The Plum Blooms in Winter

by Linda Thompson

  Tanaka-san’s husband staggered down the stairs and out to the curb. They had to wait for the taxi. Between them, they bundled Papa-san into the generous back seat. Miyako climbed in beside him and cradled his head on her lap.

  “I can keep you company for a bit, dear.” Tanaka-san took the seat next to the driver.

  “Domo arigato,” Miyako’s eyes didn’t leave Papa-san’s face.

  Tanaka-san directed the driver. “Osaka Hospital, please.”

  They wheeled Papa-san to the triage area on a gurney. Smelling salts didn’t bring him around, but after a few minutes with a mask attached to a big oxygen tank his breathing sounded deeper and more even.

  Miyako sat next to him, watching every heave of his chest, her clammy hands twisted in her lap.

  Kindly, Tanaka-san placed a hand on Miyako’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Mi-chan. I’m afraid I have to go. Stop and see us when you get home, please.”

  Miyako rose and thanked her with a deep bow of gratitude, then turned to Papa-san. Even now, despite those hollow cheeks, there was something noble in his expression. In the set of his jaw, the angle of his cheekbones, there was a strength that hinted of the captain who’d shipped off to war not so many years before.

  She heaved a shuddering sigh. Back then, she believed she could do something to protect him. The sacred gift of a senninbari, an embroidered sash of cream-colored silk. So much had gone into its making. So many hours spent at the subway entrance. She held out the silk belt to each passing lady and asked her to work a single stitch in the design. A thousand stitches worked by a thousand hands.

  She’d do it all again, ten times over, if it would keep him with her. But it hadn’t worked then. Plenty of men with senninbari hadn’t returned from the war—like her brother.

  And a silk belt wouldn’t help Papa-san now.

  She took a fresh towel from the stand and dabbed beads of moisture from his forehead. Tears burned behind her eyelids—she blinked them back. She leaned over him and whispered, “Papa-san, I’m doing everything I can for you. But you need to do something for me. Fight this enemy as hard as you fought for the emperor. And come home to me.”

  The doctor strode in. An angular man with graying hair and a nose like a hawk’s beak, he gave her a slight bow. He plucked Papa’s chart from the footboard and rifled through it.

  She returned his bow with a deeper one aimed at the crown of his head.

  He looked at her over the papers. “Good evening.” He squeezed Papa’s wrist for a moment, then moved the stethoscope around his chest. The creases on his face grew deeper.

  She waited, anxiety mounting, until at last he met her eyes. “I’m Nakamura. And your name?”

  “Matsuura. This is my father.”

  “Ah. Matsuura-san. Well. High fever. Rapid, fluttering pulse. Fluid in the lungs. Your father appears to be a very sick man.”

  She sighed. “Hai, Dr. Nakamura.”

  “Dr. Furuta diagnosed pneumonia?”

  “Hai.”

  “Did your father receive a course of penicillin?”

  “No, Doctor.” Little old Dr. Furuta had recommended it. And was there anywhere she didn’t ask? Any black-market stall she didn’t visit? But there was none to be had. They stocked it at the military hospitals for gaijin soldiers with V.D. But not for old Japanese with pneumonia.

  Dr. Nakamura compressed his lips. “That’s a shame. I know it’s hard to come by.” He stood studying Papa-san’s face, nearly as white as the hospital bedding. “I don’t think pneumonia accounts for all the symptoms I’m seeing today. His poor color would seem to indicate anemia. Would you say your father bruises or bleeds easily?”

  She nodded. “I have noticed that.” The night before wasn’t the first time she’d seen odd marks on his skin. She wondered how he got them when he spent his days on his futon.

  He looked at her intently. “Is it possible that your father has been in the vicinity of Hiroshima or Nagasaki?”

  Her chest hollowed. “Hai, Doctor. Nagasaki. He was a naval officer.”

  “When was he there?”

  “They sent him in the day after.”

  He paused, clicking his tongue against his palate, then seemed to reach a decision. “I’d like to order blood tests.”

  Would George-san’s offer be generous enough to pay for all this? “If I could please ask, Dr. Nakamura, what will the blood tests tell you?”

  A moment’s pause. “Matsuura-san, this won’t be easy for you to hear.”

  The hollow in her chest expanded to fill it.

  He sat near the foot of the bed, on her level. “We’ve recently started to notice an increased incidence of leukemia in people exposed to atomic radiation. Some seem to escape the early symptoms. But we’re theorizing their cells may sustain more subtle damage which emerges as blood cancer later.” He paused. “I can’t know for certain until we have the test results, but some of your father’s symptoms are consistent with leukemia.”

  The temperature in the room dropped. Leukemia? Blood cancer? A painful, lingering death.

  He pointed at the purplish area she’d noticed on Papa-san’s shoulder the day before. “Look at this.”

  She bent to get a better view. Tiny scabs formed a honeycomb pattern. A couple dozen of them, accented by several droplets of fresh blood. She breathed a swear word. “Che! What is that?”

  “Pinprick bleeds. The clinical term is petechiae.” He gave her a searching look then went on in a measured voice. “A frequent leukemia symptom, especially when they present in an older patient. Leukemia can compromise the immune system. That might explain his pneumonia as well.”

  Papa-san, hibakusha. An explosion-polluted person. Everything in the room froze.

  She’d seen them after the surrender. Begging on street corners. Swollen limbs and faces, patchy hair, dirty bandages, burns, skin ulcers. Revolting.

  Tanaka-san’s older son came home from Hiroshima precinct after the bombing, in seemingly perfect health. A month later he started to vomit, and his hair fell out. By the next spring, the Tanakas had buried their oldest son. And the hibakusha on the streets had disappeared.

  And now Papa-san himself—hibakusha?

  Dr. Nakamura cleared his throat. She forced her attention back to his words.

  “Matsuura-san, your father will need to stay here while we complete the diagnosis and establish a treatment plan. I suppose Dr. Furuta prescribed a traditional kampo remedy?”

  She had to work to summon her voice. “He did. I’ve been making the tea Dr. Furuta prescribed.”

  “Is it giving your father some relief?”

  “Hai, some.”

  “I’d advise that he continue it, especially since I don’t have penicillin for him. But that’s a bit out of our domain. You’ll come in and administer it?”

  “Hai, Doctor.” She shifted on the edge of her chair. “But I have to tell you, Papa and I are very poor. I don’t know how I’ll pay for all this.”

  He frowned. “You don’t feel your father deserves quality care?”

  “I do. But—”

  “But what?”

  What could she say? “Never mind.” She studied her hands in her lap.

  Saturday 18 April 1942

  Jiangxi Province, China

  A dog barked somewhere right below the hillside where Dave had landed.

  Civilization. Until he was certain Vitty was wrong about this being enemy-infested territory, he needed cover.

  His flashlight showed a stand of trees off to his right. He worked his way over, but it was tough going. His feet slipped and mired on the saturated ground. Each time he jerked to regain balance, a fresh shock of pain wrenched him.

  He reached the cover of the trees and sat cross-legged in a spot where the ground was flat and the boughs were thickest. Draped the parachute over his head for added shelter and got out the only food he had—a chocolate bar.

  Stiff fingers resisted bending around the flashlight. Every inch of his body was wet.
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  Time for a little of that medicine. To take the edge off the pain—and the nerves. That thought came with a twinge of need. He fished out a bottle of Doc White’s rye, vised it between his thighs, and unscrewed the top with his good hand. He threw back a swig.

  Every bit as bad as I expected.

  He coughed, then sent another one after the first.

  Worse. But warmth traveled through his veins, and his anxiety ebbed a little.

  The crickets and frogs had resumed—a whole chorus of them. Telling Dave what an idiot he was for sitting on a hillside somewhere in China. Like the chorus of people who’d told him what an idiot he was to enlist. All of them now on the other side of the world. His wife Eileen, his parents, his little sister.

  The decisive discussion about his enlistment had taken place at that last Fighting Illini game they’d seen. The U. of I. met Purdue on a breezy September Saturday. Eileen—who’d been his steady girl since they were high school seniors—had laced her fingers through his and smiled with excitement. The Illini blue and orange in her scarf brought out the color in her hazel eyes. The wind played with the red-gold wisps around her face and tugged at her well-anchored hat.

  A vendor worked his way down the bleacher stairs to Dave’s right. “Coke here. Cold Coke.”

  He hailed the man and bought a round of sodas. He gave Eileen a subtle wink as he handed her one, then fingered the flask of rum in his pocket. He was itching to break into it. Dad wouldn’t care—in fact he’d probably join them. But Dave couldn’t doctor the drinks until Eileen managed to herd Mom off to the ladies’ room.

  His parents had driven from Chicago. Mom was her usual busybody self, bursting with information from home. “You won’t believe it, honey. Your old friend Jimmy Schumacher enlisted. And that loud-mouth Brent Casey too.”

  Dad’s eyes stayed anchored on the field, but his angular jaw jutted in indignation. “Still can’t believe Roosevelt wants to see us caught up in another foreign war. Those boys could just wait—Roosevelt will see them drafted soon enough.”

  Mom pulled a compact from her handbag. “We should let the Europeans sort out their own affairs.” She checked her powder.

  Eileen leaned across Dave so his mother could hear. “You know my friend Josie, right? Her boyfriend went and enlisted. He’s leaving the U. of I. I feel so awful for her.”

  Mom looked at her over the top of her compact. “Why would he do that? It might be a fine thing for that Schumacher kid. You don’t expect a boy from that kind of family to amount to much. But for a college man?”

  Dave fixed his eyes on his mother. “Some of my frat brothers saw the recruiter. Turns out if you enlist, you can choose which branch you join. If I wanted the Air Corps, for example—”

  Dad turned on him, face fierce. “You aren’t actually considering this, are you?”

  “Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “I’m considering it.”

  All three of them stared at him. Eileen’s eyes were widest. “You wouldn’t. We’ve talked and talked about this.”

  “If they guarantee me Air Corps, maybe I would.” He dropped the words deliberately, like round stones into a pool. “With my vision, I can probably get pilot training.”

  “Throw away three years of college?” Dad said. “For a probably?”

  Mom pursed her lips. “You know we’ve made real sacrifices so you can be here.”

  “You’re that desperate to be a flyboy.” Eileen’s voice had a hollow sound.

  “Better a flyboy than crawling through the trenches. Right, Dad?” That was taking it too far, and he knew it. Dad’s infantry days in the Great War weren’t something the man talked about.

  Dad stared at him for a few seconds, mute, his lips a thin line. “That’s right. I’ve been there. Keep that in mind next time you think you know more about war than I do.”

  “What trenches?” Eileen jumped in. Her voice sounded shrill. “There are no trenches. We just can’t get tangled up in another European war.”

  He shrugged. “If we don’t join the war? Uncle Sam shells out for flight school and I get to fly for a couple years.”

  “Two years?” She recoiled from him, mouth gaping. “If you get drafted it’s one year. If you get drafted.”

  He reached for her arm. “Eileen, this might be my chance to do something that will make a difference. And it’s certainly my only chance to fly.”

  His father found his voice—the dramatic courtroom voice he used to bend jurors to his will. “I forbid it. I flatly forbid it.”

  “Excuse me?” Dad wasn’t going to talk to him that way. Not anymore.

  “I knew it was a mistake to let you spend all that time with my broken-down battle horse of a brother-in-law. He infected you with the idea you’re going to be some kind of hero.”

  Dave’s shoulders went rigid. “Don’t say that about Uncle Verle.” It was Uncle Verle who’d taken him to the Thompson Trophy Race, where the aviation bug bit him hard. Perhaps it was his first glimpse of Captain Page’s Curtiss Hawk, sunlight glinting off her powerful curves. Or maybe even his first whiff of avgas. But whatever the witchcraft was, from that day everything about planes and pilots sent his pulse pounding in a way no one but his “broken-down” uncle ever cared to understand.

  Maybe Uncle Verle did drink too much. But everyone knew he had his reasons.

  Mom looked a bit pale behind her powder. “Rob, don’t start this again.”

  Eileen tugged at his arm. “Those planes are dangerous enough when someone’s not shooting at you.”

  Chanting swelled around them. “De-fense. De-fense. De-fense.”

  Mom’s lower lip pushed into a puzzled pout. She raised her voice to carry above the crowd. “I thought you were going to law school. It’s what your father and I always wanted for you.”

  His father sneered. “Correct. So you will finish your senior year here. And we’ll hear no more about enlisting. Or flying.”

  The bleachers erupted into cheers. “What a tackle!” someone behind them yelled. People sprang to their feet on every side, and the four of them rose along with the crowd.

  Dave stared down his father while the cheering trailed off. “I am twenty-one, Dad. You can’t actually tell me what to do.”

  That was something he’d wanted to say as long as he could remember. To prove it, he showed up at the recruitment office the following Monday morning.

  And the Air Corps had sent him to a graveyard in rural China.

  Dad. Mom. Eileen, who was now his wife. He would sure hate to prove them all right, especially like this. No glory in getting killed running and hiding.

  Even less glory in dying so a crazed Japanese soldier could hone his bayonet skills. The truth was seeping into his consciousness. It was possible he’d never see any of them—or home—again.

  He couldn’t accept that. Couldn’t accept not seeing Eileen again. He had never thought he’d do it, but he did. A foxhole prayer.

  Since he wasn’t exactly in the habit, he tried Watt’s words. “Lord, please preserve me, and all my men, this day. If you’re listening. Amen.”

  He waited for some sense of peace to envelop him from the sky. It didn’t come.

  He lay down on his uninjured side, using his parachute as both blanket and tent. He propped his arm in the least painful position he could find.

  Hunger. Cold. Exhaustion. And fear—gripping, nauseating fear. There was a battle, but in the end, exhaustion won. His last dim thought came with a pang of longing. Eileen’s soft body, spooned up against his own.

  Somehow, he’d find a way back to her. He had to.

  Chapter Seven

  Friday, December 24, 1948

  Osaka, Japan

  Miyako spent another hour or so at Papa-san’s bedside. An officious parade of nurses came and went. Every time someone approached to attend to an I.V. or an oxygen tube, she was sure she could hear the charges adding up, like beads clicking across an abacus rod.

  But when the hospital staff left them alon
e, she dabbed at his clammy forehead and contemplated the hatch-mark pattern of small scabs on his shoulder. The likelihood that her last living family member would leave her soon dug an aching cavern in her heart.

  Hadn’t the war taken enough?

  Eventually hunger got the best of her. She gave him a final tuck and went home. She made a quick meal from the remnants of the feast Kamura-san had sent home with her that morning. She slipped on a nightshirt and eased her weary legs between the sheets. As the cotton caressed her limbs, George-san’s face slipped into her mind and the room brightened a bit. At least that would be easier now.

  A thought stole in. Maybe Papa-san would even understand that she’d have to accept George-san’s offer. How else could she pay for the hospital?

  Guilt speared her at the little thrill this brought. How could she find even a second’s pleasure in Papa’s misfortune? Besides, she was no Japanese Cinderella, and George-san wasn’t her prince. Men didn’t really care about girls like her. They used them then discarded them. She and George-san weren’t destined for any happy-ever-after ending, like in the Western stories.

  Especially not now.

  She drifted to sleep, her heart heavy with sorrow and her thoughts dark with gloom.

  She’d been there before. Many times. A horrid cubbyhole of a room, dominated by a western-style bed with tall posts. Wearing a cheap kimono that wasn’t hers. Waiting for something—she didn’t know what.

  She tried to push the door open. Locked. From the outside.

  She rattled it. Hammered on it. Screamed. “Let me out! Please let me out!”

  There was no answer. She sat on the bed and waited, her belly congealing into a hard knot of dread.

  Heavy footsteps, coarse laughter in the hallway. A key clicked in the lock. The door swung open.

  Three big men and a whiskey bottle—American soldiers. They advanced into the room, the tallest one taking a swig. Watching her over the bottle, brass-colored eyelashes framing unnatural jade eyes.

  Predator’s eyes.