I hope things in Camp Savage are better than here and that you aren’t facing people who question both your integrity and your ability to do your job. Are you beginning to thaw yet? Any news from your family these days?
Jo
From Johanna to Brady McHenry, editor in chief of the Ironside Broadside
February 28, 1944
Dear Mr. McHenry,
Everyone knows that “letters to the editor” are very rarely meant for the editor personally. However, this one is and is thus not intended for print.
Your father had a policy of never publishing anonymous letters, and I would suggest reinstating that policy before things get out of hand. As I see it, no one should be able to sling mud from a dark and shadowed corner, and I’m not only saying that because I was the one criticized.
I’d hate to see any trouble when the men arrive at Camp Ironside in seven days, and I’m sure you feel the same based on your sense of civic duty, no matter how smashing a headline about riots and violence would be for you.
Thank you for your time.
Cordially,
Miss Johanna Berglund
From Brady McHenry to Johanna
February 29, 1944
Dear Miss Berglund,
I thought it wouldn’t be long before I heard from Camp Ironside’s translator, though I didn’t think it would be a typewritten query about policy. I’d have imagined you’d be over the moon with my paper after I printed old Cornelia’s rebuttal this week. Jiminy, that letter of hers! I posted half of it, the bottom torn off, in Nelson’s Bar and Grill, and didn’t I get a dozen men without subscriptions storming into the office later, demanding a copy to read the rest. Signed them all right up.
I don’t suppose you’d ever want to submit something? A dramatic exclusive from the woman behind the barbed wire, that sort of thing. My mailbox is always open if you ever do. The POW camp is the best thing to happen to this newspaper since my father’s passing.
As for anonymous letters, far be it from me to deny freedom of expression to some poor pseudonymous fellow who hasn’t got the guts to jot down his name. It’s my journalistic duty to include everyone . . . and to keep up circulation. I’m trying to bring this paper out of its dusty legacy and into the future using all the tricks I learned as an ad man in Duluth.
Best of luck with those Krauts. You’re going to need it.
Brady McHenry
Owner and Editor in Chief,
Ironside Broadside
From Peter to Johanna
March 2, 1944
Dear Johanna,
It was good to hear from you. I’m sorry for the delay in writing. My excuse is a pathetic one. Two days ago, we had a three-hour training hike in full gear. It’s supposed to be for just the enlisted men, not the civilian teachers, but John Aiso made up some line about instructors setting an example, so away I went, pack and all.
How hard could it be? I asked myself, strapping on my pack.
Answer: miserably hard. We trooped through all kinds of terrain covered in spring slush, carrying supplies for a battle we’ll never face here in small-town Minnesota. In between trying to breathe, I kept thinking: I wanted to be an accountant. Lots of numbers, absolutely no sweat involved. How did I get here?
When I woke yesterday, I was so sore I’d have sworn someone ran me over with a Jeep. Now at least I’ve recovered enough range of motion in my shoulders to lift a pen.
As long as I’m focusing on the positive, have you ever considered the possibility you might be imagining that everyone has a grudge against you? Maybe your friend Annika invited you to lunch because she’s actually your friend. Anyway, even if the company was awkward, you’d have gotten a free meal out of it.
Your camp sounds like it’s in the same state Camp Savage was when we arrived. The buildings could have been knocked down with a hearty sneeze, the walls so full of cracks that if you slept too far away from the potbelly stove in the center of each barracks, you’d freeze, but too close and you’d roast. They’ve made improvements, but of course no one joined the language school for the posh luxuries.
Then again, given the stuffy tar-paper accommodations back at the relocation centers most of them came from, maybe it was an upgrade.
Speaking of which, I know all about having my ability and integrity questioned. Did you forget how long it took for the American government to allow Nisei to serve in the military? Add that to the fact my family and hundreds of other Japanese Americans from the West Coast are still stuck in internment camp lean-tos, waiting for someone to let them go home, and I guess you could say I relate to your frustration. It’s bad enough Roosevelt sent them there in the first place, but even now that he’s overturned his own order, the bureaucrats are still dragging their feet about shutting down the camps.
My parents write pretty often from Gila River, which is about the same as here in terms of being overcrowded and flimsy but with warmer weather. Marion is enrolled in an after-school calligraphy class taught by one of the older women. She’s taken to embellishing the flaps of envelopes with little butterflies and flourishes and is getting quite good, unless it’s just my brotherly pride speaking. Between her letters and yours, I get ribbed pretty often during our daily mail call. I’ve recently gotten rumors that she’s mooning over a young man by the name of Harvey Seki, so she’s just fine with staying in Arizona a while longer. (I distrust him with the suspicion of a thousand hard-boiled gumshoes, if you’re wondering.)
Everyone else, cramped and dusty and idle, would like to be home yesterday, if possible. Thanks for asking after them. I’m sure they’d like to meet you if they could, though Baba would be merciless about your Japanese pronunciation, same as she was with mine.
It’s none of my business, but are you lonely there? Baba tells me that’s how she feels in the relocation center, partly, I think, because the younger generation all speaks English, even at home. It’s a strange kind of isolation, feeling alone even when surrounded by people.
One last thing before I start working on tomorrow’s lesson: Keep a rolled-up newspaper around to kill the spiders. You can sometimes dispatch two or more that way. Besides, think of the satisfaction you’ll get whacking around those anonymous editorials.
Your friend,
Peter
From Johanna to Peter
March 5, 1944
Dear Peter,
You, Peter Ito, are exactly right. As always.1 You’ve gone through precisely the same prejudice I’m experiencing, only much worse, and I’m sorry I was so wrapped up in my own troubles that I couldn’t see it.
So tell me: What do you do? How do you prove yourself successful when you’re not even sure you want to? As I see it, I have two possible paths before me: I can do my work with excellence, receiving very little but my town’s scorn and an (admittedly generous) paycheck. Or I can prove myself so incompetent or disruptive that Major Davies will be forced to admit this was a terrible idea and hire someone from New Weimer to take my place, leaving me free to escape to my classical tomes.
It wouldn’t be so hard, would it, to fake ineptitude? People do it all the time accidentally.
Here are a few of my best ideas on the subject.
Ways I Could Be Semi-Honorably Discharged:
Create a number of noticeable errors in my clerical work or translation. This is not a serious suggestion. I don’t think I could stand it.