Page 91 of The Gods Will Sing Our Song

“I don’t know,” I say brokenly. “I don’t know anything.”

“You don’t have to,” he says, and he holds me tight.

Time unravels around me.

Christmas comes and goes. The Wozumi children are adamant that the Japanese Santa is not the real Santa Claus, but they’re delighted by the gallons of ice cream brought in and appoint themselves unofficial judges of the mess hall Christmas decorating contest. There’s a massive New Year’s Oshōgatsu party with mochigome rice, simmered chicken, and sweet black beans. I start drawing for the newspaper again. I see the old man Akira used to possess pottering about camp, often with a fishing pole. Sometimes he whistles Akira’s tune. When I can, I spend time with Ren and find myself falling more and more in love. The pain from losing Otōsan is sharp and fresh, but somehow the two poles exist, side by side. Happiness with Ren. Anguish over Otōsan. I’ve never experienced life in such a way. I’m struck by emotional eclipses, hope obliterated as my grief passes through the center of my thoughts, and then, a few moments later, I find light again.

For a while, the outside world seems far. Even the war. The interlude is like Otōsan’s suitcase. Waiting, waiting, waiting…

Ren and I walk to his barrack, and I’m shocked to find Mama there. She’s sitting at the table with Mr. and Mrs. Wozumi, Mrs. Hamada, Nurse Rose, and the Kimuras. I notice Jace Wozumi lying on his belly, his head sticking around the wood partition, listening.

“Mama? What are you doing here?” I ask, bewildered.

“Violet, hello,” Mama says. I think she’s going to say more but instead she squints at a piece of paper she’s holding. I realize, with a start, that everyone is holding an identical paper. Mrs. Hamada wordlessly hands one to Ren. We sit together on his bed.

“What’s going on?” he asks.

“We just got these. There’s one for you, too, at our barrack, Violet,” Mama says. Ren and I peer at the paper. It’s an official document with lots of blank lines for write-in answers. Across the top reads: Statement of United States Citizen of Japanese Ancestry. “It’s a loyalty questionnaire.”

“Loyalty questionnaire?” The phrasing immediately upsets me. I stare at it, trying to read it all at once. A sentence jumps out at me. Are you willing to serve in the armed forces of the United States on combat duty, wherever ordered? “Everyone has to answer this?”

“Everyone over seventeen,” Mrs. Hamada says.

“Joe Nomura got his wish,” Mr. Wozumi says bitterly. “Some federal court somewhere ruled we can serve now.” He wads the questionnaire into a ball. Mrs. Wozumi takes it from him and spreads it out, worry etching her face. “After separating me from my family for a year, they want to draft me? And Mary, too?”

“Women would serve in the auxiliary,” Nurse Rose interrupts, carefully reading the tiny writing. “I think they’re after the young men. Someone at the hospital was telling me that if you sign no, you get in trouble because it means you aren’t loyal to America. If you sign yes, you’re agreeing to join. Basically volunteering.”

My heart lurches. A moment of heavy silence falls on us, and everyone looks at Ren. He continues to stare down at the form.

Mrs. Hamada is the first to move. She sweeps over to the mirror and starts fixing her hair. Her movements are fast, too fast. I understand; my thoughts are just as frantic. Do they want to force Ren to enlist? Will they send him away if he doesn’t?

“What else does the questionnaire say?” Mrs. Hamada asks, as though she can shake off our fears of Ren going to war by redirecting our attention. The silence persists a second longer, everyone pulling themselves together.

Only I can’t. I’m scared. I need Ren here, with me. His fingers suddenly interlock with mine, and I wonder if he’s scared, too. When I look at him, his gaze is steady, but his grip is tight on my hand.

“Here’s another doozy,” Mr. Wozumi responds, looking at the form over his wife’s shoulder. “It says: ‘Will you swear unqualified allegiance to the United States of America and faithfully defend the United States from any or all attack by foreign or domestic forces, and forswear any form of allegiance or obedience to the Japanese emperor, or any other foreign government, power, or organization?’ ”

“Oh, that’s an easy one. We aren’t loyal to the emperor. We write yes,” Mama says almost proudly.

“But it presumes we’re loyal to the emperor in the first place.” Mr. Wozumi reads it again. “How can we forswear allegiance when we’ve never sworn allegiance in the first place?”

“Well.” Ren speaks up for the first time. “Nothing about them has been logical. At least they’re consistent.”

I stare at him, unable to smile.

Nurse Rose frowns, leaning over her questionnaire and analyzing it like a specimen for dissection. “Since I wasn’t born here, I’m unable to become a citizen. If I answer yes, I’ll be stateless. But if I answer no, what will happen to me? I’ll be stateless. We could get deported to Tule Lake…or even Japan.”

“I’ll sign whatever they want to hear,” Mrs. Hamada says, gaze still fixed on her reflection. She delicately touches under her eyes. “Yes, no. I need to get out of here. I need better access to eye creams.”

“But the very question is unconstitutional!” Nurse Rose exclaims. I stare down at the form, feeling as though I’m fenced in by the questions and the lines demanding answers.

“Mama,” I say, “you aren’t a citizen.” I look at Nurse Rose. “What does that mean, being stateless?”

“It means you have no rights, anywhere,” Nurse Rose says.

“Now, now,” Mama says briskly. “Everything will be okay. I’ll sign whatever keeps me with Violet.”

We’ve lost everything, and yet there is more to lose. There is no end to our losses, no final limit where we cannot sink any lower. Our Earth is round and so are our lives—we sink through them and when we reach the other side, it rotates to send us plummeting again.