Page 5 of The Gods Will Sing Our Song

“We’re going to need to search the place. We’ve been authorized by John Edgar Hoover himself to search for evidence of espionage.” He says the words with a hitch, as though he’s only memorized them this morning. “Let’s get to work, boys.”

The men fan out like streams of fog rolling in over the ocean. Two of them pull out the Ludlow drawers, dumping the carefully organized type onto the ground. The other three yank the oil painting off the wall to look behind it. I want to explode. Instead, I become like Yaobikuni from the old stories.

I turn to stone.

A few minutes later, Otōsan nods for me to follow him into the kitchen. Mama stands by the stove, white-faced. He motions for us to sit at the table. As shouts and bangs come from our shop, he begins to make us tea.

The men gather in the kitchen an hour later. It’s small, just as snug as the shop. They crowd in, strangers surrounding the table where we laugh and talk every night. Their scratchy wool suits brush against my shoulders. I cringe.

Mr. Jenkins holds a cardboard box. Our orders in Japanese are stuffed inside, along with the radio that often sings us Vivaldi’s songs. One of the other men clutches the katana. He wields it excitedly, like a child with his father’s hammer.

“Mr. Aratani,” Mr. Jenkins says. “Get up. You’re coming with us.”

For a moment, I hear and feel nothing.

Then I feel and hear everything at once.

“Wait!” I exclaim. I rise from the table and turn to the men. Somehow, I must make this stop. I must make them understand. “Please, my father just had pneumonia. He needs rest.”

“Violet.” Otōsan says my name, silencing me. He never calls me Violet, only Violey-chan. Carefully, he pushes his chair back and stands. He is shorter than the men, but his head is raised, and his gaze holds volume and magnitude. “I am ready.” Mama gets up and hurries to fetch Otōsan’s coat. Otōsan leans forward and says quietly to me, “Get your sketchbook.”

I stumble toward the front of the shop. I fetch it and bring it to him. One of the men tries to intervene, but Otōsan flips it open. Flashes of ocean waves and rising monsters flip by.

“It’s my daughter’s drawings,” he says. “That’s all.”

Otōsan takes my hand, and I realize he’s pressing something into it.

His relic.

It’s a figurine depicting a hallowed deer from Nara. Its head bows and its eyes are as gentle and wise as Otōsan’s eyes. The deer has been in his family for generations, passing from parent to child upon the parent’s death. One day, I will get it—if I wish. “You are American, so you get to choose if you want it,” he always says proudly. It’s his favorite thing about being American. “Nobody tells you who you are.”

The deer holds old magic. It isn’t terribly strong, according to Otōsan. Generations ago, our family served in a house of the gods and was given the deer for our service. Most families have lost theirs, and I’ve always been so proud that we haven’t. Otōsan says ours lets him see the spirits imbuing the world when he touches it. “It’s an eye, Violey-chan,” he says. “It shows what’s there.”

I close my fingers around it, just as I did when I was a child. When I hold it, it already seems to know me. It tingles in my palm.

It’s an exchange. Taking some of me, giving me some of him. But I’m not supposed to have it yet. It’s too soon.

It isn’t right.

Mama helps Otōsan into his coat and hands him his suitcase. He leans forward. They kiss. It’s a brief brushing of lips, but I want to turn my eyes away, give them some privacy for this moment of intimacy. They never kiss in front of others. Mama stands next to me. One of the men looks at us.

“Japanese women are strong,” he says. “My wife cried when I went to Tulsa for a week. I should get me one of these instead.”

The men laugh. How dare they presume anything about us? How dare they think our lack of tears means we are not crying? I am weeping. I am screaming.

They just can’t see it.

Chapter Three

Ren

May 1942

Life can change fast and it’s never for the better. It’s a thought that repeats in my head as I sit next to Mama and Emi, waiting to be loaded onto another godforsaken bus. It’s our second time getting on a bus like this, compliments of the government.

The first time was last month.

The president signed some sort of executive order, and evacuation notices appeared all over town. You couldn’t walk six feet without running into one. They were plastered on lampposts, bus stops, at the community centers, on church bulletin boards. I imagined they would’ve stapled them to the damn pigeons if they could. You couldn’t avoid the stupid things. Couldn’t escape the evacuation. Nisei, issei, immigrant, natural-born American citizen—or in their words, alien, non-alien…didn’t matter. You got more than one-sixteenth of Japanese in you? Off you go. Where to? A Wartime Civil Control Administration Center. Oh, and bring: