with the white block letters MP.

On the side of the highway, a soldier restrained a German shepherd tugging at its leash and pacing in the black-eyed Susans. Its companion waited placidly in the grass, bright-eyed and panting. Our car idled at the blockade. The train rounded the corner of the woods and sounded its whistle again. It took only a moment for me to understand that it was the German prisoners of war and they were arriving in Rook that very minute. I could tell that Mother was frightened. She said nothing, but gripped the steering wheel with her white gloves as if she were afraid that it might escape her. As the train pulled alongside us, one of the soldiers standing in the road noticed us waiting. He shifted his gun in his hands and walked our way. The old, wooden train opposite us was unlike the sleek, silver ones that came through every morning and night. Each railcar had numbers stamped along its side, and the decrepit wheels creaked and complained as they slowed near the entrance to Camp Nine. Despite the searing heat, all of the window shades were lowered. As the soldier approached and tipped his hat, Mother leaned her head from the window. Afternoon, maam. Good afternoon, sir. He peered inside, but there was nothing to see but me, sitting in the front seat. Sorry for the delay, maam, but this highway will be blocked for some time. Mother pried her right hand from the wheel and pointed her finger past the store to our house. I live just over there. Im bringing my little girl home from school, and I would appreciate it if you would let us through. She pointed again to emphasize her intent. Im anxious to get my daughter home. Shes taken ill. Id never known my mother to lie, and I was delighted to hear the fib slip so easily from her lips. I dug myself down into the seat and squinted my eyes to give credence to her story.

20 Vivienne Schiffer

The soldier took his time looking me over. Thinking back now, I realize he was no more than eighteen or nineteen years olda babyand from God knows where. What had he thought of us those many years ago, that fresh-faced boy from Montana or Wyoming or Ohio, someplace where people speak flatly and without inflection? He was probably just as bewildered as I was, thrust into a strange and foreign land that existed within the borders of his own country. He discharged the duty of his pointless inspection, then straightened, and abruptly left to confer with his colleagues. The train, now stopped, sounded its whistle twice, and at that, all of the window shades opened at the same time. Startled, I sat up straight, craning to look. Id never before seen either a German or a prisoner, and I was anxious to see both at once. Emboldened by the safety of our car, I hoped secretly that some ragged and disgraced enemy of freedom might make a mad dash to escape, just so I would see how fast the dogs could run. A face appeared in the train window opposite my car door, close enough almost to touch. But it wasnt a German soldier. It was only a child, younger even than I. In that brief moment that it took me to realize that she looked Chinese, the windows filled with what appeared to be Chinese families, mothers, fathers, and children, packed tightly into the train, tired and worried, all fighting for the chance to look out the window at our Buick and our house and our little town. And me. They looked without speaking, wide-eyed, at the tall grass growing alongside the track and the sign that sprouted from it that announced their destination: Rook, pop. 86. Mothers hands slipped from the wheel. Her eyes narrowed and her mouth assumed the position of words, but none came. The soldier had returned and was talking to her through the open window. Maam? he repeated.

Camp Nine 21

Yes. Yes, she said, swiveling toward him. A jeeps engine started up. It pulled off the highway, opening our path. You can go on, but only as far as your home, please. The soldier touched the tip of his cap with his fingertips. Mother put the car in gear. Thank you, she said, but she neglected to touch the gas. The soldier started away. Mother called after him. Sir? He walked back, shading his eyes against the afternoon sun, and leaned into the car. Where are the Germans? she asked. He glanced at the train. Not Germans, maam. These are Japanese. From California. He stood straight and touched his cap again. Drive careful, now. As he walked away, Mother called after him. But . . . He turned briefly and waved. Thats all I can tell you, maam. We watched his back as he rejoined his companions. I didnt know why they had come. Could entire families be enemy agents, right down to the smallest of children held in their mothers arms? A different kind of trouble settled over me. A girl, my age, in a red vest and white shirt, tugged at a strand of her hair and worried her tongue inside her mouth. I felt childish, selfish fears, but it was all happening so fast all I could do was try to understand it in the context of what it meant to me. Mother took one last look at the train beside our car, then pulled slowly down the highway through the blockade. As we made the corner to the house, I turned in my seat. Just before I lost sight of the faces in the train, my eyes locked on a boy with peanut butter skin and black pepper eyes, so handsome and so bewildered. I lifted my hand to wave, but he looked through me as though none of this was really happening. This was an expression I would see in David Matsuis eyes many times over the coming months. It was as if he had convinced himself that if he could not see what was happening to him, to his family, then it must not be true.

22 Vivienne Schiffer