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.