Page 11 of The Gods Will Sing Our Song

I hold the deer in my hand. I think about how many times I saw Otōsan do the same. Eventually, quietly as a whisper, a soft hum comes from inside it. Only then am I finally able to find sleep.

The next morning, I’m awakened by hands batting at my face. I crack my eyelids. Mama hovers above me.

“Good morning to you, too,” I grumble, sitting up.

“Stay still,” she orders, and continues her ministrations. I’m covered in a dusty film. It must’ve blown through the slats as we slept. Dust coats my skin like granules of sugar on the rusk toast Mama makes for breakfast back home. She’s already dressed for the day, but particles cling to her eyebrows. I wipe them off her while she vigorously brushes the dust off me.

“There’s no school yet,” she says. “But I talked to another mother at the restroom this morning. Some parents who are teachers are holding classes for high school students. It’s outdoors, around block six. You need to go so you don’t get behind. By fall they’ve said there will be an official school with professional staff.”

It’s almost enough to make me collapse back into this ungodly approximation of a bed. School in the fall. We’ve been told we’ll likely stay here until the war is over. Everyone is optimistic that America will make fast work of Hitler…but even the most optimistic predictions are that it will take years for the war to end. Which means we will likely be trapped in this ghost town of a place for years. Years. I hardly survived the first night.

“I’ve learned there’s work,” Mama continues, undeterred. “All sorts of it. I’m going to get a job. You go to the classes, and we will meet again here for lunch at noon. Then we will go to the mess hall together.”

“Sounds like a riveting social calendar for us both,” I say, which makes Mama tsk at me. “But first we need to send a letter to Otōsan.”

“I asked Mr. and Mrs. Kimura about that.” I’m not surprised. Mama wakes up every day with a to-do list in her head, and the list is alive and well, even in this wasteland. “There are plans for a mailroom, but it isn’t here yet. When it comes, it’s going to be a branch of the Los Angeles post office, so it’ll be reliable. Our letters will get to Otōsan without any problem.”

Mama is trying to be reassuring, but panic breaks over me. We’ve already lost Otōsan. We can lose him again if the FBI moves him before we write, because he doesn’t have this address and we won’t know where he is. It would take forever to go through the quagmire of official channels to locate him. The string binding us across the states is thin, severable by something as simple as this. When he was first taken, we watched as the postmark for his letters traveled. Los Angeles. Arizona. North Dakota. When Mama read Bismarck, North Dakota, on the envelope, she whispered, “He’s cold.” Not “I think he’s cold” or “He will be cold.” It was as though they were so entwined that she felt him, all the way in North Dakota.

It’s hard enough for her to be away from him—what would she or I do if we couldn’t even write to him? And what would Otōsan do without knowing where we were or if we were all right?

“There must be a way to send a letter,” I say. “We can go to the WCCA offices. Maybe someone will take a letter out for us and mail it.”

“No, Violet,” Mama responds. Her face is grim. “Don’t make trouble or draw any attention to yourself. Be good and go to the classes and we will send a letter as soon as we can.”

“Otōsan doesn’t have this address,” I protest. “He’ll think something is wrong if our letters suddenly stop. It won’t be good for his health to worry about us.”

“I know.” Worry creases Mama’s brow. “But we need to be careful. The woman at the restroom warned me. She says there are bad people here. Guards steal rations meant for us and sell them on the black market. Promise me, Violet, that you’ll only go to classes.”

She looks so upset that a swell of protectiveness rises in me, a determination to ease the fears that weigh so heavily upon her. I attempt to smile.

“Oh, fine. I’ll go to the classes. The post office will be set up and we’ll mail a letter as soon as we can. Everything will be all right.”

“Good girl.” The worry in Mama’s face eases. “I’ll see you at lunchtime. Pray they don’t serve us canned apricots on rice again.”

Once she’s gone, I do indeed say the prayer—last night’s dinner was atrocious. I shudder at the memory of the can ridges imprinted on the apricots and the dry, unseasoned rice prepared by the white cooks. Then, with purpose, I move to my suitcase. I’m getting dressed. But I’m not going to classes.

I will not let us lose Otōsan again.

The Wartime Civil Control Administration building is tucked into the east corner of the camp, adjacent to a thoroughfare labeled First Street. Supply trucks and automobiles rumble in and out of the area. Several white bungalows face our tar-paper barracks, well outside the barbed wire. That’s where the staff and guards live. A victory garden runs along the fence. Tomato plants curl around the barbed wire, and green and white lettuce heads wilt in the heat. Maybe the tomatoes wish to escape, too.

Inside the offices, I ask to speak to a WCCA manager. I’m told, though, there is a new official here. The WCCA is being disbanded, and a new agency, the War Relocation Authority, will take over. Silently, I parse out the new acronym, which I’m certain will appear everywhere—WRA. Before the bombing, the only significant acronym in my life was YMCA. I’ve learned more about political science in the past months than I ever have at school, discovering that federal agencies are created and dissolved faster than relationships between freshmen and that their method for doing anything is to have you fill out a useless form, which will then promptly get lost.

I take a breath, trying to smooth my wrinkled dress and adjust the lightweight scarf I’ve wrapped around my neck in an effort to maintain some sort of personal style in this dusty hinterland. I knock. Someone bids me to enter.

A young man with unremarkable features sits at a desk. He’s the sort of guy you could slip behind the description of any John or Robert, probably about ten years or so older than me. He glances up with haste verging on dismissal, then stops. Eyes, as blue as the cheerless sky outside, run from the top of my head to my shoes and back again. Almost as an afterthought, he finally meets my gaze.

My skin prickles. Perhaps I should leave. But I can feel the edges of my letter in my pocket. Maybe, if I step just right, I can get him to help me.

I smile.

The smile slips easily onto my lips—it always has—but this isn’t a high school boy. This is a man, and I’m a…a what? Prisoner, a voice whispers in my mind, and I recoil from it, just as you do because something is too hot. Only it’s too late. The thought burns inside me, as though I’ve swallowed it.

“Good morning,” he says, leaning back in his chair. There’s a fountain pen on his desk and the nib points toward me, as severe as a knifepoint. “Welcome to Beverly Hills. I’m Ronald Boser, chief War Relocation Authority officer. What can I do for you?”

The flirtatious smile is still frozen on my lips, but my mind races behind the mask of my face. I take out the letter.

“I need to mail something, but there’s no post office yet. It’s for my father. Can you help, Mr. Boser?”