Devil at My Heels - Louis Zamperini [65]
“I remember you went to the Torrance Japanese district.”
“Also to Carson and Gardena and Lomita,” he added. “I lectured to the Japanese, especially the Issei—the first generation in America—to admonish them to maintain their Japanese culture, and to keep faithful to the homeland.”
“Why? They were American citizens.”
“I was never an American citizen. Japan’s a poor country, so I told them, ‘Send money home to your poor families in a country that needs your help.’ I also showed them how to save lead foil from gum and cigarette wrappers and roll it into a huge ball. Also, copper, brass, and aluminum. When the Japanese freighters came to San Pedro to buy American scrap metal, they could contribute to their country.”
I knew what he meant. I’d seen the lead balls at the Breakfast Club on Riverside Drive in Los Angeles. A close friend was the son of the owner, and I worked at huge private parties on weekends when I was in college. A Japanese gardener and cleanup man lived on the premises. I visited his shack a few times and I saw two 20-pound balls of soft lead—all painstakingly collected after each function—that he’d pressed together by hand. I even picked one up to judge the weight.
At one time I might have considered Sasaki’s ideals admirable, but now I had to think of them in terms of the war. I’m sure he never put it to his people that way, because to admit that they were helping a future war effort would have been foolhardy. I’m certain not one Japanese-American he spoke to knew of the conflict to come. I doubt the gardener had any idea the lead he’d collected would one day become bullets fired at Americans. He loved the United States and was glad to be there.
Most Americans never knew about these activities. Had they, particularly after the war began, it would only have increased the hunger for revenge we felt after the Japanese made their unprovoked, surprise attack on Pearl Harbor, wiping us out without warning. That was a dangerous time; with or without reason, many Americans hated any Japanese face—or any Oriental face. That’s one reason the government relocated the Japanese to internment camps: absolute necessity. Had they been left among the people, their homes might have been set on fire, and lives lost. I’m not saying that the property of American citizens of Japanese origin being confiscated by the government was right, because they were defenseless. Some were even my close friends, Japanese kids with whom I went to school. Others were patriotic citizens and proved that many times over fighting in Europe as part of the 442nd, the highest-decorated combat group ever. Internment, sadly, was just the best of many imperfect choices made at a time of national shock, fear, and disbelief.
Sasaki chuckled and interrupted my memories. “Oh, how I used to love having breakfast at the student union,” he said. “Ham and eggs, bacon, sausage, coffee. I enjoyed American food.” So did I, and here he was, making a seventy-pound skeleton drool.
We spoke a bit more about USC, then he asked for a rundown of my raft experience and spoke with calm confidence of Japan’s successful aggression in the Pacific. “We shall see each other from time to time,” he added. Despite our earlier friendship we were now on opposite sides not only of the desk but of the war. I expected no personal favors and no special treatment, and wouldn’t ask for anything. As far as I was concerned, I could call him friend no longer.
Sasaki dismissed me and I returned to my cell. As soon as the guard on patrol was out of earshot the other prisoners peppered me with questions: Who are you? Where were you based? What outfit? How were you captured? But when we fell silent, a suspicion gnawed at my gut, grew, and wouldn’t let up. Not once had Sasaki asked me a military question. I knew that Ofuna was a high-level interrogation camp. If a pilot was shot down Tuesday, he could be at Ofuna Wednesday for an intense grilling. What’s more, Sasaki had told me he not only held a civilian rank equivalent to admiral but