A Letter From Tule Lake

By David Contara

She gapes at the black lacquer box, finely decorated with golden leaves and floral motifs. Its craft echoes days she had long felt behind her. The lid lifts smoothly, revealing a small paper umbrella. She extracts it slowly and holds it with both palms, wary of damaging its delicate construction. There’s something familiar in the half-chopstick shaft and the toothpicks supporting the white canopy, its creases covered by stylized drawings of cherry blossoms in faded brown ink.

An envelope accompanies the box. Inside, a letter, neatly written in small longhand.

San Francisco, September 20, 1948

Dear Mrs. Harris,

I hope this finds you in good health, and that you and your family are well. I don't expect you to remember me, and I apologize if this comes as a complete surprise to you.

My name is Masahiro Kuroda, and I was sent to Tule Lake Segregation Center five years ago. Days of great unrest and distress, as they transferred many Japanese Americans there. They placed me in your ward due to the infection in the broken leg I eventually lost, and you assisted me during my recovery.

I remember the kindness you showed me during those difficult weeks; how you listened patiently to the stories I told you in my faulty English, while your expert hands changed the bandages on the stump of my leg.

At the time, I was reeling from the argument I’d had with my son Hiroya a few days before my arrest; you were understanding when I lamented that he had answered yes to both the loyalty questions. I later learned that he enrolled in the Army and joined a Nisei battalion in Europe.

You told me your son was stationed in the Pacific, and how you looked forward to the few letters he sent you. I recall you were uneasy discussing that he fought people from what I still considered my homeland. To this day, I appreciate your honesty and openness in that matter.

When I returned to the barracks after a few weeks, I missed the daily ritual of my favorite nurse doing the rounds at the hospital. I think you left the Center a few months later; the war raged on, and medical personnel were in high demand elsewhere.

I stayed at Tule Lake for two years. Life was still, but hard: I toiled in the fields by day, and spent long, solitary nights thinking about the meaningless war between my countries, wishing that the good in people would prevail in the end.

I hope you are now reunited with your son. I never saw Hiroya again. He died in Italy during an action against the Nazi. After the war, his former captain sent me a note relating how Hiroya’s heroism had saved the lives of other soldiers in his regiment. He inquired if there was something he could do for me. I asked him to help me find the people who had made my days at Tule Lake easier to bear; and that is how I found your address.

I am sending to you an origami wagasa I built during one of those long, solitary nights at the Center. The cherry blossoms I drew on it remind us of the transient nature of life, yet they are also a good omen for this time of renewal. I truly believe it is the kindness of people like you and Hiroya’s captain that ended our war, and I would like to express my gratitude by humbly asking you to accept my gift.

Sincerely,

Masahiro Kuroda

The low cupboard across the room beckons her attention. She walks there and puts the paper umbrella down on the wood veneer. The canopy rolls on its rim until it comes to a stop next to Mark’s picture frame. His uniform tightly pressed and beret slightly askew, her son seems to smile at the life unseen but full of possibilities that lay in front of him the day he left for the Pacific.

She opens the top drawer and places Mr. Kuroda’s letter in it. To one side, atop another stack of papers, is the telegram from five years before with its bare, hard letters:

The Secretary of War desires me to express his deep regret that your son …

Her hand is steady when she crumples and tosses it.

She picks up the umbrella and holds it above her eyes, spinning it gently around its shaft with her fingers. Looking closer, she sees that minute scribbles dot the inside of the canopy, perfectly aligned symbols in a language she cannot understand.

* * *

The morning fog has lifted, and a bright blue sky caps the treetops of the Japanese Tea Garden. The nurse pushes the wheelchair along carefully trimmed plants and serene ponds, strenuously negotiating the many turns and the uneven stone paths. The old Japanese-American man asks if she is tired; she shakes her head lightly with a smile.

They stop at steps leading up to a wooden bridge. The old man rises with dignity from the wheelchair on his only leg and stands firm on his crutches. The nurse lays a hand on one of his arms. It is not for support; it is to accompany him as he hobbles up each step and proceeds onto the bridge. A tall, red pagoda emerges from the greenery on the other side. As they advance, their silence is broken only by the gentle, humming song of the light morning breeze.

About the author

David Contara lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. Technologist by day and writer at night, he enjoys capturing the shades of humanity revealed by characters living in disparate settings—historical, contemporary, or fantastical. He is currently working on his first book. You can connect with David on Twitter at @DContara.

About the illustration

The illustration is "Persons of Japanese ancestry arrive at the Santa Anita Assembly Center from San Pedro. Evacuees lived at this center at the former Santa Anita race track before being moved inland to relocation centers." April 5, 1942. National Archives at College Park, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.