Under the Silk Hibiscus

  Under the Silk Hibiscus

  by Alice J. Wisler

  UNDER THE SILK HIBISCUS BY ALICE J. WISLER

  Published by Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas

  2333 Barton Oaks Dr., Raleigh, NC, 27614

  ISBN: 978-1941103302

  Copyright © 2014 by Alice J. Wisler

  Cover design by writelydesigned.com

  Interior design by Karthick Srinivasan

  Available in print from your local bookstore, online, or from the publisher at:

  www.lighthousepublishingofthecarolinas.com

  For more information on this book and the author visit:

  http://www.alicewisler.com

  All rights reserved. Non-commercial interests may reproduce portions of this book without the express written permission of Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas, provided the text does not exceed 500 words.

  When reproducing text from this book, include the following credit line: “Under the Silk Hibiscus published by Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas. Used by permission.”

  Commercial interests: No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by the United States of America copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are all products of the author's imagination or are used for fictional purposes. Any mentioned brand names, places, and trade marks remain the property of their respective owners, bear no association with the author or the publisher, and are used for fictional purposes only.

  Scripture quotations are taken from the HOLY BIBLE The Authorized (King James) Version. Rights in the Authorized Version in the United Kingdom are vested in the Crown. Reproduced by permission of the Crown’s patentee, Cambridge University Press.

  Brought to you by the creative team at LighthousePublishingoftheCarolinas.com: Courtenay Dudek, Eddie Jones, Rowena Kuo, Michele Creech, and Brian Cross

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Wisler, Alice J.

  Under the Silk Hibiscus / Author Alice J. Wisler 1st ed.

  “In any moment of decision, the best thing you can do is the right thing, the next best thing is the wrong thing, and the worst thing you can do is nothing.”

  Theodore Roosevelt

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to those who lived through

  the Japanese-American internment camps of World War II.

  And in memory of those who died there.

  PRAISE FOR UNDER THE SILK HIBISCUS

  Alice Wisler is courageous in her storytelling and compassionate in how she unfolds the truth of the past. Under the Silk Hibiscus is all at once stirring, beautiful, and thought-provoking.

  ~ Tina Ann Forkner

  Author of Waking Up Joy

  Under the Silk Hibiscus is a skillfully crafted novel set in a Japanese internment camp. The picturesque writing transports the reader to another time and place where the story unfolds in layers of history, driven by memorable characters.

  ~ Deanna K. Klingel

  Author of award-winning books for young-at-heart readers of all ages

  Alice has done a wonderful job of capturing the thoughts and worries of a 15-year-old in a war-time situation, much like The Diary of Anne Frank.

  ~ Sally Jo Pitts

  Private investigator, inspirational writer

  Alice J. Wisler’s Under the Silk Hibiscus is an unforgettable fictional journey, filled with history, romance and hope. Wisler draws on her firsthand experience of growing up in Japan to deliver an authentic tale. The way she strings words together is a beautiful expression of storytelling in a book not to be missed. Enjoy her newest release, one I give 5 stars.

  ~ Dianna Benson

  Award-winning author of The Hidden Son and Final Trimester

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  This work of fiction is a result of reading books, watching documentaries, having conversations with some who lived in camps, listening to taped interviews, and my own creations. The message I hope to convey is that we never want anything like this to happen in our country to any of our citizens again.

  Special thanks to Artie and Elizabeth Kamiya, Terri Takiguchi, and to John Tateishi for his invaluable book, And Justice For All, an Oral History of the Japanese American Detention Camps.

  Gratitude goes to my agent, Chip MacGregor, to the staff at Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas, and to my invaluable beta readers.

  PRELUDE

  Ten weeks after the December 7, 1941 Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, President Franklin D. Roosevelt announced that the United States West Coast was a potential combat zone. Living in that zone were more than 100,000 people of Japanese ancestry. A third of them were aliens; two-thirds of them were American citizens. With the president’s signing of Executive Order 9066, Japanese-Americans were told to leave their homes, sell their businesses and possessions and move inland. First they went to assembly centers and then by September 1942, ten internment camps had been built. Each of the ten camps were in remote locations, fenced, and guarded by the War Relocation Authority (WRA). Tule Lake and Manzanar camps were in California, Topaz in Utah, Poston and Gila River in Arizona, Granada in Colorado, Minidoka in Idaho, Jerome and Rowher in Arkansas, and Heart Mountain in Wyoming. About 110,000 evacuees ended up living behind barbed wire in wooden barracks during World War II.

  This is the story of a family who was sent from their home in California to barracks in Heart Mountain, Wyoming.

  PART I

  Heart Mountain, Wyoming

  Chapter One

  As an afternoon wind blew over the camp’s sagebrush terrain, I wiped dust from my face with a handkerchief that once belonged to Papa. Frustration, like the surrounding barbed wire fences, taunted me. At breakfast, something vile overcame me; I’d demanded to know if anyone knew about Papa. I targeted my aunt because she was the easiest to bully. As I continued insisting that she tell me what she knew, the families at the nearby tables lifted their faces from bowls of dry rice. Shut up, I could read from the older men’s and women’s expressions. We’re at war; this is no time for you to become hostile. Besides, you are only a child.

  Since there had been no communication from Papa after that fateful day in February when two FBI agents entered our home in San Jose, I was certain he was dead. They had taken him away in handcuffs. “Spy,” the tall one with a crew cut had called him. “We know you are working with Japan’s military.”

  As the memory of that day burned in my mind, I trudged toward the camp’s latrine, bucket in hand. Yesterday afternoon, Lucy had smiled at me; I’d nearly danced across the dirt road. Today, I felt almost as despairing as the day Mama, my aunt, my brothers, and I were told we had forty-eight hours to pack up for relocation.

  “Relocation,” Mama had cried, the word obviously foreign to her. “We don’t need to go anywhere. We are happy here.”

  But happiness had not been the point. Fear seemed to be. Was it the picture of Emperor Hirohito on our living room wall that made Caucasian men tremble? Did they think that Mama was sitting under her knitted grey shawl at the kitchen table, sending messages across the Pacific to the enemy?

  My thoughts sprang, one bouncing off another. An army truck sped past toward the mess hall, creating a blanket of dust around the row of bleak barracks. The roar of its engine brought me back to reality, and I increased my pace. If I weren’t careful, I’d wind up like my ten-year-old brother, Tom, who seemed to live in his own world of poetry books and fantasies. Tom could get away with it on two accounts. One, he was only ten, and two, he’d had p
olio, so was lame in his right leg.

  But I, Nathan Mori, was able-bodied and must not dilly-dally. Dilly-dally, that had to be my aunt Kazuko’s favorite word. She used it as often as she could. When I’d set out with a bucket just moments earlier, she had called out, “Don’t dilly-dally.”

  At the communal lavatories, I hoisted the metal bucket to the sink and watched it fill with water. I splashed some of the tepid liquid onto my forehead, cheeks, and nose. Using Papa’s handkerchief, I wiped my face again. Papa, where are you?

  “How is your mother?” an elderly woman stopped to ask as I made my way back to our barracks. She was one of the few who wore a kimono. Today, she was dressed in a charcoal one, the color of Heart Mountain at dusk.

  I wanted to give her a hug for showing concern, but that would probably set her off. She was the same woman who complained in the mess hall that we should have seaweed. How, she’d shouted, was she supposed to eat steamed rice without a piece of nori? Aunt Kazuko had warned me not to tell this woman too much about our family affairs because she was a busybody. She’d been known to spread gossip quicker than sagebrush blew over the campsite. However, after my outburst this morning, keeping our family concerns a secret was over. Everyone now knew that I was angry. What did I have to hide?

  “Your mother?” the woman asked again. “I didn’t see her at breakfast or at lunch.”

  I felt the weight of the bucket in my hands, almost as heavy as the thoughts of my mother. “She’s all right.”

  It was a lie, and something told me that Mrs. Busybody knew it. For a second I thought she was going to accuse me of not telling the truth; it wouldn’t have been out of her character.

  She shielded the sun from her face with a thin hand pocked with liver spots. “Well,” she said, and gave a deep sigh. “Well.” With a nod, as though she had just recalled what to say next, she added, “I think she needs ginger root. My grandmother swore it helped her when she was pregnant. Is she sleeping at night? She needs her sleep.”

  I didn’t want to go into all the details of how Mama had spiked a fever and moaned last night, keeping all four of us in our living quarters awake until the sun broke through the dark Wyoming sky, its broadcast of a new day. Only then had she calmed and settled into sleep.

  “I can come over. I’ll have tea with your aunt.”

  I nodded, tried to smile, and said I had to go. As I took a step toward our barracks, the woman called out after me.

  “You know, your father is not a spy.”

  At her words, unexpected tears swarmed in my eyes. “Yes.” I drew a breath. “I know he isn’t.”

  “He’s just in a camp. Like this one. No seaweed there either.”

  Suddenly, I was aware that time had slipped, and I was late. The wrath of Aunt Kazuko was near, I could feel it. I hurried toward our barracks, allowing myself one last glance over the plains at the limestone mountain that emerged from behind the camp’s barbed wire fences. That was Heart Mountain, a strange name for a mountain by a camp that seemed so heartless. There were days I wished I could run to the mountain’s knobby peak and hide out until this war ended. But with looming guard towers strategically placed around the facility, there was no hope of that happening.

  Once I stepped inside our family’s one-room unit, constructed of wood and insulated with tarpaper, my aunt rushed toward me like a military Jeep. “Where were you? I am dying here.” She had a robust face and stocky body to match, and I doubted she was anywhere near death.

  At the lone table that stood in the middle of the room with cots to the left and right, Aunt Kazuko removed a glass and steadied it as I carefully poured water into it. This was a ritual we were familiar with, and no words were needed.

  Aunt Kazuko carried the glass to Mama, who lay in one of the cots, a cotton sheet pulled over her protruding belly. As she helped Mama up, my aunt barked at me, “You need to go to hospital and tell them to come here. Your mother need medicine.”

  I dismissed her choppy orders, spoken in a language she had not quite mastered. Yesterday, I made a trip to the hospital and, after waiting for fifteen minutes, a nurse came to my aid. She followed me to our barracks to check on Mama. She probed and asked a few questions while Aunt Kazuko and I stood around Mama’s bedside, trying not to appear anxious. The nurse told me that the baby would be here any minute now and to make Mama as comfortable as I could. She’s going to be fine, I said to myself, recalling the nurse’s words from yesterday.

  Lifting a wobbly chair, I placed it closer to my mother’s bed.

  I smiled at her, remembering how she used to button my sweater on winter mornings and, with a playful smile, tell me that I was her favorite son named Nathan. “Hey, Mama.”

  With Aunt Kazuko supporting her, Mama took a few sips of water before easing onto the uneven mattress filled with hay. She gave a weak smile. “Nathan,” she breathed. “My favorite Nathan.”

  Aunt Kazuko moved to the table, poured her own glass of water and nibbled on a sugar cookie, one she had stowed away in her sleeve after dinner last night. She was always hiding morsels of food. If anyone ever wanted a late night snack, digging through my aunt’s sleeves would be a good move. I was grateful that my aunt gave me some time alone with Mama. Usually, she was flittering about, interjecting her worries.

  I took Mama’s hand in mine, noting the slender fingers, the simple gold ring that signified her union with Papa. Papa, who was somewhere, but had not been heard from in over six months.

  Stroking Mama’s palm, I wished. It is a scary thing to wish when you know the wish can’t come true.

  Nevertheless, I wished that she could play the piano like she used to. It seemed that no matter what was going on in my life, when Mama played Chopin or Beethoven, the world was a tranquil place. I was about to form a prayer of asking. In my opinion, people usually pray on one of two occasions—to ask for something or to thank God for something. I had no time to offer up a prayer of asking because my mother interrupted my thoughts.

  “You work too hard.” She spoke as though the words sapped all her energy. I wanted to hear her voice, yet at the same time, I wanted her to rest and not tire herself by talking.

  “Are you too warm?” Before she could nod yes, I picked up a silver and red silk fan that rested against the top of her leather suitcase under the foot of her cot. Opening it, the scent of sandalwood permeated the air. I moved it across her pale face. The breeze from it fluttered strands of hair into her eyes.

  I brushed the black strands, smoothing them with my fingers over her scalp. I’d seen my father do this once and was captivated by what an act of sacrifice it was. He had taken time, time away from the business, time away from a game of chess—his love—to spend time with my mother and do something for her. The thought of that scene made it hard to swallow.

  I needed to get a grip, as Ken, my seventeen-year-old brother always told me. Recently I’d been plagued with too many tears.

  “I ask God to give you some time for fun,” Mama said, pausing between each word. “You need fun.”

  “Not everyone can run around and play,” I wanted to say, but I was sure if I said it, she'd accuse me of being too hard on my older brother. Ken felt life should be a playground and neither work nor household chores seemed to get in the way of him doing what he wanted.

  She winced and closed her eyes. “Nathan,” she said after a moment. “I want you to make a promise.”

  I leaned in closer as her dark eyes looked intently into mine. “The watch . . . You keep it safe.”

  Immediately my view shifted from her face to beneath her cot. Inside her leather suitcase was the family heirloom, the gold and diamond pocket watch my grandparents had brought over on the freighter from Hiroshima. Of course, I knew of its importance, of the story that was behind that expensive piece of craftsmanship. I’d heard Papa tell how a member of nobility had requested a local craftsman to design the watch. When my grandfather saved the nobleman’s daughter from a raging river, the watch had been presen
ted to him in appreciation for his act of valor. It had been in the Mori family ever since.

  Mama gasped for air, coughing. “Nobu?”

  I sat straight. It was seldom that she called me by my Japanese name. “I will,” I vowed, recalling the Boy Scout promises I once held important. “I’ll keep it safe.”

  Moistening her lips, she closed her eyes. “Good,” she whispered as the sun vacated the sky, casting shadows through the window onto her blanket. “Good. I know I can count on you.”

  After dinner, Ken, Tom and I walked from the mess hall over to the Yokota’s barracks which was parallel to ours, just across the dusty dirt road. Ken matched Tom’s slower pace—slower than most due to Tom’s right leg brace. The two conversed about baseball, recalling a game some of the boys had played at the camp when we’d first arrived. I hadn’t played or watched as I’d been searching for spare pillows for Mama so that she could sit comfortably in her cot during the day. She liked having pillows propped around her back and belly.

  “That was the first time I’d ever seen you get a home run,” Tom said to Ken.

  “Just call me Babe Ruth.” Ken laughed.

  “I bet you were beat after that. I know I’d have been. That was a lot of running.”

  “Ah, when you’re that happy, you don’t feel tired.”

  I lagged behind, feeling a little sick, as the noodles and chicken I had just eaten thickened and soured in my stomach. The searchlights scoured the camp, I watched their beams and then looked beyond them over the barbed wire fence toward Heart Mountain. The mountain seemed close, like if I reached out, I could touch it, but I knew it was miles away.

  At the entrance to the Yokota’s barracks, Ken paused and turned toward me. “Aren’t you coming?”

  “Nah. Can’t,” I mumbled. Of course I wanted to hear Fusou Yokota sing. To my ears, her Japanese name of Fusou had to be one of the most beautiful names. And it matched everything else about her. Ken argued that Fusou wasn’t that great of a name. “It’s just a name. Nothing else.” What did he know anyway? I bet he’d never taken the time to repeat it several times in a silent room and watched how that name filled every dark corner with light. He didn’t know how it sounded as it pushed over his lips like a puff of air. He called her by her American name, Lucy, which was not nearly as special. In fact, everybody called her Lucy. Even she went by Lucy.