The Plum Blooms in Winter

by Linda Thompson

  The chief judge finished reading. He drilled the prisoners with a glare and a deepening frown.

  Soldiers all around the room stirred. Some stood.

  That’s it?

  At Dave’s right, Nielsen spoke to the interpreter. “What’d he say?”

  “He gave verdict. And, ah, your sentence.”

  Verdict? Clearly a foregone conclusion.

  The foreboding he felt himself was just as apparent on Nielsen’s face. “Well, what’s our sentence then?”

  The officer smirked. “Hata-san say you no be told.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  31 August 1942, Kiangwan, China

  134 Days Captive

  It was back to the mind-numbing solitary routine Dave had known in Tokyo, with two important exceptions. No interrogations, and the prisoners were granted the privilege of morning exercise together. The chance to see the others, and sometimes exchange a few rushed words, became Dave’s lifeline.

  One steaming August morning he set out, determined to catch up with Meder. He’d been formulating a question for Bob ever since he watched him cross himself over maggot-y rice balls on the ship.

  Meder came to a halt in a shady corner and sank down on the sidewalk. Dave seized the opportunity to settle on the ground beside him.

  A guard hovered over them. Dave silently went to work pulling weeds. After a moment, the man grunted and wandered off. Dave glanced around to make sure none of the guards were paying attention. They weren’t—for the moment.

  He spoke in a murmur. “Bob, I have to ask you something.”

  Bob reached for a weed. “Sure. What?”

  “You really buy that fairy-tale stuff they dish out at church? An all-mighty, all-loving God? In the face of all this?” He peered around them at the fence, the cement cellblock building, the guards with their clubs.

  Bob stopped his work and looked at him. “With all my heart. It may not always look like it, but God’s in charge. We have to believe He knows how to work things out the best way.”

  Dave took a fierce yank at a weed. “Wonder what Smith and Braxton would say to that.”

  Or Chen and his village. Or my sister Jenny, in the ground at fourteen.

  “Listen, Dave. If seeing how things are over here has proved anything to me, it’s this. There is one true God, who shows people how to live right. Just ’cause some reject Him doesn’t mean He’s not there.”

  The guard had turned back their way. Bob ducked his head lower and spoke through the side of his mouth. “This world isn’t running according to His design. But it will.”

  Dave heaved a sigh and ripped at another weed. “I wish I could believe I’ll live to see it.”

  Alone again in his cell, Dave replayed every memory he could dredge up. He missed everyone. Mom. His little sister Julie. Even Dad. All his fellow prisoners, the Payback and Green Hornet men. Fraternity brothers. High school friends. Reaching further back, Jenny. Uncle Verle.

  And most of all, his wife Eileen, with her porcelain skin and beguiling smile. What was she doing now? Still at her mom’s? The telegram would’ve reached her months ago. She’d know he was missing in action. How long would it take her to give him up for dead and get on with her life?

  The two of them had experienced plenty of ups and downs—didn’t everyone? But it seemed like it got worse after she joined him in Florida.

  They hadn’t parted on very good terms. What was that last fight even about? He couldn’t remember. But then, that was how it went with a lot of nights when he’d had a few.

  He did remember the rage on her features. Her way of knitting her brows over her nose. The shock of her frigid gin and tonic when she dashed it across his face. The sting of it in his eyes.

  They’d started out in his Air Corps buddy Joe’s kitchen. Joe’s wife, Tina, had gotten Eileen all worked up over the new Lombard flick. But somehow the four of them wound up sucking down cocktails at the crummy bar across the street from Eglin Field instead.

  Another thing he remembered was all the names she called him that evening.

  “You rat. You snake. You—why, there isn’t even a word for what you are.” She stood and thrust her bar stool out of her way. It slammed against a four-top table and fell onto the floor.

  He grabbed some paper napkins and blotted his face. Pulled a few four-letter words out of his own arsenal.

  She crossed the linoleum, paused when she reached the door. Turned to face him full on. “All the booze. All the bars. I’m through, David Delham. I mean it. Through.” She flounced out into the night. The door slammed behind her.

  She always was one for the dramatic gestures. Maybe he did keep drinking that night after she wanted him to stop. And maybe he and Joe were a little obvious about ogling a blonde at the bar. That was no justification for such a big outburst. Was it?

  Tina gave them both a disgusted look and went off after Eileen.

  Joe elbowed him. “Maybe you better go after her.”

  He swizzled his Scotch and soda. “Not after a scene like that.” A man had to know how to handle a hothead like Eileen.

  A few minutes later he was slurping ice at the bottom of his glass. It sank in she wasn’t coming back. “You don’t suppose she took the car?”

  Joe gave him a stricken look.

  They left their places at the bar and checked the parking lot. Nothing but asphalt where the Ford had been. “How do you like that?” Dave punched at a trashcan. It clattered against a brick wall, and the top popped off. Cans and greasy newspapers spilled onto the asphalt. Dave kicked at one.

  “How’d she sneak the dang keys?”

  “You must’ve left them sitting on the bar.” Joe swore. “It’s a couple miles’ walk.”

  Dave probably counted to six or seven before he was able to speak again. But he did his best to put a good face on the thing. “Gives a whole new meaning to ‘one for the road,’ doesn’t it?” He turned toward the building. “I say we let them sit at home and stew on this some.”

  It might have been two for the road before they made their way out again. They passed through the parking lot once more. Joe growled and tensed his shoulders. “There’s gonna be hell to pay when I get home.”

  “You bet there is. I’m not putting up with this kind of treatment.”

  But when he got to their apartment, there was no purse on the kitchen table. No pearl-buttoned sweater flung across the couch.

  No Eileen. And no car.

  No silver brush on the dresser. No elegant little flacon of Chanel Number Five. None of those silky, flimsy things she kept in her lingerie drawer.

  No stinking car.

  There was a note on his pillow. We need a break. Gone to Mom’s.

  And to add insult to injury, when he went to brush his teeth, he found the flask of Scotch he kept in the glove compartment of his Ford in the bathroom sink. Drained.

  So that was it? Fine. Sure, he drank hard sometimes, but he worked hard too. So he earned the right. He figured she could come back when she was ready to crawl.

  Two days later, the Thirty-Fourth got called out to Sacramento. Apparently, the urge to crawl hadn’t quite struck her yet.

  That minx might not be ready to admit it, but I know she misses me. She has to.

  Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling he’d been a pretty big heel. Military life might not have been all she dreamed of when she snagged him. Maybe he couldn’t help that. Aviation always held a siren song for him, and he’d finally given in.

  But sitting alone in that fetid cell, every fiber in his body ached for her. Ached to feel her silky copper-colored hair between his fingers. To breathe in her Chanel Number Five with its hint of sandalwood, spice, and exotic blooms.

  You are a heel. You couldn’t look after your wife. Couldn’t even speak up for your men at your own trial.

  At least he could have taken her to that movie.

  How he longed to have Meder’s faith in an all-powerful, all-loving God. If there was such a thing, ev
en a heel like him might have some hope for a second chance. Find some way to patch things up and get that sassy smile of hers beaming up at him once more.

  Wednesday, December 29, 1948

  Osaka, Japan

  Miyako sat nursing a cup of tea in the common room. Haruko-chan strode in, serving plate in hand, looking like she’d eaten something sour.

  “Midori-san, there’s someone to see you. A young woman.”

  Kimi? Miyako had hardly dared to hope the message would get to her, but who else could it be?

  “Arigato.” She stood and made her way into the front room.

  Kimi had shed her shoes and umbrella and stood in a corner of the room, arms crossed like a gaijin, cigarette in hand. The chemical odor of her fresh perm struck Miyako’s senses from several feet away. Her flashy red coat looked as out of place in the understated room as a macaque would in a silk dressing gown.

  Miyako couldn’t have been happier to see her.

  Kimi stared at her full out. “Merciful heavens. Look at you.”

  “I know. I’m a sight.” She threw her arms around her friend. “Thanks for coming so soon. It’s been awful.”

  Kimi returned Miyako’s hug with a cautious embrace. “It’s not a good night for street work anyway.” She held Miyako at arm’s length and looked her over. “I’m so sorry. I heard how they found you, but I—I wasn’t prepared for what you’d look like.”

  Miyako took her friend’s arm. “We can catch up in private.” She led her through the room and up the stairs behind. “How are things at the Abeno?”

  “Same old story. Asagi tries to run everyone’s lives.”

  “Well, I don’t care about Asagi and the rest. They can have the Abeno.” She slid open the shoji and ushered Kimi into her room. “I got tired of that woman and her games.”

  “So now you’ve got this place and its games. I thought you told me you’d never go back to the brothel.”

  “Shh.” She lowered her voice. “The walls are thin, ah? I’ve done a lot of things I said I’d never do. What’s one more?”

  Kimi lowered her voice to match. “Let me guess. They’re giving you an advance. Hospital bills?”

  “Hai.”

  “Big advance?”

  The soft light from the bedside lamp seemed to dim. “Hai.”

  “So. You will be here a long time. What about your Sanders-san?”

  “Kimi, I have a favor to ask.”

  “You want to talk to him. And you need me to find him.”

  “No. I don’t want to talk to him. Seeing him is the last thing I want to do—look at me. But”—she studied her feet—“I have to get him a message somehow. He deserves to know why he should find another girl.”

  “You do have a few things to explain to him.” Kimi gave her an impish smile. “But you’re so sure about that other girl, ah?”

  “Hai. Again, look at me. How else could it end?”

  “He did come around looking for you.” Kimi’s voice was a teasing sing-song. “Seemed like he wanted to find you.”

  “He did? Then it’s even more urgent I get a message to him.”

  “The next time I see him, I’ll tell him you’ll look for him.”

  “You’re funny, ah?”

  Kimi leaned toward her. “Mi-chan, I think he cares about you. Why not give it a chance?”

  “Because a man never cares about a girl like me.” The pang that ran through her chest surprised her. She took a sharp breath, blinked away a bit of moisture, and put a hand on Kimi’s. “Will you take him my message?”

  “Why not find him yourself?” Kimi squeezed her hand.

  Miyako heaved an exasperated sigh. “Even if I wanted to, which I don’t, they won’t let me leave. I owe Imai-san big money for patching me up, and you know how it is in these places. The brothel and its games, like you said.” She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again to look her friend in the face. “Remember last spring, when you needed my help?”

  “I haven’t forgotten. You got everyone to pitch in the money I needed for the operation—”

  “And took care of your sister while you were getting it.”

  “You’re right. I owe you.” Kimi settled back on the bed. “What do you want me to say to him?”

  “Tell him—tell him I miss him terribly. But you’ve seen me. I’m sick, and I don’t know when I’ll be better. He should find another girl. I’ll return the money he gave me when I’m well enough to see him.” The last bit was a lie, but she had to say something about the money.

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “You’re sure I can’t just tell him to come over here and see you?”

  Miyako shook her head. “No. For the last time, I never want him to see me like this. And I never want him to see me here. I would die before I would let him think I picked this place over being his onri wan.”

  Kimi leaned over and gave her a hug. “All right, I’ll try. I will.”

  She wasn’t going to trust Kimi with a message to Kamura-san concerning ten thousand yen she needed for poison. That she’d have to handle herself. Somehow.

  Yamada-san had better get on her winning streak.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  15 October 1942, Kiangwan, China

  179 Days Captive

  One brooding October morning, Dave’s invariable routine varied. Footsteps sounded in the hall—several sets of them. They shot the bolt, swung the door open.

  “Horyo. Koko ni.”

  He stood on weak legs, wobbled into the corridor.

  A whole squad of Hirohito’s hellhounds filled the hallway, all in crisp dress uniform, bristling with rifles and long swords. One of them stepped forward with handcuffs.

  Dress uniform. This is it.

  They led him to the room where he’d faced trial all those weeks earlier. About fifteen officers and guards had gathered for the proceeding—whatever it was. He exchanged glances with a grim-faced Nielsen. Meder was there, and Vitty, and Watt.

  Their appearance shocked him. Hollow cheeks, sunken eyes, bushy beards that hung to their chests, clothes crusted with filth.

  I suppose I look as lousy as those guys. One more scarecrow walking.

  But only five of them. Where were Smith and Braxton? What had these butchers done with his men?

  And Hallmark? He’d last seen Hallmark on a stretcher.

  His teeth clenched so hard he felt the pressure all the way down his neck.

  The chief judge moved his gaze along the line of airmen, giving each of them a severe look. He adjusted his glasses and nodded to an officer who stood at his elbow—the same fellow who’d served as interpreter at the trial. The man stepped forward, rifled through a sheaf of papers.

  Fever and hunger kept Dave from focusing. But his sense of foreboding swelled. Everything was playing out exactly the way he’d seen it in his most despairing moments.

  The officer paged through his documents. He found the spot, started to translate in that reedy voice. “It has been proven beyond all doubt that the defendants, motivated by a false sense of glory, carried on indiscriminate bombing of schools and hospitals...”

  He froze in shock. What? Schools? Hospitals?

  No. The aircraft factory. The oil refinery. Direct hits on military targets.

  “...machine-gunned innocent civilians with complete disregard for the rules of war...”

  Strafed civilians? What?

  It took a moment for the shock to wane. He glanced at Watt, steeled himself. My turn to be the leader. He lurched forward. “That’s not right. Where’d you get that?”

  Guards grabbed at both arms and jerked him back, giving his bad shoulder a painful wrench. The muzzle of a rifle pressed into his spine.

  This time he was determined to have his say. “We never did any of those things. Where’s your proof?”

  A rifle butt slammed into his gut. The room melted into a haze of breath-deprived pain.

  The interpreter went on. His voice re
gistered as if from a distance. “The military tribunal has passed judgment and imposes...sentences. The tribunal, acting...under the law, hereby sentences”—the interpreter paused to double-check the words on his page—“the defendants...to death.”

  Death? For what? The interpreter’s lips expanded and contracted like a face in a funhouse mirror. The floor tipped, then righted itself.

  “Wha...?” An inarticulate groan fell from Nielsen beside him.

  Execution? It was one thing to imagine receiving a death sentence—he’d been doing that for weeks. Quite a different thing to hear one handed down.

  “But.” The interpreter wasn’t finished. The head judge pounded his gavel. “Through the graciousness of His Majesty the Emperor,” the interpreter read, “your sentences are hereby commuted to life imprisonment, with special treatment.”

  Life imprisonment. Life. A strange, light feeling took over.

  It took a moment for the full import to sink in. Life, yes, but on what terms? He was no longer a prisoner of war. He was a convict serving a sentence.

  What do they mean by special treatment?

  These were fine people to moralize about “disregard for the rules of war.” What about the Geneva Convention?

  He took a step forward and yelled at the judge. “Where’s Lieutenant Hallmark? Where are Smith and Braxton?”

  A group of guards circled him, corralled him toward the door.

  He pushed an elbow into the nearest man’s ribs. “Where are my men?”

  They half-led, half-dragged him to his cell.

  Thursday, December 30, 1948

  Osaka, Japan

  Miyako sat up on her futon and dashed the sleep from her eyes. Her head felt like it was full of cotton—she had to work at clearing it. But after a few minutes, hair brushed smooth, clean robe in place, she headed for the common room in search of tea and breakfast. Especially tea.

  Noriko was alone at the table. She barely glanced up from the paper. “Good morning. I’m afraid you’ve missed everyone else.”