I would like to introduce myself with the five names given me because names in themselves can define your history: Louise, my Christian name, Sachiko, my Japanese name, Sakamoto, my maiden name, Chan, my married name, and 32360D, my government-issued ID during WWII.
My story is a tribute to my late father, Sam Sakamoto, who guided a large family through the WWII incarceration experience. Details are taken from recollections he had written while still living.
My home in February, 1942 was in San Jose, California. My Dad was the only son of Japanese immigrants. At age 23, he had responsibility for his parents and two of four sisters still living at home, along with his own family: my Mom, my 14-month-old sister and me, a newborn. Eight of us lived in a rented, 4-bedroom house. The Asian-exclusion acts started in the 1870s, which denied my grandparents rights to citizenship and they could not purchase property. By birthright, however, the rest of us were American citizens.
On December 7, 1941, Dad heard the news of Japan’s attack on Pearl Harbor while on active duty for the State Guard. Soon after, he was discharged and terminated from service. There were uncertainty and fear everywhere with the news promoting people of our race as the “face of the enemy”.
Soon after, I was born on February 4, 1942. Two weeks later, Executive Order 9066 was issued which forced the removal of 120,000 Japanese-Americans from the west coast; they were deemed as a threat to national security. Among them were Japanese with as little as 1/16th Japanese blood. Those with highly sensitive or publicly recognized profiles were immediately arrested. We were all ordered to rid ourselves of our properties and possessions. Wealthy clients from Dad’s landscape maintenance business offered to store our possessions in their basement. Possessions my grandparents had brought from Japan were destroyed for fear these might misrepresent their patronage.
We reported as a group of eight to the Southern Pacific Train Depot on May 30. Each was allowed to bring what they could carry. I was put in a baby carriage. Each person was tagged with a 6-digit-number/letter combination as a means of keeping families together. We were headed to the Assembly Center in Arcadia: the Santa Anita Race Track. Our housing was in hastily-built barracks in the parking lot. Each were given a large sack to fill with hay for a mattress. The maintenance crew’s quarters and horse stables were also used for housing. In the Grand Stand, a camouflage net-making project was underway which helped to keep many of the restless evacuees occupied. But, in truth, we were treated as if we had become “the enemy”.
My resourceful father used my baby carriage with its mattress as a hiding place for a few necessary handyman tools such as a hammer, pliers, wrench, perhaps some nails etc. There were no metal detectors used back then or my Dad would have been taken to another place!
One day in the heat of summer, while my Dad tried fixing a stuck window, he fell and injured his back. Soon after, on September 12, 1942, we were all boarded onto an old, dilapidated train with no destination nor length of journey announced. Considering my Dad could not sit without pain and because there were two of us babies, we were assigned to a pullman car. This was luxurious since we had pull-down beds for each parent and a baby aside.
For the rest, the mental and physical angst were in-humane. The evacuees, including my grandparents and two aunties, and many elderly people, endured sitting on hard wooden bench seats with all the windows covered for five days and four nights! My Dad recorded our slow speed at around 35 mph with interruptions to allow other trains to pass plus regular stops for fuel or water. The government claimed they were protecting us against possible sabotage by taking us on a wide, circuitous route ending in an undisclosed destination.
Meanwhile, my Mom, as well as others, waited for the next delivery of a baby bottle of milk which was unpredictable. There was residue seen at the bottom of the bottles. I had a lot to complain about, especially when hungry!
Once reaching the Heart Mountain Incarceration Camp in Wyoming, it was obvious we would remain imprisoned behind barbed wires, guarded by rifles pointed toward us from the nine towers surrounding the 20 blocks of barracks, each block holding 24 long barracks. Within one, our family got a section of aroun24’ x 20’. My grandmother stood her ground to get two units for the 8 of us. Once again, everyone stuffed a sack with hay for a mattress. The only furnishings were a cot and an Army blanket for each adult, a bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling and a pot-bellied stove. We hung blankets to separate ourselves from the next family. The ceiling space was left open so every sound could be heard. Soon, materials became available for anyone wanting to try improving their unit. But, there was no running water, sinks or toilets! Those were shared in separate “latrine rooms” or “shower rooms” for each block; one for men and one for women. Meals were supplied in the area’s dining hall with assigned hours for each family to stand in line until a table cleared. The food was barely edible, cheap and foreign to the Japanese diet; often Army surplus with no fresh produce.
My Dad, with his tools, covered up the tarpaper-lined walls with insulation, constructed a fence around the potbelly stove for safety, and made furniture as stools and a child-sized table and chairs. He created a little front porch so you would not have to step into the mud, which was everywhere whenever it rained.
All who could work were matched with a job. My Dad worked in the Finance Audit Unit for $16 a month. The high altitude and freezing temperatures of -22 degrees affected his health which had been compromised by rheumatic fever. He entered the camp’s hospital the day after Christmas and laid there through the month of January without treatment. My Mom walked in the sub-freezing temperature twice each day to visit him. His condition became grave. They put him on morphine.
A miracle arrived just in time. A young Japanese-American physician had transferred from active military duty and concluded Dad had a recurrence of rheumatic fever compounded by a streptococcus bacterial infection. The doctor found the same new sulfa drug that had cured his wife from this very infection. After a week, Dad was able to be up, exercising and walking a little. On March 15th, nearly 2 1/2 months after being admitted, he was discharged. The good doctor who saved his life recommended he move to lower elevation and avoid over-exertion.
In order to be released, my Dad had to prove he had a place to live and a paying job, anywhere except for the west coast. He found a place at a Hostel provided by the American Friends of the Quakers Service in Des Moines, Iowa. Although agreeing to a job in a laundry, he found he could interview for a better job in person. He left camp on September 30, 1943, just over a year after being interned. He was interviewed and hired by Iowa Power and Light in accounting and auditing.
Little did we know, our Mom would also be leaving the following month! Dad wanted her help to earn enough to bring the rest of us out of the camp. Mom would have to leave us with the grandparents. She left by train for Des Moines on November 15, 1943 and promptly went to work as a cook. My sister was soon to be 3 and I was 21 months old. We would not see Mom again for 9 months!
I nearly lost my right eye when a boy named “Micky” threw a rock at me. I should be grateful he missed, but I cursed him as a teen when I had to use an eyebrow pencil every day to hide the scar. There were many hazards to life in camp. Nearly 1,900 within the various camps died due to illness, poor medical care, natural causes, several errant shootings by guards and even suicide.
The following August, my folks finally rented a house. Members of the American Friends Service Committee held a drive to furnish it with every necessary item including utensils. As mismatched as everything was, our family was most grateful for their kindness.
My grandparents, my aunt, now 13, my sister Lois, now 3 1/2 and me, now 2 1/2, left Heart Mountain on August 24, 1944 by train. My other aunt became engaged and opted for a simple wedding in the camp.
There were surprises for my folks such as my speaking Japanese I learned from my grandparents. I was also a picky eater since the camp experience and was very underweight, even for many years after. I was terrorized when I met an elderly white-haired Caucasian friend of my parents. I had only been with people having Japanese features during the confinement. With such limited exposure to the “real world”, It took years for me to “catch up” in my development.
On January 1, 1945, only 4 months after we were all freed from camp life, the Evacuation Order was lifted. The remaining Heart Mountain evacuees each received their paltry $25 and a bus ticket home. Some actually lingered in camp, no longer having a home to return to.
My parent’s, although cherished by their employers, sadly had to cut ties in Des Moines to resettle back in San Jose because the grandparents only social life was there. In mid-1946, my Dad purchased a used Sedan allowing him to make two 1600-mile trips to bring the seven of us from Des Moines to San Jose.
We reunited at my Auntie’s home. All seven adults and 3 kids managed to live in that 3-bedroom, 1 bath house she had purchased. Dad quickly re-established his landscaping business. A client of his owned a furniture store and offered lending the down payment for a house, interest-free, with minimal monthly payments. Furniture for it could also be paid later, interest-free. Along with us, our grandparents and their youngest daughter settled into our first “real home”. Mom found employment at a well-established, downtown San Jose restaurant. My Dad gave up landscaping due to his damaged heart. His experience in auditing while in Iowa eventually led to a job with the county auditor where he influenced big changes within their department.
As for me, finally becoming free to explore, our community was frightening since I had remained so sheltered. Starting elementary school was as traumatizing, since I didn’ attend kindergarten. I was always the smallest and youngest in class, last to be picked for sports, and reprimanded for never speaking loud enough. It took college to make me feel independent with confidence in who I was.
It took over 40 years for the Japanese-American Citizens League to settle their lawsuit against the U.S. government for our unconstitutional removal and incarceration. The government that had masked over this event, agreed to create National Historic Sites at the 10 largest camps and amongst other things, require it be taught as a part of U.S. history so that this would never happen again.
In 2022, my sister and I attended a Pilgrimage along with 300 others at the Heart Mountain National Historic Site. 22 of us were former incarcerates. It was a rewarding awakening to be at the place our family talked about as we grew up. We witnessed the remnants of a hospital where our Dad nearly died. We felt such pride in our race to learn how their community of over 10,000 people skillfully worked together to make life more tolerable under such inhumane conditions.
We also saw how the US government quickly erased all evidence of this camp. Barracks were immediately sold for $1 each. Driving around the area, we saw many of them “re-purposed” into homes, barns, sheds, etc. Our government’s efforts to hide their shameful treatment of us was proof itself of their wrong-doing. The anger I felt prompted me to begin telling my story.
During a class reunion, I informed attendees that 16 of their classmates started life in prison camps. Most never knew. If there is an opportunity, I now include my incarceration in my personal history. I try educating about racism and the differences of various Asian cultures and their histories within our country.
My story ends with thanks to God and those he sent to help us through a harsh and punitive time in our lives.
Note: Louise is one of the panelists at “And Then They Came for Us” at the Nevada Theatre, on Wednesday, August 5, 7pm. Survivors of the Camps are now in the 80s and 90s. This is a co-production between Community Asian Theatre of the Sierra and The Onyx Downtown. Tickets at https://www.theonyxtheatre.com/special-events/.