House Of Ghosts Part 18

Preston turned on his heels and proceeded down a short hall to a rear exit. He chose the lone Jeep with a canva.s.s top. After three cranks, the w.i.l.l.y's belched to life. Preston managed to get the transmission into first gear.

Oiled roads divided the central portion of the relocation center into sixty-seven blocks, including thirty-six residential blocks, two staff housing blocks, an administrative block, two warehouse blocks, a garage block, and a hospital block.

Preston drove north, avoiding faces behind single pane windows. Each barrack was divided into six, sixteen by twenty feet units. With six to eight people a.s.signed to a unit, the population per block averaged two hundred fifty.

The Jeep weaved between trucks in the industrial center. Male and female workers were loading goods produced in the garment, cabinet, and mattress factories for the camp's consumption.

Preston pulled parallel to building A of block 36. Two elderly males, braving the wind, ceased their conversation at the sight of the officer without an MP guard. "Where's the kitchen?" Preston asked.

Without replying the inmates continued walking. Preston learned a few words of j.a.panese, the one that he caught wasn't complimentary- Gaijin Gaijin. He circled the block, finding a collection of garbage cans in an alley. Preston parked the Jeep.

Two young females wearing white ap.r.o.ns disappeared from an open door with Preston's approach. The air was thick with the smell of boiling fish and cabbage. He cupped his gloves around his nose, took a deep breath and stepped inside.

Each block had its own kitchen and commissary. Oil drum size pots boiled on a commercial ten burner stove producing a haze at the ceiling. "Let's go people," Tommy Shikiro said, clapping his hands twice. A crew of ten picked up the pace. Piles of peeled carrots, onions, and potatoes were on two wood tables. Twenty chickens lay boned and quartered. "We've got two-hundred fifty for lunch." He picked up a large ladle, moving toward the stove.

"Tommy, we have company," one of the young females said, pointing to the door.

Tommy slowly turned, abroad smile crossed his face. "Captain Swedge."

Preston was alarmed by Tommy's appearance. Coal black hair, scraggly and tussled, hadn't been washed or combed in days. The Princeton grad had forsaken his clean shaven ways for a Fu Manchu mustache. "Any place we can talk?" Preston asked. He removed his gloves and unb.u.t.toned his coat. In contrast to the outside, the kitchen was stifling hot.

Tommy finished stirring a fish stew, put down the ladle, and wiped his hands on his ap.r.o.n already streaked with blood and oil. "Come on," he said, motioning to an open interior door. With a distinct limp of his left foot, Tommy led the way to a storeroom.

Preston followed. "Make yourself comfortable," Tommy said, taking a seat on a sack of flour. "Captain. Congratulations are in order."

Preston sheepishly smiled. "I'm glad you're out of Santa Anita."

"Yeah, I wouldn't have wanted to spend the winter months in balmy southern California." Tommy removed his pipe from his pant pocket. He struck a wood match and pulled deeply on the pipe. "I would have sent a thank you note, but I didn't think it would have looked to good at War Department."

"I didn't know you cook," Preston said, wiping dust off a rickety stool.

"I don't, but I also don't sew or do wood working. I had the opportunity to work in the infirmary, but emptying bedpans didn't appeal to me." He tamped the smoldering tobacco with his finger. "Do you know we have our own orphanage?"

Preston didn't answer. Tommy continued, "All Nisei orphans in the restricted zone, even half-j.a.panese babies living in Caucasian foster homes, are sent here. Uncle Sam can't be too careful-you never know when a toddler might turn out to be a spy or a saboteur. What brings you here, Captain Swedge?"

"I want to offer a way out of here," Preston said.

"A position with Sterling Swedge. Hot dig-it-tee! I'll pack my things and kiss my wife goodbye," Tommy said with a sneer.

"I couldn't get that," Preston laughed. "An all Nisei regiment is being formed. Volunteer and see the world."

Tommy struck another match, working another cloud of smoke from the pipe. "You're a few steps behind. We had a recruiter here a couple of days ago. I've seen the loyalty oath."

"It's a formality," Preston weakly protested.

"Did you have to sign a loyalty oath?" Tommy charged. "Being a member of America First isn't my idea of a patriotic American. The world was going up in smoke as you and that s.h.i.tbag Clark Johnson protested."

"Take the time to reconsider," Preston counseled.

Tommy pushed off the flour sack, signaling the meeting was over. "Maybe you will honor the block by staying for lunch. I have karei-boiled flat fish simmered in a soy sauce based soup and h.o.r.enso ohitashi-j.a.panese-style spinach salad."

Preston took in the view from a.s.sistant Secretary John McCloy's fifth floor office in the newly constructed Pentagon. Across the Potomac, the Washington Monument glistened against a cloudless sky.

The expansive suite was divided into three sections: his personal works.p.a.ce featuring a desk constructed from teak salvaged from the deck of the sunken battleship Arizona; a conference area able to accommodate twelve, and the "setup room," an ensemble of four brown leather winged back chairs surrounding a claw foot shin high table where McCloy could pick a visitor's pocket without being detected. The table was originally owned by Edwin Stanton, Abraham Lincoln's secretary of war.

"I'm still getting used to having all members of the department in one place," McCloy said.

Ground for the new home of the War Department was broken on September 11, 1941, with construction completed in approximately sixteen months at a cost of $83 million. Its unusual shape resulted from the fact that its originally intended site, Arlington Farms, fronted on Arlington Ridge Road and the Arlington Memorial Bridge approach, which intersected at an angle of approximately 108 degrees, the angle of a regular pentagon.

McCloy lifted the lid on his cigar humidor, retrieved a Cuban delight, and offered one to Preston. "I'll pa.s.s. My throat is not A-1. Picked up a bug in Hawaii." He went through a coughing spree.

"The original location was better, but Roosevelt didn't want the view of the city obstructed from Arlington Cemetery." McCloy lit the stogie and walked to the windows. The immense building was built in a series of concentric circles. "From your reports, things have reached equilibrium out west."

Preston rasped, "Dillon Myer has done a great job of finalizing the fifteen camps." Myer oversaw the completion of relocation centers in California, Utah, Idaho, Arizona, Colorado, and Arkansas after replacing Milton Eisenhower. "A hundred thousand j.a.panese-Americans are under guard."

"Where do we stand with the formation of the Nisei Voluntary Regiment?" McCloy asked, exhaling a balloon size cloud of smoke. Worried about cases coming before the Supreme Court, McCloy envisioned forming a regiment totally manned by j.a.panese-Americans as proof of the government's good faith efforts to display the loyalty of those interned, and hence their internment was not grounded by racial prejudice.

Preston fought back a sneeze. "Not on firm ground." He removed a handkerchief from his dress jacket and wiped his nose. "There isn't a groundswell rushing to signup. The loyalty oath and the disavowal of any allegiance to the emperor of j.a.pan is insulting to many, and there's a rumor going around the camps that those joining will be used in suicide missions." He braced himself for McCloy's response.

"Bulls.h.i.t, one hundred percent." McCloy returned to his chair. "It's been designated the Four-Four-Two Regiment. It will will be staffed." be staffed."

"Less than a thousand have volunteered from a target number of three thousand," Preston said between wipes of his nose. "Two thousand Nisei in Hawaii will be more than willing to join, but General Dewitt isn't on board."

"Dewitt wouldn't trust his grandmother if she put her eyeliner on a slant," McCloy grunted. "The Four-Four-Two isn't going to the Pacific. They'll be going to Italy."

The intercom buzzed. "Mr. Meiklejohn is here," Mrs. Higgins said.

Alexander Meiklejohn was the former president of Amherst College and longtime acquaintance of McCloy. Meiklejohn in his position with the American Civil Liberties Union was a monitor of government policy concerning j.a.panese Americans. "Send him in. Florence, be a love and scurry up a pot of coffee," McCloy said.

At seventy-one, Meiklejohn smashed across the threshold with his bowler hat, silver tipped walking stick in hand, and a black wool topcoat draped over his arm. His high forehead rose to a brownish gray splash of hair parted down the middle. Gold wire rim gla.s.ses perched on a nose that accentuated his gaunt face.

McCloy met Meiklejohn in the middle of the office. "Dean Meiklejohn," McCloy said deferentially. "What a pleasant surprise." He led his visitor to the "setup room." McCloy wasn't surprised by Meiklejohn's call, requesting an appointment-military intelligence reported Meiklejohn's appearance in the city the day before. The ACLU was on the subversive watch list. "Come sit."

McCloy made the introductions. "I attended your lecture at Princeton during my soph.o.m.ore year," Preston said. "One of my fondest college memories."

Meiklejohn placed his hat and coat on one of the chairs, taking the adjacent seat. McCloy took the opposing chair. Preston stood. "November, 1939," Meiklejohn said without hesitation. A champion of free speech and civil liberties, his address covered the necessity of open discourse in a free and democratic society, no matter how offensive and controversial. Meiklejohn added fuel to the fire for Clark Johnson and the debating club demands for a say in booking campus speakers.

Florence Higgins carried in a carafe of coffee and a tray of doughnuts, putting them on the Stanton table. "Captain Swedge, a cup of tea might be better for your throat."

Florence Higgins was military through and through. Her father fought at Gettysburg, losing a leg on Little Round Top with the Twentieth Maine Volunteer Infantry Regiment. Her lawyer husband was serving in the Pacific Theatre on the staff of General MacArthur. The sixty-four year old keeper of the flame had let Preston use a bedroom in her Georgetown home while he looked for an apartment in the over-rented city.

"Not necessary," Preston said, trying not to look uncomfortable. There was the issue of daughter Margaret. Three years younger than the dashing Princeton man, Peggy had fallen head over heals and into his bed. Florence wasn't buying his incessant traveling as an excuse for avoiding her daughter.

McCloy eyed Preston who wasn't the first officer Florence Higgins tried to fix up with her daughter. "Thank you Mrs. Higgins." He waited for her to exit. "What brings you across the river?"

"ACLU representatives in California tell me your people are working on a plan to furlough Nisei," Meiklejohn said. "They feel the conditions are as unconst.i.tutional as the relocations."

Preston poured three cups of coffee, handing a cup and saucer to Meiklejohn and McCloy. He took his own cup and walked toward the windows, giving McCloy room to operate.

"As luck would have it, Captain Swedge has just returned from the coast where he's been working on the very program your representatives are concerned about," McCloy said. "Nothing is set in stone. We want to be fair to those interned."

"I've heard snippets," Meiklejohn said. "Perhaps if I have the entire picture, the organization's fears can be allayed."

McCloy cleared his throat. "Captain..."

Preston put his cup and saucer on the window ledge. "Three kinds of pa.s.ses will be issued: short-term emergency pa.s.ses; restricted pa.s.ses for work gangs to be employed outside of the camps; and indefinite furloughs."

Meiklejohn dropped three cubes of sugar into his cup. "What are the conditions for the indefinite furloughs?" He stirred the coffee and tapped the saucer twice with his spoon.

"References will need to be obtained, preferably from Caucasians, and each internee will be asked to sign a pledge of allegiance to the United States and agree to serve as an informant regarding any subversive activity, both in the relocation camps and in the communities they will resettle," Preston paused to blow his nose. "In addition, they will be instructed to stay away from large groups of j.a.panese and to develop American habits that will help them to be accepted into American society. Finally, those wanting out of the camps will be asked to furnish proof that they have always been loyal to the United States."

Meiklejohn finished his coffee. McCloy and Preston waited for his reaction. The silence was broken by a teletype machine behind McCloy's desk spitting out paper tape. The machine, linked to bases around the world, kept the a.s.sistant Secretary of War on top of breaking events.

Meiklejohn wiped his lips with a silk handkerchief. "Although the conditions placed on furloughs are extensive, they are, I think, essentially reasonable limits arising out of the evacuation situation. I will recommend to the board and the national committee not to mount a direct const.i.tutional challenge."

McCloy wanted to clap his hands and jump for joy. "These are difficult times for everyone."

"I appreciate your predicament, John," Meiklejohn said, gathering his things. "Next time I'm in town, we need to get together to talk about the days of yore."

Preston escorted Meiklejohn through the outer office to return to find McCloy at the teletype machine. "Son of a b.i.t.c.h!" McCloy exclaimed. "There's been a riot at Manzanar- two dead, eight wounded. Read it!"

Preston took the printout with trepidation. Since his last stop at Manzanar, the atmosphere of pa.s.sive resistance had changed to outright defiance. Demonstrations that ended in battles with MPs brought Washington's permission to engage in deadly force if warnings to disperse went unheeded. He didn't know the name Heideki Nikajima, but Tommy Shikiro jumped off the yellow grained paper.

Chapter 24.

WESTFIELD, NJ SEPTEMBER 2000.

JOE SHOVED SIX EMPTY BUDWEISER cans across the dinette table. The air hung heavy with the remains of a pack of Marlboros floating in his morning coffee. He closed the second installment of the Swedge diaries, giving the leather cover a tap with his knuckles. Under the table, Roxy placed her head in his lap. "The old guy was one calculating, cold-hearted b.a.s.t.a.r.d," he said, scratching Roxy behind her ears. "I'm sure of one thing-Paul Rothstein was the main character in his nightmare."

Roxy c.o.c.ked her head to the side, yawned and rolled onto her back. Geopolitical Systems Geopolitical Systems was long over. He'd push the decision back another day whether to stick it out or put his tail between his legs and slink away. Joe searched his wallet for Dr. Headcase's card. A picture of his grandfather wagging his finger came up in the shuffle. "Screw you." He turned the picture face down. "Every family has its designated f.u.c.k up." was long over. He'd push the decision back another day whether to stick it out or put his tail between his legs and slink away. Joe searched his wallet for Dr. Headcase's card. A picture of his grandfather wagging his finger came up in the shuffle. "Screw you." He turned the picture face down. "Every family has its designated f.u.c.k up."

Washing the sewer taste out of his mouth with a swig from a bottle of mouth-wash kept in the cabinet housing the gla.s.ses, Joe spit into the sink. He didn't know if a dead Preston Swedge was worse than the live one who had burned his a.s.s for twenty years. Preston was a follower. Joe was convinced that if Herbert Swedge didn't have a boatload of money, his son would have fallen in with hoods and other low-lifes of the Depression. Preston resisted the bile of his roommate Clark Johnson, but succ.u.mbed to the power and trappings of the office of John McCloy. Some men are born bad to the bone, others grow into the role. If Preston could partic.i.p.ate in the imprisonment of American citizens based solely on their race and a.s.sist in keeping them segregated until the end of the war, what else was he involved with? He had questions on top of questions. And where did Jake Rothstein fit in?

Through the window over the sink, Joe watched Roxy romp in a light drizzle. Why should I give a d.a.m.n about what Preston Swedge was up to? Why should I give a d.a.m.n about what Preston Swedge was up to? "You're a cop, stupid! Act like one!" he screamed at the four walls. Donations to the Westfield temple combined with Rabbi Balaban chanting the mourner's prayer for the dead over Preston's grave led him to phone the temple and hit his first roadblock- Balaban was in Israel and wouldn't be back for three months. "You're a cop, stupid! Act like one!" he screamed at the four walls. Donations to the Westfield temple combined with Rabbi Balaban chanting the mourner's prayer for the dead over Preston's grave led him to phone the temple and hit his first roadblock- Balaban was in Israel and wouldn't be back for three months.

Joe pondered contacting Reverend James Miller. According to Ed Stoval, two days after officiating at Preston's funeral, the reverend had a grapefruit size tumor removed from his colon. The septuagenarian was in re-hab trying to get back on his feet. "What the h.e.l.l do I have to lose?" he said, punching in the number for the First Presbyterian Church. The secretary said Miller was up for company and would appreciate any respite from the boredom. She gave Joe an inside tip-the reverend had a sweet tooth.

Stopping at Bremmer's Candy Emporium in the business district, Joe picked a box of mixed chocolates and headed for the other side of town where the OptimaCare Nursing and Rehabilitation Center ab.u.t.ted the southwest corner of Nomahegan Park. Joe was part of the police detail at the zoning board meetings when conservationists and left-wing liberal-weenies pulled a sit down demonstration in opposition to the "big business" construction application. Driving by the facility always brought a smile, remembering the astonished faces of the committee when one of the more amply endowed female members of Preserve Our Park decided to nurse her infant in the first row.

Shielded from the road by towering oaks and a phalanx of blue spruce, the large pane gla.s.s, rough timbers and a whitewashed stucco facade gave the impression of a mountain resort. Joe followed the arrows to visitors parking, yielding to an exiting hea.r.s.e from Kerrigan's Funeral Home. The road, barely two cars wide, forced the two drivers to slow to a crawl. Recognizing Joe, Bud Kerrigan stopped the Cadillac. "When are you coming back to the Downtown a.s.sociation?" Kerrigan asked. "The meetings haven't been the same."

The Downtown a.s.sociation was a collection of local merchants who met once a month. Joe, an unofficial member, served as the police representative. He and the mortician shared dirty jokes, beer, and general disdain for the a.s.sociation's self-importance and parliamentary rules. "I'm working on it," Joe said. "Who's the guest speaker?"

Kerrigan scratched the stubble on his chin. "An attorney named...Hardon. No, Hargrove," he said with a booming laugh. "All attorneys are hardons."

Joe had to laugh. "Never heard of him, but I'd lay even money he's a p.r.i.c.k. Might just see you there tomorrow." He watched the hea.r.s.e pull away in the Volvo's side mirror. The more he thought about the meeting, the more he was inclined to go. In addition to Preston's attorney being present, there were a number of members who might be able to shed some light on Preston's past.

Visitor's parking was jammed. Joe parked fifty feet from the main entrance in a no parking-fire zone. Putting his Westfield P.D. credentials on the dash, he took the five-iron and candy from the front seat. The drizzle turned to a steady rain. Joe fished a hooded windbreaker nestled behind the spare tire he never bothered to return to its well beneath the carpet. The temperature had dropped into the low fifties. It felt like fall.

Joe hesitated at the main entrance. Hospitals caused him to sweat, nursing homes made him queasy. The sight of his grandfather, swathed in a diaper and tethered to multiple I.V. lines was burned into his brain. He unconsciously took a deep breath, preparing himself for the smell of urine and the creeping death that overwhelmed him in Brooklyn's All Saints Nursing.

Limping into the reception area drew a concerned look from the matronly woman manning the desk. "Re-hab is down the hall," she said, moving around the counter. "Have a seat. I'll get you a wheelchair."

Plush arm chairs were grouped among towering palms and thriving rubber plants. "A patient named James Miller. Where would I find him?" Joe said, wiping water off his head with a tissue retrieved from a box on the desk.

"I'm sorry I mistook..." she said, scurrying back to her station.

"Not a problem," Joe said with a wave of the box of candy. "My good buddy is waiting for his fix."

Checking her computer, she said, "He's in the recreation center. End of the hall, take a left." She handed Joe a visitor badge to hang around his neck.

Soft indirect lighting reflected off fuchsia walls and matching Italian marble floor in the main corridor. Joe sniffed the air-nothing but the hint of lilac. Only the sound of the club clacking with each step broke an eerie silence.

Turning left at the end of the corridor brought the gla.s.s domed rec center into view. A nurse's aide pushed a wheelchair carting a young male Joe judged to be no more than twenty-five, his face contorted in a Halloween mask with a metal neck brace keeping a skull marked with a scar running ear to ear in a fixed position. Joe forced his back against the wall. The kid looked familiar.

Joe, itching for a cigarette, reached into his pocket for a stray piece of gum. For a second, he thought of back pedaling before hitting a metal b.u.t.ton marked "Automatic Entry."

Double-wide gla.s.s panel doors opened. Joe stood under the dome amazed at the theater size of the solarium, comparing it to the twenty by twenty dingy "family room" in the place his insurance company approved for re-habbing his leg. Tropical flowers in huge terracotta urns marked the periphery. Muted violins played through fist size speakers. Outside the walls of gla.s.s, a pond added to the idyllic feeling.

Four women in the midst of a spirited card game broke the tranquility with a series of whoops and slaps to the green felt covered table. A pair of pre-school girls skipped and squealed around an elderly gentleman as their mother pleaded for quiet. Joe scanned the twelve other occupants. James Miller was alone at a table for two.

An array of thank you cards was splayed before the scary thin reverend. Miller, wearing a blue sweat suit, peered over his half-frame gla.s.ses as Joe approached. "Good afternoon," Miller said, trying to place Joe's face. "Have we met?"

"Not directly," Joe replied.

Miller snapped his fingers three times in quick succession. "The cemetery. I didn't think anyone remembered Isabel Grabar. Nice of you to put flowers on her grave."

Caught off guard, Joe stammered, "A fine woman. I don't visit as often as I should."

"Isabel Grabar was the first funeral I officiated. That was in 1949 in a little town outside of Memphis Tennessee," Miller growled. The scowl on his face accentuated the gaunt lines. "What game are you playing?"

"I knew Preston for twenty years. With the arrangements being private, I decided to stay out of the way." Joe stuck his detective badge under Miller's nose. "Joe Henderson."

Miller put down his pen. "Something amiss?" The look of concern replaced his scowl.