AI: Well, so now you're in Heart Mountain. It's fall of 1942, and you still haven't finished your high school. What happened then after, when you got to Heart Mountain then? Was there a school all ready for you to join in the, start going to class again?

MK: Yeah, at the, the early school was in the barracks. Later on, they built the high school there, and gymnasium and everything. While we were there, we went to the barracks. We had, some were teachers, some were teachers' aides, some were Caucasians from the outside, and they taught all the kids, I guess the best of their ability under the condition. A funny thing, when I went to school there, nobody talked about the Constitution and the Bill of Rights and the deprivation of our constitutional rights. We were taught school like a normal school, like on the outside. Probably wrote compositions "Why I'm proud to be an American," too. [Laughs] Isn't it ridiculous, but that's the way it was. I do remember a student writing, "Why We Are Prisoners in a Concentration Camp." I remember that. I, I thought, "Gee, that kid there is really bright and has a lot of courage to write a composition like that. But everybody else is, "Why I'm proud to be American," and you know, waving the flag and everything. Kind of ridiculous, but that, that's the way people thought in those days. This one kid wrote about the Constitution and the deprivation of our rights. And I said, "Wow." That put a kind of a seed in my mind, too. We're taking this evacuation and incarceration too lightly. It actually is a deprivation, like this student says, of our constitutional rights. Probably didn't hit a lot of people, but, because I had, because I went to detention and learned about the Constitution and all that. It really hit me, because I, I knew this kid was right. Why were we there? We didn't do anything wrong. We were denied due process of the law, which is supposed to be God-given right to all Americans, and I just couldn't understand it, why more people didn't fight it. Like the coram nobis cases. There was only three, three out of 120,000 that refused to be evacuated. You would think if everybody believed in the Constitution and all that, there'd be a bigger percentage.

AI: It's July 14, 2001, we're continuing our interview with Mits Koshiyama. And Mits, I wanted to ask you to back up a bit. In the interview, you had just mentioned about, learning about the Constitution when you were in detention.

MK: Uh-huh.

AI: And you were referring to a time before the concentration camp when you were in high school back in, at Fremont High School. So would you tell a little bit about what happened, how come you were in detention, and what, what you learned while you were there.

MK: Actually, it was in grade school when it happened. I think that was about the seventh grade. I would be called by the other kids, one day, "Jap." I resented it, so I kind of fought with them. First thing I knew I was called into the principal's office, and I was sent to detention class. I don't know if the teacher trying to help me or make, punish me. I, detention is for punishment. So I believe that she made me study all about the Constitution because that's the subject I, kids didn't want to study. So I didn't want to be punished anymore, so I studied the Constitution pretty hard. Then the teacher told me, she checked my papers and everything and, "What'd you learn? Don't you know that all Americans are supposed to fight for their constitutional rights?" And it'd kind of go through one ear and the other. But I read everything about the Constitution and how it should, it's supposed to protect all citizens. She told me, "It protects all citizens," she told me. "Don't you understand?" she told me -- [laughs] -- "It protects all citizens. It's for your own protection that the Constitution was written." I, it finally sunk into my head. It took a little while, but I didn't just go to detention one day. I had so many fights that it looked like I was there, oh, most of the time. Most every recess I had to spend in detention. But it, it did turn out to be real helpful to me later on. I did realize that, like she said, the Constitution is the main law of the land. It doesn't mean -- you know presidents come and go, teachers come and go, governments come and go -- but she says, "The Constitution be always there no matter what." She says, "You'd better learn all about the Constitution because sooner or later it's gonna help you." It sure did.

I, my soul was clean because I, I really believed in the Constitution, and I believed that they should protect me at, when I needed it the most. And that, the belief in that Constitution kind of pulled me through all this difficulties that I had during the war years. I, I knew that sooner or later -- I'm not a prophet or anything -- but I know by, let's say common sense, that sooner or later after the war that people were going to realize that standing up for constitutional rights is the most important thing. And it's proven to be true. Like I was telling somebody today, the resisters' story -- was that you? [Laughs] Resisters' story is like the Boston Tea Party -- "taxation without representation." Drafting us without rights is like taxation without representation. And that's why I call it the, draft resistance, the "Japanese Boston Tea Party." I guess a lot of people laugh about that, but there's lot of similarities.

AI: Well, so now you're in Heart Mountain. It's fall of 1942, and you still haven't finished your high school. What happened then after, when you got to Heart Mountain then? Was there a school all ready for you to join in the, start going to class again?

MK: Yeah, at the, the early school was in the barracks. Later on, they built the high school there, and gymnasium and everything. While we were there, we went to the barracks. We had, some were teachers, some were teachers' aides, some were Caucasians from the outside, and they taught all the kids, I guess the best of their ability under the condition. A funny thing, when I went to school there, nobody talked about the Constitution and the Bill of Rights and the deprivation of our constitutional rights. We were taught school like a normal school, like on the outside. Probably wrote compositions "Why I'm proud to be an American," too. [Laughs] Isn't it ridiculous, but that's the way it was. I do remember a student writing, "Why We Are Prisoners in a Concentration Camp." I remember that. I, I thought, "Gee, that kid there is really bright and has a lot of courage to write a composition like that. But everybody else is, "Why I'm proud to be American," and you know, waving the flag and everything. Kind of ridiculous, but that, that's the way people thought in those days. This one kid wrote about the Constitution and the deprivation of our rights. And I said, "Wow." That put a kind of a seed in my mind, too. We're taking this evacuation and incarceration too lightly. It actually is a deprivation, like this student says, of our constitutional rights. Probably didn't hit a lot of people, but, because I had, because I went to detention and learned about the Constitution and all that. It really hit me, because I, I knew this kid was right. Why were we there? We didn't do anything wrong. We were denied due process of the law, which is supposed to be God-given right to all Americans, and I just couldn't understand it, why more people didn't fight it. Like the coram nobis cases. There was only three, three out of 120,000 that refused to be evacuated. You would think if everybody believed in the Constitution and all that, there'd be a bigger percentage.

AI: It's July 14, 2001, we're continuing our interview with Mits Koshiyama. And Mits, I wanted to ask you to back up a bit. In the interview, you had just mentioned about, learning about the Constitution when you were in detention.

MK: Uh-huh.

AI: And you were referring to a time before the concentration camp when you were in high school back in, at Fremont High School. So would you tell a little bit about what happened, how come you were in detention, and what, what you learned while you were there.

MK: Actually, it was in grade school when it happened. I think that was about the seventh grade. I would be called by the other kids, one day, "Jap." I resented it, so I kind of fought with them. First thing I knew I was called into the principal's office, and I was sent to detention class. I don't know if the teacher trying to help me or make, punish me. I, detention is for punishment. So I believe that she made me study all about the Constitution because that's the subject I, kids didn't want to study. So I didn't want to be punished anymore, so I studied the Constitution pretty hard. Then the teacher told me, she checked my papers and everything and, "What'd you learn? Don't you know that all Americans are supposed to fight for their constitutional rights?" And it'd kind of go through one ear and the other. But I read everything about the Constitution and how it should, it's supposed to protect all citizens. She told me, "It protects all citizens," she told me. "Don't you understand?" she told me -- [laughs] -- "It protects all citizens. It's for your own protection that the Constitution was written." I, it finally sunk into my head. It took a little while, but I didn't just go to detention one day. I had so many fights that it looked like I was there, oh, most of the time. Most every recess I had to spend in detention. But it, it did turn out to be real helpful to me later on. I did realize that, like she said, the Constitution is the main law of the land. It doesn't mean -- you know presidents come and go, teachers come and go, governments come and go -- but she says, "The Constitution be always there no matter what." She says, "You'd better learn all about the Constitution because sooner or later it's gonna help you." It sure did.

I, my soul was clean because I, I really believed in the Constitution, and I believed that they should protect me at, when I needed it the most. And that, the belief in that Constitution kind of pulled me through all this difficulties that I had during the war years. I, I knew that sooner or later -- I'm not a prophet or anything -- but I know by, let's say common sense, that sooner or later after the war that people were going to realize that standing up for constitutional rights is the most important thing. And it's proven to be true. Like I was telling somebody today, the resisters' story -- was that you? [Laughs] Resisters' story is like the Boston Tea Party -- "taxation without representation." Drafting us without rights is like taxation without representation. And that's why I call it the, draft resistance, the "Japanese Boston Tea Party." I guess a lot of people laugh about that, but there's lot of similarities.

EO: So tell me about your pregnancy and giving birth, and about your daughter.

AH: All right. First my pregnancy. Since I was young, it was a pretty easy nine-months' gestation. It would have been easier if we had not had to have our meals, three meals outside of our own apartment. Our own apartment finally -- served as bedroom, living room, and of course, the main things we lacked were kitchen and bathroom facilities. So three meals a day we had to get in line for food and being pregnant and suffering what most pregnant women go through -- what is known as morning sickness and nauseous periods, waiting in line for our meals during that period was very, very difficult under the, the conditions that existed there: the dust storms, the heat, the cold.

Then when. . . I think the lack of real good milk at the time which was considered very important for pregnant women to have, that, I think, affected my fetus, the fetus, the embryo a great deal. When my child was born in the camp hospital, she was born with an allergy to the powdered milk that they permitted babies to have during that time. And it was not diagnosed that she had an allergy to this powdered milk and that she should have what was called at that time, Carnation milk in a can. I requested that for my child, but they said, "No, that, all those, that has to go to the army." To the men in the armed forces, and we would not be permitted to unless we could afford to send for it from outside. And, of course, we couldn't do that, we were earning minimum salaries which ran from twelve dollars a month, sixteen dollars a month and nineteen dollars a month at that time. Nineteen dollars for the professionals, sixteen dollars for semi-skilled -- for skilled, and twelve dollars for the unskilled laborers. We could not afford to buy canned milk. So my daughter suffered tremendously. She was hospitalized in the camp, went in and out, in and out, with stomach disorders because of her inability to, to get this milk, which was, of course, the lifeline for infants at the time. Most children double their weight, most infants double their weight, birth weight, at six months. My child had not doubled her weight in a year, she was so sick.

EO: How did this make you feel?

AH: Very angry. I was very angry and felt so responsible for my child. There's nothing, nothing at all that I could do about it. And I think the lack of this important nutrition at this time of her life has affected her whole entire life. She didn't have the basic ingredients to be a healthy person.

EO: What was the hospital like?

AH: Oh, the hospital, very sort of primitive. The doctors were mostly Japanese American doctors. The white, Caucasian doctors served as supervisors, overseers. The nurses and the doctors were primarily Japanese and they were skillful. We, I'm sure, although I didn't know anything about hospitals and supplies at the time, but I have read what Japanese doctors who served in the camps said, that they lacked medicine, they lacked the proper equipment to do the necessary work that they needed to do as doctors. I think the, we were probably very low down on the totem pole in terms of priority as far as the government was concerned at the time.

EO: So tell me about your pregnancy and giving birth, and about your daughter.

AH: All right. First my pregnancy. Since I was young, it was a pretty easy nine-months' gestation. It would have been easier if we had not had to have our meals, three meals outside of our own apartment. Our own apartment finally -- served as bedroom, living room, and of course, the main things we lacked were kitchen and bathroom facilities. So three meals a day we had to get in line for food and being pregnant and suffering what most pregnant women go through -- what is known as morning sickness and nauseous periods, waiting in line for our meals during that period was very, very difficult under the, the conditions that existed there: the dust storms, the heat, the cold.

Then when. . . I think the lack of real good milk at the time which was considered very important for pregnant women to have, that, I think, affected my fetus, the fetus, the embryo a great deal. When my child was born in the camp hospital, she was born with an allergy to the powdered milk that they permitted babies to have during that time. And it was not diagnosed that she had an allergy to this powdered milk and that she should have what was called at that time, Carnation milk in a can. I requested that for my child, but they said, "No, that, all those, that has to go to the army." To the men in the armed forces, and we would not be permitted to unless we could afford to send for it from outside. And, of course, we couldn't do that, we were earning minimum salaries which ran from twelve dollars a month, sixteen dollars a month and nineteen dollars a month at that time. Nineteen dollars for the professionals, sixteen dollars for semi-skilled -- for skilled, and twelve dollars for the unskilled laborers. We could not afford to buy canned milk. So my daughter suffered tremendously. She was hospitalized in the camp, went in and out, in and out, with stomach disorders because of her inability to, to get this milk, which was, of course, the lifeline for infants at the time. Most children double their weight, most infants double their weight, birth weight, at six months. My child had not doubled her weight in a year, she was so sick.

EO: How did this make you feel?

AH: Very angry. I was very angry and felt so responsible for my child. There's nothing, nothing at all that I could do about it. And I think the lack of this important nutrition at this time of her life has affected her whole entire life. She didn't have the basic ingredients to be a healthy person.

EO: What was the hospital like?

AH: Oh, the hospital, very sort of primitive. The doctors were mostly Japanese American doctors. The white, Caucasian doctors served as supervisors, overseers. The nurses and the doctors were primarily Japanese and they were skillful. We, I'm sure, although I didn't know anything about hospitals and supplies at the time, but I have read what Japanese doctors who served in the camps said, that they lacked medicine, they lacked the proper equipment to do the necessary work that they needed to do as doctors. I think the, we were probably very low down on the totem pole in terms of priority as far as the government was concerned at the time.

EO: So tell me, now, about having to move. How long did you have, and what did you decide to take, and how did you dispose of things?

AH: Oh. I was all of seventeen years old, ready to graduate high school, madly in love with this young Nisei man, a young man, who lived on the other side of town, other side of Los Angeles. We were all frantic about where each one of us would be moving to. Los Angeles was a big area, it was divided into different sections. Certain areas would be, were told they would be going somewhere, no name, but a certain section of, inland. And therefore, since the army did not notify each family exactly where they would be going, what kind of weather they would be encountering, or exactly when they would be moving, efforts within the, each family started to roll, to get rid of, to sell or to store their household goods. And then trying to separate out what they thought they would need and what they thought they could either store or sell. It was a hectic, frantic time for all the Japanese families. In our family, my father, as a matter of fact, destroyed all of his Japanese language books because rumors spread that if the FBI came to your home and found Japanese language books, your father or uncle, or mother would be taken away and fear just gripped the community over things like that. My father destroyed almost all of his Japanese language books, including a book that he had written -- he had a number of copies of a autobiography my sister said he had written. Also, he had been carrying around the ashes of one of my sisters, a half-sister, and my mother told me many, many years later that he had buried those ashes in the backyard of our home in Los Angeles. She didn't know where, what part of the yard. I've often thought of going back to that house, but I didn't know how to approach the occupant of the house to ask if I could dig up his backyard to look for the ashes of my sister my father had buried fifty years ago. [Laughs] So I've never done it. But I've passed in front of the house a couple of times, and wondered what could I do.

EO: And he had her ashes because -- why, why was he carrying her ashes around?

AH: I'm not sure. You know, I think that he thought perhaps -- she was born in Japan -- and I have a feeling he had hoped one day to take her ashes back to Japan. Either that or he was waiting for, to get settled someplace, in say, southern California, where he could feel, this is where we're going to set our roots, place our roots, and perhaps get our family plot, and bury her there. But I have a feeling it was that he was planning to take her ashes back to Japan.

EO: Did they bury anything? They burned these books. Did you leave anything else? I mean, where, what did you do with your things?

AH: Oh, all right. Many families owned their homes, so they had a lot more problems in terms of their economic situation and property. We were so poor, we didn't own the home, we were renting, so that, that was not as big a problem for us. Our problem was what to take, what to destroy, what to sell. And the neighbors, the persons, the non-Japanese who were not moving, being asked to move, knew that the shorter time we had to leave, the more willing we would be to lower our prices. So there were "vultures" all around, hanging around for days, waiting for the day that we would move, and that we would literally have to give things away. My mother, of course, had some small items, beautiful little dishes from Japan, and I think some heirlooms that she decided to sell -- brooches, obitome -- things like that that I, I know that she had to get rid of, to sell, because she felt we must take what is absolutely necessary as long as we were permitted to take only what we could carry, at the time. And I have heard many stories of mothers who were so furious at the insulting prices that were offered by buyers, that they rather, rather than sell them at these prices, they would break the dishes or the big platters that they cherished so much. I believe those who left for the camps early on did not have the opportunity, or the knowledge at the time, or the permission by the government, that they could store some things. That kind of information came later on and those who moved into these army-run assembly centers later on, say, June, July, they were told that they could store some things. So many of those families were able to keep household goods, furnitures, where those of us who left very early could not do that. I myself -- yes?

EO: At whose expense?

AH: The furniture could be stored sometimes in Buddhist churches, or community centers. The government itself offered in certain areas to store the furniture, but with a caveat: you store them at your own expense, at your own risk. And, of course, as, when many folks went back to that area later on, they found their homes and property vandalized, broken, stolen.

EO: So tell me, now, about having to move. How long did you have, and what did you decide to take, and how did you dispose of things?

AH: Oh. I was all of seventeen years old, ready to graduate high school, madly in love with this young Nisei man, a young man, who lived on the other side of town, other side of Los Angeles. We were all frantic about where each one of us would be moving to. Los Angeles was a big area, it was divided into different sections. Certain areas would be, were told they would be going somewhere, no name, but a certain section of, inland. And therefore, since the army did not notify each family exactly where they would be going, what kind of weather they would be encountering, or exactly when they would be moving, efforts within the, each family started to roll, to get rid of, to sell or to store their household goods. And then trying to separate out what they thought they would need and what they thought they could either store or sell. It was a hectic, frantic time for all the Japanese families. In our family, my father, as a matter of fact, destroyed all of his Japanese language books because rumors spread that if the FBI came to your home and found Japanese language books, your father or uncle, or mother would be taken away and fear just gripped the community over things like that. My father destroyed almost all of his Japanese language books, including a book that he had written -- he had a number of copies of a autobiography my sister said he had written. Also, he had been carrying around the ashes of one of my sisters, a half-sister, and my mother told me many, many years later that he had buried those ashes in the backyard of our home in Los Angeles. She didn't know where, what part of the yard. I've often thought of going back to that house, but I didn't know how to approach the occupant of the house to ask if I could dig up his backyard to look for the ashes of my sister my father had buried fifty years ago. [Laughs] So I've never done it. But I've passed in front of the house a couple of times, and wondered what could I do.

EO: And he had her ashes because -- why, why was he carrying her ashes around?

AH: I'm not sure. You know, I think that he thought perhaps -- she was born in Japan -- and I have a feeling he had hoped one day to take her ashes back to Japan. Either that or he was waiting for, to get settled someplace, in say, southern California, where he could feel, this is where we're going to set our roots, place our roots, and perhaps get our family plot, and bury her there. But I have a feeling it was that he was planning to take her ashes back to Japan.

EO: Did they bury anything? They burned these books. Did you leave anything else? I mean, where, what did you do with your things?

AH: Oh, all right. Many families owned their homes, so they had a lot more problems in terms of their economic situation and property. We were so poor, we didn't own the home, we were renting, so that, that was not as big a problem for us. Our problem was what to take, what to destroy, what to sell. And the neighbors, the persons, the non-Japanese who were not moving, being asked to move, knew that the shorter time we had to leave, the more willing we would be to lower our prices. So there were "vultures" all around, hanging around for days, waiting for the day that we would move, and that we would literally have to give things away. My mother, of course, had some small items, beautiful little dishes from Japan, and I think some heirlooms that she decided to sell -- brooches, obitome -- things like that that I, I know that she had to get rid of, to sell, because she felt we must take what is absolutely necessary as long as we were permitted to take only what we could carry, at the time. And I have heard many stories of mothers who were so furious at the insulting prices that were offered by buyers, that they rather, rather than sell them at these prices, they would break the dishes or the big platters that they cherished so much. I believe those who left for the camps early on did not have the opportunity, or the knowledge at the time, or the permission by the government, that they could store some things. That kind of information came later on and those who moved into these army-run assembly centers later on, say, June, July, they were told that they could store some things. So many of those families were able to keep household goods, furnitures, where those of us who left very early could not do that. I myself -- yes?

EO: At whose expense?

AH: The furniture could be stored sometimes in Buddhist churches, or community centers. The government itself offered in certain areas to store the furniture, but with a caveat: you store them at your own expense, at your own risk. And, of course, as, when many folks went back to that area later on, they found their homes and property vandalized, broken, stolen.

TI: Any other memories of Tanforan, like any fun memories?

NH: Well, we had, we had a Fourth of July celebration, and I don't know why, but we did. [Laughs]

TI: I mean, did anyone, people must have commented on the irony of Independence Day?

NH: I guess so. I don't know why, come to think of it, I really don't know why, but I remember we had Fourth of July celebration. And then was it Friday evening, we would have talent shows, 'cause we didn't have any movies or anything like that, and so Goro, Goro, what's his name? I can't remember his last name, but he was a very talented -- well, I thought -- singer and emcee. And he was funny and we enjoyed whatever it is that he said. And he must have been about, oh, I don't know, couldn't have been more than twenty years old, I don't think.

TI: So you looked forward to the Friday night talent shows. What were some of the things other people did? You said singing. . .

NH: Oh, then they went around and, scrounged around and asked people, and so-and-so played the violin so she, the girl came and played the violin for us, and some people played the piano and they played selections on the piano. I don't know where they got the piano from, but they got it from somewhere. Mostly singing, and that was our show. But then it was fun.

TI: And going back to that Fourth of July celebration or party, what did they do on the Fourth of July? I'm curious.

NH: I don't remember. All I know it was the Fourth of July, but there were no fireworks, obviously there weren't any fireworks. But we all went in the grandstand, and I guess we were singing, mostly.

TI: And your parents, what kind of activities did the Isseis have?

NH: Oh, Isseis had. . . well, my father played go, so they, they played go, all around camp you would see the older men playing go all day long.

TI: And your mother? What would, what would the women do?

NH: I don't know what they did, but I know that she crocheted a lot and knitted a lot. She was left-handed. I still have her, she made a bedspread for each of us, huge double bed bedspread, all crocheted by hand. And where did her, her thread, our neighbor in Berkeley, she asked, came to see us, and she asked her if she could bring some crocheting thread, and she brought it, Mrs. Lindberg. And she's since passed, on, too.

TI: And so with that thread, your mom made these bedspreads for each of the kids. And you said you still have that?

NH: I still have mine, yeah.

TI: Oh, that's, what a treasure.

NH: Yeah, and I think I know where it is, but oh well.

TI: You should, you should take care of that. That'd be a really important artifact for people, something made in camp.

NH: Yeah, it was made in camp.

TI: Any other memories of Tanforan, like any fun memories?

NH: Well, we had, we had a Fourth of July celebration, and I don't know why, but we did. [Laughs]

TI: I mean, did anyone, people must have commented on the irony of Independence Day?

NH: I guess so. I don't know why, come to think of it, I really don't know why, but I remember we had Fourth of July celebration. And then was it Friday evening, we would have talent shows, 'cause we didn't have any movies or anything like that, and so Goro, Goro, what's his name? I can't remember his last name, but he was a very talented -- well, I thought -- singer and emcee. And he was funny and we enjoyed whatever it is that he said. And he must have been about, oh, I don't know, couldn't have been more than twenty years old, I don't think.

TI: So you looked forward to the Friday night talent shows. What were some of the things other people did? You said singing. . .

NH: Oh, then they went around and, scrounged around and asked people, and so-and-so played the violin so she, the girl came and played the violin for us, and some people played the piano and they played selections on the piano. I don't know where they got the piano from, but they got it from somewhere. Mostly singing, and that was our show. But then it was fun.

TI: And going back to that Fourth of July celebration or party, what did they do on the Fourth of July? I'm curious.

NH: I don't remember. All I know it was the Fourth of July, but there were no fireworks, obviously there weren't any fireworks. But we all went in the grandstand, and I guess we were singing, mostly.

TI: And your parents, what kind of activities did the Isseis have?

NH: Oh, Isseis had. . . well, my father played go, so they, they played go, all around camp you would see the older men playing go all day long.

TI: And your mother? What would, what would the women do?

NH: I don't know what they did, but I know that she crocheted a lot and knitted a lot. She was left-handed. I still have her, she made a bedspread for each of us, huge double bed bedspread, all crocheted by hand. And where did her, her thread, our neighbor in Berkeley, she asked, came to see us, and she asked her if she could bring some crocheting thread, and she brought it, Mrs. Lindberg. And she's since passed, on, too.

TI: And so with that thread, your mom made these bedspreads for each of the kids. And you said you still have that?

NH: I still have mine, yeah.

TI: Oh, that's, what a treasure.

NH: Yeah, and I think I know where it is, but oh well.

TI: You should, you should take care of that. That'd be a really important artifact for people, something made in camp.

NH: Yeah, it was made in camp.

RP: Bob, your family arrived at Amache, was it in August, did you say, of '42?

BF: We, we got there in September, early September.

RP: Was, were you able to enroll in school that first semester? Or. . .

BF: In Amache?

RP: Yes.

BF: Yeah. They, they. . . I don't remember school right away. But they, they did open up a school probably in late September or maybe even early October. The school was in the barracks.

RP: Right, can you share with us a little, a little bit of what you remember of junior high school, as it was in Amache.

BF: Yeah. I was, I was a twelve year. The, the barracks, they didn't have the partitions in there. They might have had a couple, couple of partitions. But we, we sat on wooden benches.

RP: Benches.

BF: No, no books to begin with. Later on we got, we got some discarded, outdated books. But there was a teacher with a chalkboard in front and they would put the information, some of the information on the chalkboard and we'd just copy it. So we, we had tablets and copied the information from the textbook. Then, lecture and that, that was the educational process for several months. The. . . we had, there was a high turnover of teachers because these, these were teachers -- we had some good teachers, but -- I'd have to say that by and large, the quality of, of teachers was, was not very good at first. There's a high turnover. Because they didn't know the conditions that they would be living under. Although they lived in Lamar and came by bus to Amache. But they weren't prepared to, to deal with the population. First of all, they must have looked at us like, how come. . . these are all Japanese Americans. They had never seen that kind of population. We hadn't, I hadn't seen such a population except for the language school. And so there was a high turnover. Some had, some of the teachers had come from Indian reservations some had come from. . . teachers who had just finished college. 'Course, I'm sure they expected that we would have books and desks and things like that. We didn't. I can give you an example of. . . music. They were gonna start a little orchestra or a band, I guess. I remember went to, went to the music room and the only thing they had left was an oboe. Never seen an oboe in my life. And didn't know how difficult it would be to play such a, such a thing. I remember going home with an oboe. Never did master that. And, it was, it was discarded stuff. I don't think. . . well, I guess they eventually had some kind of, of a band or an orchestra. I certainly wasn't a part of that. Although later on, they, they somehow someone got some instruments and formed a band, an orchestra.

RP: An orchestra for dances and. . .

BF: Yeah, for dances. There's a fellow out of Santa Anita named Brush Arai and he had the Brush Arai and his (Kanaka Boys Band) or something like that.

RP: So, the conditions under which education developed in Amache didn't sound very stimulating academically.

BF: Well, at that, at that. . . yeah.

RP: Did it change?

BF: It did change over time. I remember, well, another thing that happened was it was P.E. classes. And they didn't have the equipment so when it, when the weather's. . . you got snow and stuff outside, they have to hold P.E. classes inside one of the barracks and the equipment they had was a, was a mattress that they rolled up. And we spent the hour jumping around that and diving over the, over the mattress. I mean, what kind of P.E. class is that? And the, so the conditions were not ideal, by any means.

RP: Bob, your family arrived at Amache, was it in August, did you say, of '42?

BF: We, we got there in September, early September.

RP: Was, were you able to enroll in school that first semester? Or. . .

BF: In Amache?

RP: Yes.

BF: Yeah. They, they. . . I don't remember school right away. But they, they did open up a school probably in late September or maybe even early October. The school was in the barracks.

RP: Right, can you share with us a little, a little bit of what you remember of junior high school, as it was in Amache.

BF: Yeah. I was, I was a twelve year. The, the barracks, they didn't have the partitions in there. They might have had a couple, couple of partitions. But we, we sat on wooden benches.

RP: Benches.

BF: No, no books to begin with. Later on we got, we got some discarded, outdated books. But there was a teacher with a chalkboard in front and they would put the information, some of the information on the chalkboard and we'd just copy it. So we, we had tablets and copied the information from the textbook. Then, lecture and that, that was the educational process for several months. The. . . we had, there was a high turnover of teachers because these, these were teachers -- we had some good teachers, but -- I'd have to say that by and large, the quality of, of teachers was, was not very good at first. There's a high turnover. Because they didn't know the conditions that they would be living under. Although they lived in Lamar and came by bus to Amache. But they weren't prepared to, to deal with the population. First of all, they must have looked at us like, how come. . . these are all Japanese Americans. They had never seen that kind of population. We hadn't, I hadn't seen such a population except for the language school. And so there was a high turnover. Some had, some of the teachers had come from Indian reservations some had come from. . . teachers who had just finished college. 'Course, I'm sure they expected that we would have books and desks and things like that. We didn't. I can give you an example of. . . music. They were gonna start a little orchestra or a band, I guess. I remember went to, went to the music room and the only thing they had left was an oboe. Never seen an oboe in my life. And didn't know how difficult it would be to play such a, such a thing. I remember going home with an oboe. Never did master that. And, it was, it was discarded stuff. I don't think. . . well, I guess they eventually had some kind of, of a band or an orchestra. I certainly wasn't a part of that. Although later on, they, they somehow someone got some instruments and formed a band, an orchestra.

RP: An orchestra for dances and. . .

BF: Yeah, for dances. There's a fellow out of Santa Anita named Brush Arai and he had the Brush Arai and his (Kanaka Boys Band) or something like that.

RP: So, the conditions under which education developed in Amache didn't sound very stimulating academically.

BF: Well, at that, at that. . . yeah.

RP: Did it change?

BF: It did change over time. I remember, well, another thing that happened was it was P.E. classes. And they didn't have the equipment so when it, when the weather's. . . you got snow and stuff outside, they have to hold P.E. classes inside one of the barracks and the equipment they had was a, was a mattress that they rolled up. And we spent the hour jumping around that and diving over the, over the mattress. I mean, what kind of P.E. class is that? And the, so the conditions were not ideal, by any means.

BF: Yeah, Merced was like a prison camp, surrounded by barbed wire, guard towers manned by military. I'm sure they had rifles or machine guns or whatever, and they had the jeep patrol come around, around the perimeter of the camp, and they would come fairly often. At night the searchlights were there, and they crisscrossed the camp. It's the first time we ever ate at the. . . there was no toilets in the, no water in the barracks, and they had these buildings where, they called 'em mess halls, where you're fed rations. Communal toilet, latrine areas. And there's dust and dirt all over the place. It was just a fairgrounds that had been converted into a prison camp, and there were about four thousand Japanese Americans put into that particular camp. And there are other, other similar camps up and down the state and also in Oregon and Washington.

RP: You shared a story about looking out the fence and seeing some grapes.

BF: Oh, yeah, we were there about, well, we moved there in May, and of course, by June, the grapes were ripening. And we happened to be, the camp happened to be next to a vineyard. And when the grapes get ripe, there's a distinct smell, and I thought, "Gosh, it wouldn't take much to cross that little road beyond the fence to get the grapes." I mean, you could see them, you could smell them. I know several times that I thought about crawling under the fence and just getting some grapes. But you're sort of trying to time the lights because, but they weren't, they weren't set into a standard pattern, so you couldn't judge where that light was gonna show the next, next point. And I tried, I figured, well, the lights were shining over there and they would be swinging over here and so forth, but they, I could never figure them out. And we were told, "You go beyond that fence, you're gonna get shot." So I guess I just didn't have enough courage to do that, and never tried to get those grapes. And that stayed in my mind for a long time, because later on when, in the years, when we were out of the camps and finally were able to get grapes, it was the time of the Cesar Chavez and his boycott of grapes. And I really honored that; I thought highly of that movement, the Farm Workers Movement, and boycotting grapes. So I was unable to purchase grapes, I mean, I just didn't do it. And I remember talking to some Mexican American friends of mine about that, and one of those guys that, "Oh, I don't, I don't," he says, "I buy grapes." I said, "How do you do that? How can you go in your good conscience, buy grapes?" He said, "Well, I buy non-union grapes." And I thought, "Well, that's still not right. You're undermining the movement." So I didn't until the strike was over, and then I could indulge myself. But that's, that was a very strong memory of grapes.

RP: Wanting the grapes and not quite being able to get them?

BF: I, I relish, I still enjoy buying Thompson seedless.

BF: Yeah, Merced was like a prison camp, surrounded by barbed wire, guard towers manned by military. I'm sure they had rifles or machine guns or whatever, and they had the jeep patrol come around, around the perimeter of the camp, and they would come fairly often. At night the searchlights were there, and they crisscrossed the camp. It's the first time we ever ate at the. . . there was no toilets in the, no water in the barracks, and they had these buildings where, they called 'em mess halls, where you're fed rations. Communal toilet, latrine areas. And there's dust and dirt all over the place. It was just a fairgrounds that had been converted into a prison camp, and there were about four thousand Japanese Americans put into that particular camp. And there are other, other similar camps up and down the state and also in Oregon and Washington.

RP: You shared a story about looking out the fence and seeing some grapes.

BF: Oh, yeah, we were there about, well, we moved there in May, and of course, by June, the grapes were ripening. And we happened to be, the camp happened to be next to a vineyard. And when the grapes get ripe, there's a distinct smell, and I thought, "Gosh, it wouldn't take much to cross that little road beyond the fence to get the grapes." I mean, you could see them, you could smell them. I know several times that I thought about crawling under the fence and just getting some grapes. But you're sort of trying to time the lights because, but they weren't, they weren't set into a standard pattern, so you couldn't judge where that light was gonna show the next, next point. And I tried, I figured, well, the lights were shining over there and they would be swinging over here and so forth, but they, I could never figure them out. And we were told, "You go beyond that fence, you're gonna get shot." So I guess I just didn't have enough courage to do that, and never tried to get those grapes. And that stayed in my mind for a long time, because later on when, in the years, when we were out of the camps and finally were able to get grapes, it was the time of the Cesar Chavez and his boycott of grapes. And I really honored that; I thought highly of that movement, the Farm Workers Movement, and boycotting grapes. So I was unable to purchase grapes, I mean, I just didn't do it. And I remember talking to some Mexican American friends of mine about that, and one of those guys that, "Oh, I don't, I don't," he says, "I buy grapes." I said, "How do you do that? How can you go in your good conscience, buy grapes?" He said, "Well, I buy non-union grapes." And I thought, "Well, that's still not right. You're undermining the movement." So I didn't until the strike was over, and then I could indulge myself. But that's, that was a very strong memory of grapes.

RP: Wanting the grapes and not quite being able to get them?

BF: I, I relish, I still enjoy buying Thompson seedless.

LH: So you arrived at Puyallup. And when you entered, do you recall any of the way it looked?

MS: Well, you know, it was a former fairgrounds, which I had never been there before, so I didn't know. But the one thing I remembered was the animal smells, you know, that's how fairs are. You have your animal smells. I remember that. That was very different for me, and then the living quarters, of course, were some of the stalls and some of the buildings. But we had one of the row of stalls and so therefore the smells were greater there. And I remember that there were cots and, for some reason, some kind of mattress. It wasn't the kind of mattress I was used to but, and then army blankets. And then we had the bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. And each stall is yea big, and there weren't ceilings. They did not come to the top, so the walls, excuse me, didn't come to the ceiling. So you could see all the way across. If you climbed up on something high, you could see all the way to the other end, and voice traveled all the way through.

LH: So you're all there together with your mother, your father, your two brothers, and yourself. And in a barrack?

MS: Yes, we had one. [Laughs] It wasn't even a barrack -- it was a stall. It literally was a stall. And they told us it was temporary, so they just had to get us all assembled there so that they'll know which camps we're going to. So we had an idea that this was temporary and that's where we're supposed to get ready for this. So part of that was inoculations; we all had to have a series of shots.

LH: Now, what was that to prevent?

MS: Diphtheria and small pox and you name it. But I remember having at least three or four because my arms were just sore and then there were scabs. You know, these black scabs that came out. [Laughs] And I remember feeling like that must be how cows and animals feel like. Because we were all lined up, and we had to have a couple shots at a time, 'cause they couldn't, we couldn't keep coming back. So I remember having two shots and then being very ill for at least. . . I felt ill about it, and a sore arm.

LH: I can imagine that's a pretty vivid memory for a six-year-old.

MS: I remember those things that were kind of painful, and that definitely was a painful time.

LH: Do you recall -- is there any other memory that sort of sticks out in your mind about that time?

MS: Well, one of the things I thought were kind of strange was that we had the barbed wire fencing all around the fairgrounds. And there was a road that passed by close to the fairgrounds. And there were, they would bring busloads of non-Japanese people, and they would actually let 'em off and let them look at us like we were, you know, like we were caged animals. And I used to remember, "Why are they doing that?" But they actually came and looked at us while we were behind barbed wire fencing there. That was a little bit weird for me. I just remember we used to do gyrations. [Laughs]

LH: That's the first mention I've heard of these tour buses.

MS: Yeah. Well, they were either tour buses or buses that happened to stop by 'cause we were right along the main drag. And they actually let the people off and let 'em look at us and they'd go back. And I could hear them saying some things, you know, not quite understanding but just knowing that they were looking at us. So we must have been some kind of attraction for this group to come and look at us.

LH: And they were up against the barbed wire, looking in?

MS: Well, they didn't come too close to us 'cause we were near the wire and I think they were a little bit worried about what we might do.

LH: Were there ever any warnings from your parents about the barbed wire or the guards?

MS: Only that to obey whatever they told us to do. Only that. They didn't. . . I just. . . I have to say, I don't remember feeling threatened by them. Halfway just wondering why they were there and why they had guns. Because I couldn't imagine any of us doing anything. Of course, you know, I'm so young. Maybe the older folks might have been threatening to them, but I never felt, as a child, but everything is from a child, six-year-old's perspective.

LH: About how long were you at "Camp Harmony"?

MS: I think we were there for a few months. We weren't there for over that time. And then when my parents told us that we're going to be moving again, because I was wondering why they were getting the things all ready again. And I said, "Oh, where are we going?" Well, we're gonna. . . they said far away 'cause I wouldn't know where Minidoka was. So they said, "Far away," and enough so that we'd have to take a train to go there.

LH: So you arrived at Puyallup. And when you entered, do you recall any of the way it looked?

MS: Well, you know, it was a former fairgrounds, which I had never been there before, so I didn't know. But the one thing I remembered was the animal smells, you know, that's how fairs are. You have your animal smells. I remember that. That was very different for me, and then the living quarters, of course, were some of the stalls and some of the buildings. But we had one of the row of stalls and so therefore the smells were greater there. And I remember that there were cots and, for some reason, some kind of mattress. It wasn't the kind of mattress I was used to but, and then army blankets. And then we had the bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. And each stall is yea big, and there weren't ceilings. They did not come to the top, so the walls, excuse me, didn't come to the ceiling. So you could see all the way across. If you climbed up on something high, you could see all the way to the other end, and voice traveled all the way through.

LH: So you're all there together with your mother, your father, your two brothers, and yourself. And in a barrack?

MS: Yes, we had one. [Laughs] It wasn't even a barrack -- it was a stall. It literally was a stall. And they told us it was temporary, so they just had to get us all assembled there so that they'll know which camps we're going to. So we had an idea that this was temporary and that's where we're supposed to get ready for this. So part of that was inoculations; we all had to have a series of shots.

LH: Now, what was that to prevent?

MS: Diphtheria and small pox and you name it. But I remember having at least three or four because my arms were just sore and then there were scabs. You know, these black scabs that came out. [Laughs] And I remember feeling like that must be how cows and animals feel like. Because we were all lined up, and we had to have a couple shots at a time, 'cause they couldn't, we couldn't keep coming back. So I remember having two shots and then being very ill for at least. . . I felt ill about it, and a sore arm.

LH: I can imagine that's a pretty vivid memory for a six-year-old.

MS: I remember those things that were kind of painful, and that definitely was a painful time.

LH: Do you recall -- is there any other memory that sort of sticks out in your mind about that time?

MS: Well, one of the things I thought were kind of strange was that we had the barbed wire fencing all around the fairgrounds. And there was a road that passed by close to the fairgrounds. And there were, they would bring busloads of non-Japanese people, and they would actually let 'em off and let them look at us like we were, you know, like we were caged animals. And I used to remember, "Why are they doing that?" But they actually came and looked at us while we were behind barbed wire fencing there. That was a little bit weird for me. I just remember we used to do gyrations. [Laughs]

LH: That's the first mention I've heard of these tour buses.

MS: Yeah. Well, they were either tour buses or buses that happened to stop by 'cause we were right along the main drag. And they actually let the people off and let 'em look at us and they'd go back. And I could hear them saying some things, you know, not quite understanding but just knowing that they were looking at us. So we must have been some kind of attraction for this group to come and look at us.

LH: And they were up against the barbed wire, looking in?

MS: Well, they didn't come too close to us 'cause we were near the wire and I think they were a little bit worried about what we might do.

LH: Were there ever any warnings from your parents about the barbed wire or the guards?

MS: Only that to obey whatever they told us to do. Only that. They didn't. . . I just. . . I have to say, I don't remember feeling threatened by them. Halfway just wondering why they were there and why they had guns. Because I couldn't imagine any of us doing anything. Of course, you know, I'm so young. Maybe the older folks might have been threatening to them, but I never felt, as a child, but everything is from a child, six-year-old's perspective.

LH: About how long were you at "Camp Harmony"?

MS: I think we were there for a few months. We weren't there for over that time. And then when my parents told us that we're going to be moving again, because I was wondering why they were getting the things all ready again. And I said, "Oh, where are we going?" Well, we're gonna. . . they said far away 'cause I wouldn't know where Minidoka was. So they said, "Far away," and enough so that we'd have to take a train to go there.

Photographer's Annotation:

The annotations by U.S. soldier and photographer Glenn S. Hensley tell the story of a girl he knew as "Mukhta." "Several friends and myself noticed her choking back tears as she sat near the road between the air base and Khragupur. . . We asked her about her problem and in fairly good English, she showed us the stub of a broken comb. She had fallen and smashed one of her most cherished items, her comb. She was wearing only a loin cloth. While in town that day, we decided to buy Mukta a comb. . . On the way back to the base, we saw her again and presented her with the new comb. Then, her charm and personality began to glow. Her dimpled smile and older-than-her age conversation plus profuse thanks captured our hearts. She made a good photo model, too, as she climbed onto a nearby log and began to work with her long, black hair."

The encounter continued: ". . . the next time we saw Mukta. We decided she needed more than a loin cloth, so next time-we were in we bought her a brightly-colored, child-sized saree. That afternoon, she met us as we had asked and she was given the package containing her new clothes. What happened is illustrated. She hurriedly opens the package and quickly drapes herself with the garment. "The next photograph in the series "shows Mukta, surrounded by her friends just after she has donned the new saree. The American is Noel Hepp, Troy, NY. Behind Mukta, her father proudly shows an enlargement we had made of Mukta wearing only the loin cloth and combing her hair. Many crowd around to see."

. . . The assignment to create the road sign landed on the desk of Caltrans graphic artist John Hood in the late 1980s. He was asked to design an image that, in the blink of an eye, would alert drivers to the unexpected sight of pedestrians in their headlights. Before Hood began drawing the sign, he and his supervisors met with Highway Patrol officers and saw photos of accident scenes. What got to him most were the deaths that involved families. "Graphically, I wanted to show a family," said Hood, who lives in San Diego. He chose to include a pigtailed girl, rather than a boy, because "there is something about a little girl running across with her parents that we are more affected by."

At first he drew detailed figures, with faces that showed "a little bit of fright." But, in the end, Hood and his supervisors decided on a silhouette. "When you are looking through headlights, that is what you see," Hood said, "an outline of the image itself." As he sketched, Hood tried to imagine the despair that might drive such a family across the border and onto a forbidding foreign highway. He drew from his own experience fighting in Vietnam, where he had seen families run for their lives as villages were attacked. He remembered stories his Navajo parents had told him about ancestors who died trying to escape as U.S. soldiers marched them onto reservations.

The drawing was finished in a week. Even without faces, the characters conveyed a sense of urgency in their flight. "It doesn't just mean they are running across the freeway," Hood said. "It means they are running from something else as well. I think it's a struggle for a lot of things, for opportunities, for freedom."