Ann’s Letter

Contributed by Diane Ichiyasu

Ann Ichiyasu letter from Topaz, page 1
Page 1 of Ann Ichiyasu letter from Topaz, November 14, 1942

“You cannot realize how starved we must have been for the type of news you wrote.”

The letter was 12 pages–handwritten on yellow paper by my mother, Ann Ichiyasu, to her neighbor, Lo Verne, when we were sent to the Topaz camp in 1942. It was sent to me by Lo Verne’s daughter, who saved it when she was going through her mother’s possessions about 10 years ago. The go-between was a Japanese American lady who called me one day out of the blue. I was a bit skeptical about the whole business, and really did not want to become involved, not knowing what was being sent.

But I shared my address, and received the letter. When I realized the handwriting was indeed my mother’s, I was in the midst of home projects and the time seemed to escape me. I was not very interested in that period of time (1940’s)  but have since realized how important it is to know the facts so that it does not happen to another group of people. 

This is the letter my mother wrote from Topaz:

[If you would prefer to read a copy of the original handwritten letter, click here.]

Nov. 14,1942
Block 3 Bldg. 12 – Apt. B.
Central Utah Relocation Center
Topaz, Utah –

Dearest Lo Verne:

How thrilled I was to get your letter here yesterday (13th). You so far away thinking of us & having your warm, friendly, chatty letter reach us safely — you made me most happy. I read it over twice, once by myself, then I read it aloud to Joey. You cannot realize how starved we must have been for the type of news you wrote. Brought a lump to my throat, too.

You know I never was much of a letter writer & I have no reason at all for not having written to you sooner except that being such a bum letter writer it takes me so long that I never can sit still long enough to pen anything.

For weeks before we left Tanforan, we had just about everything packed & crated because we were told we were going to be sent to somewhere — we weren’t told the date then nor where the place was to be — but we had to be prepared for every eventuality as in several instances people were moved after 48 hr. Notice — Knowing we could never get ready in that time — we had things already way before — then when the exodus was announced to be the 15th of Sept. rumor had it that we would be among the first to leave . However, it turned out we left near the last — on Oct. 1st. The month of September was very trying. The Army is very tight-mouthed & its policy is fine when it comes to war strategy, etc. — but dealing with civilians like us, it was awful — we lived in a state of maddening uncertainty & were clutching at any rumor — & did rumors fly! 

When you’re moving troops of men, 48 hr. notices & such may be simple but you just can’t do that with families –& we could never understand what harm there would have been if we were told just when & where we were going & in what order. But anywhere that’s all over with.

We arrived safely here in Utah which was a passing of nothing but sagebrush country & eateries when we neared Utah (Ogden) we started to get bloody noses & headaches due to the high altitude of these parts. We reached Delta which is the nearest station to here (almost 15 miles away) on Oct. 3rd. — noon & were driven here on a bus. It was so hot & so dusty I thought I’d collapse. We got here so filthy & dirty & tired & the places were not finished. One contingent of 500 & the ones that arrived the day before had to sleep in the mess hall on the floor — the nights & mornings here are awfully cold — even in October — at least in the mess hall they had coal stoves & so babies, old folks,& the young slept there. We were fortunate in knowing some people who knew of this vacant apt. & got us in here right away — but for those remaining 500 I felt terribly bad. There were newborn babies & sick mothers & invalids — & many tears. The Christian thing for us to have done was to share the misery with them or try to house some of them with us — but LoVerne — we were so tired & Diane so hungry & sleepy — & Joanne cross – & we had to collect our baggage & carry them blocks to this apt. — that we just wonder how we managed to do this much. You must wonder how people couldn’t have helped us. To tell you the truth I don’t think I saw 10 men that day that weren’t working — there were only the aged & the women & you couldn’t hardly ask them. It was a terrible reception for human beings. We were lucky all the hardships we encountered that first day when you consider what the rest went through — because there were no mattresses, no beds, no blankets, & most of all — no roofs. They had to sleep on the floor — hundreds — in the mess halls — 

That, too, is over with — like Tanforan, like the beginning here. It’s like turning pages of a book.

We had a difficult time getting used to this place, our whole family’s had so many bleeding noses — the first 2 or 3 times Joanne had them, she cried & cried because she got scared.

The room we have is 24’ x 24’ — the only things in here were the army cots & mattresses — not one piece of furniture — no shelves — no nothing. Wood is scarce & we are forbidden to pick up lumber to make things with– but we pick them up anyway because we’ve just got to have a table & some benches & shelves.

Right now, our room is all cluttered up with crates & baggage — hardly any room for us to walk in. It’s a very depressing sight, more like a warehouse — certainly does not look “homey.”

To give you an example of the kind of weather we have. For a week we have cold frosty mornings — 20 degrees above zero — then pleasantly warm in the apt. & cold again at night — then one day the clouds look ominous — then there’s a strong wind & pretty soon the dust flies — & does it fly!

You can’t see 10’ away from you — you have to grope your way outside with your eyes closed. Inside the barracks, it’s almost as bad — the dust blows in from windows & cracks & between any small opening so that in half an hour everything in the room has a layer of dust ¼” thick. It’s dust,dust, & more dust — as this dust storm keeps up for hours & sometimes for days & weeks. It’s in your hair, eyes, nose, & mouth. You grit your teeth & find you’re gritting dust. You can imagine how Joanne & Diane reacted — I tried dusting off everytime there was a short let-up, but what was the use — the next time it’s worse. I put the children to bed covered from head to toe with a blanket. The noise is awe-filling. You’d think the roof & the whole barrack is going to be blown away. Finally it lets up — & pretty soon it’s raining mud — the rain & the dust mixing up in the air & it’s mud on our windows. A little while of this & soon it’s snowing for several hours — next morning it’s serene all over again — & cold — freezing cold!

In 3 days, you can have every kind of weather imaginable here– it’s very demoralizing & depressing. You marvel at the people here calmly shaking out the dust from things, mopping up the floors, & washing the windows — to start all over again only to have another storm of dust cover everything up again —

Not being so energetic — I just look at the people helplessly with much respect for their untiring patience.

Someday they’ll get this place paved & fixed up — but that someday is a long way off — and we’re going to see plenty of nature’s pranks & witchcraft before that time —

Just as in Tanforan, you have to go out for your meals & showers, toilets, etc. It’s pretty hard to have to go out so much these cold days — my hands are itchy & swollen from chilblains or something.

There’s a lot of politics in here, too — there’s plenty underfoot but you can’t put your finger on it — & anyway we’re helpless.

I have been very bitter, LoVerne, during the last 6 months off & on. Things like this should not have to be in a democracy — I grieve for the deprived healthy childhood that my children are entitled to. I am embittered that old innocent men & women’s lives are shortened by a living such as this that are too harsh for them. 

But the only philosophy is that this is war & certain things cannot be helped, that death is something we all must face — my father, too, perhaps, even without this war. He might have died on the very day he died — I am thankful he does not have to face anymore hardships. Utah is much worse than California & he could not have stood it, I don’t think. And I am so busy I have not much to grieve over him which must be a blessing of a sort.

Joanne & Diane have both been awful sick with high temperatures & coughs. Diane, poor thing, has had a cold before we left Tanforan & still cannot get rid of it. Thanks for your kind offer, Lo Verne, about the cod liver oil — right now I have some — if the hospital where they’ve been doling it out to us runs out & I can’t get any more, I’ll remember you might be able to get me some — but right now I think there’s enough.

I wish you wouldn’t do so much for Joanne & Diane — it’s all receiving & no giving — & I do not feel right about it. I love the noble thought behind your desire to give my children something — & I hold that thought very dear — & will never forget it — or your other many kindnesses. You’ve been a true friend — it’s not everyone who has such loyal friends.

Someday — I hope I can in some measure do something wonderful for you —

Dear little blonde Tony & Jonny — I can see them so clearly. I’m trying so hard to imagine them taller & bigger. They must indeed have grown a lot — Tony with his “I am told” — for “I am cold” — & little Jonny — so devoted to Baby Diane.

Wouldn’t it be lovely if you could “grow a little baby” for them? Economically, it isn’t very sane in times like this — but then little children have no idea how expensive a baby is, do they? The cute things — they say the sweetest things. Tony & Jonny always did. I’m so glad you have chickens. The children must be crazy about them & they need eggs, too. You & George, too — you must all keep fit. They talk about a good diet being the best national defense but it surely is hard with the high food prices & food shortages.

So you & Nicky are both working. I’m glad you both have such fine people to care for your children. It’s a relief to know your children are well taken care of while you’re working. You can do your work much better.

Where you write about your Willys & gas rationing. I feel like I’m in the Dark Ages since we know so little of the happenings of the outside world. I’m glad you have a Willys.

I wish it snowed more — I understand there’s only about 7” of snow around here during the year. When it falls it’s not so cold but the little we’ve seen has only lasted for a few hours & then it melts away & ices and then we have this intense cold after weeks.

Wish we’d have the kind of snow that lasts & lasts — I don’t think Tony & Jonny would care much for this kind.

I hope you can take them for a vacation to Alaska after this war’s over — I heard it is really beautiful there. Someday I’m going, too. Someday, when we’re free — again — I wonder how it’ll feel to be to go wherever you want, do whatever you want, eat when & whatever you want — sleep whenever you want to

I want to impress on you how much freedom means. I know you’re a freedom loving person — you & many others must realize its meaning now — take it from me anything else is inhuman.

I’m also penning a few lines to Nicky — whom I haven’t written to ever since arrival at Tanforan. Tell her not to worry about me & us — we’ll see you all after this war’s over, hale hearty & undaunted — that’s us.

With all our love, distribute it generously to your whole family. Take care of yourself & see you soon.

If you don’t hear from me soon — don’t you worry. My fingers are very stubborn about holding a pen & lots of times when I want to write I can’t find my pen or something.

They might change our address system but for the time being the above address will do. If they change soon they can always trace it by the address I’ve given you.

So long —

Ann

P.S. Gee whiz — when I got started, I started to write reams & reams — does this letter make much sense to you?


About the contributor: Ann Akiyama Ichiyasu was born in Los Altos, CA in 1915, but grew up in Berkeley. She was 26 years old and a young mother of two children when her family was incarcerated in Tanforan Assembly Center. Her father, Jirozo Akiyama, died in Tanforan before the family was transferred to Topaz. Ann returned to Berkeley after the War and had a long career working for the Federal Government as a personnel manager at the Oakland Army Base and Fort Mason. She passed away in 1996. In 1942, she wrote to a Berkeley friend of the forced removal and life in Tanforan and Topaz–a letter which, miraculously, survived through the years and was returned to her daughter, Diane, by Ann’s friend’s daughter decades later.  Diane shared the letter with us and donated the original to the Topaz Museum in 2021.

Copyright 2021, the Ichiyasu family. All rights reserved.

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2 thoughts on “Ann’s Letter
  1. I am so impressed that this letter was saved and returned to the daughter of the writer. Thank you, thank you for that generous and important act. I read every word with great interest and empathy for the pain of this terrible experience.
    Reading it gave me the most immediate and visceral feeling for the indignities, hardships and lack of freedom endured by this family. It is one thing to read of these inhuman acts in books but the letter makes it so real and vivid.

    We discovered letters written to my mother-in-law, Rosi Mosbacher Baczewski, by her parents from Amsterdam where they had gone to escape persecution in Nuremberg, Germany. Sadly, tragicly they were murdered in Auschwitz.
    I’ll always be grateful we found and published their letters in – My Dear Good Rosi Letters from Occupied Amsterdam, 1940-1943
    Thank you so much for printing this letter. It reached my soul and touched my heart.

    1. Thank you for your kind words; I will pass them on to Diane and Jonnie (who returned the letter to Diane). I am so sorry for the loss of your relatives.
      Ruth (Topaz Stories Editor)

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