Page 70 of The Gods Will Sing Our Song

At that, we laugh. Otōsan has always been our common ground. He’s the person who loves both of us best and helps us understand each other. Even when he’s miles away.

I lean back in my chair, listening as Mama talks about their first date. I suspect they kissed, but Mama vehemently denies it. If she’s to be believed, they didn’t kiss until they were at the altar getting married—and maybe not even until the day after, she’s so determined to convince me of her good behavior to ensure mine.

I think she knows I’ll still see Ren. I won’t tell her about it, and hopefully she won’t worry too much. We’ll dance around each other, as we always have. As we always will.

Before it gets too late, Mama and I get ready to shower at the latrines, putting on the bathing suits she ordered us from the canteen. Finally, we can shower without exposing ourselves to strangers. I’ve gotten one of the trendy new bathing suits—a two-piece that shows a bit of my midriff. Fabric shortages have led to their rise in popularity, much to Mama’s horror.

“You might as well be wearing lingerie,” Mama huffs.

“It supports the war effort,” I say. “I’m being patriotic.”

We wrap ourselves in towels and put our soap and a comb in the wire basket we use to transport our toiletries to the latrines. Then we put on our jackets. It’s freezing outside and we immediately begin to shiver. I wonder how we will manage when it starts to snow.

Camp is in the eerie transition from day to night. I look up and see Akira’s shadow settling above us. It’s always changing, and tonight it’s a thick black cloud with red dots spiraling through it like embers. My stomach twists in dread, and I glance around.

Men stand in knots, passing around cigarettes and alcohol. A shouting fight breaks out between them. Parents, hurrying their children past to use the bathrooms before bed, glance around in worry at the shouts. The old lady with her daughters becomes particularly active at night and is getting worse. She scurries along, yelling that strangers are chasing her. Her daughters beseech her in soft voices, trying to herd her inside. The disturbance spreads, as though it’s airborne. Someone gets knocked down.

With every new angry voice, the shadow overhead fattens, and more embers swirl through it. A chill runs up my spine. If Akira’s shadow eventually combusts, we’ll be locked in our own inferno. I think about Ren, Cosette, and the Wozumi kids, about Mama, Mrs. Hata, and Mrs. Hamada. I think about Mr. Nomura and Kai.

We hurry into the latrines. Recently, partitions have mercifully been installed between the toilets. But no matter what, my stomach curls as I hear several showerheads running at once, the water striking wood slats, and the flushing roar of toilets with primitive plumbing. It always takes me back to how things were when we first got here.

More shouting rings out and it’s close, coming from the men’s latrines. Mama and I pause and look outside. Other women who’ve come to shower do as well, peering over our shoulders.

Several young men burst out of the men’s side of the showers. I recognize Kai’s friend James. He hoots and hollers with the others. Angry men stream out after them, shaking their fists and cursing in Japanese and English. One of them has a bloody nose.

“Not good,” Mama murmurs, and we retreat back into the latrine. Even as the showerhead spits water down over my head, I hear shouting. My eyes travel back to the sky.

Akira’s shadow has grown.

As soon as I step outside the next day, the world around me seems overcast. I hurry to get to the Manzanar Free Press office to drop off the drawings before classes start. At the very least, school is more official now with schedules broken into semesters and students segregated by grade. Thank the Lord. It’s a slim silver lining. If I ever have to study calculus again sandwiched between a first grader singing the ABC song and a third grader rattling off states and capitals, I’ll lose my mind.

As I survey the sky for the hundredth time as I walk, the mountains catch my eye. They tower, rising above Akira’s shadow. The sight of them is reassuring amid the uncertainty. I used to think they felt like a fortification, a second layer of defense, another wall keeping us in. But I’ve learned their names. Mount Whitney is the tallest, and the issei often muse that it reminds them of Fujiyama. It’s nestled between Mount Hale and Mount Muir. The morning light softens their three granite faces, and snow crowns their heads. They seem more like witnesses than sentinels, observing our lives, our losses, our loves. I feel as though our pain isn’t simply whisked away by the icy winter wind and is carved into those mountains somehow, engraved deep into their crevices so that our presence will remain long after we leave.

Just in the way Ren is engraved in my soul.

The Manzanar Free Press office is in one of the more sizable buildings. When I go inside, I stop near the threshold, unprepared. There’s a printing press, a type case, rolls of newsprint, and bottles of ink. I feel like I’m caught in a warm wave on a sunny day from my childhood, a poignant swell of sweet nostalgia and painful homesickness washing over me, memories drying in my mind like salt water on sun-kissed skin. For a moment, I’m at Aratani Print.

I take a deep breath and step forward. A newspaper cutout is pinned on the wall. It reads: “We want to repeat again that the Free Press belongs to the people of Manzanar, that, instead of being merely the mouthpiece of the administration, it strives to express the opinions of the evacuees in the solution of immediate and foreseen problems.”

It’s strange to read. Nothing belongs to us here, not even the heavily censored newspaper. Still, it doesn’t stop the editors and reporters from producing quality—albeit authorized—articles.

“Can I help you?” a man asks. I vigorously clear my throat and tell him I’ve been sent by Mrs. Hata, then give him the drawings. He nods admiringly at them. “One of these will work great.”

Near the press, a couple of editors talk among themselves. I hear one say, “I wonder how the Salt Lake City trip will go.” I know he’s talking about Mr. Nomura and the other representatives who are trying to secure the ability for nissei to serve in the war. Even though it could result in a draft, Mr. Nomura is adamant that we be treated like all other Americans. I wonder, suddenly, if Ren would want to enlist. Or if he might even be drafted. Immediately, I push the thought away. I do not want to contemplate life without him. I won’t even consider it.

“The younger crowd is getting very agitated,” a woman adds. “They’ll be furious if the draft is instated here.”

“A bunch of hotheads,” the man agrees. “Lately there have been fights, and they aren’t just scuffles between friends. Things are getting bad.”

I leave. I don’t want to hear any more. I should go straight to school, but instead I go to Akira’s barrack. I’ve been thinking about Mrs. Hata’s story about Prometheus and the eagle. If Akira was put here by incorrectly seeking worship, perhaps some sort of reverse of it might work, if I could just figure out what. Perhaps I could provide him with sincere worship—but how?

When I walk up the steps, they vibrate, a strong force coming from inside. The vibrations pulse through me and turn my vision double. Unlike last time, I try to knock, but there’s no response. I step inside, and my heart skitters to a stop.

Everything is a blur. Shadowy hands dance inside the mirror. They pin Oda against the surface, knocking off his samurai helmet, his face contorted in fury. They pluck at the bonsais’ leaves and scoop great handfuls of water from the basin, splashing it everywhere. They shake the panels and toss the cushions. Koi fish swim panicked through the air, and the crane dives into the painted reeds for shelter on the screen. At first, I don’t see Akira. Then I realize the shadowy hands scrabble and swarm over a figure against the wall in the way ants swarm pastry dropped at a picnic.

“Akira!” I scream. At my voice, the hands startle. Then, together, they disappear.

But their havoc remains. Water spills across the barrack and gushes through the knotholes. Koi fish plop down with great splashes while the bonsai trees bend over their shorn leaves. Oda shakes himself like a wet dog. Akira stumbles forward. His hair stands up in spiky tufts, his clothes are askew, and the crack in his face now cuts across his brow and down to his left cheek. I’m so fearful, it’s hard to breathe.