masaye nakamura

This poignant interview with Masaye Nakamura reveals some of the bitter realities of wartime anti-Japanese backlash, as she tried to navigate public transportation and life outside the camps while the war was still happening. As a college-aged student, she decided to relocate from Heart Mountain to a college in Kansas City, Missouri, but her train trip to the midwest was not without its dangers and racially-motivated intimidation. After finding a place to sit on her suitcase, Masaye recalls that “There was dead silence in that car. But after a while, I could hear them saying ‘Jap, Jap’ to each other, and looking at me. I could feel the hate. Eventually the conductor came out to take tickets. He snatched my ticket, and then he spit on me. I could feel it trickling down my cheek.”

Masaye passed away in February of 2020 at the age of 96.

I'd like to start out by establishing the basics, such as your birth date and birthplace.

I was born on August 7th, 1923 in Hilo, Hawaii.

Tell me about your family history. What kind of work did your parents do, and are your parents Issei or Nisei?

Well, my mother was born here, however, she lost her citizenship when she married my father, because in those days, Issei couldn't marry.

And what kind of work did your parents do?

Well, my father graduated from the University Doshisha.

Doshisha, that's in Kyoto.

That's correct. And since he was the middle son of five sons, he decided he would like to come to America. He didn't feel like he had a chance to inherit the soy sauce factory that his family owned. He got his degree in dairy production, but when he went out to look for jobs, the only job he could get was shoveling manure on a dairy farm. But he couldn't take that for too long, so he inquired around, and with his degree, found that he might be able to find a better job in Hawaii. So he went to Hilo, and he found a job with my maternal grandfather's lumber company. He owned the lumber company that imported lumber from the States to Hawaii. Soon after I was born, when I was seven months old, they went to Seattle, where my grandfather had set up an office, and he put my mother in charge of that office.

So after he was in the lumber business for a while, my grandfather passed away, and I think the company more or less went under without his guidance. My father had to go work for a Caucasian firm.

What was he doing there?

He was doing manual labor in the mills, and injured his hand, so he couldn't continue there. He decided to start a shoyu business. That's what his family had done in Japan. So he rented a warehouse, and we went to live in one portion of it. And then he made the shoyu, I still don't know how he did, but he had two big barrels, big barrels in one section and they were filled in another section. My mother and father ran it by themselves. Just the two of them. There was another man that came in, you know, after a while. As children we were very poor. But we didn't realize it. As children they don't tell you you're poor.

At some point during the Depression, you must have relocated from Washington to California.

Yes, we moved once my father's business started. I remember we were driving down Wilshire Boulevard in Beverly Hills, and we were just in awe. A little down the road, it was Wilshire Boulevard. We were in awe. He would walk from East LA to Los Angeles City proper to sell his shoyu at restaurants.

Well, I know this is during the Depression, shortly before Pearl Harbor was bombed. And how much had your family recovered from the Depression by then?

I think he was just beginning to make a little money. He was able to hire some people. Take it easier. We had moved to a bigger place and my mother was in the office doing the bookkeeping.

Do you remember Pearl Harbor?

It was a Sunday, and I remember coming home from church and hearing it on the car radio. We stopped at a gas station, and people were looking at us while their radios played. We went straight home. I couldn't believe it. I remember my father trying to explain what had happened.

How old were you?

I must have been 17, this was December.

You were just a teenager.

Right, just a teenager. And we were really unsophisticated. I didn't know what was going on politically or internationally or anything. We really were very unlike young people today, who are very knowledgeable about what's happening in the world. It was confusing. My father got us together and he said, you're American citizens, nothing will happen to you, but your mother and I aren't, so we might be taken away. He said to me, you're the oldest, you'll be in charge. And I thought, what am I going to do. Who would hire me? I have no job skills––how am I going to take care of my three siblings?

Were you still in high school?

No, no, I had graduated. I was a freshman in UCLA. We had to drop out of UCLA.

Is that because you weren't within the 5 mile limit?

Yes, we weren't permitted to travel that far. Right. So I had to stop working and going to school, and move back home. I was so scared of being in charge.

So how did you feel when the order came out?

Well, it meant everybody had to leave together, so I was kind of happy about that. We were one of the last to leave Los Angeles.

Was there a shift in the neighborhood's attitude in the months leading up to the order?

Well, my school was known as the most cosmopolitan school west of Chicago. There were more Jewish than any other, but there were Hispanics, Greeks, Japanese, Chinese, Filipino, African-American. Maybe that's why I was so ignorant.

Because you were safe where you were.

The neighborhood itself was very friendly. We were close with one neighbor. She had a piano, and my sister and I would go to practice. But after Pearl Harbor, we didn't practice. My father had a suitcase by the door, because he was ready to be taken first. Many of his male friends had already been picked up by the FBI.

So here you are, some of the assets are frozen. You find out that your parents are not going to be separated. You're all going to be together.

We packed and unpacked so many times. I had a music box I really wanted to take, but my mother said it was out of the question. My mother said it would be safe in the church, but I never saw it again.

Then you were carted off.

Right, on the bus ride, they told us not to lift the shades. It seemed like such a long ride. When they finally let us pull up the shades, I remember seeing a statue of Seabiscuit, the famous race horse. We were at the Santa Anita Raceway.

What were the conditions like at the Raceway?

We all shared one room. My mother hung a blanket to divide them. You could see right through the walls to the next unit. So my mother cut pictures out of magazines. Flowers to fill the gaps.

It was such a shock.

Yes, because we didn't know where we were going and we ended up practically on the outskirts of the city. You could see the cars going by.

Did you feel like a prisoner?

Not at first, but I could tell there were guard towers and soldiers there.

Did you feel protected from the hate outside?

No, I didn't feel protected. We didn't know what to think. But life went on.

What was it like being a teenager in the assembly center?

I remember, we formed clubs, and some of my friends and I said, let's have a dance. We were dancing when the sun came up on the guard tower. And the guard came down and said, “Hey you guys, are you having fun?” He had a southern accent. We said “Yeah, do you wanna join us?” And he said, “Gosh, you speak such good English.” He was just a young kid. He had no idea what he was supposed to be doing. He thought we were all from Japan. He thought we were prisoners of war. I said, no, we're American citizens. He said, well what are you doing here then!

But he came down to talk?

Yeah. He was just a kid. And so I said, where are you from? He said Georgia. I went in and told everybody about our conversation, and they laughed and laughed. But you know, they had guns. And we had heard of people getting killed for running toward the fence. One man, he went to retrieve a ball. He was running, and he got shot by a guard who thought he was trying to escape. So we were wary about our actions.

How long were you there?

I wasn't there for very long. And soon after I left, my parents were shipped off to Heart Mountain.

So your family went to Heart Mountain, and where did you go?

Well, my father had some friends in the church––and he wanted me to continue going to college––so he said, why don't you ask about student relocation? So, I contacted them, and I was allowed to leave. I didn't even know where my family was going to be, but I got a scholarship to Park College in Missouri. It was a small Presbyterian College, and one of the first to accept internees.

And when that day came?

All our neighbors came to see me off. And the army truck drove up. There were three soldiers. One was driving, another was sitting next to him, and one was sitting in the back of the truck. And I was sitting next to him.

Wow, all escorting one 18 year old.

I felt like I was going to the guillotine or something. The train was already there when we arrived. Every seat was taken, so the soldier told me to sit at the front, beside the conductor's booth. Put your suitcase down, sit on it, he said. There was dead silence in that car. But after a while, I could hear them saying “Jap, Jap” to each other, and looking at me. I could feel the hate. Eventually the conductor came out to take tickets. He snatched my ticket, and then he spit on me. I could feel it trickling down my cheek.

Oh my god.

I could hear someone gasp. I wished a hole would open, and I could just drop right through. But I kind of pulled myself together. I thought to myself, well, maybe he lost a son in the war or something. I tried to figure out why he would spit on me. I thought to myself, even if a seat opens up, I'm not going to move. I can't. I just sat there. My mother had given me some snacks and the neighbors had given me cookies, you know, to take on the train. Things that they had taken from their own meals. But I didn't touch anything. I thought I would throw up if I ate a single bite. So I just sat there, shaking and shaking. But I didn't want to break down in front of these people.

How long were you sitting there?

I don't know. Almost all the way to Kansas City. It must have been a whole night. The next day, a young couple came on. I could tell they noticed me. Later, I felt a tap on my shoulder. And it was the woman. She had the kindest look on her face. And she said, “Why don't you come sit with us? There's an empty seat in front of us. Come sit.” My faith in people came back, so I went and sat with them. They asked me all kinds of questions about where I was going and where I had been.

Were they aware of your situation?

They had no knowledge of the internment, because in some parts of the country it wasn't in the papers. I said I'm an American citizen, but because I'm of Japanese descent, my family is in a concentration camp. They said, really? I guess I was just so relieved from talking to them that the train stopped, and she said, “Didn't you say Kansas City? Well, this is your station.”

Was there someone there to meet you at the station? How did you find your way?

Oh sure. The president of the college himself was waiting on the platform. Oh, my goodness. A remarkable man. As well as another Nisei student who had come from the camps. They told me that students are all going to welcome you when you come to campus. They know all about you.

It seems like a rare attitude for Missouri. Not what we think of.

Well, that's the thing. He said, you have to promise me one thing. He said the people in the town are very upset about the Niseis coming to college, and they have threatened to lynch any of you who go down into the town. It was called the Park City War. It was in the papers there––something like 'Jap students coming to Park College.' The whole town was up in arms and this man, President Young, who stood up for the fact that we had a right to be here––that we were Americans. He really stood up for us––so there was this war going on in the town. He made me promise that I wouldn't go down there. That I would just stay on campus. Well, I was just so happy to be there, I said okay, I promise.

So for four years you stayed on campus?

But eventually, my gosh, I thought, why should I have to be confined like this on the campus? My roommate was gone and I had written a letter to my mother. But I had run out of stamps. And so I decided I was going out there. There had been no incidents. I thought, by this time, it must have quieted down.

You thought, well, I need a stamp.

Right. And I was going to get it. So, I walked down the hill, there were some men sitting on the wall of the bridge. They didn't look friendly. And they saw me. I thought, gosh, I wonder if I should turn back. My pride got the better of me. But my knees were shaking. My heart was pounding. I could hardly walk, but I guess I walked. So, I walk in front of them, which is the only way. And as I walk by them, I pass them, and I can hear them jump up and start to walk behind me. And as I walked to the post office I heard other people talking. I had time to imagine myself hanging from a tree, noose around my neck. And when I walked into the post office, they followed me in. There was only one person at the counter. I said I'd like to have some stamps. She said, you speak English? I said, it's the only language I know, I'm American. And without looking down she gave me the stamps. I turned to walk away, and all these people were standing there. The crowd parted, and I walked through the door and up the hill. They didn't follow me, and I didn't look back.

That's the power of language. Well, this whole time, you were having this college experience. How did it feel for you going back to the camp to visit after being outside? Going back into the barbed wire?

Well, my father met me outside the gate in a blizzard. Going back into the camp, I felt like I can't return to school. I felt guilty. I thought, I guess maybe I should stay. My father said, you have to go back. But I felt guilty about their having to endure such harsh conditions. It was really kind of a shock. Still, I don't think they were too depressed by the situation. They would write that the food was improving. That my father had been elected manager of such and such. My mother would send me pins she had made from special shells.

Heart Mountain had shells?

Oh no, she must have ordered them from some company. She worked on her needlepoint, and my father carved little wooden birds. But I'm sure they had some experiences they didn't tell me about, just like I didn't tell them about my train ride, or about Park City. They didn't want me to worry; I didn't want them to worry.

What kind effect did those years apart have on your relationship?

Oh, it brought us closer together. My father came out for the graduation. He was the only person of all the Nisei who were there. Sitting in the front row with his camera, proud.

What message would you give to young people today? Maybe from families who have faced similar hardships?

Well, there were a lot of people after the war who were very bitter. They never recovered from the experience of internment, and the discrimination. This is from my mother––she told me, never be bitter. Get angry, yes, get it off your chest. But leave it at that. Don't hold things against people. And I hope my children learn something from the experiences I went through, but also not be consumed by bitterness. Especially after the redress, and the apology from the president. All this is finally coming out into the textbooks. People are becoming knowledgeable about it. But once they do, it's important not to let bitterness take hold. Otherwise, it could ruin your life. Life is too short to bear grudges. To become bitter is to ruin yourself.

Interview conducted by Grace Megumi Fleming. JAMsj thanks Grace for allowing the museum to archive and share these oral histories