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“Maybe you’re afraid to get your hands dirty, history teacher.”
“You know better than that.”
“Why should I even trust you? You’re a former cop?”
“Because you want more than me.”
He didn’t speak for a long time. Then, “I’ll give you twenty-four. That’s all. Then we’re coming for you, this time for keeps. We’ll start by cutting off your finger.”
“Whatever.”
***
I flew into Burbank and rented a car, driving an hour through the dismal traffic to a comfortable house with a view of the San Gabriel Mountains. It was not a very smoggy day. Phoenicians always talk about not wanting to become “another L.A.” It’s the smugness of yokels. Phoenix had become another L.A. in all the bad ways, including the gangs. It lacked almost all the good things, from the extensive rail transit to the cool vibe to the world-class universities and talent. Oh, and there was the ocean—and mountains, when you could see them, as magnificent as the San Gabriels.
The young woman I had spoken to on the phone only had a youthful voice. She was close to my age, but attractive with shoulder-length hair, large eyes, and a fine figure in an expensive suit. It turned out that she worked in the L.A. County District Attorney’s Office and was not prepared for any bullshit from David Mapstone, of late the historian for the Maricopa County Sheriff.
“I checked you out,” she said, standing in the doorway.
“Did I pass?”
My flirting skills still needed work. She said, “Let me see them.”
I handed her the plastic bag with the dog tags. She took them out, held them in the sunlight, and ran a finger over the metal.
“Oh, my God.”
She introduced herself as Christine Tanaka Holmes, stepped aside, and let me com
e in.
She led me back into a large family room lighted by an arcadia door that led out onto a sumptuous garden. But much of the interior space was taken up with the tools of old age: a walker, a four-footed cane, a wheelchair with a thick, black cushion as the seat. And in a print armchair sat a small, very elderly woman with hair the color of lead pulled back into a bun. She assessed me with bright eyes.
The deputy D.A. bent down on her haunches.
“GiGi, this is David Mapstone from Phoenix. This is my great-grandmother, Sarah Kurita. GiGi, he brought Johnny’s dog tags home.”
I pulled up another chair and sat before her as she held the objects. Tears dimmed the bright eyes. She took both of my hands. “My big brother, Johnny.”
She instructed the younger woman. “Bring them.”
We sat in silence, her diminutive, bony hands clutching mine, until Christine returned. She opened a wooden box and began to hand out objects.
“This was Johnny in 1943. He sent it to us in Poston, from his training.”
The photo showed a cocky smile on a young soldier. “He trained in Mississippi, if you can believe that,” Christine said.
“He was his own man, Johnny,” the old woman said. “He was a rebel, had to do it his way. Didn’t want to follow the old ways. Wanted to marry who he wanted. He was such an American boy, even though they called him a Jap. But he was a good brother and a great soldier. He didn’t want to stay in Poston. He and his friends enlisted as soon as they could. It wasn’t easy. Lots of resentment about what the government did to us. But Johnny was going to show them.”
More photos: Johnny with other soldiers; aboard a troop ship; another man. “This was his friend Shigeo,” the old woman said. “He was killed on the beachhead at Salerno.” She touched each of the photographs as if they were religious icons. “Johnny wrote us every other day.” She pointed to stacks of letters inside the box, neatly tied with silk bands. “Johnny fought all the way up Italy and into France, with the rest of the 442nd.” Her face clouded. “Then he came back home…”
Christine said quickly, “The 442nd Regimental Combat Team was made up exclusively of Nisei who chose to fight for their country. It was the most highly decorated unit in the Army’s history—twenty-one Medal of Honor winners. Meanwhile, their relatives were forced to live in the relocation camps.” She allowed her first smile. “But you know that.”
Next came shadow boxes with medals and ribbons. One was a Silver Star. It was the third highest decoration for bravery and this one looked as if it had just come from the War Department. In a laminated cover was a citation for Johnny Kurita, for gallantry in action against the enemy at the battle of Biffontaine.
All this was living history, right before me. I let it wash me along, carry away my impatience, and then distract me from my heartbreaks and losses. Against all this, mine seemed small.
Two hours went by at warp-speed before I finally asked my questions. Her hearing was keen, so I could speak in a normal voice. Her memory was vivid and precise. The answers she gave knocked me sideways. The same was true for Christine.
