March, 1975
RICH MAN, POOR MAN, BEGGAR MAN, THIEF
DOCTOR, LAWYER, MERCHANT, CHIEF
Inside World War 2 Manzanar, Part 6
By Shiro Nomura, Museums Department Historian for Manzanar
From all walks of life… American citizens sentenced without trial. Crime? Parental ancestry… Term of sentence? Unknown… Future? Uncertain… Their reason? Multiple… Forced from their homes, issued numbers and sent off to concentration camps throughout the United States. One of such camps, and the first one, was
MANZANAR RELOCATION CENTER
OWENS VALLEY, INYO COUNTY, CALIFORNIA.
SPRING OF 1942.
As the weeks went by, we became acclimated to the bitter cold of the mornings and nights, but enjoyed the comfortable warmth of the day. We even experienced some hot windless days which was indicative of the hot summer months ahead. We were forced to seek relief in the shade of the large cottonwood trees which are found in abundance near the rear of camp.
The wind is a constant thing which we learned to put up with. An early morning zephyr works itself into a full-blown gale by late afternoon. In fact one afternoon a small cyclone which was first sighted near block 6 in the southwest corner of camp zig-zagged diagonally towards our block, but ripped the roof off the men’s latrine in block 15 across the street from us. A couple of men were temporarily inconvenienced until the emergency crew cleared the area of live wires. A couple of the barracks were lightly damaged by the flying roof but fortunately there were no casualties.
With the constant watering of the areas surrounding the barracks the dust which had been a major problem with each wind storm was held down to a minimum. Most apartments by now had most of the knot holes covered with lids from tin cans and the cracks in the floors and walls stuffed with rags or newspaper. We heard rumors of a camp requisition for plaster boards to line the interior of our apartment. What a relief that would be from the cold and the heat. Still another rumor. We heard that the linoleum crew was laying linoleum in the low numbered blocks and we checked this out to be true. However, they were moving at a snail’s pace and seemed to be in no particular hurry. Maybe I knew someone in the crew. I would go take a look.
The linoleum crew was controlled by a group of boys from Terminal Island whose families had suffered the most harsh and unfair demands of a government upon the Japanese people. They had been faced with a 48-hour eviction deadline, and were the first of any group of Japanese ancestry to be uprooted and forced from their homes. Terminal Island had immediately come under rigid patrol and strict surveillance soon after the bombing of Pearl Harbor. It seems that Terminal Island and its people had been spied upon by the U.S. Government even months before the actual bombing. The Terminal Island Japanese have been long noted for their compact fishing industry and according to a Mr. Shigekawa, a former Terminal Islander, their boats were confiscated and docked and have yet to receive a penny in restitution for their losses.
Terminal Islanders were obviously mad at the world. What can you accomplish in 48 hours?
I heard of their dilemma on the second and final day. I took our stake truck and was able to move out two families before the deadline of midnight. The island was a scene of utter confusion and pandemonium. Cars, trucks of all sizes and shapes, trailers and even horse-drawn wagons. It’s a wonder the island didn’t sink from all the weight. Men yelling, women and children crying and above the din and confusion the “city vultures” in their huge furniture vans, bartering and bargaining for the expensive appliances and furniture purposely being broken up before their eyes by the people rather than take a paltry buck or two.
I helped clean out Kiyoshi’s Music Store of all his personal belongings and as a couple of men watched, Kiyoshi and I smashed all of his records except for one box full which he told me to keep. An offer of ten dollars for each of his glass cases fell on deaf ears as we continued to demolish everything of value. Next door at Yoshioka’s Cafe, we could make out sounds through the wall indicating that “renovation” was also in progress there. As a final gesture Kiyoshi picked up a block of wood and hurled it through the plate glass window. Who was that block of wood meant for? Roosevelt? Dewitt? America? Fate? I’ll never know. That block of wood lay among the fragments of his life’s investment.
It turned out that I knew a few of the boys on the linoleum crew and it hastened the schedule for our block and also gave us a choice of color (Black or Brick Red). They cut out a pattern for our double-door entrance and it gave the apartment a very homey look. It did pay to know someone on the inside. Talked to Shig Nakaji (Terminal Islander) about the attitude of the boys from Terminal Island and I found that they carried a chip on their shoulder the size of a log for the treatment that they had received. Reports were that they had been making life miserable for some of the camp residents. They were taking their feelings of anger and bitterness out on their own people. They would have to be made to realize that we were not here by choice but by the same order that governed their move.
Now, this is important. Seldom mentioned in any of the articles that I have read was that prior to the deadline posted for evacuating the Western Defense Zone, we had been given the opportunity of pulling stakes and relocating in to the interior states outside of the WDZ. The choice was to be a pioneer and to blaze a trail or to be a part of the herd: to go where we were led. What’ll it be, “a rap on the knuckles or a swat on the butt.” Again, the fear of the unknown.
A friend, Ken Yamagawa and his family accepted the challenge and took a giant step. From a hotel in Los Angeles to farming in Littleton, Colorado. Acceptance in Colorado was tolerable. Exiting through some of the small towns in California, intolerable. “A great experience,” he says.
We look back at a particular experience in camp and refer to it as the “Diarrhea Epidemic of ’42.” A few months had passed and we had reluctantly settled down to a day-by-day existence. What had started out in the afternoon as a minor stomach disorder among a few developed into a major problem of catastrophic proportions. Some called it a malady while others placed the blame on tainted food. Some were accusing their block chef not realizing that the discomforts had almost engulfed the entire camp. By nightfall, and all through the night, there was a constant stream of people wearing a path to the comfort stations. I had mentioned in an earlier issue that the men’s latrine had eight stools but the ladies were luckier as they had ten. Hardly enough in such an emergency. Some of the severe cases affecting the young and the aged were hospitalized.
What a nightmare. What a mess! Fear was raised when someone mentioned without real cause that the drinking water in the reservoir was poisoned. Rumor mongers jumped on this latest bit of gossip and soon the word had spread throughout the camp: “Don’t drink the water.” Panic necessitated the doubling of the reservoir guards, but it was like sounding the alarm after the fire had burned itself out. Chemically analyzing the water, it was proven that the latest rumor was unfounded and that the water was perfectly safe to drink but the residents remained leery for some time. Yes, I believe that many of the former camp residents remember that painful experience.
The reservoir is located about two miles west of U.S. 395 directly behind the former campsite and is not visible to the travelers of the highway. In recent years the reservoir has been turned into a popular desert spa and frequented by the “Ladies of the Valley.” The sign now reads, “Dirty Water – Don’t Drink.”