The Plum Blooms in Winter

by Linda Thompson

  “You mentioned other wounds? I need to examine those as well.”

  A pained expression crossed Imai-san’s face. “Hai.” She called over her shoulder. “Yamada-san, bring a sheet, please.”

  A stout gray-haired woman bustled in. She and Imai-san held a sheet across Miyako’s chest to hide her face while the doctor examined the lower half of her body. He parted the cotton housecoat they’d wrapped her in and sucked his breath in sharply.

  “Hai,” Imai-san said. “Brutes.”

  Miyako had no clear memory of the doctor leaving. Maybe a short time later, a girl knelt beside her with a bowl of broth. Miyako’s gut heaved and sent bile up her throat. She waved the broth away.

  What is it I need to do? I know there’s something. Something important.

  Hushed voices came and went—some in the room right next to her, some in the hallway outside the shoji. She supposed they were talking about her, but it made no difference. Her consciousness was a chokibune boat drifting, pilotless, on its moorings.

  Chapter Thirteen

  20 April 1942, Jiangxi Province, China

  First Day Captive

  Rough hands jerked Dave to his feet. A jeering soldier stepped forward and cuffed his wrists in front of him. Another produced a length of rope and trussed his elbows at his sides. They put the bayonet at his back—this was mandatory, apparently—and a goon on either side. They prodded him toward the village. With his ear still ringing and the ground unstable beneath him, he swerved down the slope.

  Flashlight beams crisscrossed the field. For the first time, he had a chance to appreciate the work Chen and Pete had done. A pair of corpses sprawled on the carpet of grass. The path to the village brought them right past one. The young soldier had died clawing at a gaping hole in his chest. His vacant eyes stared into the rain.

  He didn’t look that different from Chen.

  The soldier next to Dave stopped and trained his flashlight on the corpse. He turned and glowered at Dave. The guy behind him uttered some emphatic syllables and rammed his rifle butt into Dave’s back.

  They entered the village. The truck’s headlights cast pallid light along the main road. The man the boys had shot in the shoulder was on the ground between the stream and the road, moaning. Another soldier leaned over him, applying pressure to his wound. There were no Chinese in view—at least, none living. Chen’s father lay where they’d cut him down. Dave couldn’t help himself. He stared at the corpse. Blood had soaked into the mud, leaving big dark blotches.

  That blood might as well be on his own hands. Along with Chen’s and Pete’s.

  He looked away. His eyes landed on his whiskey bottle, lying in the mud.

  His stomach roiled. Heaved. And then, in spite of his best efforts to choke it back, he bent double and retched. It took him a moment to regain his composure. He looked up to find the officer watching him, his face the picture of abject scorn.

  “He helped you, ah?”

  Dave found no words.

  The officer spat on Chen’s father’s chest.

  They loaded Dave onto the open truck, in the middle of a bench seat, Japanese butchers hemmed in around him. The smell of rotten fish and sweat—and the taste of his own vomit—made him want to throw up again.

  That truck ride was the worst nightmare he’d ever had or imagined.

  Except I’m not gonna wake up.

  He had no way of gauging how long they jolted across China. Hours, probably, spent jostling and thirsting and fuming. Hemmed in by Japanese murderers who were no doubt finishing off his rye. His rye. While his mouth felt dry as gravel, and he had nothing to dull the pain that tore through his shoulder with every rut in the road. And there were plenty of those.

  But all of that paled beside the new set of images that cycled through his brain. Chen’s dad prone on the dirt. Chen’s grim face as he left him. The explosion that no doubt killed both those kids.

  His own whiskey bottle in the officer’s hand.

  Every one of those people would’ve stayed safe in their cozy little houses if Chen hadn’t tried to help him.

  Raindrops beat a tattoo against the truck’s canvas roof.

  Get airplane. Kill many Japs. For us.

  There had to be some way his war wasn’t over. Lord, if you’re listening, get me back in this war.

  They eventually lurched into an area where the road seemed smoother. They exchanged the bewitching scents of rain on forest for the stink of human waste and discarded food and dirty asphalt.

  The truck rolled to a stop. The men unpacked themselves around him.

  “Toridase, horyo.” He found out the hard way what that meant. A rough arm, or more than one, gave him a shove along the bench seat and a push out over the tailgate. He landed on his side on the wet asphalt—hard—his trussed-up arms useless for breaking his fall.

  Laughter above him. Three different combat boots slammed into his back. Rough hands jerked him to his feet.

  He staggered forward. A heavy wooden door swung on squeaky hinges in front of him. He tripped up a cement step, across a threshold and onto tile floor. The door behind him thudded closed. The sound reverberating off the floor bore the ring of finality—a clear message.

  Prisoner of Nippon. Any control over his own life—gone. And he’d seen how these butchers operated.

  Someone peeled off his blindfold and untied his elbows. His lifeless arms flopped against his sides. Two of them grabbed him by the upper arms, hustled him down a side corridor, and shoved him into a bare little room. A key turned in the lock from the outside.

  He sank down on the wood-plank floor, let his head droop into his manacled hands. Took shallow breaths while the pain from his shoulder ebbed.

  Thirty-some hours earlier he’d stood in front of a grave marker and asked himself if he was looking at an omen.

  He had his answer.

  Monday, December 27, 1948

  Osaka, Japan

  Miyako sat bolt upright, ignoring the colony of bees buzzing in her ears.

  Papa-san.

  How long have I been out? Has anyone been in to look after him?

  George-san. I need to see George-san. That thought came with an ache in her chest.

  And something else. Hiro-chan. Something to do with Hiro-chan.

  “Lie still, please.” It wasn’t Hiro-chan’s voice, but she saw his face. His thick fringe of eyelashes against smooth skin. His round cheeks.

  She started, but then the horrific memory flooded back. Hiro-chan was dead.

  The face that hovered next to her belonged, not to her brother, but to the girl who’d brought the broth earlier. She was eleven or twelve, perhaps. A lavender kerchief and sturdy monpei pants marked her as a servant.

  The girl studied Miyako from eyes hauntingly like Hiro-chan’s. “Dr. Ogata said you must rest. Are you hungry now? I can bring you something.”

  She was ravenous. And thirsty. These physical sensations rooted her. Helped her shake the eerie sense she was talking to her little brother. “Hai. But how long have I been here?”

  “It’s Monday. I found you yesterday morning. In the rubbish heap.” She shook her head. “You look awful.”

  “Monday? Che! I have to go see Papa-san.” And get a message to George-san. And something else. What?

  “I don’t think so. Not until you eat something.” The girl was on her feet. “And not until Imai-san sees you. She wants to talk to you the instant you’re awake.”

  The something else struck her like an avalanche thundering down Fujiyama. Hiro-chan’s murderer. She’d found him.

  She tried to stand but a constellation of stars did a foxtrot in front of her. She sat down and blinked until her vision cleared. She looked around.

  Tiny vanity. Mirror. Narrow shelves behind an open drape held a few folded cotton robes—simple, flimsy. Western-style bed. The room just big enough to accommodate the scant furnishings.

  It all had a familiar feel. “What is this place?” She posed the question, but some
thing inside her already knew.

  The girl looked surprised. “The Tobita Oasis, of course.”

  No. Oh, no.

  A shrill voice sounded from the far end of the hall. “Kawamura!”

  The girl gave Miyako a hasty bow and left. Miyako let her head sink into the pillow.

  Tobita. “The Oasis.” All the women. Tiny room with spartan furnishings—apart from the Western-style bed. A brothel in the licensed district—the blocks inside the infamous red lines on the police department’s map. She knew this world all too well.

  She wasn’t concerned about her physical condition now—pounding head, scorching pain all through her body. Her pulse was taking stutter steps that signaled the start of something worse.

  Breathe. She willed it to stop. Slow, deep breaths. Breathe.

  It’s all right. It’s been years. I’m free.

  She sagged onto the futon, staring around the room. Her eyes lit on the door, then on the lock. The back of the lockbox, more properly. This door locked from the outside. She’d seen that before too.

  Laughter. Coarse laughter. Key rattling in the lock. Shoji sliding open. Three men—American soldiers. One bottle. The reek of whiskey and sweat.

  She defied the sting of her tortured flesh and pillowed her head against her knees. Her heart thudded, a frightened sparrow in the cage of her chest.

  “First time, Jap girl? Three tickets. Paid for, see?”

  20 April 1942, Nanchang, China

  First Day Captive

  Time passed—Dave couldn’t have said how much. His mind wandered between Chen and Pete and their village, and his missing crew. What had happened to Chen’s mother and sister? And the little boy? Three more lives he’d destroyed. As for his crew...He screwed his eyes shut and hoped with all his might they were well on their way to Chungking.

  Don’t give up hope for yourself. Even if there seemed to be no grounds for it at that moment. Something would happen—some mistake on their part. And he’d be away to Chungking and back in it.

  The creak of door hinges jarred him from his thoughts. A pair of soldiers walked in. One of them scuffed at him with a combat boot. “Baka. Tachiagaru.”

  He lurched to his feet.

  What next? His stomach pulled tight with hunger, but he had a feeling a meal wasn’t in store.

  Hope my men are a hundred miles from here.

  The soldiers marched him, limping, down a corridor and into a fair-sized paneled room. Half a dozen Japanese sporting braid and stars anchored their eyes on him from the far side of a long table, across the remnants of a sumptuous dessert.

  The ranking officer sat at the head of the table. He was impressive, with an extra spray of braid draped around one shoulder and a cigar poised on his ashtray. He wore a stony expression behind little round glasses like Hirohito’s.

  All this brass. I must be important. What do they expect from me?

  What happens if they don’t get it?

  There were rules, right? They had to treat POWs according to the Geneva Convention.

  But what about that photo from Look? Those Chinese prisoners. That sure wasn’t the Geneva Convention.

  Bowls of fruit and candy stood along the length of crisp linen. A half-empty wine decanter graced one end of the table. But the crowning touch was the amber-colored bottle near the center. It sported a familiar gold label—Chivas Regal.

  He moistened his lips. For an instant he could imagine how it would soothe the tension away—bring him to oblivion’s door if he drank enough. Oblivion sounded good just then.

  Chen’s dad flashed through his mind’s eye, giving his chin that final defiant lift. It sank in then. Dave would never drink again.

  He anchored his eyes on the ranking officer and stood like a soldier.

  Never let a bully see your fear. He’d learned that one on the playground.

  The one with the grand uniform directed a few sentences at an officer at the table. The man bowed from his chair, leaned back, and looked at Dave.

  “Saito-san asks what your name is.”

  This man’s English was the best he’d heard in China. “David Delham. Lieutenant, U.S. Army. O-dash-80073.” It was all they were getting.

  The interpreter stood and walked toward Dave. He tossed a plum in the air, caught it, and bit into it with a flourish.

  Dave’s traitor of a stomach growled on cue—loud enough he was sure the fellows next to him heard it.

  “David Der-ham. Saito-san says I should tell you we are very nice people. You answer a few questions and we give you good dinner.” The officer’s nose crinkled. “And a bath.”

  A few smirks at the table. Some of them spoke English.

  Saito unleashed another flood of language at his interpreter.

  The man took another bite. “Maybe you are hungry, David Der-ham? Saito-san asks how you got to China.”

  “I don’t have to answer that. You know it. I know it.” He shifted in his chair. “David Delham. Lieutenant, U. S. Army. O-dash-80073.”

  The ranking officer glowered at him. Gave some order to one of Dave’s guards.

  A rifle butt smashed into Dave’s side. He doubled over and sucked for breath. Burning pain shot from his injured shoulder across his torso.

  That still shot from Look. What it failed to capture was the savage force of their thrusts.

  So much for the Geneva Convention.

  A chorus of laughter erupted around him.

  Stupid. Coward. Maybe he had this coming. He’d left those boys to die.

  He pulled a burning breath into his lungs and straightened his back. He wasn’t giving them anything more to laugh about if he could help it.

  Saito exchanged rapid-fire comments with two or three other officers. The interpreter inclined his head. “Hai.” He pulled his pistol with an abrupt motion and stalked up to Dave.

  “Let me explain your situation, prisoner. We know more than you think. You came here in a B-25 late the night before last, after dropping incendiary bombs over Tokyo, Nagoya, or Osaka that morning. You deliberately targeted heavily populated areas. You are not a prisoner of war. You are a murderer and a criminal. And so we will treat you.” He clicked the safety off and pressed the muzzle against Dave’s forehead. “You choose. Answer our questions or we execute you for your crimes.”

  Crimes. Everything around Dave came to a sudden stop as he stared past the pistol into the man’s face. At his implacable jawline. The fierce glint in his eyes. The room suddenly felt cold.

  Disbelief numbed him. If they deemed him a criminal, they could do whatever they wanted to him. No pretense of protection from the Geneva Convention.

  Sweat slicked his forehead. “I committed no crimes.” He gasped out the words.

  The interpreter pressed his pistol against Dave’s head. Finally he gave it a push. “Dead.” He stepped back. “Think about that tonight, David Der-ham.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Monday, December 27, 1948

  Osaka, Japan

  The waking nightmare left Miyako the way it always did—drained and drenched in clammy sweat.

  She released her knees, relaxed her back. Slowly unwound her body from the tight coil she’d made it. She closed her eyes, waiting for the rhythm of her pulse to slow.

  What was this thing that happened to her? It always felt so real, like they were right there.

  She sat up slowly, to tame the pounding in her temples, and did her best to collect herself. In a brothel, again. They might look a little different—some more elegant, some less—but it was all the same thing. A steady stream of men, each bearing his cursed brothel ticket. And if she said no?

  Merciful gods. On the streets, she could go home. In the brothel, they’d smack her around until she did what they wanted.

  Her pulse had almost returned to normal. She plucked up the courage to look in the mirror. What she saw ripped her heart out.

  A jagged gash on her temple met a cut across her forehead. A swollen lip rendered her mouth a missha
pen mass. Bruises ringed her throat. She didn’t even want to think about her thighs and midriff. She stared at her reflection, fingertips tracing the bruises.

  Damaged goods. That’s what she was. What could George-san want with her now? Every time he looked at her, he’d know she’d been violated. Shamed.

  She let her eyes close and groped her way onto the futon, tears burning behind her eyelids. Her thoughts gave way to a swirling void of despair.

  I swore I’d never—never!—come back to a brothel.

  But where else could she go?

  They’d taken her in, but everything had its price here. No doubt there was plenty on her ledger already. Imai-san didn’t pick her up off the street from kindness. Each day that passed while she recovered would mire her deeper in the brothel’s debt.

  No! She would not spend the rest of her life here, in what the police called the red-line district. She could not come to consider this place home.

  The shoji slid open. Imai-san wafted in, a whiff of jasmine floating in with her. “How are you feeling, my dear?” she said, her bell-like voice solicitous.

  I’d wager the black widow uses that tone with her mate.

  Imai-san settled gracefully on the futon’s edge and placed a slender hand on Miyako’s forehead.

  Miyako’s answer came in a voice that was little more than a croak. “Better, arigato. Hurts.”

  “I’m sure it does. Poor thing.” Imai-san brushed Miyako’s hair from her injured temple. She winced and drew her breath in gently. “I have a salve that does wonders to reduce scarring. A geisha trick I picked up in Kyoto.”

  How many yen will that put on my ledger?

  “What can you tell me about yourself, Ishikawa-san? We couldn’t get much out of you yesterday.”

  The less the better. “Sorry...hurts to talk.”

  “Will anyone be looking for you? Should we let someone know you’re here?”

  The last thing she wanted was for Papa-san to know she was here. Or George-san.

  She summoned a confused look and shook her head. Imai-san’s brow creased with apparent concern. “Still don’t remember much, ah? Don’t worry. I’m sure it will come back in time. We all want you to feel better.” She looked Miyako pointedly in the face. “But there is a rather delicate point I feel I must raise. My girls have bandaged you. Cared for you. Fed you. They’ve been tireless.”