SHIRO MAKES SOME PLEASANT AND SOME UNHAPPY ADJUSTMENTS
Inside World War 2 Manzanar, Part 5 By Shiro Nomura, Museums Department Historian for Manzanar
Following the initial shock of evacuation and with the heavy cloak of uncertainty slowly lifting, a surprising transformation of moods and attitudes became noticeable. The passing of each day lessened the caged feeling and was soon replaced by a strange sense of freedom, in spite of knowing we were fenced in. A feeling of complete freedom from responsibility that was a major relief for many who were spared from scratching out a living in a very competitive society.
I remember a great number of college graduates faced with limited job opportunities working in my sister’s produce market in Van Nuys prior to WWII. Highly qualified specialists in their fields, engineers, teachers, et cetera, armed with adequate credentials found it difficult to compete in the strict, white dominated fields. They had very little choice but to seek employment in lesser capacities. Sadly this breed had been born a score of years too early. A popular quote from the late thirties, “A Nisei (second generation Japanese) had to be a college grad to get a job in a produce market.”.
Throughout the various camps “these men and women” with their knowledge, training and adaptability, proved themselves invaluable in effecting the solidarity in education and, importantly, in the forming of self-government in the early formative months. Looking back, I wish I had something to contribute.
The general feeling of the younger people who had taken the “What the Hell” attitude lessened to some degree during the ensuing days. Born of hopelessness, or perhaps it was because of my many new found friends, I also found myself looking less and less to “The Fence” and “The Beyond.” The barbed wire fence, a common sight to the cattle ranchers in that area and the many travelers of US 395 of that era, became less a bond – but a way of life. You can corral my body – control my movements – but not my spirit. This was very evident in the sights and sounds of an average day in Manzanar.
The forced separation of families and loved ones who were sent to the many camps in the various states created hardships and heartaches. The choice was not ours- there were no alternatives. I would be experiencing many lonely days in the weeks to come. The unexpected turn of events which brought our family to Manzanar, destroyed my plans to meet “a special someone” who had entered the Santa Anita Assembly Center ahead of me. With no means of communication, the rerouting of our district was not posted till a later date, I heard later, she had waited many days at the gate for the bus that never came.
Meanwhile in Manzanar, as the new blocks would be completed and opened for occupancy, busloads from the Santa Anita Assembly Center would arrive and I would be there to meet each arrival faithfully. I would stand on the outskirts of ihe huge crowd inconspicuously and scan the new faces for that one familiar one. Time and again, my hopes would be dashed to the ground and blown away with the fickle desert sand.
With the many blocks yet to be completed, there was still hope, and as each block was opened for occupancy, my unwavering hope would be rekindled anew. I looked upon the movement of the various districts at Santa Anita A. C. as something akin to a giant chess game. The many states with their camps was “the board.” the numerous districts in the Assembly Center were “the pieces” and the W. R. A. brass would make “the moves.” We were completely at their mercy.
On one of these arrival days, a resident who had been gathering scran lumber in an area which was still under construction, was shot by an Army guard. Returning with an armload of “scrap pieces,” he evidentally did not understand nor hear the order to halt and was shot as he advanced towards the guard. The victim and the guard were removed immediately to avoid a confrontation with the group waiting for the buses. The bullet wound proved to be superficial and the immediate action by the internal security department (manned by camp personnel) prevented a major issue. It’s amazing and uncanny how much and how fast the officials can cloak an unsavoury incident. I’d also like to mention how fast I lost interest in carpentry.
Many long and Lonesome nights were spent around our only source of warmth, the oil stove. A group of young people would gather at our apartment every night and we would sit around the stove and exchange stories of our lives as experienced on the outside. While our white, brown, black or green counterparts in the outside world were having their “jukebox sessions” with burgers and malts, we enjoyed the luxury of bread and jam “borrowed” from the mess hall. We would toast the bread on the stove and with water boiled in a tin gallon can we would make hot chocolate with cocoa powder that we had begged off the chef. Although we lacked in facilities and materials, it took nothing away from our nightly meetings. We had the necessary ingredients. “FRIENDSHIP.”
The block 8 food canteen was a good source for snack goods but importantly, it took money to purchase them. With none of our group working, we would pool our finances for rare treats at our nightly gatherings. I never realized there were so many off-brand products on the market. Favorites like Coca Cola, Pepsi, Wrigley’s, Dentyne Babe Ruth, Love Nest, Lucky Strike, Camels, a cold can of Acme or Eastside Beer would have been a real treasure to own. Our soft drink was a LaVida brand. Chelsa was the cigarette and some of the candies and gum are off the market today. One gum in particular was a good candy. If the chewer wasn’t careful, he would have half of it swallowed before he could wad it up enough to be chewable,
As I became friendly with the chef of our block, sophisticated extras like butter and sugar with an occassional treat of weiners and eggs graced our evening snacks. A used tea kettle replaced the old gallon can (which started to show signs of rust) and with tea and coffee, my family and the boys would have a private party every night. We soon had to move to the block 21-15 recreation room as our apartment could no longer accommodate the group as it grew larger with each meeting. With a borrowed record player and a treasured collection of the pre-war “78” hit records, we would sit around for hours listening to Glenn Miller, Artie Shaw, Les Brown, Benny Goodman and the Dorsey Brothers.
The immediate popularity of these music sessions prompted a bigger production when Henry Ushijima asked the consent of the WRA authorities to have his stored equipment and records shipped into camp. Soon, emanating from the block 22-15 recreation hall was the most beautiful music ever heard in the Owens Valley. (I can picture the valley residents with hands clapped over their ears.) With Henry’s superb collection of priceless classical and popular records and with his powerful loudspeakers strategically placed, he virtually transformed the fire break between blocks 22-23 into a huge outdoor theater. This was our “Concert Under The Stars.”
The music attracted the old as well as the young and with no other programs planned for the residents in the early days in Manzanar, the concert was an instant hit. It was especially welcomed by young couples lacking in privacy in the close confinement of small apartments, and the prying eyes of their nosey neighbors. It was a common sight to see couples huddled together in the sand with an old Army blanket draped over their shoulders enjoying the music and the privacy. Immediately to the west of the building stood a huge cottonwood tree which still stands today towering over the neighboring pear orchard and majestically marking the spot of one of our Happenings. I spent many lonely nights listening to the music while leaning on that very tree. Did my tears or those of countless others have any effect on the growth of that tree?
As the many weeks passed and the remaining blocks rapidly filled up, my vigil seemed utterly hopeless. Kow Maruki proved to be a true friend during my ordeal and his constant companionship and his optimistic outlook saw me through those trying days. When the final blocks 35 & 36 were readied for occupancy, I knew that the end was in sight.
Rumors! Rumors! Rumors! The camps were a nest of rumors. Understandably, the people in the various camps were influenced and sometimes motivated by rumors. We ate by the rumors. We were clothed by the rumors and we even slept on the rumors. Almost every day we would get rumors of a mess hall in another block having meat or something “special.” We’d rush over. “SOS” (same old slop)…. We would hear of new clothing being issued….”Gl hand-me-downs. I was sick and tired of the smell of hay in our mattresses. It reminded me too much of our hay barn (tough on Hay Fever). We were elated at the news of real mattresses on the way. “Yeah, via wagon train from the east coast.” These were but a few of the rumors that circulated the camps. The guilty source? “WISHFUL THINKING.” This was the way of life in camp.
Reportedly, or it was rumored that the last contingent from Santa Anita was from the district I had been waiting for. I rushed down with Kow in time to see the blue and white Greyhound buses with the many inquisitive faces looking out the window, pull into place in the fire break between blocks 30-35 stop…… As I watched the last of the buses being emptied I slowly realized that the curtain was drawing close on the many torturing weeks of waiting. The tearful faces the tearful faces of those who had hopefully waited are etched on my mind and the shrieks and happy shouts of families and loved ones being reunited still ring in my ears. Unfortunately, there had been many like myself who were denied this magic occasion. Casting a final glance at the scene of mixed emotions, I dejectedly shoved another one of those “DAMNED RUMORS” in my hip pocket and with Kow”s understanding hand on my shoulder we trudged our way back to our block 21 through the “DAMNED SAND.”