Pen and Spectacles

This must have been just past mid-April. Here at Heart Mountain, we still had blizzards and flurries, the roadsides and shady spots glistening with icy snow. And yet, the sunshine on the highland felt like spring. The days were mild.

It happened one Sunday morning. It was a fine day, beautiful and clear. We decided to go for a walk, so I took my cane and went out. We took the road heading east, then turned south, walking along the path through the field where there were no longer any barracks. Heart Mountain stood to the west amid a thin mist—like an affectionate mother, standing guard over this Center… There were students playing basketball in the open area by the Block 7 school. It was an utterly peaceful scene.

Struck with sudden poetic inspiration, I reached for a pen to make a note in my journal. But I thought better of it and took out a pencil instead to jot down my thoughts.

We then made our way out of the field, following the path that wasn’t really a path, and continued east, finally reaching the warehouse area. As we walked along the railroad tracks toward the gate, I gazed at the rows of various warehouses and facilities, aware that this was America, and that America is rich. This was the gate we had passed through when we first arrived at the Center in September of last year. Reflecting upon this with unbearably profound emotion, we turned back and ascended the long and gradual slope of the road home.

I had to go out again that afternoon and evening to run errands, and was utterly exhausted. The next day, I went to use my pen, only to realize that it was nowhere to be found. After much thought, it occurred to me that perhaps I lost it the day before when, in the field, I had reached for my pen but instead took out a pencil. Now it was too late. It was snowing, and there would be no chance of finding a lost pen in that snowy field. Even if it were still there, I’d have to be able to retrace my exact steps… and at this point, I didn’t have the courage to go out and look for it. I gave up hope, resigning myself to the sad fact that I’d never see my pen again. And yet, somehow I still couldn’t let go. The reason being that it had been a birthday present given to me three years ago by my son-in-law K., with my name engraved on it next to Sheaffer’s trademark white dot. Ever since then, it had been the only pen I used. The very reason I had opted to use a pencil instead was because I worried about losing the pen. It really was a pity, and I hated to tell K. about it. My low spirits continued for two weeks. But then one morning, there was a knock at our door. 

I came out to see who it was, and a young man of about twenty greeted me politely. “Is there anyone here by the name of Chiyo Fujioka? Who might have lost this pen?” To my surprise, he held up the pen as he said this. Half in a daze, I explained what had happened. “But how did you find it?” I inquired. “I work at the agricultural testing station, and I came across it as I was on my way out there. I saw your name on it so I brought it here,” he answered, plainly and simply, and then turned to go, but I was able to learn his name and address before seeing him off.

We had snow flurries again the following day. I went to the young man’s home to express my gratitude. Unfortunately he wasn’t there, so I left word with a neighbor about why I had visited, and returned home. Then, about two weeks later, the young man called on me again, but this time I was out—he was repaying my earlier visit, and had also come to bid farewell since he would soon be leaving the Center.

What a dutiful young man… though I only met him the one time, and wondered whether I would ever see him again. From everything I had heard about him after he went out of his way to bring me my lost pen, he was a young man of true integrity—a hard worker and a devoted son.

Now, as we Nikkei citizens face the uncertainty of where to be or how to conduct ourselves, we ought to be sure to comport ourselves so splendidly. I shall continue to pray, morning and evening, for this young man’s happiness.

While I’m here, there is something else I wish to write about, although I am somewhat ashamed to speak of it…

It happened back around June. This time I lost my spectacles. I thought I knew where I had misplaced them so I inquired with the block manager, but there was no sign of them. I despaired of ever finding them. But then, recently, I was talking to a friend and happened to mention them, and she asked, “Have you tried going to the police?” I responded politely that perhaps I should, but at that point three or four months had passed, and they were just reading glasses, as well as the fact that they may have been damaged when I lost them. In any case, it really was rather hopeless, and I had little interest in rushing over to the police at that point. Some time later, though, I happened to pass by the station and, on a whim, I decided to stop in and ask.

The clerk on duty took out several pairs of spectacles and showed them to me, but none among these appeared to be mine.

“There is one more pair, though we have no record for these,” the clerk said as he took out another pair from a separate place and showed me.

At first glance, these spectacles were similar to but did not appear to be mine. I tried them on, though, and they fit perfectly—they were even the right magnification. Perhaps because they were in the old style and since I hadn’t worn glasses for the past three or four months.

The clerk said, “Please take them. Since these are the only ones we have no record for, there’s no need to fill anything out.” He even looked rather pleased.

Somehow it didn’t quite feel right just to take them. I wanted to know who had brought them in, and wished to express my thanks. But it was not the time for that. All I could do was leave my name and address, and take them with me gratefully.

And indeed, I am composing this essay with the aid of those same spectacles and that very pen. I offer my deepest respect for and gratitude to the two benefactors who found these items, and we can all rejoice in the fact that we have with us at this Center people of such integrity, who would do such charitable deeds unbeknownst to anyone.

November 22, 1943