Page 12 of The Gods Will Sing Our Song

He motions for it. I give him the letter. He sets it down on the desk, address facing up.

“Call me Ronald. What’s your name?”

“Violet.”

“Violet,” he repeats. “I met a Sarah earlier. And a Joe. Funny to see you people with normal names. It’s like seeing a cat in a doghouse.” He gives a chuckle. The smile evaporates from my face. He picks up the envelope again, eyes running over the address. “I think you all should keep your real names. I’ve always found Japanese names to be so…powerful.” He pauses. “So, you want to mail a letter to your father. He’s at Fort Lincoln? Under investigation by the FBI?” Stiffly, I cross my arms, lift my chin, and give a slight nod. “Seems like a lot of your menfolk are. And how are you settling in? Is there anything you need?”

I think of the latrines, the ramshackle barracks, and the barbed wire fence holding us in.

“No,” I say. “I only wish to mail the letter.” Mr. Boser picks up the envelope and methodically runs a finger beneath the seal. My cheeks heat at his intrusion. “Excuse me! What are you doing? That’s my private correspondence with my father.”

I watch as my letter is unfolded onto his desk, words meant for Otōsan laid bare before his eyes.

“Every letter is subject to search before being sent or received from the evacuation centers,” Mr. Boser says. “No need to be indignant. It’s the same thing for military correspondence from our boys abroad.” He turns it over as my face goes from warm to hot and surveys my drawing of cresting waves dwindling away to billowing dust and taut barbed wire fencing. “Remarkable. You drew this? It’s impressive, but camp statutes are clear, and you’ve violated them. No maps, documentation, or photographs are allowed.”

“It isn’t a drawing of the camp,” I point out, annoyance tinging my voice. “It’s surrealism.”

“Rules are rules. I’m required to report your drawing.” Shock overcomes me. Report me? I think of the white shells at my feet, the tide rejecting them, the waves suddenly seeming big, too big. I’m that small now, again. Mr. Boser laughs. I stare at him. “I’m teasing. Don’t be scared.” He regards me for another long moment. Then he says slowly, “We have better food than the mess halls. Would you like to join me for lunch? I could get you a soda with ice.”

My face stings, as though his words are the dust of this place, tossed at me by the wind. I’m not foolish. I’ve heard what people say about anyone who supports the authorities. Long before we arrived, talk of informants and collaborators flew fast and wide.

“That’s kind.” I meet his gaze evenly. “But no thank you.”

The smile melts off Mr. Boser’s face and his neck flushes red. I relish the sight. Awkwardness stiffens the air between us. He shifts in his chair and folds his hands. Something shutters in his gaze. If it wasn’t for those patches of red, I’d think he felt nothing at all.

“I was only trying to be nice.”

“You are very nice,” I say. “Especially for mailing my letter. I’m thankful.”

Mr. Boser’s gaze rakes over the letter, almost in the same way it raked over me minutes before. Furrows appear around his eyes.

“You can’t have lunch with me, but you want me to mail your letter?” He leans forward. The motion jostles his desk, which knocks one of his perfectly placed pens askew. Agitated, he picks it up and puts it back in its spot. Then he takes my letter, opens his desk drawer, and puts it inside. He closes the drawer.

“Well…” I hesitate. “I would be very grateful if you did.”

Another excruciating moment stretches between us.

“I think we got off on the wrong foot,” he finally says. “It’s my fault. I should’ve remembered geisha dolls are more demure than American girls.” I am an American girl, I want to snap, and I’m not shy, I just don’t like you. “I’ll be honest, though. I’ve always found you women to be the most beautiful. Everything about Japanese culture is much more beautiful and intentional than others. You know, I can get you some stuff you might like. Candy. Perfume.” The smile widens on his lips, and he waits, as though eager for my gratitude.

“That’s generous of you,” I say, trying to contain my growing irritation. “But the only thing I want is for my letter to be mailed.”

“I might need reminding. How about this? Come back sometime and remind me. I’d love to know more about you and your ways.”

I let out a slow breath. I’ve gotten as far as I can with this man. If I keep talking to him, I’m likely to reveal how much I detest him.

“Well, it was nice to meet you, Mr. Boser.” I try to sound gracious. “I need to get going.”

“Do you?” a cynical glint lights his eyes, one that makes me pause, and his smile narrows. “You have something to do?” He gestures out the window at the camp outside. Then he laughs. The sound makes me cringe. Mama was right. I shouldn’t have come.

Without another word, I turn and leave.

I burst out of the offices, rushing past the tomato plants and into one of the firebreaks. The activity of the camp hits me like a swell at high tide. People are everywhere, lining up outside the mess halls and latrines, sitting on steps whittling and talking, transporting work tools in wheelbarrows and buckets, chasing after children. I seethe with frustration. I want to be alone. But even if I go back to our barrack, only thin, translucent sheets will separate me from the Kimuras and the other occupants. I come to a stop and lean against a barrack. Loose layers of tar paper dig into my back.

A bright, trilling whistle bounds across the firebreak as though seeking me. My heart jumps. Otōsan. I would recognize his whistle anywhere. I stumble forward, searching. He must be here. It’s the only explanation. He must’ve been transferred. Our family will be whole again.

But it isn’t him.

It’s a different man, cutting across the dirt. He walks with purpose, a blue silk kimono enveloping him and his long black hair bouncing freely about his shoulders. A gold earring dangles from one ear and swings back and forth with the vigor of his steps. He reminds me of the silk posters in the izakayas back home featuring kabuki actors with their painted faces and fierce expressions. Against the colorless terrain, he’s like a blue butterfly that’s found its way to the soulless moon.