one of the long tables and guarded us. I have always wondered who imagined that we were ripe for sabotage, a poultry room filled with women standing in line collecting bowls of food for their children. At the time, I was terrified of that long-legged, uniformed policeman high above us, a man who watched as I chewed porridge that was served in one lump in the morning, as I chewed macaroni for lunch, and chunks of tough stewing beef or fish poached in a tasteless white sauce for dinner. Everything was covered in white sauce. At night, some sort of fast-cooked rice was served, the likes of which no mother we knew had ever prepared.
Because Mother had to spend so much time standing in line to collect food for the three of us, there was often nothing left when she went back for her own meal. She wasn’t the only woman who went hungry. It took numerous meetings and letters explaining conditions before the problem was resolved, and before slightly more palatable food in larger amounts was brought in.
Any news to be had was exchanged and passed on by the women in the dining room. We had not heard from Father since we’d been separated on arrival at Hastings Park, and Mother told Keiko in a flat, worried voice that he might have been taken away to a work camp. One of the rumours was that husbands, fathers, uncles and older brothers had been sent to camps as far away as Ontario and were required to wear circular targets on their backs so that they would be easy to shoot if they tried to escape. Other men were assigned to work crews and were said to be building roads near the Alberta border or in the northern part of our own province of British Columbia. And just as we thought we would never see any of the men again, Mother’s younger brother, Aki, turned up.
Uncle Aki had been living and working as a fisherman on Bainbridge Island in Washington for several years. Only months before we were rounded up, he had moved to Steveston on the B.C. mainland. Now, he managed to get a message to us saying that he was close by and had been put to work as a cook in the kitchen, adjacent to the poultry building. His wife, our auntie Aya, had arrived that day, the message said, and she was in the same livestock building where we were living. Uncle Aki wanted Mother to look out for her, and Mother set out immediately, going up and down the rows of stalls to see if someone new had arrived. We did not know Auntie Aya very well because Uncle Aki had married when he was living in Washington. Whenever he had visited, he’d arrived on his fishing boat. After he’d moved to Steveston, he brought Auntie Aya to Vancouver Island to meet us, but only once. So far, they had no children.
Uncle Aki also told Mother in his message that he’d learned that Father was still in Vancouver, but was being held in a special detention centre in the city. That was why we hadn’t heard from him. Every day, men were being sent away, it was true, but so far Father had not been among them. Father’s brother, Uncle Kenji, had been taken to a road camp; that much had been found out. Father was doing what he could to keep our family together, and he was trying to obtain information about moving us to a self-supporting camp. To do this, he had to prove that money would be coming to him from an insurance policy and from the auctioning of his boat.
And then, one day, when rains were pounding the rooftops and while I was staring out at the barbed-wire fence, Uncle Aki came to the doorway and stuck his head inside. When he saw Mother, he called us over. He was not wearing a cook’s apron and hat, but a dark suit and a long grey coat and fedora. At first, I wasn’t certain who this was. He looked like an imposter who might have slipped into Uncle Aki’s good clothes. But he really was our uncle. He had baked during his spare time between meals, and the guards on duty allowed him to bring a tin container filled with raisin cookies, as well as a parcel for Auntie Aya, who ran
Because Mother had to spend so much time standing in line to collect food for the three of us, there was often nothing left when she went back for her own meal. She wasn’t the only woman who went hungry. It took numerous meetings and letters explaining conditions before the problem was resolved, and before slightly more palatable food in larger amounts was brought in.
Any news to be had was exchanged and passed on by the women in the dining room. We had not heard from Father since we’d been separated on arrival at Hastings Park, and Mother told Keiko in a flat, worried voice that he might have been taken away to a work camp. One of the rumours was that husbands, fathers, uncles and older brothers had been sent to camps as far away as Ontario and were required to wear circular targets on their backs so that they would be easy to shoot if they tried to escape. Other men were assigned to work crews and were said to be building roads near the Alberta border or in the northern part of our own province of British Columbia. And just as we thought we would never see any of the men again, Mother’s younger brother, Aki, turned up.
Uncle Aki had been living and working as a fisherman on Bainbridge Island in Washington for several years. Only months before we were rounded up, he had moved to Steveston on the B.C. mainland. Now, he managed to get a message to us saying that he was close by and had been put to work as a cook in the kitchen, adjacent to the poultry building. His wife, our auntie Aya, had arrived that day, the message said, and she was in the same livestock building where we were living. Uncle Aki wanted Mother to look out for her, and Mother set out immediately, going up and down the rows of stalls to see if someone new had arrived. We did not know Auntie Aya very well because Uncle Aki had married when he was living in Washington. Whenever he had visited, he’d arrived on his fishing boat. After he’d moved to Steveston, he brought Auntie Aya to Vancouver Island to meet us, but only once. So far, they had no children.
Uncle Aki also told Mother in his message that he’d learned that Father was still in Vancouver, but was being held in a special detention centre in the city. That was why we hadn’t heard from him. Every day, men were being sent away, it was true, but so far Father had not been among them. Father’s brother, Uncle Kenji, had been taken to a road camp; that much had been found out. Father was doing what he could to keep our family together, and he was trying to obtain information about moving us to a self-supporting camp. To do this, he had to prove that money would be coming to him from an insurance policy and from the auctioning of his boat.
And then, one day, when rains were pounding the rooftops and while I was staring out at the barbed-wire fence, Uncle Aki came to the doorway and stuck his head inside. When he saw Mother, he called us over. He was not wearing a cook’s apron and hat, but a dark suit and a long grey coat and fedora. At first, I wasn’t certain who this was. He looked like an imposter who might have slipped into Uncle Aki’s good clothes. But he really was our uncle. He had baked during his spare time between meals, and the guards on duty allowed him to bring a tin container filled with raisin cookies, as well as a parcel for Auntie Aya, who ran
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