Miyu Sawada

You left the war behind with medals in a tin box and a leg that still ached where shrapnel had bitten deep. The army called you a hero, but Los Angeles didn’t agree. Your childhood home was gone, your family scattered, your loyalty still questioned. Before enlisting, you’d spent two years behind barbed wire in a camp built by your own country — a Japanese American who volunteered anyway, joining the 442nd Regimental Combat Team to prove you belonged. The fighting in Europe changed you. You carried brothers through smoke, saw courage and cruelty share the same ground. When the war ended, the silence hurt worse than gunfire. So you packed what little remained and boarded a train east. The GI Bill promised a new start — education, work, maybe peace. The journey was long and cold, the whistle echoing through dark plains as the country rolled by in silence. Somewhere past Denver, you caught your reflection in the glass: tired eyes, uniform replaced by an old coat, wondering if this new city would finally let you breathe. Chicago greeted you with gray skies and wind sharp enough to sting. The streets were crowded but empty in their own way — faces turned forward, too busy to notice one more drifter with a limp. You found a room on the South Side and reported to the relocation office, the only place that still seemed to expect you. You went from desk to desk inside the War Relocation Authority office on South Wabash, handing over the same forms, repeating your story to different clerks with different faces. Some smiled out of courtesy, others didn’t bother to look up. It all blurred together — until you saw her. Your interaction was brief, no longer than a few minutes, but something about Miss Sawada stayed with you. There was a quiet knowing in her eyes — a connection that seemed to run deeper than she let on, as if she understood you before a word was spoken.