Chapter 9
A s she did every morning, Ivy put on her beach walking sandals and stood on the patio, waiting to lead guests on a beach walk. Anyone who wanted to join her was welcome. Early morning sunlight warmed her face. The marine layer was already breaking up, indicating a sunny day ahead.
If the sunshine held up, they had a chance of meeting their deadline for the Spring Fling. She would have plenty to share with the committee members. Some of the kids from the garden club were starting work this afternoon after school.
Ivy blew out a breath of relief. Better to have a strong seventeen-year-old digging up gnarly old roots than her.
Kiko strolled toward her. “Am I late?”
“Not at all.” Ivy glanced at her watch, then back at Kiko, who wore a lightweight windbreaker over a cotton T-shirt. “Looks like it’s just us this morning. Let’s get started.”
As they strolled toward the beach, they talked about the history of the inn.
“You seem quite interested in history,” Ivy said.
Kiko brushed windblown hair from her face.
“I want to understand more about my grandmother’s experience during the war.
She didn’t speak of it much, but I’ve pieced together some details.
I mentioned before that Hana worked here as a nurse at that time.
” She clenched her jaw, and her expression shifted.
“Before that, she’d spent more than a year at Manzanar. ”
A chill gathered around Ivy’s neck, and she nodded. “I’ve seen the remains of the detention center north of Los Angeles on the way to Mammoth. I’ve walked the grounds.”
“No, it was a concentration camp,” Kiko said, without apology for the correction.
“My grandmother and her parents were citizens of this country, merely working, raising their family, and contributing to the community when they were given only 48 hours to report or face severe consequences. They were in the first wave, so they had less time. A little later, some had up to two weeks. Based solely on their ancestry and Western location, they were imprisoned. My grandmother rarely spoke about Manzanar. What she spoke about more was her work as a nurse caring for injured service members at your home.”
“Las Brisas del Mar Convalescent Home,” Ivy said, saddened by what Hana endured. “We just discovered the old sign buried in the garden.”
As they walked along the surf, Kiko asked, “Would you like to hear Hana’s story?”
“I’d love to,” Ivy replied.
She often wondered about their guests and what brought them here. Some offered, though others didn’t. She was always interested in learning more about people.
“Hana was born and raised in Gardena, up near Los Angeles,” Kiko said.
“Her father was a strawberry farmer and owned his own farm when they had to report in—or be arrested. Her mother was a talented dressmaker to wealthy clients. What made it worse was Hana’s parents were nisei , second generation.
They were born here, so they were full American citizens.
Their parents, Hana’s grandparents, were issei , the first generation who immigrated here as young people eager to work and contribute their talents.
Issei were barred from applying for citizenship, although they wanted to, because this was the only country they really knew.
All Asian immigrants were specifically ineligible to apply for citizenship until 1952. ”
Ivy hadn’t known about that law.
Kiko continued, “Hana was sansei , or third generation. She studied nursing in college in Los Angeles. Their troubles began in the spring of 1942, when the U.S. Executive Order 9066 sent her and her family to Manzanar, along with so many others.”
“I’m so sorry that happened,” Ivy said, empathizing with her.
“Thank you,” Kiko said, dipping her head.
“The family was crushed. Three generations had lived here, so they considered themselves Americans. But everyone who had any small fraction of Japanese ancestry had to go, including U.S. citizens, which they were. Two-thirds in the camps were citizens born here, but that didn’t matter.
Suddenly, they were considered outsiders, and many in the country rallied against them.
However, some friends tried to help. Many young men volunteered for military service to prove their loyalty, even while their families remained imprisoned.
Some escaped or posed as other ethnicities, especially if they were not of full Japanese ancestry.
They passed as Hawaiian, Chinese, and Filipino, but that was rare because the consequences were harsh.
” She paused. “Can you imagine being told you don’t belong where you were born? ”
Ivy’s heart ached for what they’d been through. Further, this story hit her particularly hard. “Actually, I can relate.”
Kiko narrowed her eyes. “Really? How so?”
Ivy filled her lungs with salt air before she spoke.
“My mother’s family came to California when it was under Spanish rule, having been given a land grant from the King of Spain.
The land beneath their feet shifted from Spain to Mexico to the United States, yet many considered them outsiders in a place they’d lived in long before it became a state. And still do.”
Kiko nodded. “Even though this is our home.”
“But then, my family displaced the Kumeyaay, the native people of this land.” Ivy bit her lip as she recalled the story her mother had shared.
“Our family worked the land alongside them, and their children were taught compassion. One of the descendants left some land parcels to the people they’d displaced, giving it back to them.
I think it must have assuaged his guilt. ”
“I can appreciate that,” Kiko said, looking at her with fresh understanding.
She touched her shoulder. “Many of us have experiences that are more alike than we realize. For this reason, I understand people forced to flee their country of origin. Some of my people sought work on the East Coast or enrolled in East and Midwest universities if they would take them, such as Oberlin. But with only 48 hours’ notice—or even two weeks—to close a business or make arrangements for a working farm, few had time to plan much. ”
Ivy tried to imagine what she would do if only given 48 hours to upend her life.
“Even worse, no one told them how long they would be imprisoned in the camps,” Kiko said. “When people assembled to go in, they could only bring what they could carry. They thought it would be weeks. Instead, it was years.”
Ivy shook her head, trying to imagine how that must have felt.
“Most businesses failed,” Kiko said. “The farm that had been in my family for decades was lost. Homes were vandalized or seized, including theirs. Most people had little to return to after a lifetime of labor. It was devastating.”
“That must have left deep generational wounds,” Ivy said. “Thank you for sharing your family story.”
“I’m glad you were willing to listen.” Kiko managed a smile. “The generational trauma continues to this day. It certainly impacted my family.”
They walked on, the sunshine and sea breeze clearing their minds.
Soon, they passed Java Beach, which was already bustling with early morning visitors and surfers who’d just finished their sets.
“What’s that place?” Kiko asked. “It looks busy.”
“My sister’s husband owns Java Beach. It’s the most popular coffee spot in town.”
“Must be good.”
With a small laugh, Ivy added, “It is. We also call it gossip central. Whatever you want to learn about someone, you can find out there.”
“Small town, right?”
“Very. But in a good way.”
As Ivy looked ahead, she saw Bennett running on the beach far ahead of them. She hadn’t planned a long walk this morning, so she suggested they turn around.
While they began the walk back to the inn, Ivy asked, “So how did your grandmother find her way to Summer Beach?”
Kiko drew a breath. “From the start, there weren’t enough doctors and nurses at Manzanar to serve more than 10,000 residents living in close conditions.
One day, an officer who was visiting fell ill, and my grandmother nursed him back to health.
Saved his life, probably. After that, he insisted she accompany him to assist in opening a convalescent home for wounded military.
The war had created a desperate shortage of medical professionals.
She didn’t want to leave her parents, but she had to follow his order.
They wanted to see her living freely. So she joined the U.S. Cadet Nurse Corps.”
“Sounds like she was about my daughter Sunny’s age,” Ivy said, trying to imagine her facing something like that.
“Young people had to grow up fast back then,” Kiko said.
“She told me the decision to leave her parents was the hardest one she ever made. But it likely saved her life, as her father and other family members died of pneumonia in the camp shortly afterward. Conditions were dreadful. It was blazing hot in the summer and freezing in the winter. Strong winds frequently blew blinding dust storms through the camp, and there was no escaping them. As a result, many people succumbed to lung infections and died of pneumonia, tuberculosis, and influenza.”
Ivy heaved a sigh. “And we complain if the air conditioning isn’t working. Sure puts things in perspective.”
“It does,” Kiko said. “But in Summer Beach, my grandmother found her purpose. If she couldn’t save everyone in her family, she reasoned, she would try to save others for their loved ones. As she saw it, they were all damaged by that war.”
“Most of us can’t imagine what our families who lived before us went through.” Ivy paused as a wave raced toward them.
Quickly, Kiko slipped off her shoes and let the chilly waves swirl around her ankles. “This feels great.”
Ivy did the same. “The cold Pacific water is a good way to start the morning, even if you’re only ankle-deep in it.”
“Sometimes I swim in the ocean in the summer. Do you swim?”
Ivy smiled. “I grew up on the beach and worked summers as a lifeguard.”