The Displaced Persons : ‘They Hung Up Notices to Get Ready for Evacuation. It Said on Such and Such a Day : You Go. So What Can You Do?’

On Dec. 7, 1941, Japan bombed Pearl Harbor, killing 2,334 American servicemen and wounding 1,347. By March, 1942, all persons of Japanese descent living in Western states were ordered by reason of “military necessity” to 10 “relocation centers,” each housing between 10,000 and 20,000 evacuees. Of the roughly 127,000 people of Japanese ancestry in the United States in 1940, about 113,000 of whom lived in the West, nearly 80,000 were American citizens. Following are first-person accounts.

Hiro Mizushima: Dec. 7, 1941, was Sunday. I was going to the California College of Arts & Crafts, and we had an assignment to do some drawings of Lake Merritt in Oakland. I went there early in the morning, and about 12 o’clock I was ready to return home. A couple of sailors came up to me and said, “Are you Chinese or Jap?”

I said, “I’m an American. Why?” They just glared at me and walked away. I got onto the streetcar to return home, and I heard all these sirens. I heard this announcement for all military personnel to report to their bases. I thought all this was awfully funny. When I finally returned home, I still didn’t know what was going on. I turned on the radio, and I heard about Pearl Harbor. I didn’t know where Pearl Harbor was or anything.

My father’s hair turned white the day of Pearl Harbor--I think because he didn’t know what the future would hold, and he had one brother in the old country. First thing my dad was saying was, “Well, if something happens, I’ll be the first one to go into camp or something.” But at that time, we didn’t even know about the camps.

Lili Sasaki: I was walking home from helping my brother-in-law in his snack shop, and I saw the newspaper on the stand: “Japan Bombed Pearl Harbor.” My God, don’t tell me such an awful thing like that! And when I got home, two FBI men came and were waiting for my father-in-law. They said they wouldn’t leave until he came. My father-in-law didn’t come home until about dinner time, around 7. And the minute he came, they told him to “Pack up a few things, and come with us.” It’s because he belonged to some of those Japanese associations. He was quite well-known in Japantown. And he was a writer. He had printed three books in Japan. We never heard from him for, I don’t know, six months. We didn’t know what happened.

Yeah, that was very bad. After Pearl Harbor, I just hated to go outside on the street. Then the government told you not to travel so many miles from your home. But I had to get to work. I had to make some money. And as I was going through the turnstile, a policeman stopped me and said, “What are you? Are you Japanese?”

And I didn’t stop. I said, “No, I’m not Japanese.” But I think the young policeman was too embarrassed to chase me. He let me go. But I thought I was American. I was born here, so I just said, “No.”

So I went to work.

Jack Matsuoka: When I heard the news of Pearl Harbor, I didn’t believe it. My folks didn’t believe it either. It never hit us until the Army put out a curfew right in the center of Watsonville. Main Street--if you’re a citizen, you can cross Main Street, if not, you can’t. So I had to do the shopping for my folks.

Then the FBI picked my father up. He was just nobody, but they picked him up anyhow. They came in the morning and asked where he was. I told them I didn’t know. This big bruiser of an agent, a cross between a football fullback and a Nazi storm trooper, said, “Don’t get sassy with me!” He didn’t call me any names, but his tone. They surrounded the house; one agent came in from the rear, two came in the front. The leader said, “Don’t worry, we’re going to take care of your father--you’ll hear from us.” Just like the movies. They took him away. It was nearly a year before we were together again.

Charles Mikami: The FBI took me over to the immigration office and the jail. I’m never against America. I’m loyal to America because my wife is born in this country--America--and my children are born in America. I don’t do anything against America.

The hearing board says, “Well, after you came from Japan six years later, you organized a Japanese young men’s association. And you were president for five years, and when the New Year comes, Japanese put the picture of the emperor up like this.”

“No, no, I don’t,” I say. “Young men’s association doesn’t pay any attention to the emperor. (They are) American-born mostly. You must mean Japanese association, first-generation association. So you made mistake.” The secretaries were typing away like that.

“Let me get out of here because I have to see my wife. She got a nervous breakdown!” I say. My wife can’t do anything. She worry too much. Little kids. And our grocery and car, she got to sell now cheap--everything. So I worry about her every night, and I couldn’t sleep good. So I had to get out from here.

And they understood. A friend of mine--a lawyer from Tacoma, we go fishing together--talked to the hearing board. Maybe the hearing board telephoned to this man. And he said, “Oh, Mikami, he’s a nice man. He’s all right. He’s safe, I think.”

And next day, jail guard comes: “Hey Mikami, you can join your family tomorrow. Prepare to go out within 40 minutes.”

George Akimoto: My dad was head of a couple of organizations, which I guess the FBI considered dangerous or subversive. So one morning, about 7 o’clock, they broke through our front door and came in with submachine guns. One of the deputies--I guess the FBI had recently sworn him in--used to be a bill collector in Stockton and used to collect bills for my dad. He came in with them. They saw my Sea Scout uniform and said, “What’s that?”

I said, “Can’t you see the Boy Scout emblem on that?”

They questioned us, and then they said, “We’re going to have to take him.” They took my mother’s knitting book that was written in Japanese--you know, knit one, purl two. They thought it was a code book. That was the only evidence they took when they took my old man. I could see them just running that thing through the Army deciphering machine!

So they took him and put him in the local jai. This was in the wintertime. He didn’t even take his topcoat because he thought he would be back in a day or two. Next thing we know, we got a letter from Bismarck, N.D. He’s up there in a camp freezing in the snow up there without his topcoat! Eventually he wound up in Santa Fe, N.M., actually with prisoners of war from the European theaters--Germans, Italians. Then all of a sudden, they released him.

Lili Sasaki: Right after Dec. 7, wherever I went I felt so self-conscious and embarrassed. I went to the library once, and this handsome woman--about 50, in a pretty dress, gray-haired, tall--looked at me and stuck her tongue out. Then on the bus in Los Angeles, I heard two women in front of me--they knew I could hear--they were saying: “One thing is certain, we should get all the Japs, line them along the Pacific Ocean and shoot them.” Two women saying that!

But evacuation was really a shock. At first we didn’t believe it; there were rumors that we might have to be sent some 150 miles from the coast. Yes, all the time there were rumors. And then the newspapers started writing how disloyal the Japanese were and this and that. And when they put big signs in the barbershops: “No Japs.” We didn’t even go to Chinese restaurants after that anymore. At first they thought just a few Japanese closest to the coast would be evacuated, but then they decided to move everybody in Los Angeles. That’s why we had to hurry up and get rid of all our things. We couldn’t take in any cameras, knives, books. Suddenly having to get rid of everything and being given two weeks to do it in!

You could only bring one little suitcase and hand case. They gave you the measurement--it couldn’t be this big or this high. So we didn’t know what to expect. We sold all our things within two weeks. Put everything out front, sold my wedding presents and furniture for 15 cents, 25 cents, and went into camp. Now, of course, when they told us we had to get rid of everything in two weeks, every house had to make a bonfire to burn off their junk. Then they’d say, “They’re burning off all the evidence.” They were accusing. Things like that. They said they built great big storage houses. The government said you could have your furniture brought there. But nobody wanted to do it--a lot of them did, but more of them didn’t--because we thought they were going to confiscate it. We didn’t know.

Where I worked at the ceramic studio painting cookie jars, all the artists were so disgusted because I was leaving. And I felt terrible, too. One woman said, “Lili, if they’re not going to treat you right, you let us know and we’ll go in there.” She said, “On the margin of your letter, you just write little dots or something and that means you’re not being treated well.”

Frank Kadowaki: A lot of people had businesses and farms. They had built up their own way, then they have to leave it--everything--where they are. My farm went back to the Irvine Company. We leased. But other people, I think have 100, 50, 25 acres of their own, they have to leave it, everything right there. You can’t take furniture or anything belonging to you. Only the clothes, whatever you got, could you use. We just take spoon and fork. Can’t even take eating knife. I think they’re scared for the sharp knife; they’re scared cutting ourselves. They don’t even give us chance to take knife. So we just take spoon and fork, that’s all. After the war, burglar got in and stole everything that we had left. We lost very bad.

Masao and Sada Mori: We kept our florist business until the Second World War. With Pearl Harbor, nobody buy our flowers--we want to sell them--but we have to get rid of it. That’s the only way. The relocation order was a big shock. It sure was. They hung up notices to get ready for evacuation. It said on such and such a day you go. So what can you do? We can’t do anything. They said we had to do it, so you just do it the way they want, that’s all.

We were renting a house, so we weren’t able to store much. People came to buy things. We sold our furniture. Stuff like that you have to sell; you can’t take it away with you. You are limited to two suitcases--what you can carry. We just took bedding, clothing.

American Friends Service Committee Bulletin (1942): As night of the second day of the evacuation of Terminal Island drew on and the deadline drew even nearer, little groups still toiled feverishly in an effort to load and move the last remnants of all the disrupted homes within the allotted time.

The empty houses were dark, as the electric current had been cut off. Unable to carry flashlights, which were contraband, they finished their tasks in the gleam of flashlights held steadily for hours on end in the hands of Caucasian friends who flocked to their aid.

In this area of vital defense, no light shone from factories, stores or ships--all was total darkness. But looking upward now and again, one could always pick out the same sure stars in their same sure places, and be strangely reassured. Suddenly, out of the darkness, a clear young voice said, “Well, at least, you can’t black out the stars!”

From “Beyond Words: Images From America’s Concentration Camps,” by Deborah Gesensway and Mindy Roseman. Copyright 1987 by Cornell University. Reprinted by permission of the publisher, Cornell University Press. Last passage courtesy of the Conard-Duveneck Collection and the American Friends Service Committee Bulletin.