by Jon Yatabe and Ruth Sasaki
The two camps were at opposite ends of the spectrum—the products of the worst and the best aspects of human nature…
Just after we got out of Topaz and before my Dad was discharged from the Army, my mother and I were invited to a place called Hidden Villa in the Santa Clara Valley, south of San Francisco. It was a ranch, owned by a couple named the Duvenecks, who were starting a summer camp for kids from all different backgrounds.
I was eight years old. My dad was serving in the 442 in Europe; he had left Topaz in 1943 to join up, and we’d seen him only once since then–when he visited us in camp on leave after being wounded in 1944.
My dad was still in Europe when my mom and I left Topaz in June 1945 to return home to Berkeley, where my grandparents had lived before the War.
Before getting on the train in Utah to go home, we went to a restaurant for something to eat before the long train ride ahead. My mom ordered a single steak, and the nice waiter let us share it. He brought the steak, divided on two separate plates, each with a baked potato and vegetables, saying, “You’ve been through a lot–enjoy.” He even added pie for dessert. That was the best steak dinner I ever had, or will have.
We were met on the other end by Marion Collins, the wife of Larry Collins, a Quaker Red Cross representative who helped my dad in Europe when he was wounded. Larry had contacted Marion and asked her to pick us up when we got off the train. We were lucky because the Bank of Berkeley had rented Grandpa’s house out while we were gone; so we had a place to come back to.
We were finally home, waiting for my dad and hoping he would return safely from the War. So when my my mom told me that we were going to spend a few days at a “camp,” I wondered why, since we had just gotten out of one. But my mom assured me that it was a different kind of camp.
I didn’t know anything about the Duvenecks; but when we arrived, we were welcomed by the family and the counselors. There were other Topaz kids there, as well as all kinds of other kids including (I later learned) Jewish refugees from Nazi Germany.
I remember being awed by how grand the house was. I had never seen anything so magnificent. I saw a portrait of Frank Duveneck, Sr. (“Grandpa” Duveneck) hanging on a wall; he was an artist.