THE late afternoon resided in peace. The wind finally fatigued from
its persistence, enabling people to enjoy the outdoors. Radios echoed through
thin walls alongside a cheering crowd from a women’s volleyball match. Children
ran through the streets. Strollers strayed from their blocks, searching for
something to do within the dull compound. The movie house was full. The few
shops were closed. An amateur play in the makeshift community building was
still in the process of rehearsals. Jim’s barrack remained quiet. Everyone was
either at the movie or the volleyball game. He took Russell’s toy car from the
Monopoly board and set it in the jail square.
Grinning, he said, “This is the second
time you’ve been in the dog house.”
Frustrated, Russell replied, “I hate these
cards! They really don’t give you a chance to do good!”
“I’m doing well. I have a hundred dollars
and counting.”
“And I don’t even have two bits to my
name!” Glancing at Jim’s iron piece, he murmured, “I should of been the hat.
Seems to bring better luck!”
“Luck is only a frame of mind,” he said,
avoiding his nervousness about the confrontation with Shikami later on that
evening. He knew Russell had to be equally as nervous, otherwise he wouldn’t
have been so agitated about the game. Normally his friend couldn’t care less
whether he was winning or losing in Monopoly.
GERTRUDE continued to drop her dresses onto her bed from the
handmade closet; a darkly stained pine box. Frustrated, she tugged each dress
at the waist. None of her dresses fit her anymore. She was too skinny! Without
a sewing machine, refitting her clothes by hand proved a real nuisance. She had
already taken them in twice so far! And buying new dresses either from the camp
store or catalogs were expensive compared to the little income Meito brought
home. Meito and Sadaye’s incomes were the only resources that supported eight
people. A total of thirty dollars for two families for the whole month. How
were they able to rebuild their lives on Meito’s fifteen dollars? Even when the
Depression had fallen to its worst year nearly nine years ago, at least they
were still bringing in fifty dollars more!
Gertrude threw a dress on the floor. She
couldn’t understand why Russell resisted looking for a job to help out. He was
in good health; strong. There was farm work outside of camp this past spring
and summer he could have taken. Or even construction work inside the camp.
There was always construction.
She stood for a moment, clenching her
fists. Looking around the barrack, it almost resembled a home. They finally had
real mattresses. All of them. Even if used, and thankfully none of the
mattresses harbored bedbugs. Dresser drawers. Shelves with thin books and
ceramic animals. Curtains and throw rugs. A broom and ironing board in the
corner. Her sons’ drawings from school pinned on one side of the wall, showing
their old home with green trees and blue waters. Zasshu, the family mutt. She
closed her eyes to keep the tears from burning her cheeks. She heard her
mother-in-law stuttering over English words, repetitiously, monotonously. It
really was getting on her nerves.
She asked, “Are you using the kerosene lantern, Mama?”
Mrs. Hamaguchi stopped and glanced around
her space. “I am not. And I do not see
it. Why?”
“It
is getting dark outside and I would like to do some reading after dinner.”
“Perhaps,”
she thought, tapping her bony finger on her mouth, “perhaps Meito has misplaced it. He used it last night.”
“Perhaps,” she whispered.
Sighing, Gertrude opened her eyes and
walked over to a window. Sweeping aside her loose tears, she stared out the
street, beside her father-in-law who sat in a patio chair with a Pepsi bottle
in hand, and stared at the western mountains. The sun was falling sooner this
time of year. Dinner was near. Her husband at work. Suddenly, she held her
breath. Where were her two sons? Panicking, she rushed out the door. She should
never have let her father-in-law keep an eye on them in the first place, the
drunk!
“Where’s Joe and George, Papa-san?” she
cried. “You were supposed to watch them!”
Mr. Hamaguchi squinted and slowly turned
to look at her. His prickly face and glazed eyes bore little responsibility. He
seemed confused. Wetting his lips, he
sluggishly replied, “They should be near.”
Angered, she began yelling out her son’s
names. They were not yet seven years old; too small to be by themselves; too
young to use the best of judgment. Last week a woman was raped by one of their
own people three blocks from where they lived. There were criminals loose in
the congested camp. Loose! How could he be so stupid? Her shrieks rang in
desperation. Soon, Joe and George jumped from behind their barrack, coughing.
Stunned, relieved, Gertrude walked to them. Guilt smeared their tiny faces.
They were up to something.
She scolded, “Stay out where I can see you
both! You two know better than that!”
“Yes, Mama,” they replied; their hands at
their backs, their eyes as wide as raccoons caught rummaging through garbage.
She carefully glared at them. “What were
you doing?”
“Nothin’ Mama,” they replied.
“I just bet,” she murmured. Pointing at
her side, she persisted, “Out where I can see you. Got it?” They nodded.
Unsure, she folded her arms. “On second thought, the both of you get inside.
It’s getting dark anyway.”
George whined, “But I don’ wanna!”
“You’ve got games in there. Play those.”
Joe immediately trotted up the steps, his
brown socks slumping at his ankles, his knickers dusty from rolling in the
sand. George fiercely frowned. He refused to move.
“Now!” she snapped.
He glanced at his grandfather, hoping for
support, but he was falling asleep again. George huffed and griped, “It’s not
fair!”
“Now!” she yelled, grabbing his collar and
pulling him forward.
He reluctantly moved, stomping his feet.
Gertrude rolled her eyes and muttered up to the sky, “Give me strength!”
The boys resettled at their own table near
their beds. Joe had already retrieved a box with a jigsaw puzzle of cowboys and
Indians and spread it out. George sulked, slouching in the chair. Gertrude
picked up her dress from the floor and began hanging her clothes back in the
closet. She’d sew tomorrow. She didn’t feel like it tonight. Glancing at George
again, she firmly stated, “If you’re going to pout all night then you’ll go to
bed early.”
He whined, “I’m not pouting.”
George reached across the board to play
with the piece between his fingers. Gertrude tightened her lips, not in the
mood to argue. Loudly sighing, she stopped and sniffed the room. Joe stared at
his brother, scared, but George retained a rigid glare, silently warning him to
keep quiet. He continued to put pieces together while Joe fidgeted, his young
forehead crinkling with worry.
Sniffing again, Gertrude looked at her
sons. “Do you smell something burning?” she asked.
Joe and George stared at each other
without blinking. George said, “No.”
She lifted her chin, sniffing. “I smell
it. Must be coming from outside.”
Mrs. Hamaguchi rested her palms on the
English book and also sniffed. She remarked, “I do smell something burning.”
Smoke climbed from the cracks of the
floor, spreading like dust clouds. Gertrude gasped and jumped away from the
corner where the smoke filtered through. She quickly grabbed both her sons’
hands and yanked them outside. Mrs. Hamaguchi instantly followed. Thick waves
of smoke pushed from underneath the barrack. Suddenly a flame flickered on the
side as if wildly escaping, wanting to bite and sting. Mr. Hamaguchi opened his
eyes. Turning his head, feeling the flame fan out, crackling and heating the
desert air, he vaulted out of his chair, dropping his secret bottle. Joe began
crying.
Gertrude shrilled, “Fire! There’s fire!
Somebody help us!”
A crowd gathered in the middle of the soft
street, watching in horror and awe as the vehemence orange flame lit their
faces. Instantly, seven men and two women began tossing sand into the fire,
powerlessly, frantically. A couple of the residents ran with tin buckets,
flinging sparse splashes of water from the meager pump. It was better than
nothing. Mrs. Hamaguchi heaved, pointing to her decaying home, covering her
shocked mouth. Not again, she wept.
Not again. She had left her
childhood home when she first married, then left her second home after her
husband’s death to flee to America.
She had lost her third home when they were forced to leave because of the war. And
now this? Now this? Why? Were her ancestors punishing her? Instructing her that
she should reveal Mieto the truth? Or that she should had never left Japan and
should have married her first husband’s brother? Her fate deemed a harshness
cursed by her former in-laws.
Russell sprang out of Jim’s barrack.
Horrified, he stared at the bright fever consuming his barrack. Jim chased him,
bumping into him when Russell halted on the street. Feeling the panic, Jim
worried the fire would skip over to the other barracks, including his. A breeze
tickled the fire and the thirsty air would drink anything, including fire. The
tight quarters would make chaos more tempting. What would happen if half the
camp burned? Would they have to relocate again?
Russell suddenly gasped, “The radio!”
He ran inside the smoke. Jim and the rest
of Russell’s family stared, crippled, shocked. Soon Gertrude and Mrs. Hamaguchi
screamed out his name, telling him to come back out. Jim held his breath. He
couldn’t believe Russell was that idiotic! It was only a radio, for Christ’s
sake! The residents who were assisting hesitated, stupefied that someone was
that insane, nevertheless continued their mission. If they didn’t stop the fire
now, it would jump over to other homes, inflicting more damage.
Russell covered his mouth and nose with
his shirt’s collar. He was amazed how quickly the fire had infected his
barrack, reaching, burning. The heat stabbed at his body and he felt as though
his skin would instantly peel. His eyes stung and he choked. Coughing,
squinting with watery vision, he pushed the table out of way and grabbed the
radio. Yanking the cord from behind as he dashed to the door, he glanced at his
father’s still. Shit! He stumbled out
of the door, sweat flaking from his forehead.
“Get back!” he yelled. “Get back! It’ll
explode!”
Gertrude trembled as she pulled her sons
on the other side of the long street. How she wished Meito were there! She
really needed his comfort! Russell’s parents followed. Jim stared at Russell’s
dirty face and wild eyes. All he could do was stare. Russell snatched Jim’s arm
and forced him to move. Three residents ignored Russell’s warning, perhaps not
believing him, perhaps not hearing him. Standing twenty feet away, Mrs.
Hamaguchi smacked the back of Russell’s head, scolding him for being stupid. He
cringed, but took-in her fearful frustration. He knew she was right, but at
least he saved something. At least they could still have something left. The
crowd expanded like poppy seeds blowing into a barrel of tar. Smoke staggered
upward; rupturing; revealing its rage for miles. The entire camp understood.
People driving on the isolated highway recognized it. Even the rural town of Independence saw a faint
reflection from the crumpling sun.
Tom ran down the street, shoving people
aside to reach to his family. When he saw it wasn’t his barrack on fire, he
exhaled in short relief. He squeezed Rose’s shoulder and kissed his baby’s
cheek in her arms. Rose sniffled, wiping her tears off her scared face. It
could easily have been her home. Tom hugged his mother-in-law and patted Bethany’s head. He then
searched for the Hamaguchis in the thick crowd and saw some making an attempt
to put out the fire. When he detected them huddling in the middle of two other
barracks, he strode over to offer them reassurance.
“I’ve contacted the fire department,” he
started, resting his hands on his hips like John Wayne. “We have an emergency
phone there. We should get everything under control.”
Russell bellowed. “There’s a still in
there!”
“A what?”
“A still! You know, for making booze!”
Tom’s strong profile fell. He gazed at
Russell as if he had been shot. “You’re kidding me. It’s illegal to have one!”
Russell rolled his eyes. “No shit! How is
it you’re the only bozo in camp who didn’t know?”
Jim snickered. Tom had been so occupied
with Tanaka’s group he rarely observed his own surroundings.
Embarrassed, Tom glanced down. “Jesus!
These people need to get away from it!”
Russell sat his radio on the ground and
replied, “Yeah, I know!” He again snatched Jim’s arm and urged, “Come on!”
Pushing through, Tom began yelling to the
people to move further back. Soon, Russell and Jim echoed the warning, trying
to swing their arms to propel the crowd behind the flames. The reluctant brood
slowly shifted, too slowly, only a few wise ones listening and helped along. A
thunderous blast. Glass exploded. Recoil of screams. Shards of people dropped
to their knees. Black smoke punched through the desert’s draft. A man’s voice
yelled, “Move back, dammit!” People spread like split water, evaporating into
alleys and down the streets. The fire truck siren penetrated the terrified
silence, rushing to the northeastern sector. Russell jumped up and looked
around him. His hysteric heart pounded in his ears. Tom darted off. Where was Jim? Rubbing the sand out of his eyes, he frantically skimmed the
messy area where splintered glass and wood laid.
“Jim!” he choked. “Jim!”
Jim crawled. Russell rushed to him, easing
his friend to stand. The back of his white shirt revealed black tears and red
scratches. Without saying anything, Russell guided him off to the side. An
ambulance siren hollered on the opposing boundary, competing with the other
shrill. It was almost like Manzanar was being bombed! Russell triggered into
laughter. He couldn’t stop himself. Leaning against a neighboring barrack,
releasing Jim, he sagged his belly and laughed. Jim, befuddled, feeling his
back prickle with pain, thought his friend had just lost his mind.
He demanded, “What the hell could be so
funny?” Russell shook his head, laughing harder, unable to speak. “What the
hell are you laughing at, Russell? Did the heat scorch your brain?”
He rested his palms on his knees, gasping,
aching. “Oh boy!” he wheezed. “Oh boy, you shoulda seen their faces! Boom!
Ahhh!” He closed his runny eyes, shaking his head, heaving out his hysterics.
The two sirens screeched in his already ringing ears. Both vehicles would be
there very soon. He irrationally resumed, “I wish I had a camera for that one!
Ka-boom!”
Jim cried, “Stop it, Russell!”
Russell sluggishly groaned, gradually
regaining his composure. He watched the yellow fire truck speed up the street
and abruptly stopped next to his dissolving home. The firefighters, all Nisei robed in slick flaxen coats and
helmets, hurtled out of the truck. Two sprinted past by him, hauling the flat
hose and quickly tied it to an outside pump near the showers. They dashed back,
signaling the crew to proceed. The hose began spitting, the pressure weakened
by restrictions of water used daily in the camp. Irritated, two firemen sprayed
the best they could while others retrieved buckets of sand to toss. Volunteers
emerged with shovels and buckets, aggressively struggling to put out the fire.
“We didn’t mean to, Mama!” Joe suddenly
wailed. George glared at him. “George knocked over the lantern! But I had the
matches!”
Everyone turned to stare. Disbelief
wrinkled their faces.
Gertrude bent down to her sons’ level,
resting her hand on Joe’s knee, not blinking. She asked, “Where did you boys
get the matches?”
Joe heaved, looking down, sniffing. He
whispered, “From Papa’s coat.”
“Why were you in his pocket?”
Again he sniffled, rubbing his dirty
finger under his ruby nose. “To get- to get,” he stuttered, “to get some
money.”
Gertrude tried not to lose her temper,
feeling her muscles tighten. Despite their young age, they should have known
better. She sharply snapped, “You boys have no idea how angry I am! If you want
money, you ask! If you’re looking in anybody’s pockets, you ask!” She bit her
lip, tasting the dried sand, tasting her own failure as a mother. “And you
certainly don’t play with matches! How stupid! How so very stupid!”
Russell gazed ahead, numbed. At that
moment it didn’t matter who started the fire. He’d rather not think about it
because it would hurt too much. He watched the structure collapse as the fire
chewed everything his family had left. What they had left. At least he saved
the radio. At least that much.
Worried about his friend’s state of mind,
Jim leaned into his ear and said, “Maybe you shouldn’t fight today. Not after
this, Russell.”
Clearing his throat, he firmly replied, “I
need to. I really need to.”
*****
Author Bio: KP Kollenborn
.jpg)
Even
though I am from Kansas, I enjoy venturing into other worlds from
around the globe which is why my writing focuses on diversity. With
fluid accessibility to modern media and traveling opportunities, my
Midwestern world can expand and explore beyond my own backyard. I take
pleasure in studying history. Submitting to a moment in time allows us
to remember, or to muse even, over our society’s past. Although writing
can educate as well as entertain, yet what makes art incredibly amazing,
to that of paintings, photographs, and music, it transposes emotion
into another form of humanity, and therefore, it is our humanity which
keeps all of us striving for an improved future.
And as a mother of two daughters, I understand the
idiosyncrasies of balancing work, family, and creative endeavors. If life
weren’t a bit off kilter than what is the point of crossing that high wire in
the sky? It’s all about making our lives productive, interesting,
and adding value for the next generation. By the very nature of my
existence, I am an artist. And by the very nature of my husband’s insistence, I
have adapted to become an entrepreneur. We have ventured a music store, a
restaurant, real estate, several internet businesses, and two recording
studios. I have worked as a graphic designer and in the publishing market since
1994. Aside from having a graphic arts degree, I also have a history degree. I am fortunate to have been trained by one the top ten writing teachers in the US, the late Leonard Bishop, and author of Dare to be a Great Writer. I owe my love of writing to him. Eyes Behind Belligerence is my first published novel.
Links
Website: http://kpkollenborn.com/
Facbook: http://www.facebook.com/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/
Pintrest: http://pinterest.com/
Barnes
& Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/
Reader
Store: http://ebookstore.sony.com/
Diesel: http://www.diesel-ebooks.com/
Smashwords:
https://www.smashwords.com/
No comments:
Post a Comment