Haruko shuffled through the crisp blue-and-white curtains that separated the common room from the kitchen and started to collect the dirty dishes on a tray.
Noriko looked up at her. “You work so hard, Haruko-chan.” She gave her voice a cloying lilt. “But don’t worry. You’re pretty enough, ah? Someday soon, you’ll put on a nice dress and make a little money. Play cave-and-eel with the men like a big girl.”
Haruko’s shoulders tensed.
Miyako pegged Noriko with a glare. “Noriko-chan. There’s no need to be cruel.” Or to take out your bitterness on someone more vulnerable.
She turned to the girl. “Don’t pay any attention to Noriko-san. Arigato for the breakfast. It looks magnificent.”
It did. Delicately scented miso soup, stewed prunes. A bowl of steaming rice. Miyako moved to stand. “Do you need help with that tray?”
Haruko gave her a grateful bob. “No, Midori-san. You’re supposed to be resting, ah?” She retreated to the kitchen.
Noriko refolded the newspaper sections and placed them in a neat stack on the table. “I’m off to do my nails. Enjoy your breakfast.”
Miyako bowed her out of the room, burning with fresh determination to see Yamada-san put her in her place. She put the teapot on the brazier and picked up the front section of the paper. The smell of fresh newsprint filled her nostrils. She lingered over it as long as she could. But there was no sign of Yamada-san. And no one showed up to talk about a game.
She was leaving to hunt down Yamada-san when Haruko reappeared. “Excuse me, Midori-san.” She bowed. “Your friend was here. The lady who visited yesterday.”
“Already?”
“Hai. She left this for you.” Haruko dug a bit of crumpled paper from her pants pocket and handed it across the table to Miyako.
Kimi had come through, after all—and quickly. Miyako stifled a twinge of disappointment that her friend had stopped by without seeing her. To be there and gone so early must have been painful for a woman of the night.
She unfurled the paper, fingers trembling with eagerness. A bar napkin, complete with a jagged stain shaped like the base of someone’s tumbler. Uneven characters sprawled a ragged line along its right edge.
Decided I won’t take your message to your sergeant. I ran across his friend. Aren’t you fortunate! You can find them yourself at the Hollywood Club tomorrow night.
You owe me now.
She looked up. Haruko’s eyes searched her face, the girl’s expression ambiguous. Had she read the message?
Of course she had.
Miyako refolded the napkin in a tidy square, exasperated. Much as she hated to admit it, perhaps Kimi was right. Maybe she did owe George-san a personal explanation. Especially given that, without some kind of divine intervention, she was about to miss their standing Thursday date.
She had to hope Haruko would stay quiet and the note wouldn’t cost her the opportunity to see him the next night. And she had to hope he’d be prepared to see her.
Miyako learned Yamada-san had left to visit a friend. There wouldn’t be a game that day. Which meant she would miss her date with George-san. And also meant that everything—winning at kabu, Kamura-san, George-san—had collapsed to a single day. The next day, Friday.
She couldn’t bear to stay in her room. She wandered out to the courtyard bench. The wintry garden suited her mood, with barren tree branches creating a fretwork of lacy patterns against a restless pewter sky. Her eyes kept drifting to the shed and the yew trees tucked in the corner next to it. Could she make it over the fence back there?
It would have to be a dark night. Windows lined every wall of the buildings. The penalty if she got caught would be steep.
A shoji slid aside. Haruko stepped out and slipped into a pair of work shoes. She rooted around inside the shed, emerging a minute later with a rake nearly as tall as she was. Haruko went to work on the dry leaves that had drifted onto the gravel path overnight. A few minutes’ effort brought her over to the stone bench where Miyako sat.
“You’re leaving, aren’t you?” She was careful to keep her voice low and her eyes on her rake.
“What?” Miyako gave the girl a blast of wide-eyed innocence. “No.”
Haruko shot her a side-long glare. “Midori-san, I saw what that pan-pan wrote you.”
“Shh!” She glanced around the courtyard. “No. I’m not leaving. It’s just—I’ve got something I need to take care of. Something important.”
Haruko went back to raking the gravel around the bench, which was already pristine. “Hai,” she breathed. “And it’s something that involves meeting an American at a dance hall.”
Merciful deities. What’s it going to take to buy her silence?
Haruko turned to her, the rake forgotten in her hand. “Please, Midori-san. Take me with you.”
Her surprise was real this time. “What?”
“I’m sick of it here.” The words tumbled over each other, bursting from her smooth, un-rouged lips. “Mopping up vomit and spilled sake. Scrubbing and peeling and carrying all day. Catering to these hussies’ every little whim. Especially that Noriko—she’s the worst of the bunch. But I know she’s right. Soon enough I will be a baishanfu like you.” The girl dropped her eyes. Tiny beads of moisture glittered on her lashes.
She’s only a kid. Miyako’s voice went softer, along with her heart. “Haruko-chan, look at me.” She waited until the girl did. “You think I know some better way for you to earn money than working here?” She paused, hoping her words would sink in. Noriko was right about that much. “This is a nice place. You have a roof over your head. Charcoal on the brazier. And food you’re not going to see anywhere else. Trust me, you could do worse. I’ve seen girls not much older than you sell themselves on the street for a meal.” She was young enough when she started—almost of legal age. But these girls...
Haruko’s expression went hard. “If it’s so wonderful, why are you leaving?”
“I told you, I’m not.” Unless it’s in a police wagon. “Where else would I go?”
The girl gave her petite toes a petulant little tap. “I don’t believe you.”
“Honestly, Haruko-chan, it’s not what you think. You’re right, I am meeting Sanders-san tomorrow, if I can manage to get out of here. But it’s so I can ask him for money.” This was a half-truth. If he didn’t retch at the sight of her, of course she’d look for a way to ask for money.
Haruko gave her a brazen stare. “You think I don’t know how a baishanfu asks for money? Besides, isn’t Imai-san giving you money? A lot of money, from what I—” She stopped and put her fingers over her mouth as if she could stuff the words back in.
The girl knew everything. Everything that mattered, anyway. Miyako drew herself up straight. “Is that what you heard? Then perhaps you’ve also heard about my father’s hospital bills.”
Haruko blanched and bowed very low. “Please forgive me, Midori-san. I’m sorry I mentioned it. Please pardon this humble person. But”—she leaned toward Miyako, eyes wide with concern—“you must be very careful if you go out for your meeting tomorrow. I remember when another girl tried it. Imai-san caught her.”
“What happened?”
“It was awful.”
“Haruko-chan. Tell me.”
Haruko found something fascinating in the gravel by her toes. A beat passed before she looked up. “These men came for poor Yuriko-chan. Tome-chan said they were yakuza.” Haruko looked away. “I try not to ever think about what they did to her.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Friday, December 31, 1948
Osaka, Japan
Total darkness. She perched on a mattress. Soft—Western style. Fabric clung to her clammy skin.
On edge. Pulse thundering.
Waiting.
Miyako strained her eyes. Nothing. Her mind registered shifting splotches of green and purple, but they stemmed from sheer imagination.
It started. Scrabbling, somewhere outside the room. She’d heard it before—
she knew what it was. Enormous talons scraping along the hallway toward her.
A second set, echoing from a different direction. And another, higher pitched. Soon there were...five? Seven?
Her pulse pounded like it would burst her veins.
Whatever it was—whatever they were—came snuffling right up against the thin paper shoji that divided her room from the hall. Its intense desire to rip her to shreds pressed on her like a physical force.
She stood and edged away, eyes riveted on the spot the noise came from. Groped behind her for the wall. Pressed her spine into it, every muscle straining with her desperate need to get away.
The shoji rattled. The noise of the beast’s rooting swelled. The thing would be on her in the dark before she even saw it, sinking its talons into her belly and its teeth into her throat.
She opened her mouth to scream. No sound came.
From somewhere behind her, a narrow band of light shot across the bed. It thinned the darkness just enough that she could make out the reptilian claw pushing in through the shoji, complete with horrid talons.
She could also see the scant furnishings. Bed. Small dresser. The band of light struck the single object on the dresser. A large vase, pale colored, with a plum-blossom design.
She’d been granted a weapon. She lunged for the vase and dashed it against the wall. Its base shattered, leaving a jagged edge.
The beast snarled from behind the partition.
She faced the shoji and braced herself.
The beast ripped at her door. It gave way. The terror burst in.
The last thing she expected, and yet she’d known it all along. The redheaded soldier, blown up to monstrous size. He lumbered toward her, blue-green eyes blazing in eerie contrast to the orange cast of his sun-burnished skin. A blood-curdling snarl issued from his throat. He reached for her with what should have been hands. But in their place, he had grasping claws and rending talons.
And unaccountably, impaled on one talon, three paper tickets.
She clenched her fists around the vase’s neck and readied her swing.
One chance at this. It had to count.
He lunged.
She swung. A powerful motion that—
Miyako jerked awake. The scream on her lips died in a gasp. She stared around her.
Mirror. Curtain. Shelves. All normal. Familiar.
Her sheets lay twisted in ropes between her hands. She uncoiled them and mopped her face. Her terror dissipated slowly, like freshly dried ink under running water.
No more sleep for me.
That was what she called the black version of her dream. But the old dream had taken a new turn. A weapon. A chance to escape. Did it mean something? What?
Clattering in the kitchen dragged her back to the brothel. She got up, peeled off her clammy robe, and wrapped herself in a fresh one. She lay down and stared up at the ceiling.
Friday. She had to get out of the brothel. It was imperative that she see Kamura-san and deliver her apology to George-san.
The air in the room felt heavy. In the corner farthest from the light, a tiny brown spider worked an intricate pattern in silk. As she watched it she saw herself, brooding over the tenuous web of her plan.
Too tenuous. An industrious spider would lay more silk.
I might as well live in a lacquered jar.
She hoped the lid had air holes.
Miyako decided a cup of tea would do her good. She slid the shoji aside and eased her way into the common room. Tome knelt at the table, flipping through the newspaper.
“Good morning, Tome-chan. How was business last night?” Miyako lifted the teakettle from the brazier and checked the coals. “Sounded lively enough.”
Tome yawned. “Okay for me, but better for No-chan. She still had a party going when I went to sleep.”
“Do you think he spent the night?”
Tome snorted. “I know he did.”
“Good for her.” Profitable night for Noriko, but she might not be up for hours. “So she’ll sleep in. No game until later then?”
Tome lifted her delicate shoulders. “Maybe not.”
“Do you think we’ll play at all?”
“We’d better.” A smile played at Tome’s lips. “I’m out of cigarettes.”
Miyako’s gut balled with anxiety. No game yesterday because of Yamada-san’s errands. Possibly no game today. And that meant no chance to keep her bargain with Yamada-san and get the lady’s help.
But a few minutes later, Noriko made her appearance, left hand pressed against her temple. “Ah. What a headache. Why is everyone so loud today?”
Tome gave her a sympathetic smile. “Poor No-chan. You look like you’ve been run over by a horse.”
“More like an Eidan Subway train.”
Tome brought Noriko soba and tea. The teacup jittered as she raised it to her lips. She drained it, then relaxed enough to give Tome an uneven smile. “You’re in a kind mood today.”
Tome gave her a sweet smile. “Need to get you fixed up for kabu. We won’t play without you.”
“I don’t think I’m in the mood today.” Noriko rubbed at her temples. “I’m going back to bed.”
Miyako’s stomach lurched. Today’s game had to happen.
Tome pouted. “But you have to play. Or who’s going to advance Fusako-chan the funds?”
Noriko had closed her eyes again. “Play for points then.”
“What if we double the stakes?” Miyako said. “Raise the maximum bet to two hundred yen instead of one hundred?”
Noriko opened her eyes to a squint and looked at her as if she’d noticed her for the first time. “Where are you going to get the cash, if I might be so bold?”
“I had a little tea money set aside. Yamada-san was kind enough to bring it to me.”
Noriko sat straighter. “I’ll play.” She produced a cigarette from the sleeve of her cotton robe and positioned it in a holder. “But we’ll triple the stakes.”
17 October 1942, Kiangwan, China
181 Days Captive
Dave heard guards at the end of the hall. He dove for his plank bench and held his breath, listening.
Two days had passed since the sentencing, and nothing seemed to have changed. Life plodded on according to the same solitary routine. Same rice-glob meals thrust through the slit in the door. Same few minutes in the prison yard by himself each morning. Same stained walls, same narrow window. Same wobbly legs that barely held him up. Same dysentery that never let up.
Same perpetual hunger.
The cell door swung open. Two guards stood in the hall. One of them beat his baton against his palm. “Koi, horyo.”
Dave stood and let them conduct him out to the prison yard. The other fellows joined him one by one. Watt, Meder, Vitiollo, Nielsen. What had they done with the other three? Same question he’d asked himself a thousand times.
Prison transfer. That was it. The guards saw how sick Hallmark was and moved him somewhere for medical attention.
Yeah? What about Smith and Braxton?
Two men emerged from between the buildings. The first was thick-jowled, with the long sword of an officer and the regal bearing and fierce expression to match.
The second man was a surprise. A young Asian, gaunt in a ragged prison uniform, sharp cheekbones jutting over hollow cheeks. Dave had gathered there were other prisoners in a different section of the camp, but he’d never seen one.
The officer strode out onto the grass, then came to a precise halt facing the line of airmen. The Asian prisoner trailed up behind him. The officer gave them a curt bow, spoke a few sentences, then nodded to his companion.
The prisoner ran one hand through his hair and started to translate into heavily accented English. “Warden Tatsuta wants you to understand that you are war criminals. Enemies of the nation of Nippon. Your hostile acts of bombing, shooting, and killing innocent Japanese citizens are proved. You are judged and convicted.”
The officer’s upper lip curled into a sneer
of disgust while this message was delivered. He directed a few more sentences to the interpreter.
“Insignificant as you are”—the interpreter’s lips twitched with what looked like an effort to put on a severe expression—“you must be thankful to the emperor for his magnificent goodness. It is right that you are condemned to die, but he has pardoned you. You will spend the rest of your lives as worthless prisoners, understanding that it is useless to try to bring harm to Nippon.”
Tatsuta went on, with periodic breaks for interpretation. It was the usual litany about how they should be good prisoners and cooperate. And how they’d be killed if they tried to escape. They’d heard it all before, although Tatsuta’s rendition rang with even more scorn than usual.
Once he’d finished, he gave the prisoners one more severe look, then spun on his heel and walked briskly toward the wooden buildings.
The young man gave them a slight bow. “Now your sentence is decided. The Imperial Japanese Army will return your things to you. Please follow Kinoshita-san.” He gestured toward one of the guards.
Dave exchanged a surprised glance with Nielsen. But he had deeper concerns than his things. He directed a question at the interpreter. “Excuse me. Could you please tell me what happened to—”
A guard stepped between them and brandished a baton. “Damare, baka.”
The young man’s chiseled features squeezed into a pained look. He bowed without speaking and walked after Warden Tatsuta.
The five airmen turned and trooped after Kinoshita. He led them into the assembly room where their court proceedings had taken place. Several more guards accompanied them.
The now-familiar long table displayed an array of items laid out in methodical Japanese style. A neat arrangement of wallets. A box filled with their watches and jewelry. Most important, a line of leather jackets, battered with use, arranged by size.
“Eight,” Watt murmured. “Eight jackets.”
Dave took measured steps over to the table. Six officer’s jackets with squadron patches. Three of them sported the Thirty-Fourth Squadron’s bold Thunderbird design—his, Watt’s, Vitty’s. Three jackets bore the Ninety-Fifth Squadron’s Kicking Mule. The name bands read Nielsen, Meder, and Hallmark. Two jackets without patches bore the names of the enlisted men, Braxton and Smith.
The Plum Blooms in Winter Page 20