Tashme Monogatari: Glimpses of Life in a Relocation Camp
By Victor Kadonaga
The outbreak of war in the Pacific had a devastating effect. The world seemed to be collapsing all around us.
At Kitsilano High School, I was in the air cadet corps. One day, the vice-principal called all the Nisei students to a meeting. He informed us that we could no longer participate in such martial activities, which made me very unhappy.
My father had been sent away to some unknown roadcamp. I noticed fewer and fewer older Nisei around. With Dad gone, I reluctantly had to quit school to earn some money. Mom looked sad, but she couldn’t object. The family had to survive, so I found work in a sawmill across town.
One morning, I was home and chopping firewood in the backyard. A man approached and said, “RCMP. Let’s see your registration card.” I thought, “Uh, oh, this is it.”
He checked my card: age, d.o.b., thumb print, photo, etc. “I see you’re 17. Okay. You gotta report to the RCMP office,” and he handed me an address on Kingsway Avenue.
The next morning, I went there and found a large hall with several desks. Many people, mostly Issei men and women. They were a quiet, orderly group. I joined a queue.
That day would have passed from my memory long ago, except for an incident that occurred before my eyes and left a lasting impression on me.
Suddenly, I heard a loud, angry voice and turned. “Oh, you people! Twenty years in this country and you still can’t speak the language! What’s wrong with you?”
The speaker was a middle-aged woman, sitting at a desk. The object of her anger was a small Issei lady, who stood before her, head bowed. She looked utterly defenseless, like a child being rebuked by a parent or a teacher. I wasn’t used to hearing one adult address another so rudely.
The tirade continued for yet another minute. Then, something happened to further exacerbate the situation: the Issei lady smiled weakly at the clerk, whereupon, the woman rose in fury from her desk and stalked out.
To be fair, she couldn’t have known that in the culture of “you people”, an appropriate response in a tense situation was to put on a brave smile, albeit, a small one.
During this unfortunate episode, not a single person had moved to intercede. Why hadn’t someone done something? Why hadn’t I? With remorse and regret, I left the hall. Was this a taste of things to come?
***
In June 1942, I left my home in Vancouver, along with several older Issei men, accompanied by a Mountie. First by train and then by truck, we traveled deep into the B.C. interior. The destination was an old ranch situated on a valley plateau, surrounded by high mountains and dense woods. Some cattle grazed by a stream. Idyllic.
We were directed to a shed filled with bunk beds. Sleeping quarters for several weeks.
The camp was to be called Tashme. It was a made-up name, formed from the first two letters of Taylor, Sherris and Mead. They headed up the Security Commission, and were mandated to direct the evacuation and placement of all persons of Japanese ancestry living along the B.C. coast.
Tashme was to be built to accommodate hundreds of evacuees. Several work teams were formed to build cabins. I was assigned to one. They were basic structures, 16 feet by 24 feet, an 8-food cubicle in each corner. The middle portion was for cooking and eating. The outside walls were covered with slate-coloured tar paper, which gave the cabins an ugly appearance.
Most of the men had families. They had been separated from their wives and children for several anxious months, so these homes promised a happy reunion. Everybody worked hard, although there was no apparent pressure form the authorities.
A report circulated that one team had build a complete cabin from scratch in a single day. That became the standard that we tried to match in friendly competition.
The cabins sprouted like mushrooms. By early autumn, evacuees started arriving. Large families of eight or more were allowed one cabin; others had to share.
In one case, four married couples had to share one cabin. The crowded conditions must have strained marital bonds, because the bedrooms held only bunk beds.
***
As time passed, the camp functions more and more like a normal community. There was a general store, a post office, a hospital and even a shoe-repair shop that soon emerged.
An elementary school opened, much to the relief of the parents. Then the United Church sent a worker to start a high school; an Anglican missionary opened a kindergarten. A lady on the next street began a saiho dress-making class. My mother joined a group of obasan, ostensibly to learn that art, but probably more for social reasons. There was Judo, Scouts, Cubs, and Guides to occupy the young folk. Later, events such as concerts, plays, movies, organized baseball, and hobby shows.
Once I attended a cremation for the daughter of a family friend. The site was a forest clearing. The coffin was placed on a funeral pyre, then lit. We kept an all-night vigil, speaking quietly and listening to the gentle breezes waft through the firs and pines.
At dawn, we left. The family members came to collect bone fragments and ashes. There were no cemeteries in Tashme.
***
Accustomed to the mild climate of the B.C. coast, everyone found Tashme winters very harsh. The snowfalls were heavy, ice and snow remained for months, the temperature dipped below freezing and remained. The outside standpipes froze. The little wood stove never provided sufficient heat. Water left in pails by the sink had formed an icy crust by morning. Frost and green mold appeared on walls.
I slept in the lower berth; a brother had the upper. We had grey army blankets, which were heavy, but not very warm. I wore socks and a toque to bed, which helped somewhat. Ice crystals formed on the underside of the mattress. By shaking the bed, I could hear them falling, tinkling below. I placed a coal-oil lantern under my bed with the wick very low. It gave some warmth. The fire marshal would have had a fit had he known.
Using the outside privy was an ordeal. Nobody lingered there. One saving grace was the furoya, the community bath house. Its use became a daily ritual.
The kairanban was a circulating bulletin clipboard, which was passed from house to house. An efficient and quick way for sending information throughout the town. One day it brought startling news. The Japanese government, through the International Red Cross had sent a quantity of shoyu and miso. Both had been unobtainable.
But some people had ambivalent feelings about accepting the gift. Might it not compromise our loyalty to Canada? To many Issei, this unexpected contact with their birth-place, the furusato, must have evoked feelings of nostalgia. They felt grateful.
In the end, it was decided to accept the gift. Each family received a small bottle of shoyu and a container of miso.
***
Early in August 1945, I left Tashme with 50 dollars from the Commission, which was supposed to help me survive. In Winnipeg, I bought a newspaper. Headline: “Hiroshima”. When I reached Hamilton, Ontario, I visited an elderly couple, who had lived across from us. Mr. and Mrs. Yoshida greeted me warmly. Tea was served, but I sensed Mrs. Yoshida was preoccupied. Finally, she said, “Watashi Hiroshima kara.” She was from Hiroshima and had heard about the genshi-bakudan, the atomic bomb.
She was worried about her relatives. I commiserated, but didn’t have the heart to describe the true nature of this awful, new weapon.
A week later, the war was over.
***
One summer, an acquaintance of mine visited the former evacuation camp. He had taken some pictures. I viewed them in disbelief.
Gone were the cabins we had build, gone were the shops, the hospital, the furoya. All the familiar structures had vanished, like a dream. Only the barns remained. The ranch had reverted to its bucolic state.
Tashme was no more.
from Nikkei Voice February, 2015