The little girl, now grown to adolescence, was worked to death. In a farmer's life the lot of the women is not easy and with a slave-driver at her heels, there would never be a day when her work would be finished. Her only comfort was the understanding help that was rendered by Torao, and as a result their relationship became all the more intimate.
It was no wonder, therefore, that we find Torao volunteering to labor in the canefields of Hawaii when immigration companies recruited laborers. His life had become unbearable. His father, understanding his feeling, did not stand in his way. Only Osada was very grieved and wept most pitifully. In view of what happened, many old women stated years later that somehow Osada must have felt that the parting was going to be the last for her and her brother on this earth, for she was destined to die two years later from an epidemic of dysentery.
CHAPTER 9
Contract Labor Years
THE RECRUITING AGENTS OF AN EMIGRATION company went from village to village in Kumamoto Prefecture, painting a rosy picture of distant Hawaii. They were trying to get farmers to sign up for work in the sugar cane fields. Laborers were to work ten hours a day in the hot sun. But there was a day of rest every seven days, and certainly this was an improvement over farms in Japan, where only on national holidays, Bon, and New Years would work automatically cease. As long as there was work, it had to be accomplished far into the night. No conception of work hours was entertained. Of course there were days of rest, off and on, depending on the weather.
"You young fellows should think of the future. Hawaii is in that part of the world where there is no winter. Spring all the year around. No warm clothes needed. After a contract of three years, you can do as you please. Hawaii is not crowded like Japan and you will make plenty of money. If you wish to return to Japan, you can do so after three years. But I tell you, once you get there you will not want to return to this hard-to-exist-in country of ours."
"But mister, is Hawaii not a barbarous country, so different from our homeland?"
"What of it? It is not as far away as Tenjiku (India). No wild head-hunters are there to molest you. I know because I talked to those who went there in early Meiji years and returned with hard-earned cash. Think of the wages! Why, in one month you will earn what you can make in one whole year slaving in the rice paddies." Many men from the villages and towns were persuaded to sign up for this eventful journey and adventure; each had his own reason.
Thus on a slow, self-propelled steamer, the SS China, which belched out black smoke, ninety emigrants from different parts of western Japan embarked at Nagasaki. Torao Murayama found himself among these people. At Yokohama, two hundred more were taken aboard and of these forty were women. It became cramped and crowded. The diet was monotonous and unpalatable. Board was a contract business and the enterprising steward was out to make money, feeding the passengers subsistence rations only. Every day it was pink or black beans, small dried fish, dried chopped turnips cooked with canned salmon, miso soup that barely smelt of miso, and a measured amount of rice.
Usually in such a crowd, to pass ennui, there would be organized entertainment amongst the passengers; but not with these people. They were too seasick or too hungry to stir out of their bunks.
Twenty-two days without a bath! Everyone began scratching. Fleas everywhere. The clothing was what they had had in the village: kimonos of tough home-spun kasuri (design of white specks on black or blue background) and the quasi-western attire of momo-hiki (tight fitting trousers).
But the day came when the sea birds from Hawaii visited the incoming ship. A bath for the steerage passengers was announced, but it consisted of live steam from a hose. Even for those who boasted of their ability to remain in the hottest mineral springs of their province, this unusual bath made them hesitate, and they decided to postpone cleansing their bodies until they landed.
"Let us have a funeral for the lice."
"What do you mean?"
"We shall dump our underwear when we land and call it the water burial of our fellow travellers from Japan. I am sure they will not be welcomed at Honolulu."
The sea was rough, and the small steamer rolled and pitched incessantly for three weeks until the bare mountain called Diamond Head met the immigrants' eager gaze. But to land and enjoy the city was not to be their lot. They were herded via the long six hundred foot bridge to the Immigration Station on Sand Island. There was a large, ramshackle building called by the Japanese sen nin goya which literally meant "a large house capable of accommodating a thousand people." It was in the center of an enclosure. Next to it was a smaller compound where the quarantined cases were held. A large, tall chimney over a brick building was a crematory to dispose of the deceased.
After the long voyage, the feel of ground under the feet was welcome. The luxury of a shower with fresh water was met with huzzahs, even though it was in cold water.
"All you newcomers line up for inspection!" yelled the Emigration Company's official. He assembled the new arrivals on the bare ground in front of the building. "No sickness was found among you fellows by the quarantine doctor and so you will soon be assigned to different plantations. Until then, rest and take it easy. Make yourself at home. I am available every day to look after your wants if you need me." He was a humorous man of thirty or thereabouts and according to rumor a veterinarian and master of the English language.
There were about two hundred that had been waiting at this station for their dispersal to outlying islands. To pass their ennui, nothing was done, at least in an organized way. Soon however, an impromptu talent show was held and it was an instant success. It was a hilarious three hour show and a self-appointed master of ceremonies kept the meeting well balanced. Each ship contingent knew its artists and there seemed to be a friendly rivalry among the three shiploads already there. The latest arrivals on the SS China soon got into the spirit and produced comedians, singers, and dancers from their midst. Folk dances and country songs of each province were richly represented and a spirit of camaraderie was born among all.
Sand Island was barren of vegetation. It was situated to the left of the channel that led into Honolulu Harbor, dredged for ocean liners. The side that fronted the harbor was a mud-containing sandy shoreline, and the part that fronted the Pacific Ocean extended to the breakers beyond a stretch of coral reef. When the wind veered to the south the humidity was high, much like the summer days of Japan. During the day, the sun's reflection on the sandy surface made the atmosphere hot, in spite of the breeze that came from the mountains.
Without anybody taking visible leadership, a wrestling tournament began. Young muscular men were aching for a chance to let off steam. Improvised loin cloths served as fundoshi like the "malo" of the natives. The arena was a circle on the sandy ground, a relic from former contingents and sojourners, and a match was soon in full swing. A referee, or gyoji, soon found himself deciding each tussle. A comedian bellowed forth in a sing-song refrain the name of the contestants. The gallery of spectators were shouting encouragement and clapping their approval of a dexterous throw. They groaned, swayed, and sweated with the evenly matched contestants. It did not take long to end each contest. To win, one had to either throw his opponent to the ground, push him out of the ring, or force him to touch the ground first when both their bodies were headed for a fall. To touch the earth with a hand or a knee once the contest started, spelled defeat.
"Now, look into each other's eyes. Take your time, and get started," said the low, admonishing voice of the referee. He held a wooden fan between the faces of the two low-crouching, naked bodies pivoted on all fours. Four eyes glared. With suppressed breath, each was sizing up the other. With the words "get started," the fan was withdrawn and the wrestlers continued to eye each other until the opportune moment for combat was sensed. One had the right to say matta, wait, should he not find himself just ready, or he could delay the fight as a means of strategy. But the spectators booed if the delay was too frequent. Once on their feet, the struggle was indeed fast. There was nothing to grasp except the waist cloth. No judo holds were allowed. The outcome