She was dead. The last hope to discover his past was buried forever, along with his 89 year old mother. Her memory had faded long before she died, leaving too many questions, and the handful of old black and white photographs did little to tell the story. But why the obsession to know? What difference could it make? For him the answer was simple: “I can’t really know who I am if I don’t know where I come from.” His wife knew better; it went deeper than that.
The U.S. Goverment internment camps of World War II had ravaged the lives and history of many Japanese-Americans. So, was it too late; was his prayer in vain? Or was there someone out there, somewhere, who held the answers to his questions?
With one mysterious phone call and five simple words: “You don’t know me, but . . .”, his journey had begun.