Fukuhara Frank - Midnight in broad daylight : a Japanese American family caught between two worlds

T he true story of a Japanese American family engulfed by war on both sides of the Pacific came to me by serendipity one summer day in 1994. I had recently moved to Tokyo and was attending a press conference for former Jewish refugees who had survived the Holocaust thanks to a Japanese diplomat. The diplomat was the subject of my dissertation. Harry Fukuhara, a retired American colonel with decades of experience in Japan, was accompanying the group as a favor for his travel agent friend. I saw Harry navigate the crowd at the Miyako Hotel, managing American journalists and Japanese diplomats with crystalline Japanese and English. When I remarked to a filmmaker that the refugees had amazing stories, she replied, If you think their stories are incredible, you should talk to Harry.

Harry and I introduced ourselves but didnt talk further. But when he came back to Tokyo from his home in California a few months later, he invited me to lunch. An extrovert and frequent mentor, Harry met with many on his trips. Over the next few years on his occasional visits, we chatted over cheeseburgers and iced tea. Harry confided his familys story. I realized that there was far more to his account than what the odd newspaper feature had captured.

In late 1998, I asked Harry whether he had ever considered a book as a legacy of U.S.-Japan relations, the Japanese experience in America, and the nisei second-generation Japanese American story. His story was remarkable, rare, and unknown. Harry soon arrived in Tokyo and introduced me to his brothers. So began my journey of research and interviews in two countries.

I would comb archives, museums, and libraries across Japan and the United States and interview more than seventy-five people in Japanese or English in both countries. In Tokyo, I discovered Harrys parents passport applications for the United States and evidence that his father had attended college, an uncommon feat for a poor immigrant. Harry, his younger brother Frank, and I talked over the course of a decadein coffee shops, restaurants, ferries, and taxis. Most interviews were formal, with my notebook and tape recorder on hand. Others were impromptu conversations. Frank, who was based in Japan, became my travel partner. Harry never wanted to go to Hiroshima, but Frank did not hesitate. When the bullet train from Tokyo whooshed into Nagoya Station, he hopped on, sat beside me, and handed me a homemade lunch. We met relatives on the sacred island of Miyajima, attended his elementary school reunion, and spoke with the man who had once bullied Harry. One autumn afternoon in Hiroshima, we were walking to the familys former home when a woman came running. Fu-ra-n-ku, she called in her singsong voice. It was Masako, a neighbor who had been with Harry and Franks mother on the day that the atomic bomb exploded; Frank had not seen her for more than half a century. She was bursting with memories.

The home in Hiroshima that Frank and I entered with Masako by our side? The present owners had bought it with its American furniture and fixtures from Harry and Franks mother; it was a preserved time capsule of the 1930s and 1940s. I was stunned that there were also shards of glass embedded in the stairwell, debris from the atomic bomb blast. Harry and I flew to Los Angeles, where he had lived before he was interned in 1942. At the house where he had worked and been treated as a surrogate son, the subsequent owner still displayed the service flag that Harrys employers had hung in their window when Harry enlisted in the U.S. Army and went to war in 1943. I could not be more grateful that Harry was a packrat. From his disorderly den in San Jose emerged his teenage Japanese diaries, ribbon-tied packets of 1930s letters from friends in the United States, and his Japanese military-training text. He also had a small trove of American and Japanese propaganda and captured letters.

I had first been drawn to this story because I knew little about the internment. When Harry and I visited Seattle and Los Angeles, fellow Japanese Americans at coffee shops would casually ask him, Which camp were you in? This was an immediate, indelible bond that few outside this group were aware of. I had wondered how Harry could enlist in a military that had imprisoned him and would then send him into possible combat against his brothers. I had never learned about the tremendous Japanese American contribution to the American war effort. These were compelling reasons to delve into research, but, over time, the story revealed new significance. Above all, it was a tale of tragedy luminous with hope and resilience, a story of abiding love for family. My belief in the power and dimensions of this project sustained me on the lengthy, uncertain path to publication.

As amazing as many of the events may seem, please note that this is a work of nonfiction. No names have been altered, characters created, or events distorted. If a comment appears in quotation marks, it is verbatim from an interview, oral history, letter, or other primary source. I corroborated each vignette with repeat interviews with the source, multiple interviews with others, and historical research. In re-creating scenes of those who were not alive at the time of writing this book, I used a combination of primary and secondary sources. In recollections that have been told before, I went back to the original source, whether in Japanese or English.

Please note that Japanese names are written with the first name followed by the surname. Although the convention is to record Japanese names with the last name preceding the first name, there are so many Japanese American names in this book that I chose consistency to avoid confusion.

There are stories we stumble upon in life that are so rich with delicious details, imbued with meaning, and resonant with epic events that they can consume a writer. I have been entranced by this looking glass into the past. I wish the same for intrigued readers.

Pamela Rotner Sakamoto

Honolulu