They Came After Midnight

My parents immigrated to the Territory of Hawaii in 1929, adding two members to the family with the arrival of my brother and me in 1930 and 1931. Life was good. When I was ten, my father was assigned a Jōdo Shū [Buddhist] temple in Koloa, Kauai, Hawaii, after having served as Assistant Priest in Hilo, Hawaii, and Puunene, Maui. I have warm memories of my childhood in Koloa, where we kids were loved and nurtured by the congregation as though every member were a grandfather or grandmother to us.

In my life, two events turned my world upside-down. The second was the sudden death of my husband of forty years. The first was World War II.

Pearl Harbor, the strategic U.S. naval base in Honolulu, was attacked by Japan on December 7, 1941. We went to bed after an anxious day, only to be awoken well after midnight by a loud pounding at the door.

It was then that I saw a fierce-looking FBI agent standing in our doorway, his gun cocked at my father's heart.

It was then that I saw a fierce-looking FBI agent standing in our doorway, his gun cocked at my father's heart. He was escorted by a rueful town police sergeant whose parents were members of our congregation. Sergeant Tashima apologetically announced that all Japanese community leaders, priests, Japanese language teachers, and editors of the Japanese press were being detained by the U.S. Government as a "threat to national security."

When my father asked "Where to?" the agent only responded with an icy stare. The Sergeant then told my father to bring a warm coat with him and, under his breath, whispered the word "jail" in Japanese.

Other detainees were less fortunate; they were not told that they'd be held in the county jail.

We didn't hear from the FBI for a full two weeks, after which wives were finally permitted visitation. My mother—who was the only Japanese wife in our community with a driver's license—took a carload of other women on her weekly visits. Others had to rely on friends for transportation, which was not easy, as people were afraid to get involved with the "prisoners," as if detention were contagious. The detainees were confined to jail cells and couldn't shower or shave, and stayed in the same clothes for two weeks. When wives finally brought them clean clothes, they had to undergo the indignity of having all the garments, including underwear, inspected for clearance.

In time, the "internees," as they were called, were transferred to Sand Island near Honolulu Harbor and later shipped to various internnment camps in the Western states. My father, as a result of a tuberculosis relapse, was hostpitalized at Tripler Army Hospital in Fort Shafter (now the Tripler Armed Service Medical Center in Moanalua Heights).

Hospitalized behind barred windows and with a guard stationed outside his door, my father was forced to pledge his formal loyalty to either the United States or Japan. Many of his embittered colleagues who were sent to internment camps in the deserts of the southwest chose to pledge loyalty to Japan. My father declared that he had come to America with the intent of making it our permanent home—and even told the authorities that he was ready and willing to serve as chaplain for Buddhist soldiers.

One day, out of the blue, my mother received orders from the Provost Marshall's office to vacate the parsonage.

Meanwhile, martial law ruled, and many Japanese Americans who wanted to prove their loyalty to took it upon themselves to report suspicious activities—real or imagined—to the military stationed in every town. One day, out of the blue, my mother received orders from the Provost Marshall's office to vacate our parsonage. We would have been homeless had it not been for the kindness of the local plantation manager, who gave us a rent-free cottage for as long as we needed it.

All sugar-mill workers lived in cottages like these, as part of housing camps owned and maintained by the plantation. Although we were grateful for a roof over our heads, we were not accustomed to having no indoor plumbing and using a community outhouse of four toilets serving each cluster of houses. The toilet consisted of a plank with a hole cut into it, under which a flume ran to transport waste. The kitchen was separated from the living area and connected by an outdoor porch. When the wind blew, soot fell on us mercilessly through window screens and door jambs, leaving a fine black dust on the floor, tables, chairs, and on our beds. Sweeping and mopping was a continual chore.

I found it strange at first that my mother drove a mile into town for groceries rather than shop at the plantation store close to where we now lived. Much later, I realized why she'd refused to patronize that store: the manager was rumored to have "offered" our parsonage and hall to the Provost Marshall. Somehow, the store manager's own church family—whose premises were far more spacious than ours—were never asked to vacate their homes.

We were allowed to worship on Sundays. My mother hesitated to conduct services as she was not ordained as a minister, but the good people of Koloa wouldn't hear of it. They said that our misfortune was also theirs, and that my mother should continue the services for the benefit of both our family and the community.

Then, one Sunday, an unfamiliar car drove into our yard and dropped off a gaunt, unshaven passenger: it was my father, standing there in an oversized, government-issued bathrobe. The war was winding to a slow close by then, and the government was at last convinced that the Japanese in America posed no threat to national security. However, my father had been released on the condition of parole, and he continued to report to his parole officer every week, until the war was over.

Anything and everything of value had been stolen from the sanctuary.

World War II ended in 1945 with Japan's unconditional surrender to the United States in a ceremony aboard the battleship USS Missouri. At that time, nearly all of the Hawaiian-Japanese repatriates had become disenchanted with their motherland and returned to the Hawaiian territory. Also homeward bound were the American troops, who left Kauai and vacated our parsonage at last. We returned to find our home in shambles. The temple had been broken into and looted. Anything and everything of value had been stolen from the sanctuary.

Months later, we received a package with no return address. Inside the box was a beautiful pouch woven in gold and silver brocade, and inside the pouch was a bronze canister. The thief had likely expected the artifact to be of great value. And he would have been right, in a sense.

The urn held the remains of a baby girl. It was, indeed, priceless.

Yoko H., Retired Principal