Free Toward Night's End by M.H. Sargent Page A

check—”
    “At the base,” Johnstone said, interrupting.
    “Right.”
    Johnstone nodded. He thought for a minute, then ventured, “Do you happen to know what happened to his hand? The left hand? His fingertips, they—”
    “He never said. Wouldn’t talk about it,” she readily explained. “It was before I met him.”
    “I see.”
    “Just some things he was real private about, that’s all.”
    Again Johnstone nodded. He’d have to find out some other way. Not that it mattered. It probably didn’t have anything to do with the man’s death, but it was interesting, and if he learned what happened to his left hand it might help him figure out why the man was murdered. He decided he had asked enough questions for one day, so he said, “I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am. If there is anything I can do...?”
    She looked at him. Then gave a sheepish smile. “Pay the rent?”

Manzanar War Relocation Center, Owens Valley, California. March 31, 1942
     
    The day before, for the first time in her life, Kumiko was glad her husband was dead. He had loved the sea, their beautiful island, and the tall cedars that enveloped the land. But this place was desolate. The ground was hard as rock. There were no trees. Just ugly brown scrub brush. To make matters worse, she could hardly pretend that they were just going to live in a different city for a while, although this is what she had told Julia time and again. But the barbed wire fences that ringed the one square mile area and the tall guard towers with armed sentries didn’t allow for any pretense. And so Kumiko was pleased her husband hadn’t lived to see this. There was simply no beauty here. None at all.
    When they had left the train, they had been put on large trucks and transported across the forsaken land for several miles. She knew they had arrived when she had seen the large wooden sign mounted on two large posts that read, “Manzanar War Relocation Center.” Soon thereafter they had passed a small military sentry post, and it was then that she first noticed the barbed wire.
    “What’s it look like?” she had heard Ido ask Daniel.
    “I don’t know,” Daniel replied. The excitement of the train ride was now over. He was old enough to know their future looked bleak.
    “Owens Valley,” Ido said. He waited for a moment, then asked, “Is it pretty? This Owens Valley?”
    When Daniel didn’t reply, Kumiko had turned to Ido and told him in Japanese, “It’s the high desert, Otousan. There are no trees. Just some scrub brush, but not much of that.”
    They then had to stand in line for quite sometime as every person made his or her way to a long table where several soldiers sat with thick registry books. The soldier in front of them explained that they had to personally sign in with their name, age and town of origin. Kumiko had written Ido’s information, but when she tried to sign for him, the soldier had quickly taken the pen away and explained that Ido had to sign his own name. It was the law. Kumiko had been allowed to help guide his hand to the right place, but since he couldn’t see, his signature scrawled largely at an angle. Kumiko had anxiously looked at the soldier. But the young man just smiled politely and personally thanked Ido who had been very pleased he had done well, smiling brightly and bowing slightly to the serviceman in reply.
    The soldier had then given them a crude map of the relocation center. The cafeteria where they would eat was clearly marked, as were several bathroom and shower facilities. Each barracks was numbered in an orderly fashion and she noted that they had been assigned to Barracks #5.
    At first, Kumiko had thought that each barracks would house one or two families. But she soon discovered that she was greatly mistaken. Each barracks was designed for dozens of occupants. The long, narrow structure was filled with cots along both walls and there were a few dressers, desks and chairs scattered about. Some families that