The Plum Blooms in Winter

by Linda Thompson

  He was enormous, with hair like a rusty nail. He said something to the others. They surrounded her, appraising her. She edged away until the wall pressed into her back.

  They laughed. The one with curly dark hair said something she couldn’t understand. But there was no mistaking the jeer in his tone.

  The redhead handed him the bottle, wiped his mouth on his sleeve. His florid face went slack in a leering grin. “C’mere.”

  She understood that much.

  She scrambled away, across the bed. Lunged for the door. The dark-haired soldier blocked her with a hairy arm, squeezed her against his well-muscled chest. She pounded on him. Struggled and gasped, wrenching her face away from the stink and heat of his breath.

  He laughed and squeezed harder.

  The redhead clawed at her kimono. He stared at her with bared teeth and a demon’s burning eyes. “First time, Jap girl?” He pulled three slips of paper from his breast pocket, fanned them in front of her face. “Three tickets. Paid for, see?”

  That’s when she woke, every time. Heart pounding, breath short.

  A quick glance at her surroundings brought Miyako back to the tiny room she shared with Papa-san, lit with a gray pre-dawn light. Relief washed over her as she realized it had been a dream. That dream. Again.

  She anchored her eyes on her teakettle, secure in its place on the shelf, grateful for waking before she had to relive any more of her first night as a comfort woman.

  She sat up. No matter what it cost her, the time had come. Someone must pay a blood price for all the war had done to her family. To Hiro-chan. To Akira-san. To Papa-san and Mama-san.

  To her.

  Maybe when she was done with Delham she’d have poison left to kill herself.

  Miyako woke the next morning with a surge of adrenaline. How many days did she have before Delham’s talk? She ticked them off on her fingers.

  Eight days. Eight days to train with Kamura-san, come up with money, get the poison. All on top of seeing to Papa-san at the hospital.

  Kamura-san had given her a name and address on a slip of paper. A certain Tsunada-san, well placed in the Sakaume gang. “You’ll find him a bit intimidating. But I know the man, ah? He’ll deal with you in a straightforward way.”

  A straight-dealing yakuza? That would be a wonder.

  But first, there was Papa-san.

  Miyako walked through the hospital’s oversized entrance doors a few minutes before 8:45. She carried a newspaper under her arm. Her handbag held the vial of oil and the packet of herbs she’d measured out for Papa-san’s tea, along with the slip of paper with that all-important name and address.

  The receptionist told her where she could find Papa-san. “Fourth floor. Cancer Ward. To your right off the elevator. Visiting hours start at nine.”

  Cancer Ward. Her chest tightened.

  She took a seat and scanned the days’ headlines fitfully.

  Eight days with George-san. This room search he’d suggested was meaningless for such a short time, but she had to keep up the charade. She fished a pen from her purse and opened the paper to the classifieds, circling home rental listings that looked promising

  Some might say eight days are better than nothing. The thought brought a sharp twist of pain.

  A Japanese man walked in, about her own age, and strode to a chair. A fresh-faced and very pregnant young woman in a pink lace shawl followed a few feet behind him. She gave him a soft smile and settled on the chair next to him. His face brightened as he looked at her.

  Miyako’s heart folded in on itself. His wife. That woman’s path could never be hers now.

  How fortunate she’d felt the night she and George-san met. He and two buddies had just rolled out of the bar, down the sidewalk from where she stood. The tawdry neon lights reflected off their aviator jackets. The brown-haired airman put an elbow in George-san’s side and cocked his head in her direction. “That one.” His slurred words boomed over the noise of the crowd.

  George-san glanced at her, then took a longer look. Then flushed and turned away.

  His friend elbowed him again, this time with a jeering laugh. She couldn’t hear what he said.

  She forgot about the friend and focused on George-san. On reeling him in. There was a certain art to handling the shy ones. You had to make it easy for them, but you could scare them off if you came on too strong. She tried giving him a shy smile and a little wave. She called out to him. “Hello, there.”

  He shrugged, shot her that magnetic grin of his for the first time, and walked over, adopting a bit of extra swagger. He stopped in front of her, devouring her with those gray-blue eyes. “So”—he hesitated, biting his lip—"how does this work, exactly?”

  She moved in and toyed with his lapel. Gazed up at him with her most seductive eyes. Gave her shoulders a little shimmy for good measure. There was plenty of whiskey on his breath—that always helped. “You want to get alone with me, ah?”

  He glanced over his shoulder at his loud buddy, who gave him a big thumbs-up. He looked back at her, a smile softening his blunt nose and cleft chin. “I suppose I could be talked into that.”

  Got him. He wasn’t bad looking. He had to be new, to be so shy. “What’s your name?”

  “George.”

  “Nice to meet you, George-san. I take you somewhere. Leave that to me.”

  She slipped her arm around his waist and led him to her usual place. The one with the sign that read “Rent by the Hour” in English and in Japanese. But he’d balked at the looks of it.

  “No. Not here.” He glanced up and down the street. “How about that one.” And in a moment, a “short service” turned into all night. And while there was whiskey on his breath, there was an uncertain tenderness to his touch. It had been clear she’d taken him into new territory, and he’d made his appreciation every bit as clear.

  She woke the next morning to find him squinting at her through one bleary eye. “Buy you breakfast, if you can hang around a little longer.”

  “Breakfast?” That was the first time she’d had an offer like that. And with the hollow in her stomach, it was tempting. But so much daylight was filtering in through the chinks in the curtains. How would she explain this at home? “Arigato. So nice!” She ran her fingers along his jawline, stopping beneath the cleft in his chin. “But I’m sorry. I must get home to Papa-san.”

  He gave her an endearing pout, and that first night turned into every week when he was on leave. A regular like him was as good as gold. Or as good as food on the table.

  Of course, it wasn’t all fun. There were times when he lapsed into a moody silence, and things he wouldn’t talk about. But if they saw each other more, that could change, ah?

  She doodled an extra circle around the most promising listing—the one that was closest to her own room. And closest to Papa-san, if he came home from the hospital.

  If. And what would happen to him at that point, if she went through with this thing?

  A lump formed in her throat. She reminded herself that the decision had been his—she’d given it to him to make the day before, hadn’t she?

  Confucius’ proverb ran through her mind, in Papa-san’s rasping voice. We two must not pause, even to retrieve our weapons.

  And then—It’s all up to you, daughter.

  Hai. The old warrior had chosen their path.

  The pregnant woman and her husband stood. Miyako glanced at her watch. Nine o’clock sharp.

  My George-san deserves happiness. Maybe when she was out of his life, he’d find it. With the kind of woman he could take home to his blue-eyed, fair-skinned mother.

  She clenched the pen and stabbed it through the newsprint. Folded the paper and thrust it under her arm. She climbed the stairs to the fourth floor, and turned right as the receptionist had directed.

  She paused for an instant at the double doors labeled Cancer Ward. Papa-san, the pillar of her existence, an explosion-polluted person. Disease wreaking havoc on his bloodstream.

  S
he took a deep breath and pushed through the doors into the stark room. She saw him right away, three beds down from the door. His color looked better, but he lay very still. She sat next to his bed and took his hand between her own. “Papa-san?”

  He struggled to open his eyes. “Ah. Mi-chan. You’re here.”

  “Hai, Papa-san. Do you need anything?”

  He gave her a wan smile. “I’ll take some of that horrible tea of yours.”

  Saturday morning passed a lot like Friday evening had. More fluffing, tucking, and mopping. Serving his tea and attempting to feed him thin soup. He was asleep more than he was awake.

  Dr. Nakamura stopped by while Papa-san slept. “He looks a bit better, yes? I think he’s stable now, but I don’t expect the test results for a few more days.”

  When the nurses weren’t in the room, she passed long hours with little to do but watch Papa-san’s struggle to breathe. Her mind drifted to Kamura-san’s words.

  This pilot deserves such a death? One must live without regrets.

  She did think about it. She found herself building more and more elaborate pictures of how the poison would work. What he’d think when his limbs weakened, then stopped responding. The struggle to tell someone with a mouth that refused to form words. Then the suffering in enforced silence as death crept toward his chest.

  Papa-san coughed. He drew a gasping breath, then coughed again, harder. His eyes fluttered open, fixed on hers, flickered with brief recognition, and drifted closed.

  “Papa-san.” She stroked his arm. “I’m going to make this right.”

  Delham determined his death on the day he bombed Osaka.

  Sunday 19 April 1942

  Jiangxi Province, China

  Pain woke Dave. That and a gray dawn light. He rolled over, and daggers shot along his shoulder blade. It had grown worse while he slept. The shock had worn off and his shoulder had stiffened.

  This was going to be tough duty until he found a doctor. Which could be a while.

  The socks that clung to his feet were still sopping wet. His fingers flexed with difficulty, the tips tingling. He had to get warm, get moving.

  Fine. Where? Flooded rice paddies receded down the slope into the morning mist. Each hugged the hillside, a winding band of mirror reflecting the sky. Then a four-or five-foot plunge to the next band of silver below.

  It was striking, unlike anything he’d seen. A different world.

  He stretched out the kinks as best he could, adjusted his makeshift sling, and struck out on the only path he saw. Paddies spread to his left, dense fir forest to his right.

  It seemed likely someone would show up soon to work the rice. He couldn’t risk contact—not until he was armed with better information.

  The sights might have been unfamiliar, but the place reeked like Packingtown. There was no question what these people fertilized with.

  His mind circled like a buzzard. His guys were miles behind him. He wasn’t going to find them by blundering around the countryside on his own. But how could he make contact with someone he could trust? Not like he could tell a Japanese from a local by looking at him. It was vital to find out if Vitty was right about this being enemy territory. Or he could end up as bayonet practice.

  All those briefings on Hornet. Had they given him anything useful—anything that might help him get through this alive? Take what he’d learned about Chinese politics, for example. Mao Tse-Tung and the Communists. Chiang Kai-Shek and the Nationalists. A mishmash of local factions he couldn’t hope to fathom. But the Nationalists were America’s allies. They said, if the plane was downed, to look for a Nationalist guerilla unit. That was supposed to be his best chance of eluding the Japanese and finding his squadron in Chungking.

  Assuming his men did the same, they’d connect at a Nationalist garrison somewhere. Then on to the heroes’ welcome in Chungking they’d more than earned.

  He could think of only two small things that stood between himself and that hero’s welcome—several hundred miles, and the Japanese Army.

  Chapter Eight

  Sunday 19 April 1942

  Jiangxi Province, China

  The path Dave found was rough, and in the early light it was hard going. The sun crawled up the sky. Every step sent pain jolting through his shoulder blade and along his arm.

  The path joined another, broader one. New dilemma. Which way to turn? Either direction could lead him directly into an enemy garrison and a forest of bayonets.

  His men were somewhere to the east. But with the sun cresting the sky, which way was east?

  He groped in his pockets for his compass. Not there.

  Swell. That must have been what flipped out of his pocket when the ’chute deployed.

  No compass. No map. And ten miles of rugged, forested terrain between him and his crew.

  He made a mental coin toss and headed right. He kept off this new, better-traveled path where he could. But for the most part, the dense trees and thick brush forced him to stay on it.

  His canteen got lighter, the rumbling in his stomach more persistent. The last time he’d eaten anything like a meal was on Payback fourteen hours earlier. A can of franks and beans.

  Don’t think about it.

  A rhythmic crunching sounded on the path ahead. He stopped short and listened, pulse pounding. Footsteps. With murmuring voices. He clutched his dead arm and tore through dense brambles into the shadows behind a boulder, thorns ripping at his skin.

  He turned and crouched, motionless.

  He eased his pistol from his shoulder holster. Stared into the thicket, barely breathing. The bushes swayed where he’d passed.

  They could see that. Decide to investigate.

  He needed better cover. The ground dropped steeply behind him. A large fallen log rested on the slope below him, propped between the root of one gnarled tree and the trunk of another. He stepped back and eased onto it.

  It flexed under him. For a sickening moment he was sure it would give way and he’d ricochet down the slope, but the log held firm. He flattened himself, flipped his Colt’s safety and cradled it against his chest.

  He could make out a small square of path through one eye. A foot landed less than four feet in front of him. He had a quick impression of dusty laces. Sturdy soles. Battered leather stretching up the ankle.

  A combat boot. It lifted to display hobnails.

  He tightened his grip on his Colt. Japanese gear?

  The Chinese might wear them too.

  The soldiers halted on the path a few feet beyond the point where he’d left it. One of them uttered a low exclamation.

  They’d seen him. No question. They’d rush him any second, bayonets poised.

  Bamboo creaked. Their voices rose and fell, jabbering on. Japanese or Chinese? That was crucial information. And some hero he was, cowering there and making no attempt to find out.

  He levered himself up on his good elbow. Craned for a better look. Pain wrenched his shoulder. Still couldn’t make out anything. He gritted his teeth and pushed his torso an inch higher.

  His arm slipped. A branch snapped off, bounced and slid several feet down the slope. The sound echoed through the forest.

  The soldiers fell silent. One man shouted a few words. Footsteps started his way. Dave flattened, held his breath. Clenched his teeth to hold back a moan.

  Boots clattered past him along the path and stopped a few yards beyond his position. Rustling noises came from both directions. What on earth were they doing?

  The rustling drew closer. They were beating the bushes with their rifle butts, sweeping in on him.

  If they weren’t the enemy, why were they looking for him?

  He felt a desperate desire to scramble down the slope and away, but he couldn’t—too much noise. He was a sitting duck.

  They worked the bushes beside the boulder, almost on top of him.

  Lord, preserve me....Lord, preserve me....Please be listening! Sweat trickled down his forehead, stung in his eyes.

 
; The rustling and beating retreated. They regrouped a little past him. At last they moved on.

  Thank you.

  He clung to the log until he heard nothing but forest. He lay there fifteen minutes longer by his watch before he crawled up on the ledge. His shoulder shrieked. His head spun. He lay panting while his vision cleared.

  Lord, thank you.

  But how much longer could he last? Pain, hunger, and exhaustion were getting the best of him.

  Saturday, December 25, 1948

  Osaka, Japan

  Miyako stayed at the hospital until a nurse came through and announced the end of visiting hours. She stood for a moment with her hand on Papa-san’s arm. He stirred and mumbled something. She let herself imagine it was her name.

  She left the hospital and walked toward the station.

  The address Kamura-san had given her for his yakuza connection was a hotel in the Shinsekai District. “He hosts a card game there on Friday and Saturday nights,” Kamura-san had told her.

  Tiny raindrops deposited a layer of moisture on everything—her scarf, her handbag, her face. The air had a brisk washed-clean scent that made her want to linger outside. Her heart fell at the thought of facing her empty apartment.

  It was a little early for gambling, but she’d give Tsunada-san a try.

  She left the train at Daikokucho Station and took a direct route into the Shinsekai district. She walked a few minutes farther. The charred base of the Eiffel Tower-inspired Tower Reaching to Heaven massed before her. It had been the Shinsekai’s key landmark, before the bombing raids left it in ruins. Along with the district’s once-sparkling boulevards, and its pretensions of being the Paris of Japan.

  After a few more blocks of raucous bars and cheap eateries, she spotted the Imperial Hotel’s sign, a blaze of blue-and-green neon. The hotel’s entrance door gave way to an unassuming lobby. A broad set of carpeted stairs took up the back third of the room. A dour-looking, muscular man stood at their base. He made brief eye contact with her, seeming to assess and then dismiss her. Who cared about one more prostitute?