Page 84 of The Gods Will Sing Our Song

“I’m going to the hospital,” he replies, stronger now. “Cosette is getting infusions. Dr. Suzuki and Nurse Rose will vouch for me if anyone asks where I’ve been.” He pauses and swallows twice. “You know, I joined in. I went to find Kai, and, somewhere along the way I became so angry, even though I knew it was doomed. I don’t support them. Not when they hurt Mr. Nomura and put everyone in danger. But when the guards were shooting at us like fish in a barrel after putting us here in the first place, I think I became the guy I used to be, a guy I’ve tried to kill for a long time now.” There’s a quaver to his voice and he stares at me, hard, head angling as though waiting for my judgment.

I touch his face gently and I say, “Perhaps you need your old self every now and then. Maybe you don’t have to kill him. Maybe you just need to know he’s there.” Overwhelm courses through his eyes, through his body. For once, I witness all the grief and hurt he carries, and it steals my breath with its magnitude. Sirens wail. They cut through the camp. I grasp his hand. “Now, you need to leave.”

He kisses the back of my hand, and then he’s gone.

An hour later, martial law is declared. I change and hide my torn clothing. The mess hall bells continue to ring, and countless sirens blare as more military police arrive. It wakes up our barrack. The Kimuras, the couple, and the restless sleeper peer around the partitions and shake their heads, and everyone murmurs about the riot before going back to their sections. Mama paces and prays.

I sit at the window. Droves of military police sweep through the camp. Almost everyone stays inside, only going out to get food. Word travels that there’s a body in the firebreak by the police post. More news comes. Several have gunshot wounds and other injuries. I wonder if Mr. Nomura is all right. I hold my deer. I run my fingers over its ears and down the curve of its back, thinking about last night. The patter of running is constant. Sometimes it’s the military police and guards, other times it’s small bands of men, but most often it’s one person, sweaty and scared, head swiveling around as though they aren’t certain where to go.

A bit after noon, I watch as men are marched out of the camp, under arrest. My heart is in my throat. Ren isn’t among them. Neither is Kai, but I recognize James, their coworker from the warehouse. There’s a lull, so Mama goes to find us food, refusing to let me out. Little does she know that I was there during the worst of it. I stand sentinel at the window.

Women and children carrying bags appear. Military police accompany them, and they tell them to wait. They’re families of the men who were arrested, I think. They huddle close together. It reminds me of our evacuation—how we left home with only what we could carry. But this is a reduction of even that. These women and children were forced out of their homes into this shell of one at Manzanar. Now this shell has cracked, and they fall through it, forced to leave, once again, with whatever they carry. They must’ve acquired things while being in camp: newly sewn clothes, handmade furniture, shoddy hot plates they’ve learned how to make work by positioning the cord just so. They made this home because they had to and now even that is stripped away.

I shudder. I don’t want to look at them, but I feel I must. I have to witness what is happening and remember and someday tell others what I saw.

I recognize a face in the group. As quick as I can, I throw on my coat and run out.

“Mrs. Hata!” I call. The librarian turns in surprise. Everyone startles easily after last night, and right now no one wants to be known. “It’s me, Violet.”

Mrs. Hata stands next to a floral carpetbag. She’s wearing two sweaters underneath her coat and two pairs of gloves, her normal style sacrificed for luggage space, I’m guessing. A colorful silky scarf binds her hair, a single nod to her usual elegance.

“Where are you going? What’s happening?” My voice is pleading, desperate.

“It’s a good question,” Mrs. Hata responds in a teacherly tone. She takes a sharp breath. Her shoulders slump, just a little. “I understand I’ve been classified as a refugee. I’m being moved for my own safety. There’s another camp nearby called Cow Creek. I can’t say it sounds like the most erudite place, but it’s where I’ll be going. My brother will, as well.”

“You have a brother?” To me, Mrs. Hata is the heart of the library, almost more so than the books. My view of her is almost childishly myopic. I realize, for the first time, that I’ve never seen or even thought of the husband who gave her the title Mrs., much less a brother.

“I do,” Mrs. Hata says. “He’s a block manager who was targeted last night. The rioters had the decency—or, perhaps, the chauvinism—to leave me off the list, but the officials think it’s best I go. Which is just as well. My brother is my only relation here.”

“What about school?” I don’t want her to go. The same childish lens clicks back into place, refusing the obdurate wall of reality. “What about the library? Mr. Nicholson just brought all those new books and we still have to classify them. I’m not organized. If I do it myself, the A’s will end up in the S’s.”

“Violet.” Mrs. Hata gives a heavy sigh. “The system is numerical.”

“Exactly! The library needs you. We need you.”

“The library will need someone, you are correct,” Mrs. Hata says. “I’m certain they’ll appoint a replacement, but I hope you’ll run it until they arrive. And, once they do, guide whoever it is. Oh, and please tell Mr. Nicholson where I’ve gone.”

“I will,” I say, but bitterness blooms in me. “It’s ridiculous you need to leave. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“No, I don’t believe that I did,” Mrs. Hata agrees. “Everything that happened perplexes me. I wish we understood each other better. If you understand only your own side and cannot grasp the other, I fear you can’t say you know either one, yours or theirs.” Mrs. Hata notices me shivering, and she pulls my coat tighter about me. But I’m not shivering from the cold.

A guard comes over, ready to escort the group out of the camp. It’s happening so quickly. I don’t know if I’ll ever see Mrs. Hata again. She bends down and rummages through her carpetbag. Most of it is books, carefully wrapped in sweaters, skirts, and camisoles. “This is my favorite novel, Violet. Take it.” Mrs. Hata hands me a book. It’s gold with blue flowering vines and opulent starbursts pressed into the hardcover. It’s elegant, soft, and pretty, and nothing like this horrid, bewildering place. “There’s a line that has always helped me throughout my life but especially here. It is ‘I am no bird; and no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will.’ As you grow, you’ll learn people want to put you in cages. Sometimes, they are real cages, like right now. Other times, they are figurative cages, but you’ll find those can be just as confining. Whichever they are, remember that your soul holds the key to every one. Do you promise?”

“Ma’am?” the guard interrupts her. “We need go now. Trucks are waiting.”

“Violet?” Mrs. Hata prompts, ignoring him.

“I promise,” I say. “And I promise I’ll return your book one day.”

“I look forward to it,” Mrs. Hata says with a genuine smile that isn’t teacherly, just sad and sincere at once.

I don’t move until Mrs. Hata is out of sight. I hold the book with both hands. Jane Eyre. I’ve had it assigned for school, but I only read the parts for my essays. When I flip it open, faint pencil markings greet my eyes. Mrs. Hata has made orderly notes in the margins. I put the book into my pocket and place my hand over it. One day, I’ll give it back to Mrs. Hata. After all of this is over, I’ll find her and visit her. Maybe we’ll meet at her house for tea or a café for brunch and I’ll know her exactly as she is, in the real world.

Mama will be back soon, but I suddenly want to see Ren. I think he’ll be back at his barrack with Cosette, but if he isn’t, I’ll leave a note. If he isn’t there, I’ll leave a note. I grab one of my sketches and a pencil, just in case.

When I arrive at Ren’s barrack, I knock.

Mrs. Hamada opens the door, startling me. Usually, she’s in the back shadows of the apartment, taking care of the baby, smoking, or sleeping. Today, she’s wearing a silky, lacy slip and holding a crochet hook and a baby blanket. I think suddenly that there are many different women within her, and perhaps I’ve only noticed one.