Page 19 of The Gods Will Sing Our Song

“Come on, Dragon,” he says. “You’re the strong one, remember? You’ve done hard time!” He’s the only person who’s never held my arrest against me and the only person I don’t mind mentioning it.

“Yeah, because jail for a few nights makes me Al Capone,” I say after vigorously clearing my throat.

“All right, I gotta run. My mother sent me to find Lio and drag him back for lunch with us. But hey”—he socks my good shoulder again—“I’m glad you’re here, Dragon. Even if we’re cooked.”

“You too, Tiger,” I say, and I don’t think I’ve ever meant anything more.

He charges off, baseball bat propped on his shoulder. I take a deep breath. Dr. Suzuki knows us. He’ll help us. I pick up my fox and kiss it in thanks. Then I turn to head back to my barrack to tell Mama the good news.

When I get there, cigarette smoke and steam from a pot of boiling water on the stove give weight and flavor to the air. I tell everyone the good news and then we wait. Emi lies in her bed, fitfully dozing. Mama and Nurse Rose sit next to her while Mr. Nomura frowns and pages through a thick book on maternal medicine. Every now and then he pauses, shakes his head, and grumbles, “How old is this? I wouldn’t be surprised if it suggested leeches,” or some other comparison to outdated medicine.

When Dr. Suzuki arrives, everyone but Emi rises to their feet. We’re all so relieved and happy he’s come, you’d think he’s the returning Messiah. I almost don’t recognize him. Usually, he’s as coiffed as Kai—sometimes more so. Today, he looks like an inside-out shirt, all rumpled and worn, even as he jokes with Mama that he’s worth two doctors because he had to go through medical school twice, once in Japan and once in America. He talks to Mr. Nomura for a few moments, and they commiserate about how old the medical book is here in camp.

Then, Mama and Nurse Rose hold up a sheet and he examines Emi. Afterward, he comes to speak quietly with Mama and me.

“I think there’s a tear in the placenta,” he says. His tired eyes are suddenly heavier. “It’s causing infection and, as a result, her fevers. My biggest concern is delivery. If there’s an abruption, it could cause significant bleeding. She needs a hospital.” My teeth grit at his conclusion, same one I’ve known ever since we arrived. “I’ll talk to WRA officials. Thing is, they’re a new agency and every decision takes weeks.”

“She doesn’t have weeks,” I protest. Dr. Suzuki’s face tightens in disapproval at my tone, but he also doesn’t disagree. His expression makes me suddenly want to tuck in my shirt. Unexpectedly, he says, “Kai is glad you’re here.”

With that, he turns to go, though he says he’ll be back to check on Emi later. I sink down to sit on the edge of my cot. Hopefully, Dr. Suzuki has more success with the administration than me. At first, my emotions are riled up, filling me with anger at Mrs. Ross and every damn useless official in this place. Eventually, though, my anger dwindles. Sitting still makes me more aware of my aching shoulder. It also makes thoughts of Violet flood my mind. Around midnight, I told her. I’m still going. My dulled, tired mind stupidly wanders. I find myself thinking she’s the kind of girl who does what she wants.

But there’s no way.

There’s no world in which she’d ever go through the fence, and definitely not with me.

Chapter Six

Violet

I’m most definitely going through the fence with Ren.

I lie in my cot, annoyance gripping me as I recall his words from this morning.

Granted, he was being frustratingly reasonable. Going outside camp can get you shot. If Otōsan and Mama knew I’d even looked at the gap, they would be apoplectic. A lecture would ensue. Otōsan would be concerned yet measured, while Mama’s distress would run away with her. Together, the two would work to successfully bring me into obedience. I can’t bear disappointing them and I don’t usually do anything risky, aside from putting on lipstick at school.

But everything is upside down here.

Illusions of safety and civility have been peeled back, leaving me on a ridge of weak sand, layers crumbling away beneath my weight. I’m afraid all the time, and there doesn’t seem to be space for anything other than fear and pain. So perhaps that’s why I’m thinking about leaving the barrack while Mama slumbers, to find the boy with the sling and escape under the fence with him. To try to find room inside me once again for more…even though I’m worried it might not exist any longer.

At midnight, he said. Time is yet another torture device here. We’re forced to do nothing but endure it, yet we have few ways to categorize it. In Los Angeles, there were clocks everywhere, from pharmacies to diners to most rooms in our homes. There are no clocks outside the administration offices, so we tell time by the mess hall bells. Luckily, Mama brought her wristwatch from home, and she leaves it atop her suitcase when she’s in the barrack. Once she’s fast asleep, I hold it by the narrow leather band and squint at its face.

At last, the time comes.

I’ve never sneaked out before, and, good Lord in heaven, I’m terrible at it. As I get off my cot, I suddenly become as clumsy as a newborn foal. I knock over a bucket Mama brought into the barrack to scrub the place. It clatters and I freeze, certain Mama will wake up. But she’s always been a wondrously heavy sleeper and is so exhausted from the day that she only rolls over on her mattress, the stiff ticking fabric and straw crinkling. I put her wristwatch back and dress quickly, donning a pair of high-waisted pants. They are chicer than one might think of for crawling under a fence, but I also happen to be meeting a very attractive boy, one I’ve thoroughly failed to impress. I cringe inwardly as I think about his amused, sardonic expression when he realized my crime was truancy. Honestly, though, what did he expect? That I’d robbed a bank? A girl can only do so much on her first foray into rebellion.

Like last night, the barrack is noisy. Strangely, at night it’s louder than during the day and my ears fill with the perverse lullaby. Mr. Kimura snorts and snores, chokes and coughs. The couple who fought last night have made up, and I hear the woman whisper, “Faster.” My face blazes in the darkness at their intimacy, shock riddling me. Mercifully, there’s more noise to distract me because someone keeps tossing and turning, their agitated shadow filtering through two rows of sheets as they sigh.

The sounds seem to chase me right to the door.

I push my way out into the camp.

I’m thrown into a sea of agitation, as though the camp’s ferality has awakened with the moon. A man staggers along the firebreak, loudly singing “Kimigayo,” Japan’s national anthem. I wait in the shadows until he passes me. He hiccups and starts chanting in a whisper, “Hirohito, Hirohito, Hirohito.” We aren’t supposed to say the emperor’s name, but he repeats it, over and over, like a child saying a curse word in their room. I’m scared to hear it, even as my mind rails against the thought of a grown man being so censored that he’s forced to whisper a name he used to be able to say.

I keep going, driven to find Ren. The searchlight sweeps the camp with a beam of probing white light. Bleary-eyed mothers with babies stumble toward the washing rooms to change them because there is no running water in our barracks. Other people line up outside the latrines with towels and bars of Ivory soap to shower. Some wear bathing suits, which is smart. Mama and I didn’t bring any—aquatic activities were the last thing on our minds when we packed, wonder of wonders—but thankfully, Mama says she will order us some once the canteen opens. It feels like I’ve been thrust into a dystopic world, primitive and despotic. As horrid as it is, I might prefer Aldous Huxley’s dystopian vision to this one. I can’t imagine Lenina Crowne had to worry about bathing suits.

The lines for the toilets are even longer than for the showers. Everyone has had the same idea—come to the bathrooms at midnight for privacy. The general advice among the women is “wear a skirt or bring a magazine” and most have both. One lady holds a large piece of cardboard to create a temporary partition. I keep walking. An elderly, confused woman is herded along by her daughters, and they apologize as she keeps stopping strangers to ask when the Alameda bus schedule will be posted. A group of men stand together, pass around a flask, and cry, “Kanpai! Banzai! Salud! Opa! Santé!” Inside a barrack somewhere, a woman wails loudly.

I try to hurry. Cold, arriving with the night, nips at my legs like a thousand mosquitoes. Otōsan’s deer bobs about in my pocket, and I slip my hand around it to find my courage. Thoughts of Ren return, making everything around me dim. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like him. I’m not used to finding boys mysterious. To me, boys are as readable as books—and often juvenile-level books at that.