The Stranger

By T. J. Robertson

No sooner does Hideo Ishihara, a young Japanese-American, arrive in Japan to bury his grandmother than America, a victim of a sneak attack upon its naval base at Pearl Harbor, declares war on the country. Trapped, he must choose between imprisonment or military service in the Imperial Japanese Army. Upon learning that the only way he will ever come out of prison will be in a coffin, he, reluctantly, chooses the lesser of the two evils--military conscription. Fluent in English, he is assigned to serve as a guard with the transport unit which is responsible for moving American and Filipino prisoners from Bataan to Camp O'Donnell--an historic episode now known as the Bataan Death March.
As best he can, he helps the prisoners in his group to survive the brutality and horror of the long trek. But, at the end of the war, proving his citizenship and getting back to America become herculean tasks. When, at last, he succeeds and arrives back in the states, he learns, to his consternation, that his parents and sister were put into an internment camp for the duration of the war and, in the interim, lost all their worldly possessions.
Feeling as if he were a stranger in his own home, he forsakes America and crosses into Canada.

• Language: English
• Publisher: T. J. Robertson
• Release date: Jan 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311698575

T. J. Robertson

Although I’ve made my living as a teacher and guidance counselor, I’ve always had a passion for writing. Thomas Bouregy and Company published my novel, Return to Paradise Cove, under their Avalon imprint. Two of my one-act plays, A Different Kind of Death, and The Flirt, have been produced, respectively, in New Haven, Connecticut, and Sacramento, California. Short stories of mine have appeared in commercial magazines such as Action and True Romance as well as in certain literary and professional ones.

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The Stranger

by

T. J. Robertson

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2014 T. J. Robertson

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The inscription at the base of the Statue of Liberty reads, Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to be free. . . . For the millions of English, Irish, French, and Italians that came to America, for the most part, those words rang true. But, for those of us whose ancestors didn't set sail from Western Europe, these shores weren't as hospitable. Africans were, of course, in a class by themselves; for, they didn't come here of their own free will but rather under the scourge of the slave master. At certain periods, arrivals from exotic places like China and Japan weren't tolerated much less welcomed.

Among those who sailed here from the latter country in the early 1900s, seeking a better life, were my parents. Through hard work and thrift they prospered. So much so they were able to start their own business--a grocery store. Shortly after their arrival here, I was fortunate enough to become a member of the family.

My parents were a lesson in contrasts. Whereas my father was solitary, aloof, and reserved, my mother was gregarious, warm, and outgoing. Their market, which carried a mix of American, Middle-Eastern, and Asian foods, reflecting the ethnic make-up of the section of Boston in which they lived, was a success. If my father was the brains behind the business, it was my mother with her magnetic personality that drew in the customers. If he knew the amount of profit on each pound of rice and can of beans, she knew the name and address of every customer.

Because of the Immigration Restriction Act of 1917 and the National Origins Act of 1924, the details of which I won't bore you with--suffice to say, they restricted Asian immigration here--the number of Japanese living in Boston was small. So, despite my mother's outgoing nature, under my father's direction--he wanted no discord with his neighbors--our family kept a low profile. So low that instead of calling his market Ishihara's, he gave it the name, Izzy's, out of fear of offending those who believed in the threat of the yellow peril.

By nature, I was shy and, so, had few friends. Working at the store after school hours didn't help me add to that small social circle. Upon graduation, I commuted to Tufts--then a college, now a university--and, even then, spent many a weekend and all my summers working at the market. In 1940 I received a degree in electrical engineering.

While attending college, I met and bonded with Tommy Doyle, a young Irish-American classmate of mine. His family, having emigrated from Ireland, had learned firsthand about prejudice when they went looking for work only to be confronted with signs, declaring--No Irish need apply!

Mrs. Doyle was a tall, stately woman with a profusion of silvery hair, intelligent blue eyes, and smooth skin. Whenever Tommy came home from Tufts, which was nearby, she would hug him so warmly and firmly that his head appeared to get lost somewhere within the folds of her ample bosom. After he came up for air, I would receive a similar greeting--albeit not as warm or intense.

If she doted on her son, she ignored her husband. But he didn't seem to mind. After a hard day's work of counting money for the Mass Transit Company, the quiet, modest man was content to relax on a rocker by the fireplace and read the evening newspaper. On occasion, however, my wayward glance would catch him looking at his son and smiling.

I must confess that sometimes there was an ulterior motive behind my visits to Tommy's house. While there, were I in luck, I might savor a slice of his mother's homemade apple pie, which, in quality, was second to none. In addition to being a good mother and fine cook, Mrs. Doyle, who through grit and hard work had earned a college degree, was also a popular history teacher at the local high school.

Like his mother, Tommy was warm, friendly and outgoing. But he also had a feisty and bold side. In the face of injustice or wrongdoing--be it a quarrel or fray--he, without the slightest hesitation, would jump in on the side of the victim.

Since our house was only a few blocks