'68 - A Novel...

CHAPTER 7: WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 21


Kenji drove across town in his pickup truck, hurrying to check in with the crews he had working around the city. His first stop would be on La Cresenda in the midst of a beautiful neighborhood on the hill above the high school. His customer, Mrs. Lev, had requested some additional pruning work and he wanted to make sure it was done to her satisfaction. The black script on the side of the truck read “Hashimoto & Son / Landscaping.” He had taken the name from his father’s business, the business that was lost during the war years. He wondered if his father would be proud of the growth he’d achieved here in Vallejo. He’d never know the answer to that one: his father died shortly after the war, most likely of a broken heart.

The Lev home was a beautiful property, perched on the hill overlooking the high school campus. Ruth Lev was a good customer and Kenji took care to make sure she was happy with his work. It was a little past noon when he pulled up in front of the house. He saw his three-man crew, including his nephew Mark, sitting on the front lawn under a large sycamore tree, taking their lunch break. He spoke to the men briefly and then went to check on the pruning job. Just then, the front door opened and he heard a voice calling to him from inside the house.

“Mr. Hashimoto… Mr. Hashimoto… could you come here please.”

Kenji approached the front door and saw that Mrs. Lev was standing inside, the screen door securely fastened. “Yes, Mrs. Lev. How are you today?”

“Mr. Hashimoto, if you don’t mind, please ask your men not to take their lunch on the front lawn. Please, can you ask them to move? I called to them earlier, but they ignored me.”

“Ma’am? Is there something wrong?”

Kenji was a little confused. In his dealings with Mrs. Lev, she’d always been nervous and a little skittish, as though she had reason to be afraid of him and his men. But this was new. She didn’t want them to be seen on her front lawn?

“Please ask them to move, Mr. Hashimoto. What will the neighbors think?”

Kenji’s temper flared briefly. Well, they’ll think you hired some Japanese lawn jockeys. He started to respond, then decided it wasn’t worth it. He’d ask the guys to finish their lunch in the truck.

“Okay, Mrs. Lev, I’ll have them move. Then I’m going to check on the pruning you requested.”

He tipped his hat and started to move away from the door. He saw her reach for the latch, making sure it was secured, and then he saw her forearm. She wore a denim shirt with the cuffs rolled up a turn or two, and now as she reached for the latch, he could see part of the number tattooed on her arm. Oh, my God! He almost said it out loud. He knew that Ruth Lev was Jewish, but until this day, he did not know that she was a Holocaust survivor. He walked away from the door, toward where his crew was lounging on the lawn, smoking cigarettes and chatting quietly. He felt for the keys in the pocket of his khaki pants and realized his hand was shaking.

“Okay guys, let’s finish your break out in the truck. And don’t leave any butts on lawn.” The men gave him a collective groan and began to gather their things. “Didn’t you hear Mrs. Lev ask you to move?”

“Ah come on, Uncle, we can’t even take our break in the shade?” His nephew grinned at him in his usual wise-ass manner.

“Just do what the lady asked, okay?”

“Are you gonna tap dance for her too, Uncle Tom? Oops, I mean Uncle Kenji.”

Kenji moved forward quickly and grabbed his nephew by the collar with both hands. He slammed him back against the trunk of the sycamore tree and held him there. This little punk didn’t know that his uncle had the knowledge and experience to crush his windpipe if he wanted to. Kenji held him, pinned against the tree, so angry he was unable to speak.

“Geez Uncle, I was just joking with you.” The grin was gone from Mark’s face now.

Kenji loosened his grip. “Go on out to the truck.” His voice was choked with anger. He turned and marched away toward the backyard to inspect the pruning work.
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Kenji sat on the stone bench under the flowering plum tree, gazing out across the rock garden. The garden was a flat, kidney-shaped space, about 18 feet long and maybe 12 feet wide. Near the center, he had mounded the earth, placed two medium-sized stones, and planted moss and a carefully pruned Bonsai tree. This central structure was shaped to represent the family’s home island of Hokkaido. All around it, the sand and small stones were raked to represent the ocean and its ever-shifting currents.

He looked at the garden and wondered if his father would approve. His father was the master and Kenji knew he could never match his skill. Still he wondered. Hiroshi Hashimoto would never praise his son openly, but perhaps he would have rested here on this bench, lost in meditation, and that would have been praise enough.

He was still upset about the scuffle with his nephew. It wasn’t often that he lost control like that. He thought of Mrs. Lev and the number tattooed on her arm. It occurred to him that he had more in common with her than with his own nephew. They were both camp survivors. Their families had been rounded up and hauled away from their homes, their property seized, their citizenship and their humanity denied. Yet he knew that beyond those simple facts, there was no comparison. There were no gas chambers and no ovens at the camp where Kenji’s family was held. What Mrs. Lev had seen and experienced, and how she had managed to survive, he would never know or fully understand.

Kenji took a long drink from the cold bottle of beer in his hand. He looked at the label with the bright red script that read “Budweiser / King of Beers.” He glanced across the back fence toward John Harris’s yard. Why did he tell that cracker that his name was Ken? My name is Kenji, the name my father gave me, he said to himself. And from now on, he would buy Sapporo, a good Japanese beer.
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CHAPTER 8: MONDAY, FEBRUARY 26


Ellamae Brown set the small overnight bag on the porch and carefully locked her front door. Then she closed the screen door, found the right key and locked it as well. Dear Lord, watch over this house and keep it safe.

It was one of many little prayers she would say to herself during the day, an ongoing conversation with God that didn’t require an “amen,” because it was never finished.

She wore a brown cloth coat against the February chill, and under that, her standard work clothes – a simple cotton house dress and crepe soled service shoes – practical, comfortable, perfect for the day’s work ahead. She unlocked the door to her ’63 Chevy Nova sedan, reached in to unlock the back door, and dropped her bag on the back seat. She stepped into the car, her stout body causing the vehicle to dip and rock a little. Ellamae was about five and a half feet tall and she would admit to 160 pounds. When she stood before you and fixed you with her steady gaze, the impression she gave was one of innate strength. It was clear that she was a formidable woman: you did not mess with Ellamae Brown.

She turned the ignition key and listened absentmindedly as the engine sprang to life. She flipped the switch for the windshield wiper to clear away the early morning dew, turned on the defroster and felt a rush of cold air sweep by her forehead. She let the engine idle for a minute or two, until the flow of air began to warm. There was no hurry this Monday morning, no need to rush. Finally, she shifted into reverse and backed out of her driveway, out onto Florida Street, and began the short drive across town to Ruth Lev’s home on the hill above the high school.

Ellamae had worked for Ruth Lev for nearly ten years now, starting as her housekeeper, coming twice a week to clean and scrub the large, well kept home on La Cresenda Street. But she and Ruth hit it off almost immediately, and soon they had developed an odd friendship, odd because they could not have been more different: Ruth, in her late sixties, born in Germany to a small, close-knit Jewish family, a Holocaust survivor, the widow of a successful banker; Ellamae, also in her sixties, born in rural Alabama to a poor black family, the widow of a shipyard worker.

Those were the surface differences. In the course of many conversations over coffee at Ruth’s kitchen table, they discovered the myriad things they had in common. As time went on, their bond grew and Ellamae’s job began to evolve. Rather than housekeeping two days a week, she would live in on the weekdays, occupying a room of her own on the second floor, preparing meals, cleaning, and generally looking after Ruth. They would shop together, making trips to the market to restock the pantry, or to the stores downtown to replenish Ruth’s wardrobe, and they were known all around town as Ruthie & Ellie: a partnership; an unbreakable team.

Of course, their ventures out into the community came on Ruth’s good days, when her spirit was bright and the sun was shining. Then there were the days when she closed her bedroom door and would not leave her bed, when her blinds were drawn tightly to keep out the sun, when the thought of food turned her stomach. On those days, which could last for a week or more, Ellamae hovered close by, ready to provide whatever Ruth needed, even if it was only a strong shoulder to cry on.

At first, Ellamae didn’t understand the dark times. “Holocaust” was just a word, the full meaning still a mystery to her. Through conversations with her pastor, and then trips to the fine old Carnegie library downtown, she began to study and learn and understand. The articles she read, the photographs she saw, overwhelmed her. The meaning of the number tattooed on Ruth’s arm and the miracle of her survival became clear.

Now Ellamae was caught in the traffic streaming toward the high school, moving slowly along Amador Street. She could have chosen an alternate route, but she didn’t mind the slowdown. The hustle and bustle of the young people making their way to the campus somehow energized her. She watched the boys and girls crowding the sidewalk, a slow-moving rainbow, all shapes, sizes and colors, laughing, talking, flirting, so different and far removed from her own childhood experience. Lord, bless these beautiful children.

She passed the intersection with Nebraska Street, then veered right onto Camino Real and began the climb up the hill, through the lovely neighborhood above the school campus. She marveled at the contrast between the homes here and those on her block of Florida Street. Soon, she was turning into the driveway of Ruth Lev’s home on La Cresenda, continuing along the north side of the house to the detached two-car garage in the rear. She would park her car in the garage later and it would sit there through the week until it was time for her to head for home. Wherever they went during the week, they would take Ruth’s Oldsmobile 88, the vehicle Ellamae referred to as the Land Yacht. She wasn’t sure of the model year, but it was fine car, well maintained, the dark blue finish polished to a high gloss.

Ellamae took her small bag from the back seat and made her way to the kitchen door at the rear of the house. She climbed the three steps and readied her key to unlock the door. Through the window, she could see Ruth standing in the kitchen, her back to the door, scooping coffee into the percolator. Ellamae paused for few seconds, watching the thin, frail-looking woman standing at the counter. Ruth was dressed in her usual uniform: khaki slacks, a white turtleneck sweater and a denim shirt. She stood watching, wondering which Ruth Lev she would find today: the lovely, warm and embracing Ruth, with her bright and irrepressible smile and the twinkling eyes? Or the dark, depressed Ruth, eyes downcast, unable to eat or sleep, barely able to function?

She rapped softly on the window so as not to startle Ruth, and then inserted her key and unlocked the door. Ruth turned her head, glancing over her shoulder, and smiled her brightest smile.

“Ellie!” She finished with the coffeemaker and plugged it into the outlet on the wall behind the counter. “Welcome home, dear. You’re just in time for coffee.”

Ellamae felt her heart soar. Dear Lord, bless Ruthie Lev, and let this be a good week.
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Next week: John Jr. and Bobbie on an “un-date.” And LBJ makes an historic announcement.
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