The Searching

By Kevin Farran

How do we define home? Who are our true friends? What is allegiance to country to love? There is only one way to find out… fight for it.

Arriving from Japan as a ten-year-old, Kenichi Sugano grew up consumed by comic book superheroes, baseball and camaraderie. Kenichi was a rough and tumble kid like any in America. When he was twenty that all changed, with the attack on Pearl Harbor.

World War Two paranoia gripped the American populace. Fueled by speculation, fear, retribution, and even greed, Japanese Americans were dispossessed, herded into internment camps, and treated lower than common criminals. Without any form of due process or legal protection their lives were torn asunder. Kenichi's family, being recent immigrants, were thrust into the spartan, brutal Tule Lake Interment Center. Unable to endure the repression of the camp, Kenichi sets out to prove himself to his family, his lover, his country and himself.

Defying his father's wishes Kenichi volunteers to fight for his family's captors. Kenichi's journey, beginning with the 442 squadron, spans from the blood-drenched bogs of Europe to the smoking, staggering corpse that was Tokyo in the final days of the war.

Through societies saturated with mutually flammable propaganda, and manipulated by the rampant hubris of military madmen, Kenichi valiantly serves his country and struggles for his identity. Nurtured by the true hearts of brave women and the steaming bloody hearts of dying friends, Kenichi stumbles to find a culture, and a love he can call his own.

One Japanese American's search for self, in a time when humanity seemed intent on
self-destruction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kevin Farran
• Release date: Nov 3, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386152439

Book preview

1

Home

The blanket formed a cocoon around us. My brother Taka and I drifted through an uncomfortable doze, squashed on the front seat of the old pick up. The 5 a.m. start, coupled with my German studies, left me eager to wallow in the honey sweet of sleep. I'd been studying for hours every night and now that the level four exams were complete, drifting in a vague haze suited me fine. The top of my head nodded against the cold of the door frame. I wandered in a cozy cloud of sleep.

Bang! It ended. I struggled to get free of the cover. Daylight. I shot up.

Bang! Another thunderous crack.

Bang!

I threw Taka off my shoulder and looked up from the seat.

Another crack as the window exploded over us. Glass tinkled on the floor and went inside my collar. It scratched, itchy. The entire passenger window of our pick up was gone. Sharp angry crystals were showered everywhere. The brisk morning air ripped in. The side of the truck exploded with three more violent raps. I looked up through the shattered window. Yagh! a rock glanced the left side of my forehead splitting the brow. The sear of pain blistered. I struggled to think what was going on.

What’s happening? Taka screamed. We could hear yelling above the next barrage of rocks.

I stared at the enormous sign spray painted on the wood covering of Kimura's grocery. What the hell is that? Taka stared stupidly as rocks pounded into the truck. Our father bolted from the store and dashed to the truck. Several rocks thudded into his panicked torso. His dark eyes bulged fear. His left arm pumped forward, his right twisted over and behind to cover the back of his head.

It was a small group. I knew them. I had gone to school with them. We were on the same baseball team. A rock grazed my father's cheek and he staggered. I struggled to get free of Taka to help.

No, no. Inside! He was at the driver side door. The windshield rapped and cracked. Taka stared at the sign.

Down. He shoved Taka below the dash and fumbled for the keys.

The machine gun like clatter grew in intensity. The crowd’s confidence inflated as they approached. Several had moved in front of the truck. They could see we were terrified. They were howling with laughter and insults.

What going on? Taka screamed.

Urusai, shut up. He barked at my terrified little brother. The engine growled awake and my father floored our delivery truck, sputtering a pathetic spray of pebbles and dust at the rock throwers. Blood trickled a lonely line down his cheek like a lost thought. It contrasted the gaze of absolute panic that shot from his eyes. He gunned the flower delivery truck. Two more rocks ricocheted off the tailgate. We'd made it. He pushed the old engine as fast as he could down the dirt road. None of us spoke. My father didn't blink, his eyes squinted through the three new spider leg cracks in the windshield at the road, hoping to somehow force the old Ford faster. He leaned forward over the steering wheel holding it vice-like in his whitened knuckles. As if the rip of tension in his knuckles might somehow explain our collapsing world.

I was the first to speak. ’I am American?’ What’s that supposed to mean?

Urusai.

Dad, Taka whimpered, what’s going on? Taka’s fourteen-year-old voice was thin, like the rest of him. He was artistic and lacked physical substance, more grass than bamboo and far from oak. He was harmless but often bullied. He frightened easily. His wide eyes stared at our father, his lower lip shivered with fear. His eyes darted like lost starlings with no place to rest.

We get back to Okasan. It’s crazy, totally crazy.

We sped down the dirt road. The cool northern air of California ripped around the inside of the truck. Taka came up from under the dash. He quivered with fear. The sallow look on his face reached to his feet. Fright gripped his mind; a shaking fear squeezed his thoughts paralyzing his sensibilities. A slight tremor echoed through his shoulder as he leaned against me. His lips quivered, and his startled eyes cringed at the fear of our father’s intensity, fear of the loud bangs and splattering glass. I could see his thoughts were like marbles poured from a bag, random and clattering. A small part of me wanted to slap him to the shore of sensibility; a larger part wanted to calm him, to still his quivering mind. He was my brother.

I was totally different from my younger brother. Being six years older and with a powerful frame, I excelled in sports even though I was short. I was always one of the first chosen in sporting events, but Taka didn’t even turn up. It was easier than dealing with the humiliation. My athletic ability made me popular. I shook my head, my thoughts were jumbled. I knew the guys that hurled the rocks and insults. We were on the same ball team. I always played left field because I could chuck a ball from deep left to home like a rocket. I had an idea what had happened. Is it Japan?

Yes, so desu. My father always mixed his Japanese and English when he got excited. So bad. Taihen desu.

A billowing trail of dust chased after a speeding truck as it approached from the other direction. The driver waved and slowed. It was our neighbor, Gary Taylor. Nobu. Hey Nobu… holy shit! Your truck. Get back home. They’ve been to your nursery. I'll go to the police.

Is Michio alright?

Fine, just shook up. She wouldn't leave. I tried to get her to… Gary’s eyes were riddled with confusion. They’re gone but the place is not good.

Bastards, my Dad let the clutch out. We raced to our flower nursery.

Your place is… Gary’s words were lost in the panicked dust of our truck.

The next five minutes passed in a silent, brooding broth of confusion, fear and disbelief. We barreled around the cluster of old oak trees that marked the entrance to the property my parents built. The truck skidded to an abrupt halt on the crusty gravel driveway. A dumbstruck numbness rifled through us. My mother was on the step. Her pink dress with a spattering of falling cherry blossoms, a favorite she had brought with her from Japan, was smeared in arrogant gashes of mud. Her tear-strewn cheekbones stood proud against the plaster of mud on her face. Her hair had cakes of manure clinging from it. Her hands and elbows were bloody. One eye appeared swollen.

We held her. Wild gulping breaths racked her body as she sputtered in Japanese. We held her. It was obvious what had happened. They had come as soon as the news broke. They came to ransack our property, abuse us. It only takes a few to start hysteria.

We were known in the community, successful, with many friends, but they were nowhere. Only Mr. Taylor had responded. My mother, a dainty woman, not afraid of hard work but shy around others, especially with language, described the madness in a shattered splattering of desperate images. Two trucks of young men came while we were making the bi-weekly delivery to the flower and vegetable market. They had ransacked the house, smashed hundreds of windows in the greenhouses and set one shed on fire. The cowards slapped her, a dainty woman, and to insult her further, they tossed her in the manure pile. They must have used shovels to smear manure on her. The reek of manure and scream of bloody grazed skin paled to the humiliation her spirit suffered.

Our minds tumbled with anger and fear. My father’s eyes stewed, boiled with a rage I’d never seen in him. His thoughts were bloody yet his actions were restrained, his movements small, concentrated. It was Taka who asked the forbidden question that trickled through our thoughts with every outrage committed on our humble property. Dad, why?

My father smoothed my mother's hair and wiped the grime from her face. He kissed her eyes and spoke softly. The imperial navy has attacked Pearl Harbor in Hawaii. A surprise attack I think. There were many killed.

But we didn't do it. Taka pleaded; as if we needed to be told.

They hate us, hate us. My mother’s fists pounded weakly upon my father’s short muscular frame. His eyes remained fixated ahead. We do so much, always try to be like them, do their things and they do this? Why? We don't hate them. My father pulled her close. I thought they were friends. Good people.

We still have friends, but things have changed. Confusion and fear are everywhere. He held her tight, our precious jewel. He whispered and stroked her manure-encrusted hair. We must not be the same. Fear is weakness, Michio. He turned her toward the house and guided her tenderly to her ravaged pride. I had never before understood the depth of my parent’s love. I felt small, humbled by the size and power of events that accosted my thoughts.

Our home glared back, raped of its dignity. Three windows were smashed. The front door hung perilously on just the bottom hinge. Our futons and bedding, thrown outside, clung desperately to windows and roof corners; our clothes were hurled into the dirt. The fridge and pretty much the entire kitchen had been thrown into the driveway. It felt like a senseless spewing of hate. My father led my mother, the woman he had brought on this journey, quietly into our ransacked home. Their bodies looked frightened. Regardless of what my father said, they walked with the unsteady steps of fear.

I heard the gnarling whine of a speeding truck engine. I turned to the driveway entrance. It was Gary Taylor. He braked hard followed by a cloud of dust and stumbled from his truck. Kenichi, is your mom okay?

I nodded. I stood, my mind vacant, and stared at this good man. My eyes saw little and saw everything.

I told the police, he said. They didn't even get out of their chairs, the bastards.

I nodded and looked at our broken, beaten house. Gaping windows and doors decorated with littered threads of life, left it staring dumbstruck back at me. All my family's dreams and hopes for our new country, ten years of dreams were scattered and destroyed. Gary and I watched my father as he led my mother around the broken door and into the house. Taka followed meekly behind.

I’ll do what I can, Gary said.

I always thought Gary was a good man. He was a crap farmer, but an honest, true soul. My father had helped him and advised him often with farming matters. He and his young wife were the first to welcome us to the community. His wife was nice, a large, jolly Dutch woman with an infectious laugh and thin silver blond hair. A number of times they'd been short of cash and my mother used to take them food. They were honest. Gary patted my shoulder. I’ll come back over in a bit and we can clean things up. Best look after your mama. I nodded.

He took one last look at the destroyed property. Shame swallowed him. He climbed back into the cab of his truck and drove down the driveway. I watched the bouncing truck wondering how we could go on from here.

The inside of the house echoed with my father’s fuming and my mother's tears. I heard him bark, ‘We must collect ourselves. We are stronger than this stupidity.’

I wondered, if this was ‘stupidity,’ then where would it end? Isn’t stupidity like a tree branch? As one edges closer to the tip, it can only break.

Several of my comic books fluttered in the breeze. I walked over and picked them up. I leafed briefly through the pages. The pages were well worn, tattered. I’d used them to learn English when I first arrived. They lay torn and soiled. It was a sad finish for them.

---

An hour later little had changed.

My mother sobbed relentlessly in her room. I had never known her to cry. Her emotions were always private to her. My father was unsure how to handle her. Was it anger, disappointment or simple loss at seeing their nurtured plants, their world, destroyed out of racial hatred? Thinking of it caught my throat, like bad eggs it churned my stomach. My thoughts quietly swam between my mother, the rocks and our shattered home. I knew the rock throwers. We’d grown up together; had scrapes and fights. I was tougher than most of them, or at least a better fighter, though I avoided confrontation. As boys growing up we tumbled together, we looked out for each other. We’d grown to be friends. Thinking of it made the foul smell of betrayal swell in my stomach.

With a vile bitterness in our hearts that burned like bile to the spirit, Taka, my father and I started the clean-up. We walked the sprawling nursery and assessed the damage. Taka began sweeping the scattered soil and picking up debris. It was a simple task to keep his fragile mind and emotions busy.

Windows and doors could be replaced in time, but for now, they just needed covering. It would be cold tonight. We had extra tarps, used to cover the seedlings, they could be tacked up to keep the wind out. Father and I tackled the crops in the greenhouses. If we could cover them, we could salvage some for sale and keep the business limping along. Our flowers and the quality of our chemical free vegetables were highly valued by city shops and restaurants. I glanced at the idiotic damage. I was not sure we had much of a crop anymore, let alone a market. Would markets even buy from us?

The squeeze of my father’s powerful hands pulled my thoughts to the present. We can recover. I thought his eyes were firing with belief and hope. He would not give up. Find some roofing nails and a couple hammers. I’ll get some tarps. We must save what we can. It will be cold tonight.

I nodded and attempted a smile. His lips cracked a weary disheartened response. We must care for your mother and brother. It will be fine.

I wanted to believe him, but his words rang hollow like a farmer gazing at withering crops. I hurried to the tool shed and thought how my father, now approaching sixty, accepted me as an equal - struggle did that.

---

Gary showed up as promised two hours later and had some food for us. Earlier he’d noticed the food and fridge contents were scattered in the yard. Dad and I had already returned the fridge to the kitchen. We hoped it would work. Gary’s wife, Lucille, was with him. Her face was a cocktail of confusion, disgust and a lingering sense of repulsion. I wasn't sure whom it was toward, but chose to think of her positively. I was glad I did. She was a tornado of tidiness. Her bulk rampaged through the house not asking permission. Her thighs and massive hips thundered from room to room as she immediately set about putting the house in order. My mother was nowhere to be seen.

By five it was getting dark and Gary and his wife had to return home. Their twin girls would be dropped off from school soon. We had worked in silence for hours, just doing what had to be done not asking the question that swam through our minds like a tsunami. The wave oozed disbelief and anger but left only a vacuum of questions.

Gary was getting ready to leave and turned to face my much shorter father in front of his truck. Nobu I have to go. I'll come by tomorrow. Will you be ok?

My father smiled at the tall, thin man. Yes, yes, Gary. Thank you so much, and you Lucille, you have been wonderful.

It’s not right, Lucille said. Her face was stern and red. Her usual jovial eyes were shot with shame and anger. She fiddled with her apron.

Gary slapped my father’s shoulder. We can sort it out.

I fear it will go beyond just us. But thank you, you are both wonderful. Real friends. He bowed to them. Gary stood awkward, not sure what to do.

Gary broke the silence. You have a gun, Nobu? The question floored me but not my father. He had already been thinking of it.

Yes, we are safe. You must also think of your family.

Gary held up his hand to stop my father. We’re here to help our friends. He opened the passenger door for his wife.

Thank you.

Gary looked around the truck door. What was it you used to teach me? ‘Zetai makenai yo.’

My father only nodded and smiled weakly. The informal Japanese expression to ‘never lose’ was not a rallying cry he wanted to hear, not today, the day Pearl Harbor was bombed and my family, my world, spiraled in a new direction; like it did for so many others. We were pushed toward events we had no control over, nor desire to confront.

We watched Gary bundle his big wife into his old Dodge pick up and trundle off to his farm a few miles down the road. The side panels of the truck rattled and clattered, it was always on the edge of breaking down. Our lives in California were rattling too. I knew our family was strong but our futures were as uncertain as each bump that clattered Gary’s old truck.

Taka had finished patching the windows and stood beside us as we watched Gary drive off. Taka sniveled slightly.

Stop crying. Be a man. My father barked directly at my timid, river reed brother. Taka stared back through his glossy eyes, wilting before the fierce glare. The sneer crossed from my father’s eyes and tore at the fragile Taka. He barged past Taka, toward the house. I put my arm around my little brother. I felt him tremble deep in his chest. His disposition left him jittery and jumpy about all things. To say Taka was constantly anxious or scared would be an understatement. Whether my father’s anger was directed at himself, at his homeland, or his adopted country, it didn’t matter. Taka’s sparrow spirit fluttered.

---

From the center of the drive, Taka and I heard the crackle of the radio. Though the hooligans tossed it to the floor, father had got it working. The little box, that so often carried my parent’s love of classical music, hissed in anger. We went into the house to hear the broadcast. The radio spewed hysteria. The inflammatory voice of the announcer virtually set our property on fire again. The news raged about the surprise attack, the devastation. Phrases enflaming people to ‘be on guard for the yellow peril’ and ‘watch every Jap’, spat from the little box. It was a viciousness we had never encountered or imagined possible.

That night we slept together in the living room. It had the biggest stove and a sense of closeness helped both my mother and Taka. My father paced most of the night. Together he and I watched the property. It was a long uneventful night of waiting. Like a cornered nest of mice, we lay in hushed silence as a predator lurked somewhere beyond our family walls. I searched the blackness wondering whether the predator was a physical being or some fear-structured ghoul of stupidity. Whatever it was, it crawled, very real on my skin.

The following afternoon my father and I tried to get some supplies. Our food had been thrown into the dirt. Some products had been salvaged thanks to Lucille. The fridge was saved. Getting supplies was much more difficult than we had anticipated. Signs flashed up and glared everywhere: Japs out, No Japs, Japanese Go Home, No Japs Served. These signs were on stores owned by people we knew and called our friends; they had been to our house, dined at our table.

In the town center there was nowhere that would allow us to enter, much less buy food. We went to Kimura's grocery; a store owned by a sansei, third generation Japanese and his Danish wife. The familiar little grocery was boarded up. Insults were painted all over the plywood covering the windows. We stayed in the truck staring at the seething words slapped on our friend’s business.

Let’s go to Ueno’s, it’s a bit of a drive, but he might be open. My father simply nodded. He hadn’t spoken much all day. A piece of him was broken, a dream, a chip taken from his pride.

---

The Ueno family was nisei, second-generation Japanese. I had dated their daughter at the end of high school briefly, but she went off to college and it ended there. We were both unhappy that our relationship was cut short before it found its way. She had always been a mystery to me, somehow aloof or distant. Our few dates were awkward, filled with expectation and hope, but stumbling over fear and the painful reality of her upcoming departure. Since graduation, I hoped to have another chance.

My father walked round to the back of the grocery to find Mr. Ueno, they were good friends. It was my duty to pick up the supplies. It would be mostly basics, but my father wanted to be sure we had ample stocks for whatever may lay ahead. My mother made meticulous notes that morning.

I entered the shop and wandered down the first aisle on the left. A figure crouched at a lower shelf suddenly stood and turned to face me. My mind gaped, a chasm of disbelief swallowed my processes. I was stunned to see her. Hello Keiko, I sputtered. She was even more beautiful than I remembered. A smile like sunrise burst forth. I struggled to think. Surprised you’re home.

It's not safe in the city. Japanese are being attacked all over the place. I had no response. My mouth bobbed but my tongue was stunned, it felt suddenly thick by the effect she had. I gazed at the pulse in her eyes. What can I get you?

My tongue’s stupidity cracked. Our nursery and house were ransacked yesterday. I spoke as if underwater. The words were outside my thoughts. I stared at her lips, her cheeks. Her eyes that had always captivated me took my speech away. Was she this beautiful years before? I was entranced. Something was standing on my chest.

She waited, watching me stare, awkward in my astonishment. Is your mom okay?

I nodded the few functioning brain cells I had. Yes, physically we’re fine but, well… I didn't need to finish the sentence, she didn't need to hear it. We need all the basics, milk, eggs, rice. I passed the list my mother made to her.

Did her eyes gleam with a distant hope, as if I could take her away, or was that just my wishful thinking? Those soft molasses eyes held me, like holding a warm, sweet chocolate in your palm on a hot day. I felt disarmed, chocolate melting. A moment later it was gone, we were both lost in the current of anguish directed at us. She neatly tore the list in half and passed a portion to me.

Here, I’ll do half, you do half. Her voice lingered like a breeze. I’ll get some boxes, just put what you need in and we can tally it on the account later. She gave a soft laugh and her lips burst open. Her smiling was stunning. I watched her go and shook the excitement from my brain. What was I thinking?

I made my way around the store choosing a variety of goods. Keiko filled another box at the front. Our fathers were talking with a group of at least six other Japanese men huddled in the rear of the shop storage area. Their voices were coarse and abrupt, unlike most Japanese conversations, which were restrained and respectful. They yapped aggressively at one another. Loud dissent was a thing our family never sustained. Understanding, endurance, and honor we knew, but public bickering, yelling and hostile gestures were foreign to us. I was capable of looking after myself in a scrap, but preferred to avoid fights. Reason was so much better. Hurt is not necessary.

---

After several minutes I heard a truck pull up and glanced out the window, then across to Keiko. She was dashing around the counter to lock the front door. Just as she got there the door burst open striking her in the face. She was knocked backward onto the floor in front of the counter, but sprung to her feet and glared at the young men.

Hey, Jap. Two young guys about eighteen had come looking for trouble. I crossed to Keiko and pulled her back. Ooh, another little Jap.

We’re not part of this. We don't want any trouble, I said.

He slammed a finger into my chest. I didn’t budge. Too Goddamn late for that, you Jap coward. They were a year or two younger and smaller framed than me. They were taller, but I was thicker and not in the least scared. I'd give as good as I got. I’d had a few mix-ups, as guys do in school, and it was generally regarded as a bad idea to take me on. I stood my ground and traded blows. I was not a wrestler I was a stand-up puncher. I just didn’t do it often. I believed resorting to fists was a weakness of the mind.

You guys should just move on. There’s no fight here. We’re all on the same side. One spat directly in my face. Then I was pushed hard in the chest. I stumbled back. Look we don’t want any trouble. Please. Let’s— I was slammed in the chest again and I shoved back at him. I moved Keiko toward the back. I was spun around and a two-handed shove caught me high in the throat. I stumbled back against the counter. The tallest of the two took a swing. I ducked and the punch sailed harmlessly over my head. They were gangly and not very good fighters. I thought I could diffuse the confrontation.

Look, guys, this isn’t necessary. We’re not involved. Another punch flashed out and glanced my chin. The second boy punched hard from my left. I blocked it with a forearm and kicked him hard and square in the balls. He keeled over backward. A punch from the other glanced the top of my head. I spun and with two quick punches; one to the sternum the other to the kidneys, he slumped to the floor. I grabbed his throat and belt, dragged him out and threw him off the store veranda. He huddled in the dirt cringing from the pain in his lower back. The guy with the cracked nuts staggered at me, but I dodged his punch and grabbed his throat with one hand before popping him clean in the nose with the other. He stumbled back to the entrance, clasping his face. Blood trickled between his fingers and down his wrists. The nose was broken. I tossed him out of the shop. They scrambled into their old farm truck and drove off. The passenger’s