During World War II, along with most Japanese Americans and Japanese living in the U.S., my Japanese American husband’s parents – John and Masako – and their parents and grandparents were put into internment camps and kept there for the four-year duration of the war.
They were called No No Boys, meaning they had answered “no” to the two loyalty questions the US government asked everyone when they were interned: “Are you willing to serve in the armed forces of the United States on combat duty, wherever ordered?” and “Will you swear unqualified allegiance to the United States of America and faithfully defend the United States from any and all attack by foreign or domestic forces, and forswear any form of allegiance to the Japanese Emperor or any other foreign government, power, or organization?”
All the rebellious No No boys and their families were put in a specific internment camp in Tule Lake, California, which had armed guards, unlike the other internment camps (I think).
The tragedy didn’t end with the war. After their release from Tule Lake when Masako’s father saw that an invasive weed had taken over their farm, despaired that he would never get rid of it and committed suicide.
You’d think John and Masako would have been bitter toward me, but for all the decades that I was part of the family before they died, they were kind and loving. I was almost always the only white face at their table, but whatever bitterness they felt, they kept it so far below the surface, I never detected it.
When the time came to celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary, it was also the 50th anniversary of the end of the war with Japan.
My assignment for their anniversary celebration was to get the cake. I arranged for Masako and me to sample cakes at a fancy cafe and cake shop in Walnut Creek. She was too frugal to ever go into a place like this on her own but I wanted something luxurious for her and she went in gladly.
The waitress seated us in a sunny corner of the cafe and set in front of us seven small slices of different kinds of cake, two plates and forks. As we were tasting, Masako told me that she didn’t have a wedding cake because she and John were married at the camp. The camp gates had been opened, but they and their families still lived there because they were told not to return to California, and they had nowhere else to go.
In the most solemn tone I had ever heard her use, she told me she had ordered her wedding dress from the Sears catalogue, nothing fancy, just a dress.
Then, with that sweet, cheerful smile I knew so well, she chose the lemon cake with vanilla frosting and the shape – a simple rectangle.