soldier.â âI didnât say you were afraid.â What an idiot! Did he want to get into a fist fight that badly that it didnât matter who it was with?
âDonât be stupid,â I said, backing away.
He kept coming toward me. Whether or not I wanted to fight didnât matter. He was going to take a run at me, so I put up my fists to defend myself.
âToshio!â screamed out a high-pitched voice. It was Mrs. Mori. She yelled and gestured for him to come to her side. He hesitated, took a halting step toward her, stopped and then turned back toward me.
âIn the end ⦠you not be riding in front of truck with soldier ⦠but in back with Japanese. You only white on the inside ⦠outside is yellow like everybody else. You not hakujin.â
Toshio turned and away.
What did he mean? Of course I wasnât white. I shook my head. There was no point in wasting any time on anything that idiot had to say.
.6.
Twenty-two of us, including Toshio, sat in the back of the truck, surrounded by our belongings. It was an eerie feeling when the soldiers slammed the tailgate with a metallic thud and then tied the canvas into place. The only light that entered the truck was either filtered through the canvas or entered through the small gaps. Despite the faint light I could still see the glare in Toshioâs eyes. He sat directly opposite me, staring, his gaze burning holes right through me. It was bad enough that I had to be sealed in the back of this truck like luggage, but why did I have to be locked in here with him?
We were bounced around and our possessions occasionally shifted as the truck rumbled and roared and bumped and bashed along the road. The noise of the engine was a constant, as were the fumes from the exhaust. It was a sickening smell, far worse than almost anything aboard the boat.
Periodically somebody would lean close to somebody else, put a mouth to their ear and say something. I couldnât hear anything more than an occasional snatch of words â always spoken in Japanese. Words seemed to be spoken in hushed tones to match the dim lighting. Were they afraid to be overheard? Did they think that anybody was listening ⦠or cared to listen?
I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I didnât know whether the feeling was caused by the motion of the vehicle, the presence of Toshio glaring at me or the uncertainty of what lay ahead when the truck finally stopped and the tailgate was lowered.
I felt the truck slow down dramatically, and the engineâs tone changed to a deeper rumble as it geared down. I had hoped that signaled the end of our ride, but the truck continued to move on. The ride, never smooth, suddenly became rougher, and we were bounced about more violently. My father reached over and placed a hand on my grandmotherâs shoulder to steady her. She nodded in response.
Then the truck came to a stop and the smell of the diesel fuel was replaced by dust, which percolated up through the folds and gaps of the canvas walls. I heard the doors of the truck opening and then slamming shut, the voices of the soldiers moving along the side of the vehicle, and then the men working the ropes to release the canvas and free us from the truck. The canvas loosened and then the tailgate groaned and creaked and dropped open with a thunderous crash that shook the whole truck. The canvas was thrown back and the bright light flooded in and I shielded my eyes with the back of one hand.
âThatâs it, last stop!â announced one of the soldiers.
I rose to my feet. My legs felt shaky and I steadied myself with a hand against the side as I shuffled toward the tailgate. I stopped at the edge, staring out anxiously. Behind us other trucks came to a stop, sending clouds of dust up into the air. Farther back, along a dirt track, was a high metal fence, and on the other side of the fence a street brimming with traffic â cars as well as more
âDonât be stupid,â I said, backing away.
He kept coming toward me. Whether or not I wanted to fight didnât matter. He was going to take a run at me, so I put up my fists to defend myself.
âToshio!â screamed out a high-pitched voice. It was Mrs. Mori. She yelled and gestured for him to come to her side. He hesitated, took a halting step toward her, stopped and then turned back toward me.
âIn the end ⦠you not be riding in front of truck with soldier ⦠but in back with Japanese. You only white on the inside ⦠outside is yellow like everybody else. You not hakujin.â
Toshio turned and away.
What did he mean? Of course I wasnât white. I shook my head. There was no point in wasting any time on anything that idiot had to say.
.6.
Twenty-two of us, including Toshio, sat in the back of the truck, surrounded by our belongings. It was an eerie feeling when the soldiers slammed the tailgate with a metallic thud and then tied the canvas into place. The only light that entered the truck was either filtered through the canvas or entered through the small gaps. Despite the faint light I could still see the glare in Toshioâs eyes. He sat directly opposite me, staring, his gaze burning holes right through me. It was bad enough that I had to be sealed in the back of this truck like luggage, but why did I have to be locked in here with him?
We were bounced around and our possessions occasionally shifted as the truck rumbled and roared and bumped and bashed along the road. The noise of the engine was a constant, as were the fumes from the exhaust. It was a sickening smell, far worse than almost anything aboard the boat.
Periodically somebody would lean close to somebody else, put a mouth to their ear and say something. I couldnât hear anything more than an occasional snatch of words â always spoken in Japanese. Words seemed to be spoken in hushed tones to match the dim lighting. Were they afraid to be overheard? Did they think that anybody was listening ⦠or cared to listen?
I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I didnât know whether the feeling was caused by the motion of the vehicle, the presence of Toshio glaring at me or the uncertainty of what lay ahead when the truck finally stopped and the tailgate was lowered.
I felt the truck slow down dramatically, and the engineâs tone changed to a deeper rumble as it geared down. I had hoped that signaled the end of our ride, but the truck continued to move on. The ride, never smooth, suddenly became rougher, and we were bounced about more violently. My father reached over and placed a hand on my grandmotherâs shoulder to steady her. She nodded in response.
Then the truck came to a stop and the smell of the diesel fuel was replaced by dust, which percolated up through the folds and gaps of the canvas walls. I heard the doors of the truck opening and then slamming shut, the voices of the soldiers moving along the side of the vehicle, and then the men working the ropes to release the canvas and free us from the truck. The canvas loosened and then the tailgate groaned and creaked and dropped open with a thunderous crash that shook the whole truck. The canvas was thrown back and the bright light flooded in and I shielded my eyes with the back of one hand.
âThatâs it, last stop!â announced one of the soldiers.
I rose to my feet. My legs felt shaky and I steadied myself with a hand against the side as I shuffled toward the tailgate. I stopped at the edge, staring out anxiously. Behind us other trucks came to a stop, sending clouds of dust up into the air. Farther back, along a dirt track, was a high metal fence, and on the other side of the fence a street brimming with traffic â cars as well as more
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