A Time of Innocence

By Sanae Kawaguchi

A Time of Innocence tells the poignant story of
Japanese-American families who escaped the West Coast
during the brief period of voluntary evacuation
and make their dangerous way into the interior to avoid
confinement in the Government camps. The families
hardships, travails and triumphs, told in fictional form,
capture the feelings and background of the time.
Translated into Japanese and published in Japan in 2005,
it is available from Seiryu Publishing on line.

...more than an essential historical account
of the voluntary wartime refugees,
Kawaguchis book is a rousing tale...
GREG ROBINSON, author of By Order Of The President

...have captured the unforgettable moments of
the tragic times...This writing must be circulated
and be made available for everyone....
MAS DOBASHI, Editor Tozai Times

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 9, 2007
• ISBN: 9781462827510

Book preview

Chapter One

She should have been weeding the chrysanthemum beds. Dahdee had told her to do it as soon as she got home from school. She had the best intentions. Carefully, she hung up her school dress and changed into her everyday dress, laundered so much it had turned into an indiscriminate blur of faded colors. She tucked the dress into her worn denim overalls and exchanged her sturdy Buster Brown school oxfords for battered sneakers.

She even went without her usual after school snack of a rice ball with a tart pickled plum buried in the center. Instead, she took a piece of dried squid from the cupboard and stuffed it into her pocket in case she got hungry later.

She went straight to the chrysanthemum beds with the old German Shepherd dog, Kozo, as usual, trotting beside her. Once there, Kozo hunkered down comfortably, content to be by Kimiko’s side as she pulled the weeds.

It was clear and sunny in southern California that afternoon of November, 1941. Though the temperature was about sixty degrees, the sun was bright in a cerulean sky, radiating its warmth like a benediction over the flower farms of Dominguez Hills. There was a faint scent of orange blossoms wafting from the orange grove that formed the northern boundary of the Wada’s family farm. The farm was the hub of Kimiko’s world and she had explored it thoroughly. She knew the almost constant sunny days and the clear balmy nights of this Los Angeles basin area. She knew the farm’s secret ravines and hidey-holes, the barns and sheds with their dry and musty odors. She knew exactly when the guavas would ripen in the guava patch that lined the western side of the farm, for she loved the slightly tart, sweet guava fruit. She knew the dangerous places, like the dry creek bed where rattlers sometimes sunned themselves, or the woodshed where black widow spiders spun their deadly webs. She knew the hum of the huge oil refinery at the foot of Dominguez Hills. And far off her southern horizon, she could see the forest of oil well derricks on Signal Hill that blocked her view of the sea.

Kozo turned himself around and round a few times, making a nest for himself, then sighing contentedly, settled down for a pleasant nap. Kimiko sighed, too, but not with contentment, for pulling weeds was not a task to keep a lively minded eleven year old like Kimiko occupied for long. She started singing to herself as she pulled the weeds in time to the music:

"All . . . . around . . . the mul-berry . . . . bush . . . .

Meen . . . na . . . deh . . . teh . . . koi, koi, koi . . . ."

Without thinking about it, Kimiko combined the American song with a Japanese children’s song. It did not seem the least bit strange to her to interweave her two cultures. Such a feat of mental juggling came quite naturally and easily to one who lived in so many worlds, if one counted all the worlds of her imagining. Often, the life of her imagination was more vivid than her real one, certainly a lot more interesting to her than life on this tranquil but monotonous farm.

So, despite her best intentions, Kimiko was soon off on another journey into her make-believe world. Now she was no longer Kimiko Wada, second daughter of Sanjuro and Sumie Wada. Instead, she was Sacajawea, the Indian woman who had guided the explorers Lewis and Clark to the Pacific Ocean. And in her imaginary world, it was not November, 1941, it was the year 1805. She was not weeding a chrysanthemum bed on a flower farm in Dominguez Hills, California—she was pulling up roots to cook for the starving explorers.

As she straightened up, she imagined her hair long and braided down her back, a headband of brightly colored beads across her forehead, instead of her typical Japanese girl’s haircut—short and straight with bangs cut just above her eyebrows. She saw herself with a high-bridged nose, proud and dignified—not small and slightly turned up at the end like her Kimiko Wada nose. And, as Sacajawea, her lips were firm and well-shaped—not full and slightly tilted to one side like her Kimiko lips. But their eyes were the same—dark, warm brown, the Mongolian fold of the corner a sign of their common Asian heritage.

Kimiko liked to imagine she had been an Indian in a past life. Dahdee once said to her, We live many lives until we reach enlightenment. Each lifetime is like a test that you must pass in order to go on to a higher life.

That was how Dahdee talked and how he looked at his life because Dahdee was a Zen Buddhist, though he did not often go to the Zen church in Los Angeles. My church is in these fields, he would say, I don’t need to go to church to pray.

If Kimiko had been an Indian in another life, she would be like Sacajawea. She always had a longing to see what was on the other side of the mountains, to explore strange new places, meet new people, have exciting adventures. The distant San Gabriel mountains, now lightly dusted with snow, were a barrier she was determined to surmount one day.

Come, said Sacajawea-Kimiko to Meriwether Lewis-Kozo, We can make our camp down by those pines.

Kozo got up reluctantly from his comfortable position and followed Kimiko grudgingly but faithfully towards a row of pine trees lining the deep ditch that formed the southern boundary of the farm.

To the west, she could see a cloud of dust raised by Dahdee’s plowing. He was preparing one of the fields for the next crop of flowers to be planted. He could not leave the fields fallow for even one season. Only this constant use of the land made his small, marginal farm of a few acres bring in enough to support his family. Dahdee worked diligently but cheerfully, glad to practice his farming skills on what had been considered useless land. If the inhabitants of this land were not so hospitable, either, well, Shikata ga nai, he would say in resignation—It can’t be helped. Like other Japanese immigrants, he accepted the wisdom gleaned from centuries of hardship and natural disasters in his homeland. Gaman suru . . . . shimbo suru . . . nintai suru . . . so many ways to say in Japanese that one must endure hardships. The Japanese knew only a fool would fight against a thing that could not be helped.

Kimiko pretended the dust from the plow horses, Dickie and Daisy, as Dahdee had named them, was from a herd of buffalo thundering down the hill.

Run! Kimiko cried to Kozo, Get down to the pines before the buffalo overtake us! They ran down the hill, scrambled out of the deep ditch and flung themselves on the soft bed of pine needles. Kozo was panting from the sudden exertion and Kimiko gently stroked his muzzle. She felt a pang of remorse for driving Kozo so hard.

Poor old man, she murmured, as she held his grizzled snout. She remembered what Dahdee had told her about Kozo, Kozo is the same age as you, but for a dog, eleven years old is like a man being seventy years old.

Kozo does act like an old man these days, Kimiko thought. He still joined her in all her games, but it took more of an effort to get him to cooperate.

Only a few more miles . . . . just beyond these hills, Kimiko spoke as Sacajawea again. Kozo was again Meriwether Lewis in her mind. She urged Kozo up on his feet, but he refused to budge.

You must get up! she pleaded. We must get past these hills to find more food. Look . . . . we only have this much ‘pemmican’ left, she said, and she dug out her piece of dried squid, which did, in fact, rather resemble pemmican.

The smell of squid got Kozo up on his feet, begging for a bite. Kimiko tore off a strip for him and Kozo gulped his portion down. Kimiko chewed slowly on hers. Dried squid was her chewing gum, but unlike chewing gum, the flavor of squid got better the longer she chewed on it.

There is game on the other side of the hill, Kimiko explained to Kozo as they made their way back up the hill. They trudged along a long line of dry, rustling eucalyptus trees which formed the eastern boundary of the farm. The eucalyptus had been planted as wind breakers to protect the flowers from the strong Santa Ana winds that would often blow on these hills. Kimiko loved the pungent smell of the resin from these trees. She was taking a deep breath of their sharp fragrance when she heard faintly the sound of Mama calling her.

Mama’s voice brought Kimiko quickly out of her dream play, back again to November, 1941. Guilt and dismay were written all over her everyday Kimiko Wada face. She looked up the hill and saw Mama by the flower barn, her hands angrily planted on her hips.

Mama had been sorting out flowers for the next morning’s trip to the flower market in Los Angeles. She was annoyed, but not surprised to see Kimiko trudging up the hill, a long way from the chrysanthemum beds where she should have been. Mama had a gentle, soft face, with little laugh wrinkles around her eyes and mouth so that the wrinkles looked like mouse whiskers, and twitching her lips, she would make little mouse squeaks. It never failed to make Kimiko giggle with delight. But now, Mama’s face was pulled into a stern and unbecoming frown.

Where have you been, Kimiko? You are supposed to be weeding the chrysanthemum beds today, aren’t you? Mama sighed and shook her head. Kimiko knew she was in for it when Mama called her Kimiko instead of the diminutive Kimi-chan she used in a loving way. Really, Kimiko, you are a great disappointment to me. You are old enough now to be doing more work. Most children your age are already working like grownups. You know we need all the help we can get to run this farm.

When Mama saw the contrite, pained look on Kimiko’s face, her own expression softened, but she continued her lecture. You cannot be a child forever, Kimi-chan, playing games of make-believe. Life is not a Kami-shibai.

Kimiko’s face drooped further. She knew what her mother meant. She knew that Kami-shibai was a kind of story-telling they had in Japan, something they called paper plays. Mama had told Kimiko that in Japan, there are men who go from village to village on bicycles made with a small, box-like theater mounted on the back. These men tell wonderful stories as they flip the paper pictures inside the box. The pictures illustrate terrible ogres, or lovely ladies, or brave samurai warriors. The storyteller always stops at the most crucial part of the story and it takes much pleading and buying of the storyteller’s sweets to get him to resume his story. Mama often told Kimiko these Japanese stories and Kimiko imagined the scenes in bold and vivid colors in her mind.

Mama is right, Kimiko thought, despondently. She wished there was some way to explain, but she did not understand herself why her mind was always wandering off. It hurt to hear Mama say she was disappointed in Kimiko. This felt like a harsh indictment, making Kimiko feel terribly lacking in all the proper attributes of the ideal Japanese person. She desperately wanted her parents to be proud of her. She wanted to hear them praise her as they always seemed to praise her older sister, Yumi.

Yumi was four years older than Kimiko. Yumi always behaved in the correct way so she never had to be scolded or teased into proper conduct. Her serious manner, her tall and sturdy body made her seem even older than she was. Yumi was mah-ji-meh—serious, earnest and determined to succeed. It was high praise, especially for a young person.

You see how hard Yumi-chan works, said Mama. I know she is older than you, but you should try to be more mah-ji-meh, like her.

Yes, Mama, Kimiko murmured obediently, though rebellious thoughts flitted through her mind. She resigned herself to hear again the list of Yumi’s virtues, the litany of the ideal Japanese : She works hard. She does well in school. She is obedient. She is respectful of her elders. She does not complain. She has self-control, she does not display her emotions for all to see. She does not speak in a loud voice . . . . or chatter at the table . . . or . . .

Kimiko nodded her head in agreement. She tried to be like her sister, at least most of the time. She knew her parents and all the other Japanese people thought it was important to be mah-ji-meh. Everyone spoke of it almost reverently. Issei and the Japanese people born in America, the Nisei, alike, commented on Yumi’s industriousness, seriousness and proper behavior. So it must be the right way to be.

Maybe it is good to be mah-ji-meh, Kimiko thought, but looking at Yumi, it doesn’t look like much fun. Why do we always have to work so hard, be so serious. Other people don’t have to work so hard . . . .

You are a Japanese person, a Nihon-jin, so you have to work harder than the Haku-jin, Dahdee always said. It isn’t enough in America, to be as good as a Haku-jin. No, you have to be better than they are or you will not succeed.

Dahdee said this so often, Yumi and Kimiko knew every word of his lecture by heart. The Being Better Than The Haku-jin lecture applied to everything the girls did, from housework to schoolwork. And even in Japanese school, the one the girls went to every Saturday, Dahdee said they had to do better than the others, even though the others in this case, were all Japanese-Americans like themselves.

Having been soundly chastised, Kimiko made her repentant way back to the chrysanthemum beds. Weeds literally flew from her small hands as she tried to prove herself a proper Nihon-jin. Inside her, however, a spark of anger flared. Maybe she was a dreamer, but one day she would make those dreams come true. One day she would travel beyond the mountains, she promised herself. If she had only known how quickly the promise would be fulfilled, and how drastically her life would change, she might not have been so eager to see the other side of the mountain.

Chapter Two

Kimiko had made up for much of her earlier negligence on the chrysanthemum beds by the time Mama came to get her to prepare the nightly bath. Mama smiled when she saw how much Kimiko had done.

See what you can do when you are mah-ji-meh, Kimi-chan? she asked.

Kimiko nodded, happy to be back in Mama’s good graces. She wiped her soiled hands on her overalls and skipped off to the bathhouse, with Kozo loping along at her heels. Tending the fire for the nightly bath was one of Kimiko’s favorite jobs. She had to be careful of the black widow spiders in the wood shed, but in spite of that, it took no coaxing to get her to do it. It was the one job she could do and daydream at the same time, without anyone scolding her for it.

The bathhouse was separate from the main house. Perhaps house was too elegant a word for the weathered, unpainted wooden shack that was the Wada’s home. The house was more like a hastily and crudely put together cottage of a summer camp. However, in the warm and mostly dry southern California climate, it was sufficient shelter. There was electricity and running water in the form of a galvanized pipe coming through the kitchen wall. Dahdee had built a wooden sink lined with tin under the water tap and it was very serviceable for cooking and washing up.

Other than the kitchen, the house had two other rooms—a bedroom for the parents and one for Yumi and Kimiko to share. There was no bathroom, however, so the Wadas had to use an outhouse and Dahdee had built the separate bathhouse for bathing and laundry. To a Haku-jin, the house might have seemed a poor hovel, but to the Wadas, it was the same way all the Japanese farmers lived. They did not look upon themselves as poor, considering themselves better off than many farmers in Japan.

Dahdee had planned the bathhouse carefully. From the outside, it looked no different than any of the wooden sheds scattered around the farm. There were no windows and only one wide door in front. Inside, patterned after the traditional Japanese bath, the tub was made of thick slabs of redwood shaped into a rectangular box. The bottom of the tub was made of tin and set on a brick fireplace. A slatted wooden raft kept a bather’s feet from touching the metal heated from the fire below. On one side of the tub, Dahdee had built a decklike platform. This was used to wash and rinse off before stepping into the tub. In this way, the entire family could use the same bath water for several days. The water left over from bathing was then used for the laundry. The platform was slightly sloped so that dirty waste water poured off the platform into a large concrete trough below the platform, then drained out of the building into a ditch running along the back of the bathhouse. Galvanized tubs were set on the platform when Mama or Yumi did the washing, using a well-worn scrubboard. They could not consider buying one of the new Bendix washers, something Kimiko could only marvel at in the magazine ads as part of some dream world. Some of the more affluent Japanese farmers had washing machines with rollers to squeeze water out of the clothes, but the Wadas could not afford such a luxury.

Every few days, Kimiko ran fresh water into the tub from a hose attached to the kitchen water pipe. Kimiko checked to make sure there was still enough water in the tub, then, satisfied, she put a heavy wooden lid on the tub so the water would heat faster. Still, it took a while to keep the fire going until the water was really hot, enough to turn the skin glowing red. This hot tub was a wonderful way to soothe away the aches of working in the fields all day. It was also a good way to relax and talk over the events of the day. The girls bathed together first, then Dahdee and Mama had their bath together.

Being expert with fires, Kimiko soon had a brisk blaze of eucalyptus logs crackling in the fireplace. She squatted down before the flames with Kozo safely behind her. He knew better than to get too close to the fire, having once gotten his tail singed in the flames. Kozo did not share Kimiko’s fascination with fires.

This was usually the best time for Kimiko to go on one of her imaginary trips, for the mesmerizing flames were like a magic transport to any place or time she chose. They could turn her into any character she chose, too, though she was the heroine in most of her dramas. Tonight, however, Mama brought out some salted fish to be grilled over the coals.

The coals aren’t quite ready yet, Mama, Kimiko said.

That’s all right. I’ll just wait a bit. My, that fire feels good! Mama said, extending her hands towards the fire. The nights were cold in November, the stars sparkling in a velvety dark purple sky, and the warmth of the fire was comforting.

Mother and daughter squatted in companionable silence, enjoying the warmth. The flames had a hypnotizing effect on Mama, too. She smiled to herself, her eyes focused on another world.

Then Mama saw Kimiko watching her and said, I know you don’t remember Japan, Kimi-chan, but this reminds me of the time we went to Miho-no-matsubara . . . . that famous beach in Japan. It was close to your grandpa’s house so we often walked there. We grilled some fish one day and you kept dropping your fish on the sand and then eating it, sand and all!

I must have been a funny kid, Kimiko laughed.

Ah, but Miho-no-matsubara is a beautiful place, Kimi-chan. I hope you can go back one day when you are older and can appreciate it. It is a very famous place because of the beautiful pine trees lining the beach, so gracefully bent by the wind. And there’s the breathtaking view of Mount Fuji in the distance . . . . oh, sometimes, Fuji-san looks so big and close by, you think you can almost touch it . . . . !

Mama’s eyes glowed in the firelight as she remembered her last visit to Japan, the time she had taken the two girls to meet their grandparents. How she wished she could have stayed longer, but a year was the most she could manage before she had to return to Dahdee and the demands of the farm he had acquired on Dominguez Hill. Kimiko was only two years old when they went to Japan and did not remember any of it. There were only the photographs they had brought back from Japan to show Kimiko her grandparents’ house and the shop they ran in the village of Miho. Yumi had been old enough to go to school there, and sometimes she talked about her memories of that time—rather differently than Mama’s memories.

Mama continued, There is also a huge old pine tree on the beach. It is very, very old and it is the spot where the angel who came down from heaven hung up her robe while she went for a swim.

A real angel? asked Kimiko.

Mama smiled. It’s a well-known story, Mama said, a teasing sparkle in her eyes.

Tell me the story! begged Kimiko.

It happened a long time ago, Mama began slowly, "An angel came down to the beach because it was so beautiful. She took off her magnificent feather robe and hung it on the pine tree while she went for a swim. A fisherman saw the robe and took it down from the tree. He marveled at the beauty and intricate design of the robe, for he had never seen anything so exquisite in his life. Carefully, he lifted the robe down, but just then, the angel returned and asked the fisherman to give her back her robe.

‘But it is so beautiful,’ the fisherman said, ‘I would like to take it home to my wife.’"

Kimiko was entranced, seeing the beautiful robe in her mind’s eye as Mama continued.

The angel pleaded with the fisherman to return her robe, saying she would not be able to fly back to heaven without the robe. So piteous was her voice, so sad her face, the fisherman felt sorry for her and gave her back the robe. As soon as the angel put the robe back on, she flew away towards Mount Fuji. But before she disappeared to heaven, she looked back at the fisherman standing forlornly on the beach. She wanted to show her appreciation to the fisherman for giving her back the robe, so, in his honor, she performed a special dance for him in the sky.

That’s a beautiful story, sighed Kimiko.

There is a dance based on this story, Mama said. It’s performed in the Noh Theater. I saw the dance myself, only once, but I could never forget it. The dancer was so skillful, seeming to actually float slowly away . . . .

Mama’s eyes grew distant, seeing again the richly costumed dancer, hearing the sonorous stately music of the Noh musicians.

Kimiko envied her mother seeing something so wonderful as a Noh play. The only theater she had been to were movie theaters, and not very often to those. Occasionally, the family went to the Japanese movie theater in Los Angeles and saw Chanbara movies—those samurai action films which Kimiko loved. Kimiko had also gone to the movies in Compton, the small town closest to their farm. Kimiko and Yumi both loved going but the family could neither afford the time or the money to take a whole Saturday afternoon off to see an entire show—the serials, the cartoons, the news and then finally, the movie. Kimiko loved a Shirley Temple movie she saw, but once, when she saw The Mummy’s Hand, she was so terrified, she had buried her face in Yumi’s lap during most of the movie. After that, she did not want to go to a movie for a long time. Yumi often teased her about her fear of the mummy, humming some eerie tune and lurching along in a zombie fashion after her, delighting in the way Kimiko ran screaming away.

It must be wonderful to see . . . . actually SEE those people, I mean, alive, not like a movie . . . . Kimiko did not know how to express the awe she felt for what she thought the theater must be.

Yes, the Noh Theater is wonderful, Mama replied, but the Kabuki Theater is even more exciting!

When I grow up, I’ll be a dancer, said Kimiko. Then I can do the angel’s dance, too!

Mama laughed. I am sure you would be a beautiful dancer, but not in the Noh or Kabuki Theater. Only men perform there. Even women’s roles are done by men.

Well, I’ll be a dancer here, then, in America.

I guess anything is possible in America, Mama laughed.

How far away Mama felt from the Kabuki Theater and all the other places she loved so much in Japan, squatting here in this strange place grilling fish! Sometimes the longing to see Japan again was like a sharp pain in her breast.

Mama had led a full and exciting life in Japan. Hers was not the usual life of a woman of her time and background. She was a shopkeeper’s daughter from a small village, but she had been indulged by doting parents. She had been a sickly child, so they spared her much of the hard work she would otherwise have been expected to do. She had schooling far beyond what most girls had, thanks to a scholarship given to her by Catholic nuns. They had been her teachers and had whetted her natural appetite for learning. Mama still kept the rosary the nuns had given her as a treasure in her lacquer box.

Mama also had lessons in music, flower arranging and the tea ceremony. She painted, wrote haiku poetry to exchange with friends and went on trips to Tokyo which was not too far away, to see Kabuki and Noh plays. This life suited Mama so perfectly, she wanted it to go on unchanged forever. Marriage was not even in her thoughts of the future. So, when Mama’s parents arranged her marriage to Dahdee, a man she had never met, though he was also from the same village, she was terribly upset. And when they said she must also go to America to live, she was in despair. She ran away from home and might have committed suicide. Luckily, her parents found her in time to save her, but