alike. Right after the last mail drop, she’d seen the same button-down blouse with small flowers on a fellow Issei lady, a teenager, and a stocky new mother.

“Mrs. Ku-ni-to-mi,” one of the woman had called, stretching the name out. She called the name two more times, her voice becoming more strident.

The heat had made Hanako slow. The sun was behind the barrack. As she walked out, she found the steps and front door in shadow. Maybe they didn’t see her, she thought, counting six people. It was too hot and there weren’t enough stools or chairs to seat everyone. There was nothing Hanako could offer to drink. A part of her was annoyed by this sudden intrusion. What could they want? There had been no polite “good evening.”

Still, Hanako had clasped her hands together and made a small bow. “What brings you to see me?” 

One of the women motioned to one of the little girls, gesturing her forward. Round-faced, her short hair parted down the middle, the child backed herself into her mother’s skirt.

Another beckoned the leader, “Think of what people might say. We should tell her inside, not out here where everyone can hear.” 

Hanako had stood against the door as everyone funneled inside. She thought the extra heat from six more bodies made the room even stuffier and hotter. No one sat down.

“Tell her what you told me,” one of the mothers spoke to her daughter. “I’m Mrs. Yamada,” she said, turning to Hanako. “This is Ruby.” She gave the girl a little push forward.

Ruby glanced over her shoulder, then eyed the other little girls. “Can’t we go home?”

That’s when a different child in a blue cotton dress began talking slowly. “We were playing with our dolls, make-believe in houses with pretend children. Henry was hanging around. After a while, he asked us, if you’re the mommies, where are the fathers?” She rubbed her hands up and down her arms.

Hanako could hear the creak of the floor boards as the other women shifted their weight from foot to foot. She thought about asking everyone to sit down again. She noticed one woman study Henry’s cot with his rubber ball and jacks, then quickly glance away.

Ruby coughed. “I asked Henry if he wanted to play daddy to my dolly. He shrugged and asked what can they do. Daddies, I told him, can drive the car. They can go to work.” Ruby turned to face Hanako. “Henry told me, not here in this place. That’s what he said. And I said, yes they do. Mine works at the fire station.”

The girl in the blue dress added: “And mine works for the farmer with beets. Then Henry said, not if they’re old. Not if they’re Japanese-Japanese from old Japan like my father. I have to call him Otosan.”

Hanako felt Mrs. Suyama’s eyes staring at her. Why were these women making a small story seem so important? These three were young mothers in their twenties. Henry had been a surprise pregnancy when she should have been done with babies. She was probably the oldest in the room. 

The third girl finally spoke up. “And we said oh. I call my father, Pa. My doll’s dress had a streak of dirt because she’d been busy sweeping. I unbuttoned the dress and took it off her. I was going to shake it out.”

The girl in the blue dress said quickly, “Henry kept looking at the doll.”

Hanako felt her skin grow cold—as if her body couldn’t take the heat anymore and turned off. She saw all the mothers glance from their daughters to stare at her. It felt like the tips of arrows notched and aimed at her head.

“Go on,” said Mrs. Yamada.

Ruby took a breath, her voice growing quieter. “Henry said he knew a secret. Want to know where babies come from?” Her voice sped up. “We followed him into the root cellar. He lined us up against the barn wall inside.” Ruby’s head nodded towards the third girl. “Minnie got scared. He told us to take our panties off. Minnie ran away.”

Hanako leaned her back against the wall. The rough wood felt hot; the sun seemed to blast all the way through. But it was better than the clamminess of her sweat. “And what did youdo?”

Ruby tilted her head, glancing up at her mother, then back to the other girls. “He didn’t see anything under my skirt. Not my bare parts, you know. It was so hot. I took my panties off. We just stared at them on the floor. Nobody knew what to do next.”

Mrs. Yamada ran one hand over her sweaty brow. “Good thing, that’s when the workers came in. They were there for more crates.”

Hanako had closed her eyes, but the red darkness didn’t erase anything. When she opened them, the three girls and their mothers were still in the room. “But nothing happened,” she said, surprised that her voice wasn’t louder than a whisper. Hanako forced air in through her nostrils. “He didn’t touch you. He didn’t do anything.”

It must have been Minnie’s mother who spoke. Hanako wasn’t certain. All she heard was, “What kind of mother lets her son do these things?”

Wasn’t she doing all she could? Couldn’t people see that? 

Suddenly the wind began kicking up the dust. A small pebble struck the back of Hanako’s hand. She rubbed the reddened spot. Then, she became aware that Henry was shouting.

“Over there! Mama!” 

She didn’t know what her son was pointing at. But the air felt heavy; she seemed to be swathed in the heat. Before her, Hanako saw only the mass of rock that was Heart Mountain—the one break in an otherwise flat landscape.

IV.

The wind was beginning to build so quickly, she hadn’t noticed when it started. On the horizon, its black tail anchored to the dry brown land, a funnel tilted from side to side. What had begun as a brief tickle in air so warm, her head seemed to float until she realized that the cowlick on the back of Henry’s head was bobbing up and down. The flag on the pole, its grommets and snap hooks, its lanyard all bumped together in a muted clang.

The whole day, Hanako’s voice had been like a leash—soft when Henry was near her, shriller and sharper the closer he came to other people. One old-timer with a straw hat started to give them a wave but ended up clamping his hands on the brim to keep it from flying away. Dust devils began dancing in the road; sagebrush rolled on by. Clouds of sand billowed up.

In the distance, dark spots scattered apart. Hanako shaded her eyes with one hand, squinting. She had made a triangle out of her scarf, tying two ends into a knot under her chin. Henry was holding a handkerchief to his mouth and nose. The wind was growing so strong, Hanako wondered if it might blow Henry away. Those who could disappeared inside their barracks.

Hanako skirted the side of a building, gesturing to Henry. But the boy was staring at something in the distance:  three dark blurs. One dot was larger as it darted in and out of the shade of the barracks. First Hanako saw the dust clouds kicked up by shoes when at first she thought the shape was a small boy. But the long hair flying behind made Hanako realize it was a young girl in pants. The closer she came, the more Hanako felt a weight inside her grow.

Out of breath, the girl bent over—doubled, bracing her hands on her knees. Henry ran up to her. Whatever words were spoken were blown away before Hanako could hear. They were blown away. It was Ruby who put one hand out against the wind. Straightening, she pointed at the two dots behind: her mother with the arm of an older woman draped across her shoulders, hobbling slowly forward. A strong gust blew from behind Hanako, pressing like a hot hand against her back. She watched as the old woman stumbled and fell, struggling to rise with Mrs. Yamada’s help. 

The wind was howling now, pushing sagebrush into rolling wheels. The older woman kept trying to close the front of her dress with one hand. Long white tendrils of hair tangled wildly around her face. How badly had the older woman fallen, Hanako wondered, as the couple came closer. She could feel the sand filling her shoes and she could barely stand up herself. Had the old lady been struck by a flying tree branch? Now Hanako could see the long cut on the woman’s forehead oozing blood.

V.

It had been Henry’s sharp eyes and idea. A truck had been parked next to the flag pole. The cab could fit two people. They had laid the old woman down inside, her head in Hanako’s lap. 

She could see the hospital, maybe a half mile away. It was hard to tell. Henry, she knew, was a strong boy and Ruby had quickly recovered her breath. Mrs. Yamada, she thought, was stouter, younger, stronger. “Go,” Hanako repeated, shooing them with her hands. “I take care.”

Despite her fingers putting pressure on the cut on the forehead, she saw the handkerchief slowly redden. Hanako swore she could feel the lump become a knot as the flesh continued to swell. How, Hanako tried to ask, had this happened? 

Three or four buttons were missing from the front of the old woman’s dress, and her hands kept trying to pull the two sides closed. Hanako frowned as she glimpsed the white brassiere peeking through. She thought she must be maybe ten years younger than her patient. The age spots on their arms were the same. When the woman spoke, all Hanako received were garbled, half-Japanese answers about why were so many bells ringing. How her head hurt!

“Wind storm,” Hanako tried to explain, but all she saw was widening, confused eyes as the truck rocked with another strong gust.

“Ahh,” the old woman moaned, shaking her head. Blood smeared across her forehead, beneath the square of cotton.

Hanako frowned. What could she say? She didn’t know Mrs. Yamada’s first name and here they were, two women in a beat-up truck. “You’re hurt,” Hanako said in Japanese. “A cut on your head. Ruby went for help.” She lifted the handkerchief up slightly to see how badly the cut was still bleeding. The air in the truck was stifling, the heat and weight on her lap growing more uncomfortable. She waved her hand in front of her face when a sheet from somebody’s clothesline slapped into the windshield, making Hanako jump. It blocked her sight, caught for a moment on the wipers before flapping away like a ghost. 

The old lady batted her arms weakly, fingers whacking the rear view mirror and grazing Hanako’s chin. 

“Wind storm outside,” Hanako tried again as she caught one arm with her free hand, pressing to the wound with the other. “We’re in truck. Stay still. Help come soon.”

But the eyes of the old lady grew bigger yet. Her slack-jawed mouth rasped for air. “Itai. Itai. Itai,” the woman kept moaning. Bucking her hips, she tried to pull her skirt down past her knees. “Touchan,nooo,” the old lady sobbed, the “o” sound becoming a long moan.

Hanako held the thin shoulders down. “Stay still,” Hanako spoke loudly to be heard above the wind, her voice growing rough as she turned the bloodied handkerchief to a cleaner side.

Tears leaked from the old woman’s eyes, following the trail of crow’s feet. 

Hanako froze. Why was this woman crying out against her father? A man, who no doubt died long ago. Had she been beaten? Hanako felt her eyebrows raise up into a peak. Had Mrs. Yamada’s mother been… forced? 

Hanako’s vision blurred. She tried to swallow but her throat was too dry. Hanako drew the scarf from around her neck and carefully wrapped it around the woman’s head over the handkerchief. Stroking the right cheek with the back of her fingers, she tried to whisper: “Daijoubu desu”—what her own mother had whispered to her when she was young, what she had told her own children. But how things could be fine.

VI.

Hanako was altering an extra large peacoat for Shinzo. She’d done two others to make a little money. Despite the heat of the summer, everyone remembered how cold it had been last year. Though administration had given them the coats, nothing fit. It was still a lot of work, but she was understanding the job better. Maybe she could do something with the trimmed-off bits of wool. Nobody wasted anything. The work went best when she used a makeshift seam ripper and cut the coat into its parts: sleeves, yoke, collar. She was teaching Aiko to do the same for her two teenaged boys. As mothers, they wanted their families warm when winter came. She was so busy now, she didn’t care that Mrs. Yamada had never said thank-you. 

Once the Nisei doctor had opened the car door and swept the old lady up, she was no longer Hanako’s responsibility. Still, Hanako had been curious and followed everyone to the hospital just to make sure. Who knew that more lay ahead?

Henry had eagerly watched the orderly give mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, to see Ruby’s grandmother’s cheeks slowly pink after that ghastly pale complexion. Hanako wondered about the sight of the young man’s lips over the old woman’s mouth, the sounds he made blowing air into her lungs. The sight had given her embarrassing thoughts. Later, the doctor had made a butterfly bandage, using gauze and alcohol to clean the head wound. 

Hanako dutifully reported the old lady complaining of a ringing in her ears and not knowing that they were in Heart Mountain. The doctor had listened carefully, making notes on a chart.

Henry said that Ruby wasn’t allowed to talk to him, but that he often saw her standing outside the hospital. Ruby would yell encouraging words to her grandmother when the old lady could sit by the window. Then when no one was watching, Ruby would give him a shy wave of her hand. 

But Ruby and the girls she hung around with didn’t matter anymore. Henry had tried out for peewee baseball and made left outfielder. Most of the men were talking about the swing Henry had made with the bat that had sent the ball flying onto the barracks’ rooftops. Who’d think a seven-year-old had that much power? Now much of Henry’s time was spent practicing how to catch fly balls. Shinzo had grown a beard, seeming to spend many morning hours grooming it with a special comb. Their crowd of acquaintances had changed.

Hanako didn’t even mind that her scarf had never been returned. It would have been blood-stained anyway. Poor Mrs. Yamada, she often thought, when she saw her in the Mess Hall. Everyone had talked about how the mother wasn’t and would probably never be right in the head, walking around the hospital halls like someone lost.

She’d told her good friend Aiko what she had seen. The way the old woman had tried to cover herself, pulling her skirt down. Nobody knew anything for sure. But maybe that’s what had made Ruby’s mother so sensitive. It was obvious to her, but Hanako asked her friend anyway. “Touchan,” Hanako said, letting a small silence hang between them. “Who you think that might be?” 

“Nickname for father, probably,” Aiko had answered with a look.

Hanako nodded. Through her one small window, she could see the mountain cutting into the blue sky, the sun a bright disk glaring down. “Be careful,” Hanako warned. She could tell that Aiko was getting rough with the peacoat’s wool. “One stitch at a time. You don’t want to make holes.”