Somehow, between you and dad, the family was ready to leave Berkeley on our appointed time, a date in May of 1942. How heartbreaking it must have been to leave the only home you knew, and where you had raised your children. I’ll never know; I never asked them, being too young, and never asked later as an adult.
Mom, how did we behave? Did you have much trouble with us? First, going on the bus to Tanforan racetrack, our temporary “home,”—what a tremendous transition it must’ve been. Thinking back, having friends from Berkeley close by alleviated some of the newness and unexpected living conditions.
After three to four months’ adjusting to Tanforan life, was it any easier and different traveling on the three-day train ride through Nevada to the state of Utah to our “permanent“ home? Remembering what it was like to ride on the old, hot and stuffy, noisy, crowded train, I realize it must’ve been a real challenge for all the moms like you.
Topaz, our final destination, was in the middle of nowhere in the Utah desert. What did you think when you saw all those black-tarred barracks amidst the hot air, the dry white loose soil, and being greeted by the fine dust flying around? How did you and dad manage to get us to our block and barrack? What did you see, and what did you do when you went into the room, the apartment, which was to be our home for an indefinite length of time? I won’t even try to imagine because I was not old enough to realize the dreadful immediate days to come.
You took care of our basic needs, washing our clothes in the laundry room, using a scrub board and the harsh soap, bathing the younger kids, as well as dressing Michi. Oh, the diapers must’ve been a chore, but a job that needed to be done. I know at some point you worked as a waitress in our mess hall. Who took care of Michi when you were working?
