The Plum Blooms in Winter
Page 12
The trap sprang shut.
Captain Oda stood and moved to the office door. “Shimizu-kun, could you bring Matsuura-san’s paperwork?”
Sergeant Shimizu appeared, notebook in hand. He opened it and gave it to his captain.
Captain Oda looked it over. The furrows dug deeper into his brow. “These are notes from Matsuura-san’s interview, Sergeant?”
“Hai, sir.”
Captain Oda looked from Shimizu’s face to hers. “Matsuura-san, you’ve given the sergeant a false name. Lying to a police officer is a serious matter. You know this, yes?”
“Captain Oda...” She regretted the wheedling note that worked its way into her voice. “We both know any woman brought in during these raids is assumed to be guilty. I was afraid of the dishonor, the great haji for my family, if it became known I was here.”
He paced to the front of the desk and stood over her. “Matsuura-san, you’ve been telling lies all night.” He picked up steam. “You lied about your name. You lied about your profession. And you lied about your reason for being in the Abeno. Am I right?”
She quailed. “No, sir. I stopped there to see my friend, Kimi. She’s here. She’ll tell you.”
“And now I’m supposed to believe one of you?” He smashed a savage fist into a pile of books on the desk. They tumbled, scattered across the polished surface like billiard balls. A thick book struck the teapot. It spun onto the floor and shattered at her feet. Porcelain shards exploded across her side of the room, and tea splattered the wall behind her.
He faced her full on. “You were born with a rare gift, Matsuura. The gift”—he let the word roll off his tongue—“of your family’s good name. A name carried by samurai for centuries. By daimyo.”
He took another pace toward her, his shoulders tensing like a prize fighter’s. “Your beautiful mother. Your honored father. Your noble ancestors.” The tendons in his wrists bulged. “To think the last of Captain Matsuura’s line would become a shameful woman who would squander such a gift.
“You know, your father and I were closer than brothers, starting from our academy days. I know exactly what Captain Matsuura would do if he were alive. If he could see what I see now.” He sneered in disgust. “A dispossessed woman. A worthless whore. He’d disown you.”
This was a shot to the heart. It was true. Papa-san would die of starvation before he would live in haji. Papa-san would hold a live grenade to his chest before he would bring haji to his family. Many soldiers had done that.
She always believed she’d do the same. Protect her honor, her family’s honor at any cost—even the cost of her own life.
But her life was a sham. Gaijin counting out their money. Their revolting demands. Over and over. Night after night. For the price of a couple packs of cigarettes each time.
When had haji become something she could live with?
She forced her attention back to Oda.
“He’d drive you from his house onto the street, where a woman like you belongs.”
There was nothing left but to plead her case. “Forgive me, Captain Oda. But how else are we going to eat? Believe me, if there were any other way, I—”
“Don’t make excuses,” he thundered. “There’s no excuse for what you’ve become.”
He turned away from her. Even from the back she could see his neck muscles work. His breath labored. His hand tightened on the brass handle of his cane until the veins stuck out.
At last, he spun on her, his face as good a mask of fury as she’d seen at the kabuki theater. “I would never have believed it, but here it is, right in front of me. Dispossessed. Improper. A smudge on your father’s memory. An embarrassment to your family name. Yet you make excuses.”
He stepped toward her on his good leg, raised his cane behind his shoulder. It whistled through the air at her. She froze in disbelief a fraction of a second too long. She raised her arm to block the blow, but too late. His cane cracked against her temple.
The room reeled. The floor swam up at her. She might have mumbled something about Papa-san.
The last thing she heard was Captain Oda’s snarl at the sergeant. “Get this filthy pan-pan out of here.”
Chapter Twelve
Monday 20 April 1942
Jiangxi Province, China
Dave crawled into the trees until he was sure he was out of sight. He got on his feet and headed deeper into the forest in a crouching, stumbling run.
It felt wrong to leave those kids.
Strategy. He kept repeating the word to himself. Pawns sometimes had to sacrifice themselves to protect a knight. And he was the knight here—a piece with unique capabilities. It made sense to hold himself in reserve for the day he could inflict real damage. The day he could do what the U.S. Army had trained him to do—what these brave people had risked themselves so he could do. Deliver a payload of death into the enemy’s belly.
He was a strategist, not a coward. But if he wasn’t a coward, why did he feel like puking?
He managed to get about a stone’s throw away before the shooting started in earnest. Chen opened up—Dave knew the sound of that Colt .45—followed by Pete.
Dave ran a few more paces, dove behind a large tree, and huddled into a hollow at its roots. Out of view, but well within earshot.
A ghastly scream echoed from the direction of the village.
Here’s hoping Chen found his man.
The enemy’s answer came a split second later. Withering fire filled the forest around him. He threw his good arm up to protect his head and pulled his knees up into a miserable, quaking ball. Leaves and twigs and at least one small branch rained down on his back.
A horrific scream erupted—one of the Chinese kids. A moment passed before a muffled cry followed.
The Japanese emptied a new burst of rounds into the trees. He flattened and froze, pulse hammering, until the shooting dwindled to an occasional crack.
Soft moaning filtered into his ears. One of those boys was alive.
He was no medic, but he couldn’t walk away and leave that kid there. He pushed himself to a crouch and moved through the woods in the boys’ direction.
Now what?
Now those Japs come up here. Enemies would swarm their position in less than a minute. What did he think he was going to do for that kid?
Captured. The Look magazine photo sprang into his mind. Japanese soldiers using prisoners for bayonet practice.
He stood, hesitating a second or two.
An explosion lit the forest from Chen and Pete’s position. The ground rocked. A monstrous pressure crushed his chest. His feet jarred loose from the earth. His nostrils filled with phosphorous while his head resounded with a terrible shrieking noise. He had a vague awareness it came from his own mouth.
How could there be so much light it hurt? And what was pushing at Dave’s ribs?
A babble of voices. They droned on and on. But he couldn’t make out anything they said through the buzzing in his ear.
It didn’t seem to matter much. He could have ignored it all. Gone right back to sleep. Except—
Pain. It was everywhere. His head, his shoulder, one ear. Something warm and sticky seemed to be pooled there. And the pressure against his ribs graduated into a needling sensation he couldn’t ignore.
He cracked his eyes open.
Light. Stabbing, blinding. His eyelids snapped shut on their own before he’d actually seen anything.
“Oh ho.” The exclamation came with another prick in the ribs. The voice was more distinct through his right ear.
He twisted away from the new sharp pain in his ribcage. He opened his eyes and, with a determined act of will, kept them open.
The torturous light was a flashlight beam shining straight into his face from three feet above him. Behind it were two faces—angular. Brown skin. Slanted eyes. Sneering lips. And a rifle with a wicked bayonet poised against his chest, where his jacket lay open. Up close, the blade was much longer and broader than he’d pictured. A splotch of b
lood darkened his shirt where the buzzard had pricked him.
Their peaked caps bore Japan’s five-pointed star. Two more soldiers loitered off to one side.
Captured? So this is it?
Disbelief numbed him. He, Dave Delham, was supposed to do something in this war. Not wind up warehoused in some prison camp, or worse—a pincushion for Japanese bayonets.
Chen was almost certainly dead. And Pete. Along with Chen’s dad. He’d barely known the three of them a day, but the ache of their loss darkened his whole world.
Get airplane. Kill many Japs. For us.
He seethed inside. It couldn’t end this way. He had a mission—now more than ever. A village full of pawns had been sacrificed for him, and now he was taken too.
A raindrop hit his temple. One of the soldiers hovering over him slammed his rifle butt into Dave’s side.
Four of them, well-armed. One of him, left arm useless, no weapon but his knife. Nothing for it, really. “All right. All right.” He sat up, hoisted his good arm in the air.
He put up and shut up while they pawed and searched him. Stripped him of everything of value. Cigarettes, sling, knife—even his watch with his wife’s engraved message.
Some hero he’d turned out to be. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
A voice deeper inside him answered. Chicken, chicken, chicken. He’d lasted on the ground less than two days, in spite of the protection of an entire village. And what a price they paid for it. Every man, woman, and child, on the run for their lives—on his account.
Rain spattered his head and shoulders. A skinny soldier with buck teeth searched his jacket and found the remaining bottle of rye. The fellow opened it and took a whiff. He made a face, guffawed, and handed it to his companion.
One of them stepped behind Dave and put a bayonet point against his back. Even through the jacket, he felt the prick enough that he took a skip-step forward. Mocking voices jabbered on every side.
He began his funeral march out from the trees.
A flash of lightning gave him his first glimpse of the welcoming committee lined up to meet him. Several fierce-looking soldiers with triumph written across grim faces. Their hedge of armaments glistened in the rain. Rifles with bayonets, a long sword, a pistol—all aimed his direction. A pair of flashlight beams pierced the rain-streaked night, seeking him out in the trees.
He stopped short, his pulse rising with dread.
A sharp prick in his back again. He managed not to yelp. He drew a deep breath and hoisted his good arm farther into the air, palm open. He managed to raise his left hand a few inches. He walked out onto the open field.
The flashlights found him at once.
Something solid slammed into his spine, sending him sprawling chest down in the mud. They had him surrounded by the time he got to his knees. Hostile faces confronted him from every side. He stared along the shaft of a long-barreled rifle, its bayonet point inches from his chest.
The officer took a pace toward Dave, stopped directly in front of him. Confronted him with a fierce frown and a glare. He unsheathed his sword—slowly, to prolong the ringing sound, revealing the slender blade in all its deadly beauty. The thing was several inches longer than the man’s arm.
Dave closed his eyes. Waited for the strike. Pictured his own head rolling through those weeds.
At least it would be quick.
The officer voiced a war-like yell. His sword whistled as it sliced the air.
It came to a precise stop, its razor edge resting against his neck. A slow trickle of warm blood made a path toward his collar.
Dave stared up the blade. It seemed to telescope as he gazed along its length. Sweat formed at his hairline, stung as it trickled into the cut.
The officer grunted and lowered his sword. “You prisoner of Nippon. You do all things we say. If not, we kill you.” He spun on his heel and strode toward the village.
Saturday, December 25, 1948
Osaka, Japan
Miyako’s gasp woke her. Acrid gas seared her nostrils, her sinuses. She recoiled, the reflex grinding her head back into a hard surface.
My head. Oh Heavens.
That smell! Awful...
A sledgehammer seemed to be going at her temple. Her left eye watered, and she could barely open it. She blinked away tears. Something sticky matted her hair.
A flesh-colored blur hung over her. She tried to focus. The effort brought agony, the light setting off a cascade of pain through her skull.
The blur resolved into a face. She caught her breath. A Japanese man she didn’t recognize, his features twisted in a broad leer.
His mouth moved. His voice seemed to travel a long way to reach her. “Look. She’s coming around.”
Smelling salts. That’s what he had under her nostrils. She moved to push him away, but she couldn’t bring her hands forward. Her arms were pinioned above her head, her wrists shackled by something cold. Unyielding.
“Hey!” she said—or tried to say. Something was wedged in her mouth.
She took a deep breath, screamed with all her might. Pain stabbed her temple, reverberated through her head, but the sound came out an inarticulate moan.
Gagged. Bound. A nightmarish feeling set in, but this was no nightmare. She was wide awake. On her back on a table, ankles bound.
A bare bulb lit the room. She stared up into its unforgiving light, mustered all her strength. Tried to scream again. It came out a thin, strangled sound.
She twisted. Handcuffs. He has me in handcuffs. She strained. Arched. Thrashed. Nothing gave.
Exhausted for the moment, she lay still. Focused on his face. He watched her, lips twitching with amusement.
Mercy. What now?
She tried to read his eyes. What she saw sent a lead weight to the pit of her gut.
The impotence of surrender and defeat. The shame of debasement and privation. Sex was something she could handle. But this wasn’t sex. She was here to bear the brunt of his pent-up rage.
“Wondering what you’re doing here?” He ran his hand across her sweater. “Captain Oda informed us there’s no hurry to get you to the hospital. Which means we can have all the time we need.”
We. Another man moved into Miyako’s field of view. One she knew. Sergeant Shimizu loomed over her, his face painted with malevolence. “Daughter of a navy captain. Guess you had it pretty good. Not so high and mighty now, ah?” A wild chuckle issued from his mouth.
Her vision went filmy with tears.
This time when they’re done with me, maybe they’ll just kill me.
Male voices wove in and out of Miyako’s consciousness.
“Can’t take her there, moron. Look at her...”
“...dump her off...”
“Where?”
They’re talking about me.
It didn’t matter. She drifted on a sea of agony. The tortured pounding in her head, the scrape of air through her windpipe, the dull ache of her bruised limbs. Fierce stinging, blood sticking where the cuffs had scored her flesh.
“What if she tells?”
“She’s a whore. Who’ll believe her?”
“Who’ll care?”
She didn’t care. Not now. Not after what they did to her.
She sank into merciful blackness.
Warm, wet pressure on Miyako’s brow. Something soft under her back. That same infernal sledgehammer at work on her head.
A gray-haired man in a suit jacket bent over her, swabbing her temple with a damp cloth. She flinched away from probing fingers.
“There you are,” he said. “How are you feeling?”
The soft light needled her eyes. She squinted and parted her lips, but no words came.
He dipped the cloth in a bowl, swabbed her temple once more. She flinched again.
“Tender, ah? Nasty cut.”
“Hai.”
“What happened?”
“I—” Something hard cracking on her temple. A fist on her throat. A succession of men’s faces, hungry expressions. A ju
mble of pain, confused shame. “I don’t remember.” She turned misty eyes to the wall.
“Of course you don’t, child.” The honeyed voice belonged to a woman she hadn’t seen. She stood in the hallway outside the room, her kimono-draped form backlit by a window. A cigarette holder dangled from her fingers. Light reflecting from something outside tinted the shoji a soft green like stained glass.
The woman glided into the room. “We decided not to take you to the hospital if it wasn’t absolutely necessary. I thought you would prefer to keep this private, yes?”
She was right about that. What Miyako could remember was shame enough. But suffer through the grilling she’d get at a hospital exam? Put into words exactly what they’d done to her? Unthinkable. Unbearable. She could never live with her haji after that.
“Arigato.” Her voice was a grateful rasp.
Where am I? Who is this woman? Do I know her?
“You’re welcome.” The woman gave a graceful bow. “May I ask whom we have the honor of hosting?”
“Mats...Ishikawa.” It hurt to speak. “Ishikawa Midori.”
“Pleased to meet you, Ishikawa-san.” The woman’s eyebrows tipped up. “I am called Imai Ayao. And this is Doctor Ogata.” She looked to the doctor. “What do you think, Doctor?”
“The cut will require a few stitches. I’ll examine her to assess the concussion.” He turned to Miyako. “Can you sit? Slowly, young lady.”
She tried, but nausea and dizziness overwhelmed her. She slumped onto the futon.
“Ah, be careful. It’s all right. Relax. How many fingers am I holding up?”
She mustered all her focus. “I think—two.”
“Keep your eyes on my fingertips.” The doctor watched her intently as he moved his hand across her field of view. He looked at Imai-san. “I’ve seen worse. I’ll check on her again, ah? My guess is she’ll recover in a few days. But with such cases, one can’t always tell.”
A few days? But there is something I need to do. Something critical.
If only she could remember what it was.