Chapter Twenty-One Violet
Chapter Twenty-One
Violet
Dear Otōsan,
I miss you terribly. Please, please, please rest and don’t worry about anything. Mama and I are taking care of each other, and we can’t wait until you’re here with us. Only write back if it doesn’t exert you too much. All we care about is that you get better.
In other news, I’ve become what I’ve always wanted to be.
An artist—and a paid one at that! I’ve been doing different sketches for the community council meeting ads.
The newspaper pays me a tiny honorarium out of its budget.
They’ve had me illustrate logos for the sports teams, an announcement for the mess hall Christmas decorating competition, and plans for a big Oshōgatsu party to celebrate the turn of the year.
You may have heard things are tense here, but I don’t want you to be concerned about anything.
I do worry about Ren if the draft is reinstated.
I really do think you’ll like him, Otōsan.
He’s not like the other boys I used to date.
He reminds me of you. He’s brave, he’s loyal, and he protects his family. And me.
I love him, Otōsan.
I imagine this is a tremendous thing to read in a letter from your daughter, but I’ve always told you everything and I always will.
Love you always,
Violet
Otōsan hasn’t gotten better. I see it as his letters get shorter and his writing, which is always so precise, shakier. Mama does, too. But we don’t say it. We simply watch, wait.
Just like everyone else.
Today, though, is different.
I sit in the library, sketching. I’m supposed to be working on a design for the newspaper right now, but instead I’m drawing Akira while Mrs. Hata nervously looks out the window.
This is my fifth attempt. I know, deep down, that this might not succeed, just as I know that if there’s any chance that it will, it must be my absolute best work.
But time is running out.
“Do you see anything, Mrs. Hata?” I ask.
“No, but everything will be all right, I’m sure.”
Neither of us believes it. The Salt Lake City JACL members returned this morning. There was supposed to be a meeting today in one of the bigger mess halls, but it was canceled. The WRA officials thought there was too much tension in the camp to safely hold it.
“It’s been so overcast lately,” Mrs. Hata murmurs.
Fear cuts through me, and I get up and look out to see the sky again.
This morning, when word spread about the JACL members returning, it simply went dark.
It’s close, I think. The breaking point.
It makes me want to run, even though I don’t know where.
The shadows are desperate, antsy, ruinous, absorbing our unrest like carbon absorbs light.
I hurry back to the desk. Akira’s face lurks in my mind, and I try to turn it into lines on my page.
My hand is shaky. My breath is short. He appears slowly, lines layering on top of each other.
I’ve spent days working on this sketch. It’s one thing to portray the silken black plume of his hair, the glistening gold of his earring, and the decadent sheen of his blue kimono.
It’s another to portray him. He’s so much of everything that he is—mischievous, proud, vain, dangerous, curious—and the combination makes him nearly uncapturable.
I keep thinking I’m finished, yet the drawing demands more from me, so much so that I see it even when I’m not working on it.
The door flies open. We both pull back, terrified. Then Mrs. Hata gasps, “Joe?”
Mr. Nomura steps inside and closes the door behind him, ducking down below the windows. He’s wearing his uniform. He’s been traveling since this morning, but you can’t tell. It’s perfectly pressed, bars straight. He looks dignified…or he would if he wasn’t slinking down to sit on the floor.
“What’s happening?” I ask.
“Eh, nothing, nothing.” His steady gaze meets mine, making me feel silly, like I’m the one hiding beneath the windows. “People are a little tense.”
“What can we do?” Mrs. Hata asks. She glances around helplessly.
There are no curtains, because we aren’t allowed to cover the windows.
None of our buildings lock aside from the hospital, since it has valuable equipment and narcotics.
Every area is porous, which feels particularly terrifying right now.
“Go home,” Mr. Nomura says. “I’ll stay here tonight. I don’t want to bring trouble to anyone in my barrack.”
“Will you be safe?” I ask. It’s a stupid question, considering he’s hiding.
“Hai,” he says so confidently that I almost believe him. “Sleeping among books isn’t the worst thing. I’ve slept in much worse places during the war. Now, please head home. Don’t talk to anyone. Go straight there and stay there until everything calms down.”
We do as he says. Mrs. Hata and I walk together until we reach her barrack. She repeats Mr. Nomura’s instructions to me: “Head home, don’t talk to anyone, go straight there.”
I walk as quickly as I can until I pass barrack 22’s mess hall.
A crowd streams out. I gasp, shrinking back until I’m pressed against a barrack.
There must be hundreds of people. No, thousands.
They overflow into the firebreak. Some shout, some argue, some gesticulate furiously. Their words cut through the air.
“They’re gonna get all the men drafted and sent to the front to be killed so America can get rid of us!”
“First they don’t let us enlist. Then they put us here. Now they want us to serve? And leave our families behind, locked up?”
“No, no, no, it’s equal treatment. The JACL only wants equal treatment.”
“Hunt them down. All of them. Get that Nomura fellow and the rest. Show them what happens to traitors.”
My heartbeat thunders in my throat, thickening with every breath I take. I change paths, weaving between the barracks.
I need to get home.
I need to finish the icon.
And then I need to take it to Akira before disaster strikes, either in the form of fire or violence or both.