Chapter Nineteen Violet
Chapter Nineteen
Violet
Dear Violey-chan,
How joyful I am that our connection has been reestablished!
Getting a backlog of your letters and art made your old man’s heart swell.
Things have been fine. They have me in a prison hospital even though I’m no longer classified as a prisoner.
As soon as my lungs are strong enough, I’m blowing this joint straight to you and Mama.
Until then, I can rest and hear my own thoughts.
No more endless questioning. Best of all, no more young men sitting across a steel table accusing me of things I didn’t do.
They loved to shout, those young men. I think they liked hearing their own voices even more than mine.
Shouting at me was their favorite thing to do, and anytime I hear anyone speak louder than normal, it makes me jump.
Now that I can hear my own thoughts, they of course speak of my girls, you and Mama.
I am excited to hear you’ve met a god! I’ve always wondered if one would ever cross my path, and it’s confirmation of everything I’ve believed now that I know one has crossed yours.
Be wary of him. You never know with a god.
As soon as I’m with you, I would love to meet him and see some magic for myself firsthand.
Though I’m most interested in meeting your friend.
Ren, right? I’m sure Mama is wary of him and I, of course, feel protective, but I’m glad you have someone special.
You are an extraordinary girl, so I know, if he’s caught your attention, he must be extraordinary, too.
Though don’t tell him that. Let him be scared of me.
Keep your head up, Violey-chan. I know things have been confusing and hard.
I also know, though, that you are my American-born girl and that you see things differently than everyone else.
I can tell from every one of your drawings.
I want you to remember something. Love always casts a light.
Not always very far in dark times, but always ahead.
As soon as I can, I’ll get better and come home to you and Mama. One day, we will walk on the beach together again. It will make Mama mad, because I shouldn’t exert my lungs, but I plan to swim out into the waves, too. The ocean will mend us. It always does.
It’s heart-wrenching to be at the library after Emi’s death.
I have her books to put on the shelves for other people to read.
Since the Hamada family wants to take them home when we leave, Mrs. Hata tells me to write their surname in each one.
I sit on the floor in the corner with Emi’s books around me and open the first one.
I mean to write Hamada inside, but I pause.
My fingers flip through the pages. Pressed flowers, advertisements for new dress patterns, receipts, and even buttons are tucked inside.
I look at each item. The book tells one story, but the ephemera tell another.
It seems Emi treated the book like a diary, trusting it with her memories and special things.
Tears gather in my eyes. I blink them away and carefully remove the items. I’ll put them in an envelope for safekeeping and return them when we leave.
Picking up the pencil, I take a shaky breath and write Emi Hamada inside each one.
They were her books, and they still are.
“Violet,” Mrs. Hata says, startling me. “I was wondering if you’d like to design an invitation for a town hall we will be holding. It would run in the Manzanar Free Press. You can draw it out and add some illustrative elements.”
I lower the pencil. I know the camp’s dynamics.
Many resent the community council. Still, I’ve listened closely to the meetings.
It seems like the council just tries to make things as best as they can for us, especially Mr. Nomura.
I’ve never been asked to draw anything before, much less anything that will be seen by many—and I’ve certainly never been asked to draw anything that matters or has a point of view.
Otōsan always tells me to be my own woman. If I think it will help, then I’ll help. I give Mrs. Hata an affirming nod.
She passes me a few sheets of paper and lets me sit at the table.
I come up with a couple of different designs, but as I sketch American flags rippling in the wind and California poppies growing amid desert rocks, my pencil slows.
I think about Otōsan being locked up in a jail cell and accused of betraying the country he loves.
“Don’t you resent them?” I ask quietly, half afraid Mrs. Hata might disapprove.
Mrs. Hata, who is surveying our small collection of books like a general inspecting his rookies and finding them tremendously lacking, turns to me.
Lately, she’s been wearing different headscarves, and today’s headscarf wraps intricately around her hair.
Combined with her perfect posture, she’s like a ballerina costumed for the stage.
Her gaze falls on me, and I almost don’t dare to continue, but I’m unsettled, deep inside.
“The administration, I mean. They say they give us freedom, but it’s all an illusion.
Even the Manzanar Free Press isn’t free, even though freedom of the press is in the Constitution.
The WRA approves everything that’s printed. ”
“The government is made from people, and people get things wrong.” Mrs. Hata speaks briskly, unemotionally. “They get them wrong all the time.”
“That’s true,” I say, but it doesn’t make anything better. Mrs. Hata seems to notice my reticence because she pauses her work and comes to stand by my table.
“But never forget that wrong things can be made right.” Though she still sounds firm, her voice is slightly gentler. Slightly. “I think one day people will realize what happened to us was wrong. However, it’s a realization that must happen over and over. Did you do well in American history?”
Her gaze becomes steely, as though she suspects I didn’t.
“Well enough,” I say.
“Then you know these violations have happened before. Think about slavery in the Southern states. Think about President Jackson’s Indian Removal Act.
Human nature is always itself, isn’t it?
” She stops and glances at her wristwatch.
“Anyways, it’s about time for dinner. Perhaps you’ll take your sketches to the press before supper? ”
I nod. She pauses and then suddenly adds, “Always ask questions, Violet. Ask them of everyone. It’s a good thing to do.”
I stop by the warehouse before going to the newspaper office.
Ren and Kai are just getting off. Sadness grips me when I see Ren; I haven’t seen him since we sat together on the stairs.
His clothes are wrinkled, and new bluish-purple shadows form half circles under his eyes.
He looks like he hasn’t slept in decades.
He notices me and for a moment he pauses, blinking furiously, as though he isn’t certain whether he’s awake.
“You look terrible,” I say gently. One thing I know about Ren Hamada is that he loathes pity.
“You look beautiful,” he responds without any guise at all, as though he’s too worn down to filter his speech. I’m not expecting it. He’s always so quick-tongued, but this rawness is new.
I can’t help it; I thrust the drawings at Kai and wrap my arms around Ren’s neck, resting my head against his chest. I feel him catch his breath and he hesitates.
I think he might pull back, but then, as though nothing on earth could stop him, his arms enfold me, and he grips me tighter than he ever has before.
I’m crushed against him, but I don’t care.
If I could, I would hold him forever, just like this.
“Hey,” Kai interjects. I pull back from Ren and we both look at him. Forcefully, he holds up one of the drawings. “What’s this?”
“It’s an advertisement for a town hall.” I grab for the stack, but he pulls it out of my reach, inspecting it.
I know Kai and his friends loathe the community councils, but I also don’t think Kai understands.
I think about Mr. Nomura running the meetings while delicately working around Mr. Boser, and about Mrs. Hata saying wrong things can be made right.
Everyone is trying, and there are more ways than one to do so.
“You support them?” Kai demands. His eyes flash in a dark, sleek luster. His hand tightens around the drawing, wrinkling it.
“It’s none of your business,” I snap. “Give it back to me.”
“Did you know this?” Kai turns to Ren. “She’s a traitor—”
He doesn’t get to finish the insult, because Ren pushes him against the side of the warehouse, his arm bent at the elbow and his forearm lengthwise across Kai’s neck.
I’ve seen Ren in violent situations before, but I’ve never seen him respond with aggression of his own.
He’s always just taken it. But now he’s shockingly swift, a coiled spring finally releasing.
“Don’t” is all he says to Kai, but the single word rings with emotion, falling between rage and something close to despair.
“What the hell, man!” Kai shakes free. Ren lets him.
They face each other. Kai’s eyes are full of spite and confusion, but Ren just stares at him. Then Ren says, “Give me Violet’s drawings.”
Kai looks down at the sheaf of sketches. He grips them so tightly that his hand shakes. I think he might tear them in half. Then, abruptly, he thrusts them at Ren, shoving them hard against his chest. “The council supports the administration. And the administration let Emi die, Ren. Remember that.”
I gasp. Ren’s face drains white. I think he might kill Kai. Or at the very least strike him.
Kai’s face is white, too. He breathes hard while Ren is so deadly still, you’d think he was a statue. The drawings flutter like white leaves to the dirt.
“Get out of here.” Ren speaks so low it’s practically a growl.