sample from camp nine: a novel by vivienne schiffer

8/4/2019 Sample from Camp Nine: A Novel by Vivienne Schiffer

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with the white block letters “MP.” On the side of the highway, a sol-

dier 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 gunin 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 leanedher head from the window.

“Afternoon, ma’am.”

“Good afternoon, sir.”

He peered inside, but there was nothing to see but me, sitting

in the front seat. “Sorry for the delay, ma’am, but this highway will

be blocked for some time.”

Mother pried her right hand from the wheel and pointed herfinger past the store to our house. “I live just over there. I’m 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.

“I’m anxious to get my daughter home. She’s taken ill.”

I’d 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 old—a

baby—and 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 straight-

ened, 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. I’d never before seen either a German ora prisoner, and I was anxious to see both at once. Emboldened by

the safety of our car, I hoped secretly that some ragged and dis-

graced 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 wasn’t a German soldier. It was only

a child, younger even than I. In that brief moment that it took meto 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 grow-ing alongside the track and the sign that sprouted from it that

announced their destination: “Rook, pop. 86.”

Mother’s 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.

“Ma’am?” he repeated.

Camp Nine — 21



“Yes. Yes,” she said, swiveling toward him.

A jeep’s engine started up. It pulled off the highway, opening

our path.

“You can go on, but only as far as your home, please.” The sol-

dier touched the tip of his cap with his fingertips.

Mother put the car in gear. “Thank you,” she said, but she neg-

lected 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, ma’am. These areJapanese. 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. “That’s all I can tell you, ma’am.”

We watched his back as he rejoined his companions.

I didn’t know why they had come. Could entire families be

enemy agents, right down to the smallest of children held in theirmothers’ 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 under-

stand 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 cor-ner 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

Matsui’s eyes many times over the coming months. It was as if he

had convinced himself that if he could not see what was happeningto him, to his family, then it must not be true.

22 — Vivienne Schiffer

sample from camp nine: a novel by vivienne schiffer

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