"I think you should. We must help get things back to normal. I will walk my cla.s.s to school. You come with me, Yumi. I'll see you into yours." He is finding relief in taking charge.

"I'll walk with you and Eriko, Mother," Satomi says. "Give me a moment to change. I guess they won't be opening the mess halls for a while, so breakfast will be late."

She holds Tamura's hand as they walk. It feels thin, more bone than flesh, as though she is holding a tiny newborn mouse. Eriko tsks at the mess the camp is in, shaking her head at the madness in the world.

There's a handwritten sign on their mess hall door: BREAKFAST IN ONE HOUR.

"We are fine, you know," Eriko says to Satomi. "You don't have to walk us like children. You're the one who is limping."

"I want to. I won't settle until I see Mother through the door. Then I'll backtrack and take the shortcut to the orphanage."

"Eriko's right, there's no need," Tamura agrees. "Who would want to hurt me? You go back, I know you want to check on Cora."

"No point, we're nearly there, Mama."

Across the way from the factory two white fire officers from Lone Pine stand beside a fire engine, looking around as though on alert for a predator.

Tamura and Eriko's supervisor is at the door ushering the workers in.

"It's on loan from the Forest Service, just in case," he says archly, nodding toward the fire engine. He has a cut above his lip repaired with four catgut st.i.tches. Like a half mustache, Satomi thinks. It gives him a jaunty air, but no one mentions it. They have pa.s.sed similar on their way here, closed eyes, cuts, swellings. Already it is bad form to ask what side you are on.

"Hey, little darlin'," one of the officers calls, giving a long low whistle. "Are you looking for a fight too?"

Tamura lets go of Satomi's hand and marches up to him. "Do you want to cause more trouble?" she asks as though talking to a child. "Is my daughter never to be left in peace?"

The soldier gives a nasty laugh and turns his back on her. A truck comes toward them slowly, two guards at its side gathering the wood from the smashed-up laundry tubs, throwing it into the back of the pickup as they go.

"Tricky customers, these Nips, go off like fireworks at the slightest thing. Better not to get too familiar," they advise the Lone Pine officers.

"I was going to wash my mother's clothes today," Eriko says placidly to Tamura. "Now what will we do?"

"They can't all be broken, Eriko. We will just have to share."

The mess hall bells are ringing in memory of the two dead boys. A strangely playful sound, betraying the sadness in the air.

"One was seventeen, the other twenty-one," the supervisor says. "Ten more wounded in the hospital."

On hearing who the dead boys are, Eriko says that she had known one of them.

"I can't believe it's him," she says, sighing. "He was a gentle boy, very polite to his elders. A good boy."

On her way to the orphanage, Satomi comes across Lawson overseeing a gang of j.a.panese who are sweeping the debris of the battle into piles in readiness for the truck to pick up.

"There'll be questions to answer," he says sorrowfully. "You can't just fire without an order, not in America anyway."

"Then why did they, Lawson?"

"The military got nervous, I guess. Things got out of hand, but still we have laws, don't we. You can't go around shooting people."

"Seems you have, though, doesn't it?"

"Not me, Satomi, not me. In any case, you'll get justice, you'll see."

"It's a bit late for that, isn't it?"

"I guess, maybe. Anyway, I'm pleased to see that you are all right, at least. How are you doing for soap?"

"Nothing against you, Lawson, but I won't be taking soap anymore."

The dissent in the camp has been revealed. Bones have been broken, blood spilled, to say the least. She doesn't know on which side to stand, but it would be wrong now to accept gifts from Lawson. Things will never go back to how they were. No doubt the dead will be buried, the wreckage of the battle cleared, but the riot has already left something less tangible than bodies and debris in its wake, a postscript provoked by outrage. The j.a.panese inmates are no longer sheep to be herded.

By the time she reaches the alleyway that is the cut-through to the orphanage, the bells have stopped ringing. A short tolling for two short lives, she thinks, surprised that death comes so unexpectedly to some.

And then the picture flashes into her mind again, the twisted head, that pathetic hand, the black blood in the dust. She pauses for a moment, looking back, trembling a little. It is very cold, the air quite still, for once. Apart from two old men sitting around a tin-can fire at its far end, the alleyway is empty. People are at work or behind the safety of their closed doors. Better to keep your head down on such a day. They should have known that, since Pearl Harbor, December is a dangerous month.

How can she go to work as though nothing has happened, resume her routine as easily as Tamura and Eriko seem to have done? She is so tired that if it wasn't for Cora she would return to Sewer Alley and sleep the day away. But Cora will be anxious, looking toward the door for her, and she wants to see the little girl, hold her close. Tears come streaming, she is suddenly filled with sympathy for the world, for the dead boys, for the look now in Yumi's once-innocent eyes, for the hurt that is Cora.

The desire for a cigarette comes as it often does, but she has none. She pictures herself setting the match, drawing deep, the familiar catch in her throat as the smoke snakes through her. Why had she let Haru talk her into giving them up?

"You don't have the money for them anyway, Sati."

"I could share yours."

"No, it's horrible to see a girl smoking. I can't bear the smell on you."

Halfway down the alley, as she stops to knot her scarf against the cold, her eyes are drawn to movement at an open doorway. Two boys of around Haru's age are joined together kissing. She stands stock-still, staring, her mouth open, her bottom lip pendulous. In the middle of the kiss one begins to unbuckle the other's belt, laughing as their lips part. They move in a secret primitive language, boy against boy, slim on slim, no curves, equal strengths.

It seems to her a nonsensical scene, like something out of those dreams that you feel shame for when you wake, as though you had conjured them out of the dark bit inside you that n.o.body knows about. The riot must have created a mad sort of electricity in the air, turned things on their head.

The one whose buckle has been undone catches sight of her staring, but she can't look away, she might as well be rooted in the frozen mud beneath her feet. His body stills for a moment, but then he returns her stare, exaggerating the incline of his head, raising his eyebrows in a sort of challenge that she has no idea how to meet. With a half smile on his face, he shrugs and kicks the door shut.

She doesn't mention what she has seen to Haru. Will never, she thinks, mention it to anyone. She feels sure that she wouldn't be believed.

After that day, whenever she thinks about those boys, their lean embrace, it seems to her that she has witnessed a wonderfully rebellious, entirely independent act. It's all wrong, of course, surely not what nature intended, but it pleases her to know that she isn't the only outsider at Manzanar.

She scans the newspapers that Dr. Harper gives her for reports of the riot and finds none. It's as though America has forgotten their incarcerated fellows. There is news of German U-boats hara.s.sing shipping on the East Coast; news of the movie actress Carol Lombard who has died in a plane crash, on her way back from a tour to promote the sale of war bonds. A radio station called the Voice of America has begun broadcasting, and the British have asked their citizens to bathe in five inches of water to help the war effort. There's a new drink called instant coffee and Glenn Miller has sold a million copies of "Chattanooga Choo Choo." Gas has gone up to fifteen cents a gallon, and Joe Louis has taken the heavyweight t.i.tle in one. The world outside of Manzanar is in those pages, the world that interests America.

"What has happened to the American conscience?" Ralph asks Dr. Harper. "It's shaming that under pressure we have forgotten that we are a democracy."

"They may have reasons for censoring it," Dr. Harper suggests.

"Not so much censored as ignored, I bet," Satomi says. "I guess as far as news is concerned we're not worth the print."

The three of them sit in silence for a while musing on it.

The riot's fallout takes its effect. Everyone is on edge, captors and caught alike. The guards aren't so ready anymore with their smiles, and they don't call greetings from the gun towers as they used to. The known leaders of the Kibei are being segregated, ready to be sent off to the Tule Lake camp in northern California, where, droved together, it will be easier to control them. The meaner guards have their fun with them, telling them they are being rounded up for the firing squad.

"You creeps are gonna pay the price now," they taunt.

Haru is ordered to join a line to sign the new loyalty oath that will distinguish loyal j.a.panese from potential enemies. Signing your name on the yes form confirms that you are loyal to America, and if you are a male of the right age, you will be drafted into the Army.

"I'm happy to do it," he boasts to his friends in the line behind him as he signs with a flourish.

Ralph Lazo is not required to sign the loyalty oath, but he walks the eight miles into Lone Pine to register with the local draft board.

"We'll see those Germans off, eh, Ralph?" Haru says when Ralph returns.

"Sure thing." Ralph smiles. "Only hope I can stay with my buddies."

Those who refuse to sign are nicknamed the No No Boys. They are full of bravado, singing "Kimigayo," the j.a.panese national anthem, at the top of their voices. Not sure if they are to be deported or culled, they stand up straight, waiting.

The elderly Issei, who were born in j.a.pan, have the toughest decision to make in the signings. If they autograph the yes paper, they automatically abjure their allegiance to the emperor of j.a.pan.

"What are we meant to do?" Mr. Sano says in despair. "We are not allowed American citizenship. It will render us stateless."

It is the same for Naomi, who is more sanguine about it than Mr. Sano. "What difference does it make?" she says. "They do what they like with us whether we are citizens or not."

Joining Up.

"Are you sad?" Cora asks Satomi. "Yes, I am, Cora." It seems that little can be kept from the child. "I will lose a friend soon, you see."

"Not me?"

"No, not you. You're my special girl," she comforts.

She doesn't want to think about losing Cora, it's enough that Haru will be gone soon, that Tamura is fading by the day. Her love for the little girl has grown until it seems to her like a mother's love. She's touched by everything about the child, the feel of her hand in her own, her sweet silvery voice, and her eyes so clear, so honest that it hurts sometimes to look at them.

"You won't ever lose me, will you, Satomi?" Cora asks, subject herself to the fear of yet more loss.

"I will try not to, Cora."

It would be wrong, she thinks, to make promises. Lately Cora's nerves are getting the better of her. She has taken to sleeping under her bed with only her thin Army blanket for cover. Since security has tightened up, she is frightened by the guards patrolling past the windows, by the searchlights sweeping the dormitories at night.

"There are ghosts," she tells Satomi. "They want to take me away."

She keeps her few possessions with her, while she sleeps, in a small string-tied bundle so that in an emergency she can grab it and run.

"It's a responsibility," Tamura says when hearing of it. "You are like a sister to her."

The Bakers and the Okihiros in their evening routine sit bunched together on the wooden steps of their barracks. They drink tea and chat companionably. Not, as Naomi frequently remarks, that it can be called tea, really. Tea tastes quite different than the twice-used dregs that if you are quick enough can be had from the mess hall's kitchen.

"Hardly better than dust," she complains. "Still, it satisfies the habit."

Long after Naomi and Yumi have gone to bed, Tamura and Eriko stay talking in the dark, reminiscing about their childhoods. They won't admit it, but they can't settle until Haru and Satomi return from their walk. Since the riot it's foolhardy to be out in the dark, but the young won't listen. They worry that their children don't have sense enough to stay out of trouble. They worry that since the riot the guards have become trigger-happy, they worry now about everything.

"Haru is a man now," Eriko says. "Yet I fret about him as though he were still a boy."

"It's hard to let them go," Tamura says. "I expect our mothers felt the same."

"I have never spent a day of my life without my mother in it," Eriko says. "You must miss yours, Tamura."

"I try not to think about her too much. Although I long sometimes for the flavor of her food, a spoonful of her plum oil. You should have tasted it, Eriko." Tamura adds to her tea a shot of the potato spirit she brewed with a cure for chest complaints in mind. "Just the scent of it made my mouth water with antic.i.p.ation."

"My mother is a poor cook," Eriko whispers out of earshot of Naomi. "Her rice is too sticky."

"Still, you are lucky to have her."

"This is your best medicine yet," Eriko compliments her, topping up her cup until it becomes more alcohol than tea. "It never fails to make me feel better."

By choice, Haru and Satomi on their evening strolls would have walked by the stream that tracks the north boundary of the camp, but the searchlights pick them out there as though for the guards' sport. They have been lit up more than once for everyone to see and know their business. Lately, though, they have found a place to be together in one of the Buddhist workshops that is never locked.

The priest, a trusting man, blind to the new order taking place around him, thinks more of the soul than of practical matters. He believes that filial duty is still the order of the day in Manzanar. What point would there be in going to the bother of replacing the lost key? There is little to steal, and not, he believes, even one thief among his congregation.

They dart into the hut separately, dodging the searchlights, bending their bodies low to the ground to cast a short shadow. Other couples use the workshop too, but it's first come, first served. No one wants to share.

If it wasn't for the reserve in Haru's nature that reminds her not to show herself reckless, Satomi would give her all and not care for the consequences. Haru must be the one in charge, it seems. While she might go against him in other things, she finds herself cautious in this. They are inching forward, but stubbornness and pride in his strength of will tortures them both.

"n.o.body likes a tease," she mimics Artie, not understanding herself why since the riot she feels the urge to be the pursuer, to break the pattern of stop and start.

"Don't speak like a wh.o.r.e, Sati. You sound like the worst kind of white girl."

The touch of her tongue on his lips, her dress half open in invitation, is causing him problems. He wishes that she had been a wh.o.r.e, that she wasn't Tamura's daughter.

It's odd, he thinks, that she is not the one. He guesses that when the time comes he wants a daisy, not an orchid, for a wife. Satomi has been urging him on since he signed the loyalty paper. Her nature is sensual and he has only to go there, to take without asking. It's getting so that he can't trust himself. He's ready to run.

He longs more than anything now to have the chance to prove himself, to show America that he is made of the right stuff. He's determined to go to war, to be out in the world free of Manzanar and of Satomi's expectations.

For Satomi the thought that she is about to lose him translates into the strangest pains. She feels them in her lungs when he is near, a coiling twisting thing, and in the bowl of her spine, which aches when he touches her, and in her head, which throbs dully in her absent moments when his image lopes across her mind.

"So it's certain you'll be drafted now." She can't look at Haru, doesn't want him to see her pain.

"Looks that way," he says. "They won't take our loyalty for granted, so we have to prove it. I'm glad of the chance."

"Can't wait to go, can you?" The words are out before she can stop herself. They sound so self-pitying she would take them back if she could, swallow them whole.

"I haven't lied," he says defensively. "You knew I was going to join up first chance I got."

"So that's it, then, you're off?"

"Yes, it'll be soon, I think. Don't try to make me feel bad about it, Sati."

He has never promised her anything, after all. Why should he feel guilty?