We were ushered into Tanforan under the grandstand, like cattle going to market. We were searched, given a typhoid shot and issued a family number—20175—and the number of our building—26, unit 29.
At the edge of the 118 acres that made up Tanforan there was an oval compound of stables; and later we jokingly remarked that we were the elite, as Charlie Howard, Seabiscuit’s owner, used those stables for his grand prize winners. The stall was divided in half with a Dutch door, and the interior strongly smelled of a mixture of disinfectant and horse manure. There were two cots with army blankets on each and we were handed a sack to fill with hay as our mattress. I had to fight back the urge to vomit; then too, I was pregnant.
Hastily constructed barracks had been set up, and temporary privvies were placed at random out on the field with a curtainless opening. Although there were a number of regular toilets under the grandstand, they could not accommodate us all. All sense of propriety and modesty had to be cast to the wind, or you suffered inwardly.
A bachelor friend who had gone to Tanforan a month prior to us to help organize and assemble the center had advised us by letter to bring a hammer, toilet paper, sheets and towels and bring two sets of metal camping utensils, dish cloths and soap, which we did. We found we needed nails to hang things on so a friend and I would scour the grounds looking for stray nails the carpenters had carelessly dropped. We hammered away, straightening crooked nails and were elated when we found a straight one.
After a week or so of adjusting to our surroundings, my husband went to work at the infirmary as an assistant administrator and I worked as a clerk at the recreation center. The wages ranged from $12-$19 a month depending on whether you were a laborer or a professional.
Living in the stables was nerve-racking as garter snakes slithered through the cracks on the floor and strange insects flew through the numerous knot holes. There would be bugs nesting in our clothes or shoes. Emotional, unstable persons were given to shouting in their sleep or quarreling with their spouses or imagining seeing ghosts.
Our unit seemed miles away from the mess hall, and carrying our metal utensils three times a day and looking forward to having stew every night for dinner became a bore. Food stamps were issued on the outside and we were supposed to have been counted in on the allocation, but the food dispensed became miserable and there were several outbreaks of diarrhea in the whole center. Protests were made to the administration of the foul, spoiled food and the rumor was spread that the buyers of the food within the administration were blackmarketing the food on the outside.
There were 10 relocation centers set up in the interior deserts or marshes; two in Arizona, two in Arkansas, two in California, one in Colorado, one in Idaho, one in Utah, and one in Wyoming. Our next move was to Topaz, Utah and we were the last contingent to leave Tanforan as we were the “clean up“ crew. Also, the sick had to be cared for, so those connected with the infirmary remained until the last.
Our relatives who had gone to Del Rey were moved to the hot, arid desert area of Gila, Arizona, but my husband’s mother and family were able to re-join us after many consultations with the authorities.
Note: This is the second part of Harue Minamoto’s memoir, with minor edits. Read parts 1-5:
Part 1: Forced Removal
Part 3: First Winter in Topaz
Part 4: Dust-up in the Desert
Part 5: The Aftermath
About the contributor: Harue Hirai Minamoto was born in Oakland, CA in 1916. A graduate of Oakland Technical High School, she completed bookkeeping and secretarial courses at Merritt Business School and was hired by the U.S. Department of Immigration and Naturalization Services in 1937. After Executive Order 9066 was issued, she was forced to resign. She married Toshiro Minamoto in February 1942, shortly before they were incarcerated in Tanforan. Two of her three children were born in Topaz. Sponsored by a Quaker family, the Minamotos resettled in Philadelphia in 1944; but when Tosh was drafted in 1945, Harue and the children returned to Oakland. Harue often spoke of the injustices of incarceration to her children and grandchildren and never hesitated to inform others of what EO 9066 did to American citizens. She passed away in 1999. Her story was shared with us by her family: Melyssa Minamoto, Gay Kaplan, John Minamoto, Ed Minamoto and their children.
Copyright 1999, Harue Minamoto. All rights reserved.