INSIDE WW 2 MANZANAR, PART 2
Before our trip into Manzanar to experience our first days in camp, let’s reflect on some of the highlights and events that happened prior to evacuation from our homes.
We were unaware at the time, but December 7, 1941, was to be the beginning of a series of “happenings,” unbelievable, nightmarish and bordering on fiction. Even Hollywood script writers couldn’t have dreamed up better plots, although their stories invariably end with “and they lived happily ever after.”
During the days immediately following the Declaration of War, many casual and shallow friendships withered on the vine and true friendships were tearfully pledged. The usual places of recreation and popular hangouts of the younger sets became strained and uncomfortable. It was difficult to determine a true hand of friendship from the more patronizing ones. It was to be start of many trying days.
Lt. Gen. Dewitt, Commander of the Western Defense Command, empowered with Presidential “Executive Order 9066” declared on March 2, 1942, the states of California, Oregon and Washington as critical military areas and “out of bounds” for any person of Japanese ancestry. An 8:30 p.m. curfew was imposed which limited our movements within a 5-mile radius of home under threat of imprisonment. Almost immediately after the order had been made the FBI dragnet spread out over the three states and started rounding up the menfolks, associated in any way with Japanese businesses and various organizations. Fishermen, teachers, clergymen and all others of influence were considered immediate threats to the safety of this country and were placed in special camps. Most of them never saw their wives and children for the duration of the war. The speed and the thoroughness in which the undercover work of this country was employed simply amazed me. Lists or names must have been compiled prior to December 7 in preparation and/or in anticipation of events that followed. Many days of fear and uneasiness were to follow. The fear was of the unknown. Not of guilt.
As numerous reports and wild rumors spread across the west coast unscrupulous businessmen and opportunists started a panic campaign in the densely populated Japanese communities. Armed with flyers and mimeographed official-looking letters they swarmed like locusts through the areas causing much concern especially to the families whose menfolk had been picked up by the FBI. Bargaining, cheating, stealing and even threatening the helpless people into giving up their belongings for a mere pittance of its actual value was certainly the heighth of mankind in its lowest form. The community which was most unfairly treated and the families hardest hit, or should I use the term ‘plundered,” were the unfortunate resident fishermen whose lives were invested in their industry in Terminal island, California. This is a story that must be told. (later issue)
We were living on a farm in Southern California when we received our eviction notice and I recall that it was a tremendous blow to my parents. As a matter of fact, to all of us. Selling, more like giving away or leaving their treasured belongings of almost forty years of living in America must have been a bitter pill for them to swallow. My parents had come to San Francisco from Hawaii in 1905. We were not faced with days of decisions as one would imagine, but days of waiting for notices, accepting them and following orders.
We stored as much of our belongings as possible in our garage (all lost) and loaded personal articles into our truck and car for the first phase of our moving. I can still remember my mother insisting on cleaning the house before we left. For most of us, there were two trying periods of packing and moving before we settled in a permanent camp for the duration of the war.
In hopes that our families would be able to remain together we spent a couple of hectic weeks in a house in Los Angeles (22 persons) living midst baggage and personal belongings and sleeping on floors in sleeping bags. I can still see the “wall to wall! bodies. The pressure of uncertainty hung heavy over the heads of the adults, especially those with children. but to the children each day was like a picnic In the evenings the heads of the families would sit at the dinner table to discuss the new orders of the day and attempt to chart a course for an uncertain future. This same scene was being repeated in most homes throughout the Southland.
Finally the dreaded second eviction notice was distributed to the families in our district. Our orders were to pack beddings and linens (no mattress), toilet articles, extra clothing, essential personal effects and sufficient dinnerware for each member of the family. Imagine, not a mention of chopsticks and soy sauce among other every day
necessities. I would say that the Commanding General and his staff lacked sufficient information on the care and comforts of the “enemy” Japanese. But this was War.
So on to Santa Anita Race Tracks, the Home of the Thoroughbreds whose stalls had been hastily remodeled to house the thousands of temporarily displaced victims of circumstance. Santa Anita Assembly Center was prepared and awaiting our arrival. The “Exectutive Suites” were swept and cleared of manure and supposedly fumigated. They could never rid the air of the fragrance of ”second hand” new mown hay. We had been assigned numbers as heads of household and from that day. forward thru the entirety of imprisonment, our family was registered as Shiro Nomura #3404. Finally we were prepared for our first day in camp. Baggages were all packed and each member of our family and our bags were properly tagged with #3404. Goodbyes were said again to those remaining for the later shipping out date. On the eve of our departure the Civil Central Station notified our district that it was unfortunate but our orders had been changed and our destination now was to be Manzanar. A new set of instruction meant unpacking and again prepare to leave in 48 hours. Further apprehension and fear was aroused for we had heard that Manzanar was in the middle of a God-forsaken desert land. We had seen pictures of the Sahara Desert so we had an idea what it would be like. Our new orders were to take leather hiking boots, heavy clothing, sleeping bags and canned and dried foods. The boots were not only made for walking but for protection against rattlesnakes. The womenfolk were all appalled. The heavy clothing was for the severe winters ahead and the canned and dried foods were for “emergency food.” A compulsory campout.
A run on leather boots, heavy clothing and trunks and sleeping bags was created by the Manzanar-bound evacuees. They fanned out through downtown Los Angeles trying to shop and meet the 48-hour deadline. We were at the mercy of the luggage dealers. As news had preceded us the prices had been changed, and I noticed at a couple of places the price had just been crossed out and a higher price scrawled over it. We had to “take it or leave it.” I could never understand how the official orders were intercepted before we received it.
With all of the repacking done and excess baggage sent to the local church for “safekeeping,” we loaded our Manzanar-bound luggage on the army trucks which took them to the train yard – not the Union Station. Those of us that had assembled at the church were loaded on buses and shuttled to the train yard where the ancient iron monsters were to “quietly” slip us out of Los Angeles.
The morning of our departure was very cold and the skies were heavily overcast. Talking in low tones and casting furtive glances at the towering MP’s, members of families and friends huddled in small groups trying to keep up their spirits, Suddenly at an order barked by the sergeant, the MP’s moved in with rifles and bayonets and herded the people like cattle into a large group and unmindful of families and children, proceeded to split them up into smaller groups. The people already frightened and uneasy were momentarily panicked by the unemotional attitude of the military men in dispensing of their duties. Tempers flared as the menfolk in trying to protect their young confronted the soldiers until the officers intervened and restored order by commanding the soldiers to regroup them into family units. A hollow victor in time of defeat, but at the time a very sweet one.
With the semblance of order restored again we were ordered to board the train. The old-fashioned trains with high steps were designed for long-legged cowboys, and it was quite a sight to see the short-legged Japanese trying to reach the top steps. We finally got aboard and settled in the dusty, musty smelling seats of a day coach which at an earlier time must have been plush mohair in a beautiful deep maroon. Now, a badly faded, balding replica of its once regal splendor. The train pulled out of the yard, and after waving a final farewell to a few faithfuls who had come to see us off we started off on the first leg of our journey into “the promised land.”
From the eyes of my aging parents, it must have seemed like the whole world was crumbling around their tired shoulders. They had suffered so much trying to provide a good living for us in a strange new world that they had adopted. The world which they had chosen for their children, to be born and educated and to be accepted as Citizens with the rights and advantages in the land of Freedom “WITH LIBERTY AND JUSTICE FOR ALL.”