Japanese Internment 1942
My
dad often lets me tag along as he makes his rounds of McMullen Dairy. We live
on the dairy in the San Gabriel Valley of Southern California. A cacophony of
voices fills my memory of these adventures.
“Elgin,
Elgin, come have a wee taste,” Mr. McMullen’s Scottish brogue rings out from
his front porch. We climb the stairs and I watch with the curiosity of a
four-year-old as the two men share a glass of wine while discussing the status
of the dairy and events of the day. I know my dad’s name is Eldon and wonder
why Mr. McMullen always calls him Elgin.
We take our leave and walk on out toward
the cow pasture. We pass McMullen’s walnut orchard. I listen curiously to men
talking in Spanish as they tend the trees.
Dad opens the gate, and we follow the
cattle down the lane to the holding pen outside the dairy barn.
The milkers take over and shout the
cries of western herdsmen as they sort and move the milk strings into their
respective stanchions.
Pete, the dairy operator, comes out
of his house. He scoops me up, swings me around, and teases me in his Dutch
accented English. He sets me down and he and my dad discuss the condition of
the herd. When the cows are locked in their stanchions, Dad straps on his
milking stool, sets his bucket under the first cow of his string, and the never-ending
task of a dairy farm begins anew. Pete walks me back to our house and hands me
over to my mom.
Mom
is listening to the Hit Parade on the radio. She sends me out to play while she
tends to her household chores. I approach the backyard fence and listen to the
singsong voices of the orient coming from the truck farm next door. The people
speaking are bent over tending their rows of plants. A pretty little girl about
my age leaves the group and crosses the field toward me. She sits down across
the fence from me, and we play in the dirt.
My
parents have tried to explain that these people are Japanese and somehow
different. I don’t understand. I can see that she is darker than Mr. McMullen’s
redheaded granddaughter, Sharon. Her eyes are different. But she is just as fun
to play with. We play with few words, but words are not needed. Still, the
fence separates us. She does not come to my house, and I don’t go to hers.
The
afternoon wears on. A woman comes and leads the girl away. She smiles and says
something that I don’t understand. I watch as they walk toward their house. The
girl turns and her hand comes up in a small wave. I wave back.
Dad
comes home from the afternoon milking. Mom sets out dinner and we eat. After
dinner, Dad and I go to the living room while Mom cleans up the kitchen and
nurses my baby brother. Dad turns on the radio.
The
smooth voice of Lowell Thomas comes over the airways. He tells us the news of
the day. Most of what he has to say is about the war. The war is not news to
me. Like the endless routine of the dairy, it has always been there. It is a
part of our lives. We don’t feel it; it is far away. But we hear about it
constantly. It is like the sound of the ocean when we camp on Laguna Beach. It
rumbles in the background without end.
It
is an afternoon like any other. Pete hands me off to Mother. I go out the
backdoor to the yard. It is strangely quiet. I can hear the strains of the
McGuire Sisters “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree” playing from inside the house.
But no singsong voices come from field next door. It is deserted. The plants
still stand, green and growing. But no one is taking care of them. The people
are gone. I sit by the fence for a while, alone. A death like silence wraps
around me.
I
go back in the house and ask my mom where the people have gone. The Army took
them away, she tells me. She tries to explain, but her words are not enough.
Not enough to quell the fear welling up inside me. The first chink in my armor
of innocence is gone.
Robert LaRue
Robert LaRue wrote technical stuff when he
was part of the corporate world. Now retired, he writes a newsletter for his
local history club, popcorn stories for the club, and an occasional letter to
the editor expressing his iconoclastic views for the local newspaper. When he
is not writing, he can be found enjoying the great outdoors surrounding his
home in North Idaho. At age eighty-five, he has earned those rights.