Caged Eagles (8 page)

“What?” I asked. It wasn't that I didn't understand the question, just that I was surprised that he was talking to me. He seemed anxious and uneasy.

“We stay here?” he asked.

“I think so.”

I looked around. There were a series of buildings, some small and some gigantic, clustered around the grounds. The biggest of the buildings looked like an enormous barn. In the distance sat a racetrack with a wooden grandstand. Strangely, in the center of the track were what looked like hundreds of trucks and cars. That seemed like a strange place to park.

My eye was captured again by the fence, which seemed to ring the entire place. It was metal and high, and as far as I could see the only gate was the one through which we'd passed. On both sides of the gate were wooden buildings, and I could make out the sight of soldiers. And each soldier had a sidearm strapped to his side.

I felt a shiver run up my spine. It wasn't like I hadn't seen soldiers carrying weapons before. Armed soldiers were always strolling or marching around Prince Rupert. And all the sentries at the base where I'd worked carried rifles, and the military police always had sidearms. But, of course, this was different. These soldiers and these guns weren't for some unseen or unnamed enemy. They were for us.

“Attention!” called out that same metallic voice over the bullhorn. “Please assemble by family and line up at the administrative building to be registered and assigned accommodations.” There was a pause. “After you have been processed you are to return to claim your possessions. Thank you!”

I turned to find my family, and Toshio reached out and grabbed my arm.

“What?” he asked. “What he say?”

“Go to your family. Then they'll tell you where you'll sleep tonight.”

He nodded and then went to find his parents. I followed behind him to do the same. My parents, sisters and grandmother were already standing together, and with my arrival, we started to move where the soldiers were directing. We stopped at the back of a line of families, outside the door of a small building. Quickly the places behind us were filled as family after family joined the line.

Even more amazing than the numbers was the sound — or, more correctly, the lack of sound. Hundreds of people stood or slowly shuffled forward in total silence.

There was no arguing, or complaining, or yelling, or even talking. The little conversation that was going on was in whispers. People moved their feet noiselessly. The only sound to break through was an occasional cough — lots of people had caught colds on the trip down the coast — but even these were subdued.

We got to the door of the building and an RCMP officer directed us to enter. Stretched out in front of us were half a dozen tables, with a man sitting on the far side of each table and a family of Japanese huddled together on our side. One of the families moved away from a table and was ushered out a door at the other side of the building. A little man, balding and wearing a suit, sitting at the now open table, motioned for us to come forward. My father led and we all followed behind.

“Sit, please,” the man said, gesturing to the two empty chairs.

“Thank you,” my father replied as he sat down. My mother moved the second chair slightly aside and then took my grandmother by the arm and guided her into the seat. I stood directly behind my father, with Yuri and Midori standing beside our mother.

The table was cluttered with papers. The little man shuffled and sorted them and made little notations with his pen. From my vantage point, standing above him, I had a clear view of the top of his head. The overhead lights reflected brightly off his scalp. I also noticed that despite the room being far from hot, there were beads of sweat visible on the top of his head.

“Number,” he said without looking up from his papers.

What did he mean by that? My father didn't answer.

“Do any of you speak English?” the man asked.

“Yes,” my father answered.

“Good. Then I need to list your numbers … the numbers on your registration papers.”

“Ahh … yes,” my father answered. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out his papers — bright pink papers. Pink meant that he was a naturalized Canadian. My mother retrieved her papers — also pink — and my grandmother's, which were bright yellow and signified that she had never relinquished her Japanese citizenship. My father placed all three sets of papers on the table in front of the man. The little man took them and studied them; first one, then the next, and finally the third. As he held them I could see that his hands were shaking, badly.

“Where are his?” the little man asked, pointing at me.

My eyes opened in surprise. I didn't think he'd even looked at me.

“I … I don't have papers,” I stammered. “I'm only fourteen.”

“Oh,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “It's hard to tell the age of you people.”

Without saying another word he put his head back down and started writing again.

I watched as he made little notes and f lipped through papers and then started to copy down information from the registration papers. We waited silently.

“Here, take these,” he said, handing my father the registration papers as well as another white sheet of paper on which he'd been making notes. “That will tell you which buildings you're assigned to. As well, I've listed your children — given them a number.”

“Don't you need our names?” I asked.

He looked up at me and shook his head. His eyes looked sad. “Names aren't necessary. All we require to process people is a number. Go through that door,” he said, pointing to the end of the building. “Present these papers to the officers and they will direct you to your quarters … thank you.”

My father rose to his feet and bowed slightly to the little man. His head was once again down, poring over the papers sitting on the table in front of him, and he didn't even see my father's gesture. My father helped my grandmother to her feet.

As we moved I glanced back at the little bald man. I watched intently as he continued to shuffle and sort his papers. I was struck by the thought that he really wasn't doing any work — he was just using the papers to avoid having to look at the people he was processing. Was that was why he looked so sad and nervous, and why he had been sweating? He knew what he was doing was wrong, but he was doing it anyway. As the next family filed in to take our place, they blocked my view of him. I knew he would have liked that — to be hidden. I suddenly felt very sorry for him.

Up ahead, at the end of a short cobblestone path, stood two RCMP officers. In front of the policemen was a family. As we got closer I was surprised to hear angry words — an argument — between one of the Japanese and the RCMP. We stopped, down the way from where the discussion was taking place. My parents and grandmother looked away in respect.

We were too far away to understand exactly what was happening. Yet I could clearly tell by the gesturing, the tone of the raised voices and the occasional word I could hear — mostly spoken by the father of the family — that things weren't going well. Finally the family moved on and we came forward to take their place.

“Papers, please,” the taller of the two officers requested.

My father handed over the three sets of registration papers as well as the forms given to him by the little bald man.

“You are assigned to the men's dormitory,” one of the officers said, pointing to my father. “And the rest of the family is assigned to the family building,” he continued.

There was a heavy silence. What did he mean?

“I don't understand,” my father said.

One of the officers took a deep breath. “What don't you understand?” he asked, and his voice had taken on an angry tone. “
You
go to men's residence, you are a man,” he said loudly, sticking out a hand and practically poking a finger into my father's chest. “And the rest of you,” he said, waving a hand toward us, “are to go to the family quarters. Do you people speak English?”

“As much as you do!” I snapped. Why did people keep on asking that question?

“All of you?” he asked.

“Even my grandmother,” I answered. And of course that was only half a lie. She understood a lot, but really didn't speak it very well.

“Good, that makes it so much easier to explain,” the officer said.

“I'll try to explain,” the second officer said. “Men, and that includes any male over the age of sixteen …”

He paused. “How old are you?”

“Fourteen,” I answered.

“You look older. Anyway, men are assigned to a bed in one building, and families go to a separate residence.”

“But why can't we stay together?” I asked.

“Problems with space and privacy. The men's building is just one big room, filled with bunk beds three high. There's no privacy. It's not the place for women or children. The family dormitory is subdivided so each family has its own space.”

“Why can't my father just live in that space with us?” I demanded.

The officer shook his head. “There just isn't space. It will be cramped enough for the five of you and all your possessions.”

“But we wouldn't mind being crowded —”

“Sorry, son,” the officer said, cutting me off. “Those are the orders and there's nothing I can do about it.

Besides, it isn't like your old man will be far away. The two buildings are just a hundred yards apart. And you'll be eating all your meals together in the same building. I know it isn't what I'd want if it was me and my family … I'm sorry … I really am … I hope you understand.” He handed my father back all the papers.

“Thank you,” my father said.

My father started to walk and we silently trailed behind him. We stopped moving at the fork of the path, where it split off in the two directions.

“We will meet later at the truck and unload,” my father said.

There was no emotion in his voice. Calm, quiet, steady. That was the opposite of how my sisters looked.

Yuri looked like she was about to cry.

“Everything is fine,” my father said in that same tone. “Everything is fine,” he repeated. “Now go. Work to be done.”

My mother reached over and took Yuri by the hand and started to lead her away.

“Tadashi … stay,” my father said, and I remained at his side.

“You are to be responsible,” my father began. “I will be close … for now.”

A wave of fear washed over me. “What … what do you mean?” I asked in alarm.

“You and I must take care of the family. If I am not here … then you.”

“But there's Mom and grand —”

My father silenced me with a hardened look. “They will help, but you will have to lead. You are the male and the oldest … almost a man.”

I wanted to say something back, but his words had caught me so off guard I couldn't get the words out. I just stood there, a dumb expression on my face.

“Go,” my father said. He started off in one direction and I hurried off in the other.

I followed the path around the side of the building. There was a large sliding door, gaping open. It was big enough to allow a car to drive inside. I slowed down at the entrance. What was that smell? Animals, maybe.

Cautiously I walked up the ramp leading to the door and peeked inside. It was a barn, a gigantic barn.

Animal stalls lined the aisles that extended into the distance.

This couldn't be the right place. I'd obviously walked into the wrong building. I was just about to turn and leave when my gaze fell on a Japanese woman, standing in front of one of the stalls, broom in hand, sweeping. Two small children came out of the stall. Then I saw other kids and two more women, all Japanese as well, by another stall … and there were people by the next one as well … and then my eyes fell upon my mother and grandmother standing in front of another stall.

.7.

I stood stock-still, too shocked to move. What were they doing here … what were any of us doing here? The woman with the broom was sweeping up a cloud of dust, and it swirled around, filling the air. I sneezed, and then sneezed again. Wasn't the foul odor bad enough? I stumbled forward. Why was my family in here, anyway? And why was that woman sweeping out that cattle stall?

“Tadashi …” my mother called out. There was a catch in her voice. She sounded all choked up, like she was trying to fight back tears.

I rushed to her side. “Mom?”

“Tadashi … we … we … have to stay.”

“I know,” I said, trying to comfort her as her eyes started to fill with tears. “But we won't be staying here for too long. Let's go and find where we'll be sleeping.”

“No! You don't understand … this is where we're going to be sleeping … here!”

“What do you mean here?” I demanded.

“Here! Here!” she said, pointing to the cattle stall.

“No,” I said, shaking my head in disbelief. “You're wrong … we can't … this is a cattle stall … it isn't for people, it's for —”

“Animals!” my grandmother said, cutting me off. “Animals.”

My head swirled and I needed to sit down, but there was no place to sit. I took a deep breath, a breath full of dust and the smell of animals, and felt worse instead of better.

There had to be a mistake. Maybe my mother didn't understand, or somebody had directed them into the wrong building by accident, or — “Here's the broom I promised you.”

I turned around. There was a woman, a white woman, wearing a uniform. My mother reached out, took a broom from her and bowed her head slightly in thanks.

“Once you clean it out and move in your things it'll be … okay … for a while … it's not like you'll be here that long.”

My mother offered a weak smile in reply.

“There are buckets and soap and water at the far end of the building,” the woman continued. “I better go and help settle in the next group of people.”