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  For Amir, Bella, and Julian, with all of my love, and for Strider, who would have found a way if there had been one

  MARCH

  Grandfather says that a man should walk barefoot on the bare earth every day. Mother says that a man can do so if he likes, but her daughter will wear shoes. I explain this to Grandfather when he tells me to take off my shoes.

  We are sitting on our special rock at the beach where the soil ends and the sand begins.

  Grandfather laughs.

  “Manami,” he says, “there was a time when my daughter did not always wear shoes either. My daughter is correct: you should wear shoes. But we are going to walk on the beach. So for now, take them off. Otherwise they will fill with sand and salt water. My daughter would not like your shoes to be ruined.”

  I know he is right, so I take off my shoes and follow Grandfather to the dark, wet sand where the beach ends and the water begins.

  As the water splashes my feet, I stop and curl my toes into the sand until it buries my ankles. The salt spray smells of seaweed and fish. Grandfather walks along the shore away from me, his slow, steady steps leaving a footprint path. I watch the tide rush up to meet him. When it pulls away, his footprints are gone. It’s as if he was never there. For a moment, I feel uneasy, like yesterday when soldiers arrived. But then I spy Yujiin racing toward me and I forget Grandfather’s footprints. Yujiin must have escaped through the window again.

  Yujiin is not a puppy—he has not been a puppy for a very long time. But he races and he jumps and he yaps at me, his white fur flecked with dried bits of sand. I scoop him up and run to Grandfather. Yujiin struggles to be free of my arms, even more eager than I am to be by Grandfather’s side. I set Yujiin down next to Grandfather’s feet.

  When he is with Grandfather, Yujiin behaves like an old man. He does not race or jump or yap. Like Grandfather, he walks slowly. But Yujiin is so small that he leaves no footprints to wash away. Only smears of sand that are invisible unless you look carefully. When he hears a sound Yujiin cocks his head and looks Grandfather in the eye.

  Grandfather nods at Yujiin and tells him that he has heard the strange sound, too. I remind Grandfather that ships’ horns are not strange at all. I remind him that this is Bainbridge Island and the port is only a mile away. I remind him that ships come to our island every day.

  “That is so,” Grandfather says. “But this ship is different. It is a warship. Warships do not come to our port every day.”

  I feel uneasy again, and I take Grandfather’s hand in mine.

  “Why have the soldiers come?” I ask.

  “War,” Grandfather says. “It means soldiers everywhere.”

  “When I see the soldiers, I am scared,” I say.

  “When the soldiers see you, they are scared, too,” Grandfather says.

  “Me?” I ask. I do not think I look scary.

  “You. Me. All of us. They think: Maybe these people with Japanese faces and Japanese names will betray us,” Grandfather says.

  “But only my face and my name are Japanese,” I say. “The rest of me is American.”

  “That is so,” Grandfather says.

  We step away from the water’s edge and return to our rock.

  Grandfather sits on it. Yujiin perches next to him. I sit beside them.

  “Look at the ocean,” Grandfather says. “Where does it end? Where does it begin?”

  “It ends when you reach the mainland,” I tell him. “It begins right here.”

  “Perhaps,” Grandfather says.

  We watch the waves roll in and out.

  We hear them crash against the shore.

  I match my breath to the tide, in and out, calming my nervous stomach.

  Yujiin licks my hand. Then he licks Grandfather’s hand.

  “I remember, dear friend,” Grandfather says to Yujiin, “that it was in this very spot that we first met. I, alone and grieving. You, alone and hungry.”

  This is a story I know well.

  An old story.

  It happened just after Grandmother died.

  “You have school. It is time for us to go,” Grandfather says. His voice is soft and sad. Yujiin cocks his head at me and looks in my eye. I pick him up and whisper in his ear: I hear Grandfather’s sadness, too.

  *

  The bell is ringing when Grandfather and Yujiin and I arrive at the school yard. I kiss Grandfather’s cheek and run to join my classmates.

  “Bye!” I shout over my shoulder.

  Mother does not think I should shout.

  “Bye!” he shouts back.

  But Grandfather does not mind.

  “Manami!” My friend Kimmi waves for me to join her.

  When I reach her, we link arms and she whispers in my ear.

  “Soldiers!” she says.

  “I know!” I say.

  “My mother thinks they will send us all to prison!” Kimmi says.

  Ryo pushes his face close to us. “My father thinks they will send us all to Japan!” he says.

  I do not like Ryo. Or his pushing. But Kimmi’s mother is kind.

  I wonder: Are the soldiers here to take us away?

  “Come along, children,” Mrs. Brown calls.

  We follow her into the school building.

  Through the hallway.

  Into our classroom.

  My heart is beating quickly after what Kimmi and Ryo said.

  I sink into my seat next to Kimmi.

  Mrs. Brown looks at us. She clears her throat.

  I think she is going to say something important.

  But then she says, “Sarah Beth, it is your turn to recite.”

  Sarah Beth stands and recites a poem.

  Just another school day. Another Tuesday. Like last week and all the weeks before.

  But at the end of school Mrs. Brown asks me and Kimmi and Ryo and a few others to stay in the classroom.

  Our classmates send us secret looks as they put on their coats and leave.

  “Children,” Mrs. Brown says, “this is to be your last school day. Your parents will explain. Gather your things now.”

  I think: Mrs. Brown does not know my parents very well. They do not explain anything. Not even about the soldiers who came yesterday.

  “Children,” Mrs. Brown says when we are ready to leave. Her voice is shaky. “This is not your fault. Remember, this is not your fault. I will miss you. And I will pray that I see you again soon.”

  *

  I run home.

  Mother’s forehead is wrinkled in a frown, her sewing in her hands. Father’s back is hunched over rope and fishing lines. Grandfather and Yujiin are not there. They must be at the beach.

  “There are posters,” I say. “All over town.”

  My parents look at each other.

  “The posters say Evacuate,” I tell them.

  “We have seen the posters,” Father says. He is still looking at Mother.

  After a momen
t, they continue their work.

  I feel tears burn my eyes.

  “Mrs. Brown said I cannot go back to school.”

  My parents look at me.

  Mother hurries to my side and holds my hand. Father reaches across the table to wipe my tears.

  “Why?” I ask.

  I wait for my parents to explain.

  But I am right: my parents do not explain anything.

  Instead, they say, “Do not worry.”

  *

  Early the next morning, Grandfather takes me and Yujiin to the beach. We walk and walk and walk. But we do not talk. Normal and not normal.

  When we return home, the door to our small house is open, delicious smells wafting outside. Normal and not normal.

  Inside, Mother and Grandfather share a long look. Normal and not normal.

  Father is sitting at the kitchen table. Normal and not normal.

  Normal would be: Grandfather and me talking on our walk.

  Normal would be: delicious smells of broth and fruit, not stew and brined fish.

  Normal would be: Mother and Grandfather sharing a long smile.

  Normal would be: Father in a fishing boat at this time of day. Or Father at the table, but later, in the evening.

  I pretend everything is normal and go to my room. Once, I shared my room with my sister, Keiko, and my brother, Ron. They are far away now, in Indiana. They go to school at Earlham College. Their beds are still here, in case they visit. They do visit sometimes. But my brother will not be a fisherman like Father, and my sister will not marry a fisherman like Mother did.

  There is clear, icy water in my wash basin. I splash my face and neck and rub my skin with a towel. When I am red and shiny, I leave my room to join my family for breakfast.

  Yujiin has not left Grandfather’s side. He is curled up under Grandfather’s chair, but not at rest. His head is up, his eyes are sharp, his ears are alert.

  Mother stirs the stew pot.

  Father makes a list.

  Grandfather scratches Yujiin’s head.

  I scoop tea leaves into a pot and pour boiling water over them. I take the teapot and four cups to the table.

  I ladle rice into a large bowl. I take the bowl and four plates to the table.

  I arrange fruit on a platter. I take the platter to the table.

  When I sit down, Mother is still stirring, Father is still writing, and Grandfather is still scratching Yujiin.

  “Something is wrong,” I say.

  “Nothing is wrong, little one,” says Grandfather. “We are all here. Together.”

  “I can feel that something is wrong,” I insist.

  “Everything is fine, Daughter,” says Father. “Have your tea.”

  “Mother?” I ask.

  “All will be well,” she says.

  I look at Yujiin and he looks at me. He knows something is wrong, too.

  For the first time in my life, I wish it was a school day. Then I remember. It is a school day. Just not for me.

  After breakfast, Mother sends me to my room to change into my blue gardening dress.

  Outside, I pull every single weed.

  Mother inspects the garden and hands me a basket. “Harvest all that you can,” she says.

  “There is nothing to harvest,” I tell her, which she knows better than I do. There will be nothing for at least two months.

  “All the herbs,” she says. “Gather them and wrap them in cloth. Dig up the garlic and onions. Put them in a pillowcase with dirt.”

  I cut down herbs, their green juice soaking into the soil. I wrap them and pack them, just as Mother says. I rake up garlic bulbs and onions that are too small for even one person, leaving broken mounds and dirt clods in my wake.

  When I finish, Mother calls me inside for lunch—fish stew.

  Then she has more work for me.

  We wash shirts and skirts and dresses and pants.

  We fold towels and sheets.

  Mother lays out envelopes of seeds on the table. “Throw out empty envelopes. Stack everything else here,” she says.

  I am tired of this work. I want to ask, “Why so much work?” But I don’t.

  We stop again for dinner—more fish stew.

  “Off to bed,” Mother tells me.

  “But—” I start to say.

  “Please, Manami,” Father says.

  In my bedroom, I try to hear what Mother and Father and Grandfather are talking about. But I cannot. Ron’s dictionary catches my eye, and I look up a word.

  Evacuate: to leave a place, a dangerous place or a military zone.

  That word rolls around inside my head: evacuate, evacuate, evacuate.

  After a while, I am too tired to think or worry. My shoulders and arms ache, but I sleep well.

  *

  When I come into the kitchen the next day, I find Mother sitting at the table alone. She motions for me to eat.

  She combs my hair in long, strong strokes and twists it into two tight braids.

  “Something is wrong,” I tell her.

  “Yes.”

  I wait, but she doesn’t say more.

  I have been patient. But I can’t be patient anymore.

  “Tell me.”

  “We must leave in four days,” she says after a moment.

  Evacuate: to leave a place.

  “Why?”

  “I do not know,” she says.

  “Where will we go?”

  “I do not know.”

  “For how long?”

  “I do not know.”

  These are not good answers.

  I wait, but these are the only answers I get.

  “We have to go into town today to register and have a medical examination,” Mother says.

  “But I am not sick.”

  “Everyone must be checked.”

  *

  Father and Grandfather and Mother and I walk into town.

  We pass many buildings: the courthouse, the police station, churches, the library.

  When we pass the school, I twist my neck to try to see inside the window of my classroom. My classmates’ heads are bent over their desks. I wonder what they are reading.

  Others are walking into town, too.

  Others with dark hair and dark eyes.

  Others like us.

  It is easy to see where we should report. Even without the soldiers and their guns. The sidewalk is so crowded that people line one side of the street and wrap around the corner.

  Ahead of me, Father and Grandfather join the line.

  Mother tugs my hand. “Quickly,” she says.

  I see Kimmi sitting on the post office steps.

  “Can I play over there with Kimmi?” I ask.

  “Families must stay together,” Mother says.

  An hour later, we are still in line. Still on the sidewalk. But at least we have reached a table where a soldier is seated.

  “Name?” the soldier asks.

  “Tanaka,” Father says, pointing to himself and Mother and me.

  “Ishii,” Grandfather says.

  “We are together,” Father says.

  “Your family number is 104313,” the soldier says. He hands Father paper tags with strings attached to them. “Place these on all of your luggage. Each family member must wear a tag, too. Maybe tie it to your coats.”

  Father gives the tags to Mother and she puts them in her purse.

  “Move to that line,” the soldier says, pointing. “After your medical exams, you’ll be done. Be ready for transportation early Monday morning.”

  Inside the building, we are shown to a large room.

  We sit for a long time on cots.

  “This is worse than standing!” I say.

  “Don’t fidget,” Mother says.

  Finally a doctor comes.

  Healthy.

  Healthy.

  Healthy.

  Healthy.

  I could have told him that.

  Then we walk home.

  *

&
nbsp; Mother sets an open suitcase on my bed.

  “Let’s see what fits,” she says.

  We fold and pack all of my clothes: four dresses, two pairs of pants, two nightgowns, four shirts, my coat, underclothes, and shoes.

  The suitcase doesn’t close.

  “Sit on top,” Mother says.

  With me sitting on it, Mother is able to snap it shut.

  “We can’t take it all,” she says. “You can wear your coat. But we still have to fit sheets and a blanket and dishes.”

  “We need another suitcase,” I say.

  “We cannot carry another,” she says.

  We empty my suitcase and set it next to the other open suitcases.

  I watch Mother fit things inside like pieces of a puzzle: dishes, bedding, clothes, seed envelopes, the bag of onions and garlic, a photograph of Grandmother, Father’s small box with fishing gear and tools, Grandfather’s tiny sand rake, Mother’s gardening tools.

  The pieces do not fit.

  “Go play,” Mother says. Then she begins unpacking the suitcases again.

  *

  The day before we are to leave, I find Mother sitting at the table. She is wearing her best dress and hat. She is wearing stockings, which I did not know she had, and high heels, which I have secretly worn myself. She is wearing lipstick, bright red. I want to wipe it off, to see if, underneath the red, Mother is still there.

  She looks at me with sad eyes. “Put on your best dress,” she tells me. “Today, we say goodbye to our friends.”

  Grandfather and Father and Mother and I go to the church. Pastor Rob holds a special service. All of our friends are there. Our Japanese friends, like Mr. Matsuo, who grows the best strawberries. Our American friends, like my teacher, Mrs. Brown. And our friends who are like me and Kimmi. Japanese and American. Both at the same time. Or maybe neither one.

  Our American friends cry after the service.

  “This will be over soon,” they tell us.

  *

  Early the next morning, early before I am ready, Mother wakes me.

  I get up and see the four suitcases by the door. Three are closed. One is open.

  While I put on my clothes, Mother takes my nightgown, folds it neatly into the open suitcase, and shuts it.

  We eat breakfast without speaking.

  We eat breakfast in a hurry.

  “It is time,” Father says.

  Grandfather fills a bowl with water and a bowl with rice. He sets them on Yujiin’s food mat. He picks up Yujiin and holds him against his face. He puts Yujiin on the ground near his mat.