The following story was given to me in 1998 by a Nisei couple in Northern California who wish to remain anonymous.

I am a U.S. citizen. Born right here on Grady Ave. My father was a veteran of World War I. My brothers were drafted and fought in World War II. I am a nurse. Still am. This year, we’ve helped so many friends die.... I’m 80 years old. My husband – he’s 87. So we think it’s time to tell this story. It’s about the train ride...

We were newly weds, with a week-old baby and a house full of brand new furniture: bird’s eye maple bedroom set, new refrigerator, new sofa. We had one week to sell everything. We got 50 bucks.

We took mostly the baby stuff and the clothes on our back. We went down to the train station. When we got there, there were soldiers everywhere. The windows of the train were shut tight and blacked out. They separated the men from the

women and there were soldiers between each car.
I was put in the car with all the mothers and babies, and this is what I want to tell you: I see my friend Michi. She and I had just had our babies together over at General. Only Michi’s baby was so sick, yo – the doctors said he would die if he left the hospital. So Michi got on that train without her baby.

But just as we were about to leave the station, some soldiers come and dump a baby on one of the empty seats. All the women were asking, “Who’s baby? Who’s baby?” Do you know, it was Michi’s baby!!! The soldiers had taken him out of the hospital against the doctor’s orders and just dumped him on a seat! Michi begged the soldiers to take him back (to the hospital), but they just slammed the door on her face.

So Michi sat next to me because like I told you, I am a nurse. I tried to stay calm, so Michi wouldn’t worry. But as soon as I saw that baby, I knew it was bad. Its cry was so weak.

Now, Dr. Takeshita – the doctor I worked for – was just two cars back. He told me, if anything should happen to the mothers or the babies – just go get him. I waited and waited until the train finally made a stop. As soon as we stopped, I got out of the car to get Dr. Takeshita. But a soldier shoved a bayonet at my stomach. I was too worried about Michi’s baby to be scared. I said “A baby is sick.” The soldier just looked at me. So I said “A baby may be dying! A baby!” The soldier’s eyes never changed. He pulled the bayonet away from my stomach then shoved it back. Hard. Then he said, “The next one goes right through you.”

I got back on the train. It was so hot in there, with the windows all shut. We didn’t know where we were going. It took three days and the only time they fed us was once. I think it was in Fresno. But we remember the food. It was spoiled milk and rotten, green baloney they just left on the platform in the sun – like we were animals or something.

With nothing to drink, my breast milk was drying up and I remember my baby crying and crying! But Michi’s baby was so quiet. Then I realized it was dead. But Michi didn’t seem to notice. I mean she knew, but she just rocked it and hummed one of those mama songs. You know. Those quiet songs that go on and on and put the children to sleep. Well, Michi just rocked and rocked and hummed her mama song.

When we finally arrived, we found we were in the middle of nowhere. The desert. We are city people. We’d never been in a place like this. Somehow in all the commotion, Michi slipped away.

They didn’t find her until hours later. Do you know, they had to get a jeep to go get her?! There she was. Walking through in the desert with her dead baby in her arms. Looking for a hospital.

My breast milk never came back and my baby would have died, too. Because all she had for those first few weeks in camp was sugar water. But Mac, the hakujin pharmacist back home, heard about my situation and sent me formula. The whole time. Never charged us nothing. My daughter’s had health problems her whole life because of those first days in camp, but she survived.

55 years have come and gone.... My husband’s family married into Michi’s side, so my husband visits Michi from time to time at family gatherings. But me, I can’t come. She won’t see me.

You see... my face reminds her of that train ride...