Honolulu (27 page)

The latrines were long sheds containing wooden benches with appropriate holes cut in them, situated above a trench of running water. There was also a copy of last year’s Sears, Roebuck catalog, the pages of which were apparently used to cleanse oneself. It made the lavatories at Kauluwela look like a king’s bath!

As I made my inaugural visit to these facilities-relieving myself of a stream of water into even fouler waters below-the last thing I expected was to hear a familiar voice:

“Did I not predict that this would be a great adventure?”

Glancing to my left I was startled to see-seated on the next bench, with her skirt hiked up to her waist-the diminutive figure of Wise Pearl.

We laughed and (taking time to adjust our skirts) embraced.

“It is good to see you again,” she said warmly. “How is Mr. Noh?”

“It is good to see you as well. But I am no longer married to Mr. Noh. It is a long story, and as bad as much of it is, not one I wish to relate in an outhouse.”

She laughed at this and we relocated outside, to more pleasant surroundings along the banks of Waikele Stream. I told her of my circumstances these past few years, the good and the bad, and asked for her discretion in regards to my divorce. I was a bit apprehensive about her reaction, but to my great relief it seemed not to trouble her at all.

“And have you and Mr. Kam been here at Waipahu all this time?” I asked.

“No, my husband was at ‘Ewa Plantation when we married,” she explained. “We spent three years there, where I gave birth to two healthy sons. But Mr. Kam speaks very good English as well as Japanese and Korean, and I encouraged him to apply for a job as a translator here at Waipahu … though at the moment, I’m afraid, there is precious little to translate.”

I told her of our fellow picture brides, now both living in Honolulu. “It would be a fine thing to see them again,” she said. “Perhaps we may take the train into town together sometime.”

“I’m sure they would like that as well.”

I was happy to find a friend here, much less an old friend; and pleased that it felt as if not a day had passed between us since our dockside weddings, almost six years before.

I had promised Jae-sun I would not work in the fields, but there was still much for me to do at Waipahu: cooking, cleaning house, and the inevitable laundering of work clothes caked in mud or blackened by soot from the sugar mill. It was familiar drudgery, made more challenging by the presence of a toddler who seemed unsettled by her new surroundings and clung anxiously to my skirt. My pregnancy often amplified my weariness, sapping me of strength and stamina when I needed them most. Thank Heaven for Wise Pearl, who was always there to lend a hand. She never seemed to lack for energy or good cheer, a useful corrective to my own moodiness-not just my hormones but the depressing return to plantation life, living by the shriek of the steam whistle sunup to sundown, and the unfortunate memories this evoked.

But the workers’ community here was as welcoming as it was at Waialua, and I soon made many friends among the Spanish, Chinese, and Puerto Rican wives. Their children, and Wise Pearl’s two sons, tried to befriend Grace, but she was painfully shy-as I had been at her age-and despite coaxing she usually retreated into the nearest corner to play with her doll.

My husband was not as young as when he last did field work; most days he came stumbling home bone-weary and sore, wolfing down dinner before collapsing into bed. I massaged his aching back and shoulders and rubbed ointment into sprained muscles. But he never complained or lost sight of why he was suffering this: Every payday he would proudly show me his wages and talk about the future this money would secure for us. Even after buying groceries I was able to deposit more than half of his salary in the bank; at his weariest, Jaesun was buoyed by our little account book and what it represented.

I did most of our shopping at the plantation store, but there were certain items they did not carry, and though I shared Jae-sun’s aversion to patronizing Japanese merchants, my family’s needs came first. So without telling my husband I would sneak off to shop at the well-stocked Arakawa’s Store on Depot Road. Mr. Arakawa was always cordial enough, but on the street I felt the eyes of the Japanese strikers on me and I shrank from the anger and contempt in their faces, lowering my eyes as I hurried back to the safety of the Korean camp.

When I next needed provisions I could not obtain at the plantation store, I decided to purchase them at Mr. Yi’s general store in Honolulu, where I could also say hello to Beauty. With Wise Pearl minding Grace Eun, I boarded the 8:35 train, arriving in Iwilei at 9:15 A.M. But I scarcely expected the sight that greeted me as I left the train depot.

Refugee camps overflowing with hundreds of displaced workers from the plantations had sprung up like weeds all around the train station. I was stunned to see entire families living in canvas tents, cooking their meals over open fires, washing their clothes in metal buckets and drying them on lines strung between campsites. Instead of the scent of orchids or Chinese jasmine, the trade winds carried the rank smell of human waste from holes dug along the perimeter of the camp. In the midst of this squalor and desolation, keiki laughed and played as keiki did anywhere, but somehow that made the sight even harder for me to bear.

I hurried across King Street into Palama, but if there was no refuge for these people, there was none for me from them. I saw dozens squeezed into a single shrine or temple, or camped in once-vacant lots between buildings. Some were Filipino, but most were Japanese-women in kimonos feeding their children meager rations of rice or miso soup as their frustrated and helpless husbands sat by, smoking cigarettes. Others lay blanketed on bedding inside their tents, even though it was mid-morning.

All at once our rude lodgings in Waipahu seemed positively palatial in comparison. And I wondered, with a queasy feeling, whether our current housing had perhaps been home to one of these families, who were now living in such squalid conditions.

I headed north on Liliha Street, where still more families squatted in abandoned stores and factories, each person staking out a cold sliver of concrete floor. Many lay on tatami mats, coughing or shivering as if feverish. With a sudden fright I realized how foolish I had been to come to Honolulu-these crowded, unsanitary encampments were obviously rife with influenza. Cursing myself for my stupidity, I quickened my pace, intending to briskly make my purchases at Yi’s store, then board the very next train for Waipahu.

But a few blocks up the street, in another formerly empty lot, a baby was wailing-and that sound will always make a woman’s head turn, if only for a moment. I looked and saw a Japanese woman sitting cross-legged on a mat, two drowsy toddlers leaning up against her with eyes closed as she cradled a baby, rocking it asleep with a Japanese lullaby I had heard in the sugar fields:

The guarded mountain, Mountain of the sacred groveAlong the foot Ashibi are floweringWhat a lovely mountain is The mountain guarded like a crying child.

But it was not the woman’s song that had drawn my attention. I knew her.

It was the young Japanese woman from the Nippon Maru-the one who’d sat down beside me on the deck one chilly night, and whose friendly overtures I had just as coldly rebuffed. That young woman’s face had been smiling, open, and cheerful, but this woman’s was pale as chalk, her eyes beset with worry. She looked like a wraith cradling the spirit of a stolen child.

I knew I should not get any closer for fear of influenza, yet I still took a step toward her.

“Excuse me,” I said, “but … did you travel here aboard the Nippon Mara?”

She looked at me and blinked, as if wondering why anyone would ask her this. Finally she replied, “A long time ago … yes.”

Fool that I was, I took another step forward.

“I believe we met one night, on deck. I was … quite rude to you.”

She looked more closely at me; a pale crescent of a smile appeared on her face. “Ah … yes,” she said slowly. “So you were.”

“Is-is your baby hungry?” I asked.

She shook her head. “No, just colicky. I have milk enough for her. But alas, these two”
she glanced at her two older boys
“are too old to suckle at their mother’s breast.”

“Does no one provide for you here?”

She made a little shrug at that.

“The union does what it can,” she said, “but there are many mouths to feed-over six thousand of us, we are told, on O’ahu. The men go fishing or catch crabs at the waterfront … that is where my husband is now. We get by.

“The plantation owners just … threw you out of your home?” I said in disbelief. “With your keiki?”

“Oh, yes. Even the sick and infirm. It made no difference to them.”

I felt my face grow flush with shame and told her, “I will come back with food.”

She smiled faintly. “It is kind of you to offer. But you weren’t that rude.”

“I will be back,” I promised, and hurried to the nearest grocery store. There I purchased a five-pound bag of rice, a dozen eggs, a pound of dried bonito, two quarts of milk, soy sauce, miso, two pounds of soba noodles, a can of red a~uki beans, and some crackseed-all of which cost about five dollars. We were making enough money at Waipahu that we could afford to be charitable, and since I managed our household budget, Jae-sun need never know of it. I carried the groceries back to the camp and humbly presented them to the woman.

“Please accept this paltry gift from an unworthy source,” I said.

She hesitated to take them. “No, I could never repay this kindness.”

“I am not asking you to repay it. Just take it-please.” Wryly I added, “My husband hates miso and can’t digest milk. What will I do with it all?”

She laughed at that, and finally accepted the gift.

“Thank you,” she said, bowing, “for your kampana. ” This was a Buddhist term that spoke of when “good people’s hearts are moved” to do a compassionate act. “May I ask the name of our benefactor?”

“I am called Jin.”

“Thank you, Jin-san. I am Tamiko. This is my firstborn son, Hiroshi, and my second-born, Jiro. The little one is Sugi.”

“Konichi wa, ” I said, then gave the boys the crackseed I had purchased. This was a sweet-salty confection popular in the islands; they snapped it up, thanked me, and happily began chewing the licorice-flavored candy.

I asked, “Which plantation did you come from?”-though I dreaded the answer.

“‘Aiea.” It was just a few train stops away from Waipahu. “At first we were housed in a church on King Street, but there were so many sick people there my husband thought it safer for us to be out in the open.” With equal parts amazement and horror she added, “Have you heard? Even the shicho- oh, what is the word-the mayor of Honolulu, Mayor Fern, has died of the influenza!”

I had not heard. “Aigo. ”

“Hawai’i is not what we imagined, back on the Nippon Mara, is it? Yet it’s a lovely place, and so warm-the winters in Kumamoto were terrible, I could never go back to them. Do you live here in Honolulu?”

“No, I am just-visiting.” It was nearly true. “And I must be getting home. But before I go …” I reached into my purse, took out several dollar bills, and started to hand them to her.

“No, no-you have done enough!”

“Call it a loan. You will repay me when you are rich, and I am poor.” I bowed. “Good luck to you. Perhaps we will meet again.”

“Yes, under kinder circumstances. Thank you, Jin-san.”

I left and continued on to the Yi store, where I purchased the items I had come for and chatted briefly with Beauty. When I told her about Tamiko she said she would look in on the family next week and if there was anything they might need, she would supply it. Beauty truly had the good heart of which the Buddhist masters wrote; my kampana was compromised by shame and guilt. I thanked her and hurried back to the railroad depot. I remember thinking as I arrived that the encampment of tents and people looked like a war-weary army in a military campaign, stoically awaiting the next battle. And I feared I was on the wrong side.

Gently, I tried to suggest as much to Jae-sun, telling him what I had seen in Honolulu (though omitting any mention of my act of charity). But he simply said, “They chose to go out on strike. They can come back at any time of their choosing.” Indeed, the Filipinos’ labor union had already capitulated and called their members back to work.

I began to follow the progress of the strike more closely in the Englishlanguage papers and was shocked by their editorials, which claimed the strike was not economically motivated but a sinister attempt by Japan to wrest control of the sugar industry in Hawai’i-if not all of Hawai’i itself. They called it “the Japanese conspiracy.” I read Jae-sun some of this virulently racist commentary and pointed out how the sugar industry sought to pit one racial group against another, as they did on the plantation by paying different salaries to different nationalities. “Next time it will be Japanese breaking a Korean strike, and who will benefit then?”

He grudgingly admitted that what I said made sense-and I believe I was beginning to sway his thinking when one afternoon he came limping home after a day in the fields, in a condition that made me cry out in shock and distress.

“Oh my Heaven! Yobo, what happened?”

His left eye was blackened; blood dripped from his nose; his right cheek was swollen purple-blue as a plum. I immediately ran and got ice from the plantation store, wrapped it in a towel, and placed it against his swollen eye. I swabbed his bruises and lacerations with iodine, which made him flinch. Finally I asked him, “Who did this to you?”

“I had an accident in the fields.”

“Why did no one take you to the hospital?”

“It was on the way back from the fields,” he amended.

“Husband,” I asked again, “who did this?”

He sighed, knowing I would not let the matter rest.

“A few of us were on our way back from the north cane fields,” he admitted, “when some of the strikers who had taken refuge in Hongwanji Temple approached us. They called us `planter’s dogs’-and a few other things I cannot quote. One word led to another, and here I am.” He pointed to his discolored eye. “I believe the haoles call this `a shiner,’ ” he said proudly.