Chapter Six
Dissension, Departure, and Grim Determination

By 1944 Topaz's existence could be summed up by the old adage, "The more things change, the more they stay the same." Registration and segregation brought some dislocation of the original population, but the community was transformed more slowly and persistently by the policy of resettlement, which caused nearly a third of the population to leave camp for new lives elsewhere. Most of the people who left eventually saw their lives improve, but at the cost of wrenching farewells to the friends and relatives—often aging parents—they left behind. The process of resettlement was fraught with uncertainties, beginning with the decision to leave. Would the new community accept the Nikkei without too much overt prejudice? Would the job work out? Was freedom worth the loss of security? For some the outside world was too harsh and they returned to camp, whose administrators had, reluctantly, to readmit them. These people bore powerful testimony to those who remained inside that the outside world was a more difficult place to live in than the WRA depicted. Communications from those who remained outside echoed their fears: racism was still alive in America, even in places that had not known Japanese Americans before the war.

The departures also affected those who remained, for the tasks of maintaining the community and its physical plant had to be performed by fewer people. Since it was usually the young and resilient who left, the capabilities of the remainder were often strained. Issei leaders were far less willing to cooperate with the

Caucasian WRA in policies that seemed to threaten their interests. As the ongoing war affected all sectors of civilian life, hiring whites for administrative positions was more difficult, and teachers in particular became harder to recruit. Obtaining laborers from among the resident community was also challenging, particularly since the jobs were of uncertain but presumably brief duration. There was increasing resentment over the miserably low wages that the WRA paid and some residents decided that they would rather not work, especially when the jobs available were laborious and tedious. The WRA did not consider increasing the compensation for Nikkei labor in the camps.

Oscar Hoffman, the community analyst, detailed social problems at Topaz with insight as well as certain biases. Unlike his predecessor, Weston LaBarre, who held the position for only six months and had little time to become acquainted with the newly created community, Hoffman came to know the residents well and to become friends with many of them. The position was always controversial: administrators like Charles Ernst did not think they needed a social scientist to tell them how to do their jobs, and scholars of the internment, as well as many of the residents, tended to view the analysts as "stool pigeons" who befriended the Japanese Americans in order to report on them to Washington. The community analyst lived among the Nikkei and liked them, but he was not one of them.

Asael Hansen, who worked at Heart Mountain, wrote that his role was to observe what he saw, establish rapport with the residents, and learn enough about them to improve their lot. He was not to be involved in security or police matters, he was to keep his sources anonymous, and he was to have no administrative responsibility. Roger Daniels, who was critical of this supposed impartiality, noted in an introduction to Hansen's reflections that "the perceptions of the analyst and his circle of informants are not universally shared."^[1] Hansen viewed his role benevolently and considered himself above the fray, but even presumed impartiality

can amount to taking sides, as it did in Hansen's case. Hoffman was involved in nothing as traumatic as the draft resistance movement at Heart Mountain, which enveloped Hansen and many of the Nisei there, and his reports were usually straight reporting rather than advocacy journalism. They presented a weekly narrative of events at camp as well as occasional detailed analyses of specific topics or problems. Peter T. Suzuki studied the work of the analysts, arguing that they had their own agendas as well as specific instructions about relocation, registration, and segregation. (He especially criticized LaBarre's work.)^[2]

Hoffman had his own point of view, which was sometimes favorable to the camp administration and sometimes not. A sociologist with a doctorate from the University of North Carolina, he seemed at the outset to be very sympathetic to the internees. He grew up in Kansas and studied in Michigan before going to Chapel Hill, and probably had never known or even met a Japanese American before he arrived in Topaz. Like many others, Hoffman wished to serve his country during the war but not through combat, and the position at Topaz seemed to meet his educational background. Although Hoffman did not get along with Ernst, he agreed with Luther Hoffman that resettlement was a wise and correct policy and that the Nikkei should be encouraged to leave Topaz. This was official policy and the analysts had all been instructed to promote it. Hoffman's reports reflect his agreement with that dictum, but they also offer useful insights into education, the hospital situation, labor, and morale in camp, especially during the last year as conditions deteriorated. Hoffman's was a Caucasian perspective; although his job brought him into closer relations with the Nikkei population of Topaz than most administrators, he usually supported the interners rather than the internees. The oral histories reveal how different his perspective was from the Japanese Americans'.^[3]

Over the years there were certain constants in the Topaz community, and even some improvements. Relations between the top

administrators and the evacuees continued to be cool, since Director Ernst discouraged fraternization. Hoffman termed this attitude "formal aloofness"; he and Roscoe Bell agreed that Ernst believed close relationships with the internees were "not in good taste" and that he cared only about the few Nisei who worked closely with him. Hoffman said that the block managers referred to Ernst as "the fox," since they never could be sure how he really felt about anything. The director used the community councils to give the appearance of democracy, but in reality he intended his administration to be the ruling force, and it was. This gap between appearance and reality was soon discerned by the residents, who discounted the council as a result. The second director, Luther Hoffman, was more informal in style, establishing "close and intimate" relations with the council chairmen, thereby causing them problems when the residents wanted policies changed over which the council had no control. The end was the same: the council chairman was stigmatized as the "stooge of the Administration" for working closely with the director, yet he was unable to give the residents what they wanted. Because of Luther Hoffman's focus on the council, the block managers had more power during the first director's tenure and less during the second.^[4]

Other aspects of community life appeared tranquil. The camp's Protestant and Buddhist religious organizations flourished and served as a bulwark for the faithful, convincing them that there was some greater purpose for which they were being called to suffer. Hoffman reflected that "in times of dislocation, anxiety and distress, people... [seek] psychological security in all sorts of ways,"^[5] and religion has always been a source of solace. The residents and the military worked out an uneasy coexistence after the settlement of the Wakasa case, and by spring 1944 only nine military policemen remained at Topaz. Student relocation increased, and by the end of 1944 high school graduates could aspire to attend colleges and universities not only in the interior and the East but also on the West Coast. The consumers' cooperative provided an increasing amount of goods for the residents. In addition, the camp provided a beauty parlor, a photo service, a barbershop, and several large rooms in the barracks where movies

were shown. Residents had their own post office, libraries, and fire station.^[6]

Relations between the Nikkei, the residents of Delta, and the population of Utah generally continued to improve, as each group accepted the other for what it was. Topaz residents could, by obtaining a pass, shop in Delta for themselves and others in their block, and their business stimulated the town's economy. Many Topaz residents worked for the townspeople as housekeepers and farm laborers. Topaz young people exchanged games with Delta football and basketball teams, and both boys and girls traveled to other small towns around the state to play. Members of the girls' basketball team asked the girls from Wasatch Academy to spend a weekend as their guests at Topaz, where they entertained them and showed them around; the guests were lodged in Block 2. This prompted a reciprocal visit by the Topaz girls to the town of Mount Pleasant, in central Utah, about a hundred miles east of Topaz.^[7] Although Topaz was an internment camp with barbed wire and armed guards, the residents had surprising opportunities to come and go, provided they went under the proper auspices. Since official policy encouraged young adults to resettle, exposing teenagers to life outside helped to promote that goal.

Civic clubs throughout Utah were also invited to visit the center. In April 1944, Director Ernst guided a group through the hospital, the farms, the tofu factory, and the high school. Afterward there was entertainment in the auditorium, and the visitors announced that whatever prejudices they had held against the camp's inhabitants had vanished. One man said that before the visit he had thought of the Japanese Americans as prisoners, but now he was "sorry for citizens so held." All admitted to being "enlightened" and promised they would inform others about the true nature of the camp.^[8] Such a conversion to the evils of racial prejudice seems highly unlikely since values change slowly, but it was a beginning. At least most residents of Delta, who had more sustained contact with the residents of Topaz than such infrequent guests did, seemed to realize that the Japanese internment camp was a temporary intrusion and its residents were helping, not harming, the war effort; they were certainly no danger.

The mellowness of spring and summer changed in the fall. Tranquillity gave way to apathy and boredom, especially among the young. Oscar Hoffman, always sensitive to problems of social deviance at Topaz, reported in October that two small boys had been seen entering the football team's locker room, where they apparently robbed the players who were out on the field. Hoffman blamed the crime on the usual underlying causes: the lack of privacy, which made disciplining children difficult, and the parents' diminished authority. He also pointed to a new source: children were receiving smaller allowances as their parents' cash resources diminished, so these normally law-abiding youngsters were stealing for money.^[9] The breakdown of discipline in the schools as well as the homes was also a contributing factor; some youths had little respect for any authority.

Hoffman was not alone in his concerns. Parents complained to the churches that their children were "playing cards all day long in some of the wash rooms, latrines, and recreation halls,"^[10] and they feared the children were becoming "addicted" to bingo games.^[11] Youth gangs in the camp harassed younger children and committed occasional acts of vandalism. These were small matters individually, especially as the overall crime rate remained well below that of communities outside, but they pointed to a problem that was deeply troubling and united the older generation and the administrators. Unhappy young people were bored, restless, and less cooperative; as a result, they were harder to teach and potentially less productive citizens in the outside world. As educational historian Thomas James pointed out, the environment intensified the solidarity and disaffection of the youths in every camp; they would obey no authority figures and resisted "official coercion and traditional authority" alike.^[12]

Part of the disaffection among older teenagers stemmed from the military's decision to implement selective service among the interned Japanese American population. Topaz had already experienced difficulties in meeting the military's goals. The attempt to

secure volunteers for the all-Nisei combat battalion had not enticed many. Like the other camps, Topaz had failed to meet its WRA-assigned quota. The search for volunteers had produced a history of turbulence: registration, the schism of the "no-nos" and the "yes-yeses," and segregation at Tule Lake.^[13] On January 20, 1944, Secretary of War Henry Stimson announced that "because of the fine record of Nisei volunteers normal selective service procedures would again be applied to Japanese Americans, both inside and outside the camps." This was a bit of sophistry: Stimson implied that such outstanding soldiers as the Nisei should be better-rep-resented in the army, but in reality the army just needed more men as the brutal conflict drained its forces.^[14] The secretary's solution was to draft the Nisei. The Topaz administration announced that Stimson's call "indicated national approval of Nisei soldiers," but this statement was either wishful thinking or inept propaganda designed to increase the enlistment rate. Perhaps, as many Nisei suspected, they just made good cannon fodder.

The Nisei in Topaz reacted to selective service with a combination of eagerness, reluctance, and in a few instances, rejection. Some joined willingly, anxious to demonstrate their patriotism; others sought to bargain with the army, to exchange their service for a restoration of their civil rights. A few tried to avoid service altogether, particularly when they realized that the draftees would be used as replacements for the 100th and the 442d, the segregated and by now decimated Nisei battalions. At first 121 names were called by the Millard County draft board, but since the Caucasians were unfamiliar with Japanese names the initial list included some women and a few Issei, while others who were eligible were omitted. A refined list of 166 potential draftees was then circulated by the administration, including men as young as eighteen. High school students could be deferred until graduation. By March 1, when the first contingent left Topaz, 216 had been called up, and the army had accepted 163.^[15]

An extensive report on selective service was prepared for Dillon Myer by Oscar Hoffman's assistant Hiro Katayama, a Nisei from Berkeley who was himself ineligible for the draft. Katayama characterized the attitude of those who were eligible as cooperative at

the outset; most people agreed that selective service was a logical extension of the volunteer program and believed it presaged the restoration of their civil rights. This thinking was encouraged by the JACL, which believed that joining the military would prove the Nikkei's unequivocal loyalty to their country. Their optimism was soon crushed by the announcement that the new draftees would replace casualties in the all-Japanese battalions.

The Topaz Nisei were not deterred, but instead organized to press their demands. Some were openly opposed at the outset, since they were considered noncitizens and incarcerated in a concentration camp. They discussed contacting groups at other camps that were protesting the draft, but rejected this approach because they believed that they could accomplish more by working alone for the restoration of their civil rights. They did not involve the Issei; those who were parents generally opposed their sons' being drafted. The Nisei considered it a Nisei issue.

An all-male citizens' committee was formed to work for the restoration of civil rights. It soon gained an unusual ally when a separate mothers' committee was formed in an extremely unusual action for normally reticent Issei women. This committee met and drew up a petition urging the restoration of civil rights and liberties for their sons. While the women utilized male help in wording the petition, the impetus was theirs alone. When there was disagreement with the wording, a second meeting was held to resolve the differences. Although this was a women's meeting, two Issei men entered it, demanding to speak for two blocks that thought the wording of the original petition was too weak. The women deferred to the men, who then drafted a stronger statement (even though most of the women felt the original statement was strong enough). Some mothers rejected the petition approach altogether, preferring to request the Spanish consul to act on their behalf. Despite these differences in strategy, the women were optimistic that their moderate approach would achieve more than a confrontational one. The mothers and their sons were greatly disappointed when the strategy failed.^[16] The army was not interested in redressing the grievances of draftees or their mothers, especially if they were Japanese Americans. It also refused to consider Nisei objections to

serving in a segregated battalion. In the words of the day, there was a war going on, and all the army wanted was more soldiers. By late March 1944, Hoffman reported that most young men had "reconciled themselves to the inevitable."^[17]

Some Nisei did not lose hope, believing that WRA director Dillon Myer might at least clarify various aspects of selective service. Myer visited Topaz and delivered an address, but he adroitly sidestepped the civil rights issue, saying that only the War Department could speak on it. As Hoffman observed, Myer's visit made Topaz feel more a part of the war effort, but the result was an anomalous situation where uniformed Nisei soldiers on their way to the front visited parents who were interned behind barbed wire.^[18]

Despite Myer's exhortations and the optimistic response of some Nisei, the imposition of selective service further lowered the camp's sagging spirits. Katayama reported that it even demoralized high school students, who "took the draft as an excuse to pursue their lazy ways." The camp idioms "waste time" (waste of time) and "lose fight" (give up) became catchall phrases to reject any exhortations to study, since the teenagers felt they were just marking time until the army called them.^[19] Work habits among laborers also became sloppy, for many young men became convinced that their fate was to die in a segregated suicide squadron in some forlorn and distant battlefield.^[20] This was hardly conducive to applying oneself with diligence to the mundane task at hand.

Although some young people viewed the draft with apathy, anger, or depression, others reacted with vigor and even eagerness. A few used it as an opportunity to resettle, to see some of the country before they went into the service, while others considered it an excuse to stay where they were. The WRA made clear that Nisei males of draft age who filed for repatriation after January 20, 1944, would be guilty of draft evasion, effectively closing that way of escape. The U.S. government informed the Spanish consul that American citizens were not permitted to use his office as an avenue of protest. The question of the legality of drafting men behind barbed wire aroused considerable interest, and some Nikkei wanted a test case to resolve the issue. The majority believed that course of action would be unwise, since it might cause an even more

unfavorable public response to them in wartime.^[21] The American Civil Liberties Union informed the Nisei citizens' committee that it would not handle a test case on the legality of the draft in a WRA center, thus closing off this option.^[22] Again the Japanese Americans were on their own.

Once legal resistance to selective service was out of the question, Nisei males began to register without protest. Administrative files from Topaz featured many cheery stories of enlistments, followed by farewell banquets and parties given for the departing soldiers. The Millard County Chronicle also noted the departures and later listed the casualties. In spite of the controversial nature of selective service in other camps, it was relatively uneventful at Topaz, where the population was basically conservative. But it was not without pain. People who welcomed enlistment were opposed by those who did not, and even within families there was disagreement over the proper course of action. Tom Kawaguchi recalled that his parents let him and his brother make their own choices and supported their decision to sign up. Other families, he reported, were split when brothers chose a course different from their parents' wishes, or when siblings took opposite sides. He noted that there were situations where "brothers don't talk to each other [even] today."^[23] Once again a government action had fractured the fragile sense of community in Topaz.

The tensions regarding the issue of military service came to the surface in mid-1944 when a number of individuals and groups asked the community council to hold a memorial service for Nisei soldiers who had fallen in battle (seven volunteers and three draftees at that point). The council was dominated at this time by Issei who were determined to be neutral about service in the war. They believed that was the only way they could avoid harming their children's position as American citizens while protecting their own Japanese nationality. They took seriously Japan's strictures against aiding the American "enemy" war effort and knew they had no other citizenship to protect them. The councilmen believed that the proposed memorial service would only be acceptably neutral if it honored all who had died since the center opened, not just military casualties. Their stance put them in opposition to Issei who were

parents of American soldiers and strongly favored such a service. The controversy lasted several months. Only when the block managers' organization, the Interfaith Group, the USO, and others who wanted the memorial lent their support to the idea was it resolved. Those in favor argued that such memorials had been held in other centers and Issei had accepted them; why should Topaz be different?^[24] The opposition had no rebuttal, and the ceremony was held in mid-December 1944.

The memorial was simple and solemn, a combination of Christian and Buddhist services with sermons by the leaders of both faiths. The audience was primarily Issei.^[25] The Delta chapter of the American Legion offered to conduct a flag service; the idea was debated at length because of the Legion's well-known hostility to Japanese Americans, but it was ultimately accepted.^[26]

The duration of the dispute was testimony to the depth of the rancor; clearly the divisions in the community that had been provoked by the registration controversy were still present despite the departure of the segregants. An unwillingness to honor men who had died in service to America showed that there were many theoretical "no-nos" still resident in Topaz, and many others were becoming convinced that their future lay with Japan.

Although the Issei agonized over the implications of the draft, for many of the men who served the issue was clear. Tom Kawaguchi thought, "What have we got to lose? Nothing besides our lives.... Well, why don't we at least demonstrate that we are patriotic and see what happens and take our chances that way?" He later recalled that the decision he and his brother made brought opprobrium on his parents from the opponents of the draft, and there were some bad moments he would never forgive. But the "rabble-rousers" in Topaz were loyal, he said. Even though the camp "had its moments," it was never violent like some others, but it had its share of searing rifts.^[27]

For others, being drafted while they were denied civil rights was more problematic. Kenji Fujii did not push his opposition to the

point of becoming a "no-no"; he was an only son and the main support of his mother and four sisters, and his departure would have worked considerable hardship on them. His reluctant "yes-yes" stance alienated him from his friends in the Young Democrats, who eagerly supported the draft. Fujii soon left camp to resettle and somehow, in the moving about, was not called up until after the war. President Harry S Truman ended selective service just as Fujii's number came up. Although his loyalty to the United States was unquestionable, Fujii never regretted missing military service. To him the period from December 1941 to September 1945 meant internment, not soldiering; the first ruled out the second.^[28]

Some Japanese Americans were asked to serve in military intelligence. Bilingual Americans who resembled the enemy were invaluable as translators and interpreters in the Pacific war and during the occupation of Japan. The army, which assumed that recruiting volunteers to teach Japanese would be easy, was surprised to learn that most Nisei were not fluent in the language, especially in its written form. Tad Hayashi was one Nisei who was proficient in Japanese. He had finished his formal education before he was relocated, and after a few months in Topaz he decided to resettle in Detroit, hoping to make some money in the factories. When his draft classification was changed from 4C (enemy alien) to 1A in January 1944, he received a draft notice. He returned to Topaz to await his orders; they came two months later. Hayashi was a "yes-yes," so he expected military service. He was sent to language school in Fort Snelling, Minnesota, where his language skills were honed, and then he served in Japan with the occupation forces.^[29]

Tomoye Takahashi had majored in Oriental languages at the University of California before the war, so her skills were especially good. She took the test to qualify as a language instructor at Fort Snelling and was pleased to hear she had done well, but since she was pregnant she could not serve the required two years. Three of the four men recruited from Topaz for Fort Snelling worked as Japanese-language editors on the Topaz Times , and Tomoye Takahashi, who wrote community news for the paper, recalled that their departure depleted the staff.^[30]

Arguments over enlistment worried the Topaz administration. With the departure of the "no-nos" to Tule Lake, the people remaining at Topaz were certifiably "loyal" but not necessarily eager to fight. In May 1944 the WRA arranged a visit to Topaz by Sergeant Ben Kuroki, a genuine Nisei war hero, in an attempt to build patriotism and support for joining the armed forces. Kuroki spent four days in the area, where he addressed a large crowd, relating his experiences as a member of a bomber crew in Europe and Africa and his participation in the famous raid on Ploesti. He appeared before other Topaz audiences, including the high school student body and the USO, and he spoke at a banquet. He signed autographs until his hand gave out. Civic groups in Delta and Hinckley also heard him. The irony of Kuroki's appearance only emerged as his visit drew to a close. He confided to a few people that the order to speak at Topaz had made him very bitter. After he returned to the States he had made three requests for a furlough to return to Minidoka to see his ill father, and he had spent exactly one day with him when he was ordered on the publicity tour to Topaz. Ever the good soldier, Kuroki concluded that the respect and kindness shown him at Topaz had erased his bitterness. Kuroki's successful visit was followed by one by Private Thomas Higa, a Kibei, who was so "Japanesy" the Nisei could not understand him; despite his background he exuded loyalty to the United States and gushed over how well he was treated to the point where his audience completely discounted his remarks.^[31]

Two interrelated themes marked the last year and a half of the Topaz relocation center: the first was the administration's increased efforts to resettle the population throughout the country before the war ended; the second was a growing sense of pessimism and even desperation on the part of a population afraid or reluctant to leave. The partial success of the administration's efforts meant that every institution of camp life, from the hospital and the schools to the mess halls and the farms, suffered since the remaining population was smaller but generally less cooperative. Camp self-government

deteriorated, and school life was more disruptive; even the community analyst changed from an impartial observer to an advocate. Hoffman delightedly used his social science expertise in an attempt to explain to Washington what was "going wrong" and why. He and most other administrators assumed that the "right" way for the Nikkei to behave at this juncture was to make plans to leave camp as soon as possible, since their eligibility had been certified by the loyalty questionnaire. The Nikkei perceived life differently. Although camp had never been pleasant for most of them, it had become more comfortable—if one can use that word—for at least the situation was familiar and nonthreatening. But even if they were determined to stay or rather, reluctant to leave, this point of agreement was insufficient to bind them in harmony. The institutions of community life trembled as each issue, however small, became a bone of contention.

The hospital, for example, was even more turbulent than before, for several reasons. Hoffman explained the tension of the medical staff in terms of "hypochondriasis": the doctors literally made themselves sick. A more plausible explanation is rooted in the loss of status suffered by the Japanese American doctors who served there. Before the war they had belonged to the small group of Nikkei professionals, the elite in the Japanese American community. Now they earned a mere $21 a month, only $7 more than the lowliest ditch digger. Further, they had to serve under Caucasian doctors who earned considerably more and whose prestige was infinitely greater, but who worked no harder—if as hard—to meet the medical needs of the community.

The medical situation at Topaz was beset by situational problems as well as personality issues, both of which grew worse over time. The early hostility to Dr. James Goto and his wife was apparently a reaction to his abrasive personality. After that difficulty was resolved a shortage of physicians—at one point there were only three—created hardships for the staff and the patients. Topaz seemed to have a lot of illness, for many people reacted to the strains in community life by becoming physically or even mentally ill. The administration offered to loan the hospital a doctor from the military police, but because of the Wakasa incident that

solution was deemed unacceptable. In addition, staff members complained that there were insufficient medical supplies; they also lacked a diet kitchen, and the elderly needed a separate residence.^[32]

By the middle of 1944, there were additional sources of trouble in the dentistry division. In July it was announced that the resident members of the dental staff would be reduced from seven to three and the pharmacists from four to one. The entire medical community protested the pointlessness of requiring four dentists to remain idle when dental service was already six months behind demand. Since the dentists were almost all Issei unwilling to resettle, the action made even less sense.^[33] At least one dentist, George A. Ochikubo, worked in the clinic voluntarily for a while, and the work load was eased somewhat by having dentures made or repaired elsewhere.^[34] The residents' resentment at being denied the medical services they wanted or needed adversely affected morale.

The dentists' situation was just part of a larger problem of medical staffing. To function properly, the hospital required sixty nurse's aides, but by 1944 only thirty-six were reporting for duty. The reasons for the shortage ranged from simple absenteeism to an unwillingness to work at night or with people who had communicable diseases. Hoffman reported that the "rank and file residents generally evince an abnormal concern about matters affecting their health,"^[35] which was understandable given the demography of camp. Topaz's population was becoming predominantly middle-aged or elderly, and many residents were depressed by their internment and frightened by the prospect of returning to life in a hostile white America. Poor health was a natural reaction to stress.

The WRA administration addressed the hospital situation first through personnel changes, in mid-September 1944 adding a new chief medical officer, a head nurse, a hospital dietician, and other personnel, all Caucasian. But the death of two newborn infants touched off another crisis when the resident Issei doctor serving at one birth, a Caesarean section, accused the Caucasian attending nurse of criminal negligence. While this charge was being investi-

gated, an argument broke out over whether the hospital should offer elective medical procedures since it was so understaffed. The underlying issue in both cases was who would run the hospital, the resident staff members or the Caucasians.^[36] Within two weeks the community council had brought charges against the Caucasian chief medical officer and demanded his transfer to another center. A meeting was held with the key members of the administration, the council, the block managers, and a physician from the surrounding community. The latter tried to persuade the residents to withdraw their demand that the medical officer leave, pointing out that because Topaz already had a reputation as a very difficult place to work, their action would further impede the recruitment of nurses.^[37] When the residents refused to back down, a stalemate developed.

The chief physician chose this moment to announce the creation of a rest home in Block 3. This facility was something both residents and staff had desired, but the manner in which their wishes were met spoiled the outcome. Resident doctors charged that they had not been consulted about the site, and patients complained because they thought the block was to be remodeled with inside toilets—a luxury they could not have. (The administration flatly denied ever having suggested their availability.) Oscar Hoffman's reports reveal his irritation with a population that seemed to be increasingly unreasonable, a sentiment the other administrators may have shared.^[38]

By the middle of October, the residents and the administration reached a compromise that allowed the chief medical officer to stay. Nikkei who knew him apparently did not dislike him, and others, evincing an apathy that was becoming more and more widespread, no longer cared to fight. The officer then tried to solve the shortage of nurse's aides by inducing older women to take the positions, even part-time,^[39] but when that attempt failed the task was turned over to the block managers, the providers of last resort for community services. They ultimately were given responsibility for recruiting ambulance drivers as well.^[40] If the block managers could not persuade people to work for the wages offered, they had to coerce the

residents of their own blocks. Somehow the task was done, but not without rancor.

Like the hospital, the community council faced problems that suggest the tensions just beneath the surface of camp life. Balanced precariously between its duties to the residents and the authority allowed it by the administration, the council had less to offer the community than the block managers, who could improve the quality of life in small ways. The first council leadership was Nisei: Tsune Baba, an accountant from San Francisco, played an important role in the peaceful resolution of the Wakasa case. Baba succeeded Carl Hirota, a dentist from San Francisco, who chaired the provisional council. Baba was followed by Masato Maruyama from Alameda. None of these men created any difficulty for the administration, but George Ochikubo, the chair of the fourth council, did. A dentist from Oakland who had been educated at the University of California, Ochikubo had just established his dental practice before the evacuation. The loss of all he had worked for and his family's experiences with discrimination had, according to Hoffman, "conditioned his thinking in the direction of accepting the Issei viewpoint in matters affecting center life." Ochikubo was very popular, especially with the Issei, but his rigorous independence made him a thorn in the administration's side. He played an adversarial role in a dispute over the use of Topaz workers as strikebreakers in a Tule Lake labor dispute, and this action signaled to Hoffman that Ochikubo was a "troublemaker" about whom Dillon Myer should be informed.^[41]

The problem began at the Tule Lake Segregation Center in late October 1943. A truck carrying farm hands overturned, seriously injuring five of the twenty-eight passengers and killing a man from Topaz. It became apparent that the driver was very inexperienced. Camp director Raymond R. Best mishandled the incident by punishing the residents, who blamed the WRA for the death. Best cut off the public address system to prevent a large crowd from gath-

ering at the funeral, and he then gave the widow a pension the Nikkei considered inadequate. The residents responded by stopping all farm work. Many of the strikers were, like the accident victim, former residents of Topaz. Since Tule Lake produced a half-million-dollar food crop that supplied the army and navy as well as other camps, it was essential to the WRA that the crop be harvested quickly. The Tule residents immediately demanded a number of improvements in camp life, but negotiations quickly broke down. Best decided to import workers from Topaz as the strike entered its second week.^[42] News of the Tule situation was well known at Topaz, since many friends and former neighbors were among the 1,400 internees who had been moved there. Ochikubo vigorously protested when Ernst decided to cooperate with Best. The residents of Topaz also refused to allow people from the Topaz labor force to be used as strikebreakers. As far as they were concerned, the army could just harvest the crops themselves. Ernst blamed Ochikubo for their resistance, and he was subsequently investigated by the FBI, presumably for "disloyal" behavior. Hoffman, who had only been at Topaz a few months, learned from informants that the administration had specifically targeted Ochikubo for investigation, even though other members of the council shared his sentiments.^[43] The council chose to resign en masse rather than confront Ernst on the issue, and dissent went underground. As punishment, the FBI announced that Ochikubo was excluded from the restrictive zone of the West Coast. (The ban was unusual: at this time all Japanese Americans were excluded from the West Coast, but the implied threat was that he would be prohibited from returning after the war's end as well.)

Ochikubo resigned from the council but remained involved in community government as well as his dentistry practice until July 1, 1944, when he decided to devote all his time to fighting the administrative ban. He went to Los Angeles in September to appear before what he termed a political clearance board to challenge the conclusion that there was sufficient evidence to exclude him permanently from the West Coast. His legal activities temporarily ended his political career in camp, but he told Hoffman that the council was too large and elected for too short a term to be effective

anyway. When the West Coast was reopened to all Japanese Americans in January 1945, even though in theory Ochikubo could have left Topaz, he chose to remain with the Issei holdouts. On March 30, 1945, he was elected co-op representative from his block. As feisty as ever, he led a movement to oppose the fiscal policy of the co-op's board of directors. The board was finally forced to resign and Ochikubo became chairman of the new board.^[44] He ran again for the council in July and missed becoming chairman by only one vote. His final statement was yet to come. He gave a rousing speech in July 1945 against closing the center, much to the consternation of the director, who wondered why the council let him speak, since closure had long since ceased to be a debatable issue.^[45]

Generally, the council and the administration endeavored to get along, and there were even times when administration, council, and residents saw eye to eye. The director occasionally wanted the council to initiate certain measures of social control that might be unpopular if they came from the WRA alone. Gambling, an issue that Nikkei and Caucasians had disagreed about since Tanforan days, was a good example. It was common at Topaz to hold lotto or bingo games to raise money for parties or gifts for children at Thanksgiving or Christmas. No one objected at first, but as the residents came to have less money both they and the administration sought to curb this practice. The council finally adopted a resolution prohibiting such games, but it was furiously opposed by blocks that already had received permission to conduct them. In this case, the council's action was something the administration wanted, and the policy was sustained by the general population.^[46]

When the council members felt frustrated by the administration, the Issei—who dominated the council by now—appealed directly to Washington or asked the Spanish consul to intercede. These efforts were generally fruitless, for the consul's interest was sporadic and he had only as much power as Washington allowed, which was not much.^[47]

Oscar Hoffman thought many racial conflicts might be avoided if the administration were "educated" in what he termed "Issei patterns of thought."^[48] His records suggest, however, that he was unsuccessful in his educational efforts. If he supported the Issei too vigorously, he compromised his own position, since the administration had difficulty understanding the place of a social scientist in a concentration camp anyway. But if he appeared too impartial, the evacuees distrusted him. He was, after all, a Caucasian and an employee of the federal government. Had he been an ombudsman he might have actually helped the camp inmates, but all he really did was observe or—as it seemed to them—spy.

The final Issei-dominated councils had little power or authority. Elections continued to be hotly contested, but primarily over the degree to which the chairman would cooperate with the administration. By this time, the residents had very little interest in what the council actually did, and fewer and fewer people were willing to hold office. The previous council had been ineffective, and it was unlikely that the new one would be different. George Gentoku Shimamoto, the Issei who had just served as vice-chairman, considered running for chairman, but just before the election he learned that an architectural firm in New York City was seeking an experienced draftsman. He withdrew his name and resettied.^[49]

A final observation on the council's activities is in order. One of its chief functions was to draw up ordinances to govern the camp's daily life. They included measures regulating solicitations from room to room in the blocks, traffic laws, boundaries for school districts, the owning and keeping of pets, and gambling as well as social problems such as disorderly conduct, petty theft, and returning books to the library. The administration often amended the council's work by substituting one word for another. One cannot read the measures without being struck with their trivial nature (for example, residents were prohibited from washing pet dogs in the laundry tubs). And the administration's interventions often sounded insulting in their pettiness. It seems unnecessary for people being

trained for democracy to receive instructions about the specific wording of regulations such as the following: "Take out the reference to Section, Township and Range, as this is too technical for general use.... Use Center instead."^[50]

Although the population decline impeded the camp's functioning, staff members were instructed to continue to push the reluctant residents out into the world, and they did. At first there were quotas for resettlement, which were quickly filled by enthusiastic Nisei striking out for freedom, following the students and those departing for military service. By early January 1945 most of the remainder were Issei, some of whom were too old, poor, scared, or tired to leave. Others had a more belligerent attitude. They acted as if they considered it their duty to "sit tight," to remain in camp deliberately as a burden on the government that had callously incarcerated them. Some took this stand in the service of what they considered the interests of the Japanese government, and others tried to block resettlement in order to force the federal government to support them after the camp closed.^[51] A few Nisei also had reasons for not leaving: ill parents, large families, small infants, or simple hostility to U.S. policies. An increasing number of Nikkei could not afford to leave, for the $25 given them by the WRA as a resettlement grant ($50 for a family) was inadequate. Many people had exhausted their meager savings on living expenses in camp, since their earned income was insufficient to provide minimal amenities. Around camp the collective wisdom was that obstinacy would force a change in federal policy, so many stayed who could have afforded to leave. They also knew that state or local social services would never be so charitable as Washington, for all its cheapness. Topaz was poor, resentful, and distressed as it awaited the end of the war and an uncertain future.

Given these attitudes, it was somewhat ironic that the landmark case of Mitsue Endo, which resulted in the closing of the camps, was tied to Topaz. Endo, a California civil servant from Sacramento, had protested when she and other Japanese Americans lost their

jobs after Pearl Harbor, but she was reluctant to take her case to court. A suit was filed in her name only after she was transported to the Tanforan assembly center. Endo, like other Nikkei employees of the state of California, had been dismissed for being of Japanese descent (she was a Nisei). Her lawyer, James Purcell, had solicited her case. Working pro bono for the American Civil Liberties Union, he argued that the federal government had no right to detain her when no charges had been made against her. The ACLU held that it was unconstitutional to segregate the Nikkei solely on the basis of race; Endo should therefore be released from Topaz, where she had been removed, without having to go through the process of leave clearance. The young woman never appeared in court during the proceedings and dropped from public view after the war, but her case was a landmark. The decision in Ex Parte Endo was handed down on December 18, 1944. It stated that citizens could not be detained without due process of law. Announcement of the decision was delayed long enough for Roosevelt to make a politically expedient announcement the preceding day that the camps would be closed.^[52]

In mid-December 1944, after the Endo case and Roosevelt's announcement, the War Department took over the leave program from the WRA. It promptly termed the Nikkei "guests of the government" who stayed only at its pleasure. Troublemakers could be ejected. Three lists were drawn up: the first—or "white"—list consisted of people who could depart for any location; the "black" list contained names of those still prohibited from the West Coast; and the "gray" list enumerated those about whom there was some question.^[53] The vast majority of the residents were placed on the white list, but the problem lay in persuading them to leave.

From December 1944 until the closing of the Central Utah Project in late October 1945, the issue of resettlement acquired a different twist. Persuading the Nikkei to depart—convincing them that the camps were going to close and federal policy would not change—was a slow process. When Director Luther Hoffman discovered that many single people were moving into larger vacated quarters instead of resettling, he asked the community analyst to study the problem. Both men agreed that if the singles would not

leave it would be even more difficult to eject families.^[54] In early February Oscar Hoffman attempted to analyze the residents' baffling resistance to leaving camp. Most people he surveyed said they did not object to resettlement in principle, but the money provided was insufficient, the jobs were menial, and the wages were poor. Most of their resettied relatives and friends reported they were happy and successful despite a difficulty in finding housing, but this reassurance did not convince them. They knew it was culturally unacceptable for the resettlers to complain. Although discrimination was rarely mentioned, everyone knew it existed, and the stories told by returning seasonal workers verified it. Young adult males doubted they could earn enough to provide for their families, and the elderly worried that no one would care for them if they fell ill. Parents did not want to be a burden on their children, while their offspring feared they would not have sufficient resources to help them. Issei bachelors doubted they would find community acceptance or good jobs, especially given their inadequate language skills. When asked what they wanted of the WRA, the residents usually answered, "Assurance of protection and better public relations, . . . more substantial subsidization" and "better job opportunities."^[55]

Hoffman concluded that "without meaning to become facetious, it must be admitted that Topaz has its advantages over the outside." In fact, he and the camp director could not comprehend how the security Topaz offered compensated for its drabness and boredom; how the guaranteed housing, food, medical services, wages, clothing allowance, and care for the aged made up for internment itself. Camp provided all the ingredients for a condition of dependency. In view of the trauma that the Japanese Americans had endured during the evacuation and their fears of mistreatment by whites in the future, staying where they were had a certain logic to it. After all, the government could hardly abandon them, could it? There were other considerations too, especially given the uncertainty about the draft. Young men feared that if they were called up, their families, living in strange towns without a supporting community, would be stranded with no means of subsistence.^[56] Many people simply did not want to move again, at least not until the war was

over and they were assured that they could return to their former homes and live in safety and dignity.

Hoffman recognized that financial security was a legitimate issue. He knew from his studies that the Nikkei had suffered tremendous monetary losses during the evacuation, but Washington either did not remember or did not care. By 1945 the residents of Topaz watched their assets diminish even further. One person, described in Hoffman's anonymous interviews as a "leader," explained that before the war Japanese Americans had enjoyed a higher standard of living than the average American, since people owned their own homes, "had good jobs, beautiful gardens, well kept, and money in the bank. We like to live in neat and clean surroundings. Feeling that way, we do not like to move out of the centers and get into dirty homes—homes we could not buy and fix up." He stated that "the average person goes in the hole here $25 per month—getting poorer and poorer." Nikkei who resettied might be free, but they were not happy: "Here, there is little freedom; but we are not stared at. We do not get what we want here, but we live anyway and do not feel lonely."^[57] It was inconceivable to the Caucasians that the holdouts really intended to spend the rest of their lives living at government expense in tar paper barracks in the desert, yet by the end of January 1945 only 3,599 people had left Topaz. This meant that 5,839 remained, out of a high population of 9,438.^[58]

Powerful arguments were made against resettling, and they were amplified in the months ahead by those holding out against the WRA's wishes. Sure that the WRA would not cast them adrift, they became more and more intransigent. Their determination did not make their lives any easier; instead, out of frustration and fear they bickered and quarreled among themselves over almost every issue that arose. One man slashed another on the arm with a pocketknife during an argument at a block meeting over raising funds for the Supreme Court cases. The victim was, according to the administration, a "known troublemaker," while the assailant was a "man of good character." Because of his reputation and the council's intercession, the knife-wielder was given only a thirty-day jail sentence.^[59] According to his many advocates, the assailant was angry because he believed the seasonal leave program helped the U.S. war

effort, and when the fund-raising issue came up he lost control of himself. Staff members recognized that fund drives had come too often and annoyed some of the residents, but they did not expect so much agitation. As a result of the fight, both the councilman and the block manager from the attacker's unit resigned because they were unable to prevent the outburst.^[60] It was a very traditional thing to do.

Even though residents continued to resist permanent resettlement, many did seek seasonal agricultural work, which enabled them to replenish their cash reserves yet return to the security of camp. This option especially appealed to family heads, who could leave their dependents in the safe confines of Topaz while they ventured out. By May many Nisei and Issei were accepting farm work who never had before. The increasing tensions, inadequacies, and irritability of camp life also drove people out. As one man commented, "What I need is a tall glass of cold beer and I'm going out to get it."^[61]

The situation at the consumers' cooperative illustrates the divisiveness of the camp population during this last year. One of the co-op's leaders traced its acrimonious history for Hoffman. The organization was formed by some 5,300 members, who each paid a dollar to become a member. The institution was supervised by Walter Honderick, a white staff member in charge of Nikkei enterprises, who was popular with all his employees. A temporary board of directors was elected in October 1942 to advise him. The members were almost entirely from among San Francisco's Grant Avenue merchants. The popular Methodist leader the Reverend Taro Goto was excluded from the board, although he had been influential in organizing the co-op. The anger of Goto and his supporters started the venture on a discordant note. Next the board of directors disagreed about merchandising policies, and then the members argued over dividends and the payment of a cash rebate of the original membership fee. The group split into two factions, led by D. T. Uchida, the chairman, and S. Yamate. The majority believed

that the co-op was too undercapitalized to supply goods for a population of around 8,300, but the minority believed that even so, they should keep their original promise to return the fee after a certain time. The proper method of raising additional capital for the enterprise and the return of the rebate were the points of contention in the election of the first permanent board in 1943. Among the fifteen members elected to the board of directors were Yamate, H. Honnami, S. Matsumoto, and Mas Narahara. They decided to raise additional capital by a $20,000 loan from the camp residents, and the original membership fee was returned.^[62]

The co-op became a very successful venture and factionalism died down, only to be reborn over the issue of a credit union. The co-op already had a banking department, which seemed to function satisfactorily, but a newly elected board decided in March 1944 to create a separate credit union, to be headed by S. Matsumoto. The co-op now had a credit union, a banking department, and a treasury. At one point the same man headed all three. After it was determined that they should be individual entities, arguments developed over which operation should do the camp's banking. At this point the community council intervened and created a conciliation committee composed of members from the "elder statesmen" of the camp, in the hope that this group could reach a settlement.^[63] By early 1945 the co-op's financial problems had intensified the tensions in camp and divided the community.^[64]

Another nasty quarrel developed over the repair of the water and sewer pipes serving Topaz. The original pipes were cheap and thin, and the alkaline soil often caused them to corrode and leak.^[65] Work on the pipeline had always been unpopular. It was hot and dirty in the summer and cold and miserable in the winter, and residents felt the compensation scarcely justified the discomfort involved. In 1943 the need for laborers was solved by drafting new arrivals from Tule Lake, who had little choice because there were no other jobs available when they came. Since the Tuleans were primarily farmers and the Topazeans were urbanites, giving the job to the former was

not totally arbitrary, at least from the perspective of the latter. As the pipeline job neared completion, the WRA cut the pay from $19 to $16 a month and the former Tuleans decided they might as well quit working on it.^[66] The situation was exacerbated when a Caucasian foreman accused a crew of laziness and summarily fired the workers; the two remaining crews then quit in sympathy. Just then, when there were no crews available to fix it, a major pipe broke. The WRA immediately restored the $19 wage but most of the former laborers declined to return to work, not trusting the administration to abide by that figure. During the summer high school students were hired to make emergency repairs, but their labor ended once school started in the fall.^[67] By late 1944 the pipeline renovation was a matter of urgency that concerned all residents alike.

Recruiting for the pipeline dragged despite the best efforts of the block managers, on whom the task of obtaining workers fell. Every time they managed to assemble a new crew, seasonal or permanent relocation decimated it. The permanent residents would have done the job had the money been there, but at this point only considerably more pay would have been acceptable.^[68] As long as seasonal agricultural work was available, those who needed employment preferred this more lucrative occupation. Hoffman noted that the Buddhists in camp had done an excellent job laying water pipes to their new building, suggesting that motivation, not ability, was the problem.^[69] The standoff continued until mid-December, when Hoffman informed Washington that the pipeline work was finally underway. He commented that "if resident foreman and appointive staff supervisors will use the necessary tact in keeping this crew, the job can be completed." The workers felt "their efforts should be appreciated," which seemed reasonable to Hoffman, too.^[70]

Education was an even more troublesome issue. In spring 1944 many of the Nisei teachers indicated they planned to quit. They liked teaching, but they thought their experience would be useless to them when they resettied since, as members of an ethnic minority without college degrees, they would be unable to teach outside.

Teaching was not a pleasant experience for the young Nisei because the classrooms had become very disorderly. The senior boys, waiting to be drafted, were uninterested and uncooperative, and they were particularly rowdy, unruly, and disrespectful toward the Japanese American teachers who were barely older than they were. Teachers complained that during the home room period, supposedly a study hall, students sat on the tables, visited with their friends, and wasted time; students noted that teachers often left the room during this period to get away from them. Staff turnover had affected morale and student productivity dropped. Many students complained that they had no tables and chairs at home on which to do their homework, but for some this lack was only an excuse to avoid something they did not intend to do anyway.^[71]

Relations between the Nisei and some Caucasian teachers had also deteriorated. The Nisei told Hoffman that there was a "definite line [of] demarcation" between the races. One of the Caucasians addressed a Japanese American educator as "my child," a term they felt was patronizing.^[72] Students, too, were on guard against racist remarks and some led walkouts in protest. The students boycotted class for two or three days until, as Lee Suyemoto recalled, "we finally got rid of the teacher and somebody else came in to teach the course."^[73] Others led walkouts for less specific reasons. Oscar Hoffman learned from an anonymous informant, the Reverend T., that the mass walkout tactic was one the "kids [got] a lot of fun using.... I hear the kids talk about this method and they discuss what teacher it will work with and what teacher it will not! They know if they used it with some, they would not get back into the class."^[74] Thomas James suggested that, in fact, most teachers were "neither saints nor villains, neither more nor less prone to prejudice than other Americans during the war. They were ordinary people who saw themselves serving their country, while trying to give Japanese American pupils an education."^[75] Nevertheless, by 1944 everyone's patience was wearing thin.

Hoffman also interviewed some high school students and found that they considered the teachers "untidy and undignified" and incapable of teaching, and not even interested in the students. The teachers showed favoritism and did not even bother to learn names.

The constant turnover of instructors upset the teenagers; in the German class there were six teachers in one semester, some of whom did not even know the language. The common belief was that the more frequent the replacement of teachers was, the more unruly the students would be. Hoffman learned that the resident teachers had to assist with all student activities, but the Caucasians took the credit. There was almost no student advising and few close student-teacher relationships; no one was available to help with questions about student or job relocation.^[76] A high school senior told Hoffman that when his favorite civics instructor, whom he described as strict but fair, was transferred to another class, she was replaced by a recent graduate whose best qualification was his athletic prowess. The students regarded him as one of themselves, joking around and trying to trip him up, and the class disintegrated. Clearly morale was low.^[77] Whether it was as bad as this particular group indicated is unclear, however; many years later some former students in Topaz High gave their educational experience mixed evaluations, and a few were not critical at all.^[78] Many praised Eleanor Gerard and a few other Caucasians who stayed through until the end. The protesting students may have exaggerated for Hoffman's benefit, but they were not isolated in reporting negative experiences with many teachers.

Matters were not helped when a popular Caucasian teacher was dismissed in April; the students could not understand why such a good instructor had been terminated. Rumors circulated that he had been let go because he was a conscientious objector, or that the administration did not like him, or that he had been picked up by the FBI.^[79] The students never learned what happened to the man, and his case does not appear in camp files. The incident caused students and parents to have increased misgivings about the school system.

The student relocation counselor pointed out another concern, a marked decline in the number of applicants seeing her. She attributed the change in part to a declining interest in higher education because of the problems in the high school and the draft situation. It seems unlikely that, as she claimed, few of the teachers knew about the National Student Relocation Council and its work,

but the students, like their parents, had fears about leaving camp.^[80] Graduating seniors were advised to coordinate their plans for higher education with their family's resettlement intentions, but the reverse could also happen: some families that did not intend to leave kept their children in camp with them, especially if they were considering returning to Japan. Family solidarity overrode the traditional valuing of education, especially in those uncertain times.^[81]

As the school year came to an end in May 1944, morale seemed to improve. Graduating seniors rented caps and gowns. They planned a prom and banquet, and the appearance of the school annual caused much excitement.^[82] The rituals of the academic year brought their usual feelings of gain and loss, of excitement over taking one's place in the adult world. But just before commencement a teacher examining transcripts discovered that many students had obtained credit for repeated work. When the seniors' records were checked, it seemed that most were ineligible for graduation because they were either deficient in credits or had not fulfilled the requirements. Administrators began checking with the schools the students had attended in California to locate missing records. Apparently someone had misinformed the seniors regarding their eligibility for graduation. Students and parents were apprehensive, and one administrator blamed another for the mistake. The tempest subsided, however, when the administration adopted the policy of giving students credit for all work they were taking at the time of evacuation. The 127 members of the Class of 1944 received their high school diplomas.^[83]

Following the ceremony a special PTA meeting was held to apprise parents of the school's ongoing troubles. The superintendent read an announcement that a teachers' training course would be held during the summer for high school graduates who wished to return and teach, but indignant Issei parents opposed the idea. Instead, they urged the community council to persuade the school administration to treat Nisei teachers more equitably so they would not resign. Oscar Hoffman reported that the parents had heard a rumor that some anonymous visiting Caucasian educator had pronounced Topaz High School one of the poorest of the WRA schools.^[84]

Many Nisei teachers did indeed resign after graduation, and the superintendent announced that unless twenty-two replacements

were hired immediately the schools would have to close. Hoffman found it symptomatic of the general malaise that even the serious teacher shortage did not prompt the PTA to meet again.^[85] There was a flurry of suggestions, including one that potential teachers be recruited block by block, to be trained in the summer at $16 a month for the following fall. As summer passed, rumors raced through the community: the school day would be shortened and the students sent out to work; the number of classes would be reduced and the school week diminished. Some parents favored opening Delta High School to the Nisei students, and some students decided to resettle in order to obtain a good education during their senior year so they could enter a better college.^[86] Seven-teen-year-old Shigeki Sugiyama actually moved with his brother to Ann Arbor to complete high school so that he could enroll in the University of Michigan. Most parents would not allow their children to go out alone, but the situation did prompt some families to relocate.^[87]

The teacher shortage sparked a general round of criticism among all parties, with parents in the fore. They agreed that recent graduates were unacceptable in the classroom and condemned the treatment of the resident teachers that had prompted them to resign. They singled out only four of the Caucasian teachers for praise.^[88] And they criticized some white instructors for encouraging bad habits in their children; one man had distributed cigarettes so his pupils could learn to smoke. Some residents blamed the students' unruliness for the teachers' departure, muttering that their parents had not raised them properly.^[89] Hoffman noted that children were becoming "rougher, ruder, and rowdier" and that the rate of juvenile delinquency and gang behavior was increasing. High school students, both males and females, had broken holes in the walls of the school building, boys had destroyed the high school bathroom, and there was vandalism all over the camp. He believed that many of these acts were due to family problems; he saw more quarreling, selfishness, and irritability at home. The parents were generally unaware of their children's behavior in school and had little means of disciplining them in any case. Hoffman suggested that parents be brought in closer touch with the schools to facilitate cooperation.^[90]

Many Caucasian teachers drew their own conclusions about who was at fault. They blamed the parents for showing little interest in working with them, ignoring the fact that most were Issei and many spoke only Japanese or very poor English. They were angry with the administrators for moving them about, keeping poor records, and changing the pupils' advisors too frequently. Some teachers perceived the students' behavior as "gangster-like," especially when some of them passed a petition calling for one instructor's removal and threatened nonsigners with violence. They also complained about the boycotting of classes.^[91]

In the midst of the teacher shortage Charles Ernst, the camp director, resigned. Oscar Hoffman was strongly critical of Ernst, and others who remember him have differing opinions. He seems to have merited some of Hoffman's criticisms: he believed in keeping his distance from the evacuees, and clearly he, like any good bureaucrat, believed in the program he was administering. Whether he had the respect and confidence of the residents we cannot judge; Hoffman remarked that the announcement of Ernst's resignation was greeted by "a high degree of indifference."^[92] Perhaps his assessment was accurate, but by this time the Nikkei were apathetic toward most things that did not directly concern their well-being. None of the Nisei interviewed for this study had strong feelings about Ernst, if they recalled him at all.

School opened again in the fall; courses were taught, somehow, and the last pupils to file into the tar paper classrooms received a measure of instruction. But the reprieve was only temporary, for by December the camp was again awash in rumors that the schools would have to close in late January because of continuing difficulties in staffing them. Caucasians left for new positions, and others would not apply because of the impending closure of the camps (which was announced in December). Nisei who were skilled teachers were resettling. The last months in the Topaz schools must have been bleak.^[93]

The mood of the camp deeply concerned the administration, and on November 1 community analyst Hoffman began a new feature

in his weekly newsletter to Washington entitled "Trend of Resident Thought." The trend, naturally, was ever-downward, demonstrated by the issues that preoccupied residents contemplating resettlement. Some new factors emerged, which played an increasingly important role in the months ahead. Hoffman interviewed a Reverend S. and learned that people's moods were "ugly," that there was a "rising tide of bad feeling." By this time most of the respected leaders had resettied, and according to the minister, the remainder were uneducated and mercenary, unfit for leadership positions. Most of the residents were Issei who were very pro-Japan in their outlook. A new attitude toward seasonal leave began to emerge: Hoffman reported that many now refused it because they believed that agricultural work helped the American war effort, and they rejected resettlement out of hand.^[94] These holdouts, the "stand-pats," were very suspicious of the Issei who did relocate, occasionally threatening them, and as a result people had became secretive about their plans. The realization that Japan was losing the war also began affect those who believed the reports (many refused to), for they could see that the camps would not last forever. Hoffman cited no figures to back up his "trends," so the reader is only able to speculate how widely these views were held. It seemed to him that the change of mood indicated a downward shift in the longstanding malaise of the residents.^[95]

These changes affected Hoffman's own position. He complained to Myer that the residents either would not talk to him or would dissemble, telling him that they had no plans to relocate and then leaving the next week. They acted out of fear of antagonizing the rigid Issei and perhaps out of a growing perception that Hoffman was, after all, a Caucasian bureaucrat and a staunch advocate of resettlement. Perhaps they truly were uncertain, making up their minds at the last minute. Whatever detachment Hoffman once possessed had disappeared as he joined forces with the other administrators in attempting to resettle the Nikkei, whether they wanted to leave or not.

The residents seemed to be in what Hoffman called an "escapist" mood, anxious to find a mental release from the camp's drab surroundings, and indifferent rather than angry. Everyone flocked to the movies, especially the free ones, and Japanese films and

athletic events were very popular with the Issei. When the auditorium's motion picture screen was damaged by an act of vandalism, everyone was angry and the adults immediately assumed the culprit must be a "juvenile delinquent." But the poorly attended council meeting could not even find anyone to investigate the matter.^[96]

By late fall 1944 interest in resettlement was at a standstill. The only region that residents manifested any interest in was the Bay Area, their former home.^[97] q In the November newsletter Hoffman told Myer that the only way to combat the "creeping lethargy" in camp was to "push" the residents to action, but no one could be forced out as long as the camps remained open. Unusual job offers to groups of families from, for example, the Sioux Ordnance Depot and Seabrook Farms in New Jersey prompted some to discuss relocating. The experiment at Seabrook, a frozen-food operation where trial groups had been sent, sounded encouraging. Isao James Yano translated the literature on Seabrook into Japanese, and many Issei left camp to work there. But the remaining residents soon learned that the wages were poor, and the location seemed isolated to the few lonely Issei there. Family housing in Seabrook was no improvement over camp; the work was hard, and the hours long—fifty-six hours a week at times.^[98] Residents who went to the Sioux Depot in Nebraska also found little to recommend it. They did not face discrimination, but the work was arduous. Attempts to portray life at Seabrook or the Ordnance Depot as preferable to the possibly unfavorable conditions on the West Coast failed. When these job offers did not live up to their advance promise, the residents dropped the subject of resettlement once again. The federal elections attracted little interest: the few Nisei eligible to vote supported Roosevelt just because he was a "known evil" as opposed to an unknown, but few bothered even to obtain absentee ballots.^[99]

The community of Topaz was becoming increasingly atomized. The residents, Hoffman said, thought "less and less in terms of the total population of the Center and of community welfare and apparently more and more in terms of their own individual interests and plans." He complained that "homogeneity is breaking down," as demonstrated by the struggle for control of the co-op and the

factionalism of the council. Even the Buddhist church was divided over the question of who should control the organization once the members returned to San Francisco. The wrangling made people unwilling to cooperate with the WRA over matters concerning the general welfare. No one wanted to take care of problems outside his or her own block. One woman, Hoffman noted, refused to work in the hospital even when her own husband was a patient there: its labor shortage was the WRA's problem; the care of her husband was his right and not her duty. Camp elections attracted few voters, and people began to ignore the needs of their own blocks. Families exercised little control over their children, who were even "noisier and more arrogant" than before. Hoffman found many elements to blame for the situation, in fact almost everything except the most obvious: that internment had so worn people down that they had ceased to cooperate in their own incarceration. Many had lost the initiative to help themselves, even to leave. Hoffman concluded that the growth of factionalism showed that the "wounds of evacuation . . . [had] begun to heal." Instead of sticking together against the Caucasian WRA, the Nikkei were demonstrating a "more normal state of mind" by their individualistic responses to events.^[100] More likely, the reverse was true; the directors had never presented the WRA as a common enemy but had attempted to divide the residents by using groups against each other. Individual initiative, already blunted by the effects of institutionalization, was now being destroyed completely by the uncertainty of the impending camp closure, coupled with fear of the outside world.

Oscar Hoffman found some cause for optimism when the new director, Luther Hoffman, tried to clarify the separate roles of the community council and the judicial commission by prohibiting the council from insisting on the removal of the chief medical officer. Unfortunately, his action only made the residents more aware of the council's lack of power. The new director also attempted to solve problems quickly, unlike his predecessor, and he was more accessible to the residents. By this point it hardly mattered.

In mid-November Oscar Hoffman described the remaining 5,800 residents of Topaz. He predicted that approximately 1,500 would relocate in the Midwest or East in the next eight to ten months, following their children's lead. Many of these Issei would eventually return to the West Coast. Another 1,800 would resettle only on the West Coast; they included many infirm elderly people whose children had remained in camp to care for them. They intended to stay until the camp closed. There were about 500 who felt they had no future in America. They remained at Topaz only because Tule Lake was full and intended to leave for Japan once the war had ended. About 2,000 were "unrelocatable," including many Issei who were over sixty years old, had no families, and were virtually penniless. This category also included the chronically ill and the physically and mentally handicapped.^[101] Hoffman's analysis scarcely gave cause for optimism, but neither the camp administration nor the WRA gave serious concern to the problems posed by those who could not be relocated.

Thanksgiving was observed quietly, but the presence of many servicemen and women on leave enlivened the occasion somewhat. As Christmas neared, the residents took comfort in the news that omochi , rice cakes, would be available, and there were many plans for parties, films, and other entertainment.^[102] Yet another disappointment came when the omochi did not arrive on time, but nonetheless Christmas marked the end of the period of apathy, indifference, and "stand-pat-ism." As the residents of Topaz accepted the fact that the camp would be closed during the summer, they began to either make plans to depart or "accept the consequences of being left stranded in the Utah desert with some doubt as to whether they would be transferred to another center or to another government agency."^[103]