The Plum Blooms in Winter

by Linda Thompson

  “Still...” The lady took a handkerchief from her handbag and dabbed at the corner of one eye. “The expression on her face. That one look.” She started to laugh again. “That one look made it all worthwhile.”

  Miyako let herself relax. “Hai, it certainly did. No-chan was undone.”

  “And me eight hundred yen the richer for it.” Yamada-san settled deeper into her seat and sighed out her satisfaction. “You said I’d win if we partnered. You didn’t say how.” She shook her head and mumbled. “Three of a kind. Still can’t believe that.” She dabbed at her eyes once more and stuffed the handkerchief in her purse.

  Miyako gave her a thin smile. And tried to figure out how she was going to leave her behind.

  The train rattled up. Miyako followed Yamada-san into the car.

  Yamada-san leaned toward her. “So, Midori-chan, we might as well get clear before we set out. Imai-san agreed to let you leave the Oasis on one condition. If you take off, I’m beholden for your debt. Please believe me when I say I’m not going to let that happen. So you might as well tell me what you’re doing.”

  Miyako stammered out something. “I thought I mentioned my appointment with my sick widowed aunt.”

  Yamada-san huffed. “You can’t think I believe you’re visiting your sick aunt. Any more than I believe you helped me with kabu today. Especially since you told me at the hospital that your papa-san is your only living relative.”

  Miyako winced. She’d done her best to forget everything that happened that day.

  Yamada-san grabbed her arm and squeezed. “You see how I’ve put myself on the line for you. I expect you’ll make it worth my effort. If you’re cutting business on the side, I expect a piece.”

  Miyako stared at Yamada-san, surprise stealing the breath from her lungs.

  Some of this just got a bit easier.

  “So. We’ll see two men tonight,” Miyako said.

  Miyako debated whether it was better to see George-san or Kamura-san first. Her lover won. It was too early to go to the restaurant—that’s what she told herself. But in truth, she had to know about George-san.

  As promised, Yamada-san stuck to her side like a barnacle. They made their way along Dotonbori toward the Hollywood Club. Miyako could hear the ruckus there from a long block away. The piano hammered out a syncopated tune while a saxophone riffed around the melody. Applause and catcalls spilled out into the damp night air along with strident bursts of laughter.

  The noisy good times within the club made the sidewalk outside feel even more damp and miserable. She huddled into her coat. Now that the prospect of seeing George-san was real, her nerves all but crippled her.

  The band rolled into a familiar Glenn Miller number. Male voices joined in, slurred and off pitch. She recognized “In the Mood.”

  Aren’t they always?

  The music mounted to a screeching crescendo then abruptly stopped. The door swung open, momentarily blocking the light that glimmered through the glass-block strip beside it. A brown-haired airman stumbled out. He had a Japanese girl by the hand. They were no more than three paces clear of the door when he swiveled her against the wall and kissed her hungrily. She gave a startled yelp, but it faded to an embarrassed giggle, and she draped her arms around his shoulders.

  A second airman followed them. His face caught the light. Hair the color of sand, strong jaw punctuated with a cleft chin, blunt nose. She knew that profile—George-san. Her heart did a stutter step, its usual trick when she first saw him. But then her stomach clenched. So much had happened since she’d seen him. Since the night he’d asked her to be his onri wan. She was no longer the exquisite merchandise he’d been ready to pay a premium for. She was damaged goods—the kind you sold for half price at the rear of the store. And once he knew, once he understood how she’d been shamed—

  She took a deep breath. “That’s him.”

  Yamada-san nodded and faded to an unobtrusive distance.

  I knew she’d have to give me a bit more freedom here. Miyako had every intention of taking advantage of it.

  George-san said something to the airman with the sweetheart. They all crossed the street toward her. Miyako froze for an instant, a sick feeling congealing in the pit of her belly. Strong as the temptation was to shrink into the crowd, she made herself step into his path. “George-san.”

  He glanced at her, then stopped and stared. “Midori? Is that you? Good Lord. What happened to you?”

  19 April 1943, Kiangwan, China

  365 Days Captive

  The bitter winter melted into a soggy spring. Dave had completed the fourth model plane in his imaginary collection. Nielsen was busy nailing tiles to the roof of his manor house. Vitty had abandoned model airplanes for poetry. His recitations were getting pretty decent—at least in English. The ones in Italian were harder to judge, but they appeared to involve plenty of emotion.

  Watt was digging the seventy-fifth posthole around the perimeter of his model ranch when the Japanese decided to transfer them again. It took about an hour’s flight and another ride in the back of a military truck to reach the new place.

  Their new home-sweet-home was different and possibly a little better. It still had the look of a military barracks, with neat rows of identical low-slung buildings and a weedy prison yard, all surrounded by a towering wall with barbed wire at the top. But the buildings were constructed on a more human scale. And there appeared to be an orchard on the far side of the wall. Treetops stirred in the spring breeze above the cement blocks.

  Dave glanced at Watt, who gave him an angled eyebrow and a slight nod.

  “Hayaku, horyo.” A guard shoved him from behind.

  They filed into one of the cellblock buildings. The spacing of the heavy cell doors confirmed his worst fears.

  They were going back in solitary. And no Tom, no notes. Only long days full of desolate silence.

  There was a breed of guard Watt called the “happy Jap.” On their fourth morning in Nanking, their most memorable experience with this sub-species began. The guards funneled the airmen through the cellblock door and out into the yard. A pair of them stopped the prisoners at the base of the steps and had them line up. Several others stood around.

  They seemed animated. Expectation—of something—floated in the spring drizzle.

  A round-faced guard with a solid build stepped forward. “Sportsman,” he proclaimed, with an index finger on his nose and a broad grin on his lips. “You know Nippon sumo?”

  They didn’t, and the precise rules remained a mystery, but they got clear on the basics fast enough.

  The Sportsman tapped Meder’s shoulder, led him into the middle of the yard, and crouched. Meder shrugged and squared off with the man. The Sportsman pushed out his chest, then lunged. Even in his weakened state, big Bob held his own with the grappling. But the Sportsman got tired of that game. He surprised Bob with a series of strikes and kicks that toppled him.

  After that, the Sportsman would challenge one of them to a sumo match every few days.

  On a humid May morning, Nielsen wound up on the losing end of a hard-fought battle. He lay on the ground, grimacing. The Sportsman did a gleeful victory lap around the yard. His fellow guards cheered and applauded. Cries of “Nippon Bansai” echoed off the cement-block walls.

  While the guards were busy celebrating, Dave and Meder helped Nielsen up.

  Dave kept an arm under Nielsen’s shoulder, not sure the man could stand. “You okay?”

  Nielsen gave him an almost-undiscernible wink. “I’ll live,” he whispered. “I’m testing something. Did you get actual meat chunks in your broth two nights ago?”

  “I did,” Dave said. “Small, but recognizable.”

  Meder’s voice registered his surprise. “Same here.”

  Nielsen brushed grass off his pants. “I have a theory it’ll happen every time one of us loses. Watch for it tonight.”

  Several endless hours droned by in Dave’s hot-box of a cell. Dinner showed up at last. He gave hi
s soup a thorough examination. Sure enough, four small chunks of something that looked like chicken floated in the broth.

  He chuckled to himself. So it was true.

  11 December 1943, Nanking, China

  601 Days Captive

  The five prisoners sweated their way through a simmering summer—even worse than the one they’d spent in Shanghai. Or perhaps Dave’s fever just made it seem that way. The chief upside was that the facility was so new the vermin hadn’t found it yet, and he didn’t have to share his cell with rats and fleas. The lice, unfortunately, had hitched a ride with him.

  The cell was furnished. He’d been there about ten days when a pair of guards showed up with a simple desk and a wooden chair. They nailed both pieces to the floor, so he could only sit facing the blank wall. All the same, to have a place to sit and a surface to put his food on felt like unimaginable luxury.

  He still had to sleep on the floor.

  The seasons cycled on through a simmering summer and a crisp fall.

  Winter arrived. Temperatures plummeted to the point where he had to break crusted ice off the mop bucket they gave him twice a week to clean his floor.

  He paused to rest in the middle of that chore one day when a guard’s voice sounded in the corridor. “Good morning, Meder-san. How are you?”

  It was the guard with the Coke-bottle glasses. The one they’d nicknamed Cyclops. He’d learned a little English somewhere, and he’d been coming by once or twice a day to practice it on Meder.

  No response from Meder’s cell.

  Cyclops rapped on Meder’s door. Shuffling noises and a low moan filtered through the wall that divided Dave’s cell from Meder’s. But no words.

  Dave stood stock still, holding his breath. Meder had to be all right. He had to.

  “Meder-san?” A beat passed, then Meder’s door creaked as the guard pulled it open.

  Bob moaned again, but after a few seconds he answered in a rasping voice Dave could barely hear. “Good morning. I’m fine, thank you.”

  Dave let the breath he’d been holding whoosh out. Still, Bob didn’t sound fine, no matter what he told Cyclops.

  Another guard came to collect them for exercise. The cellblock doors opened to the prison yard, now a rectangle of grimy trampled slush. Dave blinked like a mole at the gray light that reflected off a thin layer of snow. He clapped his arms across his chest in an effort to warm up.

  Nielsen came up behind him. He spoke from the corner of his mouth as he strode past. “Hey, Delham. Your pants are flopping around.”

  He grimaced. “I could use a new tailor.” His pants sagged on his emaciated body like the hide on an elephant’s knee.

  “I think you froze your butt off.” Nielsen cackled and broke into a run—or at least a rapid hobble.

  Dave launched out after Nielsen as best he could. They rounded the turn before the cellblock, Nielsen a little ahead of him. Meder sat on the cement steps. Back sagging, eyes hollow, his feet and ankles swollen like a Neanderthal’s.

  Nielsen slowed. Looked around to see what the guards were up to. Sank onto the step in front of Meder, real casual. Pulled off his sandals and made a show of bending over to rub packed snow from between his toes. As Dave approached them, he heard Nielsen talking in a low voice. “C’mon, Bob. For God’s sake, walk a lap or two.”

  Meder focused with effort. “Nah, not today. Might ruin these stylish shoes.” He made a sporting attempt at a laugh but stopped to grimace and clutch his gut. He suddenly looked serious. “Chase, remember what you promised me on Hornet.”

  Nielsen shook his head. “Don’t talk like that.”

  “You’ll do it, right? You’ll go see them if I—”

  “Stop talking like that. Of course I will.”

  The conversation drew the head guard’s attention—a brutal specimen named Aota. “Damare!” Aota gave the men a menacing grimace.

  “Just pray for me, okay?” Meder said.

  Dave’s insides went hollow. Meder had never asked for prayer before. In fact, he couldn’t remember a pessimistic word ever leaving Bob’s mouth.

  Aota strode their direction, grasping his baton. A twelve-inch blade swung in a scabbard at his side.

  Nielsen bent over and put an arm under Meder’s shoulder, helping him stand. From the far side of the yard, Cyclops also started toward them, his features creased with concern.

  Dave plastered on his nonchalant look, walked on. But he took a quick glance at Meder as he passed. Look at him. So weak his legs won’t carry him. Feet so swollen they overflow his sandals.

  Beriberi on top of the dysentery. They all had both to some degree. When Dave pressed on his shins he could feel how his bones were going soft. But Meder had the worst case of them all.

  Dave stopped walking. We are not going to lose Meder. So many good men, dead. We are not going to lose one more.

  Meder needed a doctor. A doctor he would have, if Dave had anything to do with it. He turned toward the cellblock steps. Aota headed for them in full rant. Dave called out to him, “Aota-san. Sumimasen. Meder needs a doctor.” Doctor...doctor...what was the word? “Isha. Kudasai. Isha for Meder-san.”

  Aota glowered at him. “Damare, horyo.”

  Cyclops rushed up, saluted Aota, and started to stammer out some sort of explanation. Aota became more and more agitated, issuing a stream of commands in Japanese. Nielsen ignored him, still bent over Meder.

  Cyclops turned to Dave. He gestured him toward the cellblock stairs. Dave yelled at Aota as he mounted the steps. “Aota-san. Isha. Kudasai. Isha for Meder-san...” For? How did that go again? No tame no. “Meder-san no tame no isha. Kudasai.”

  Cyclops gave him a push that might have been a little gentler than usual, in through the crude pine doorframe.

  Dave stared over his shoulder. Nielsen had managed to get Meder standing and climbing the stairs. Aota had positioned himself on the top step. He gestured at Meder, his face flushed with rage.

  Cyclops guided Dave into his cell. “Solly, Delham-san. Aota-san’s orders.”

  “Try to put in a word for Meder-san, okay?”

  Cyclops sucked his breath in past his teeth and nodded. The door thudded closed.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Friday, December 31, 1948

  Osaka, Japan

  George-san stepped onto the curb beside Miyako. “Midori, I didn’t expect to see you here. In fact”—his face clouded—“I didn’t expect to see you at all.”

  George-san’s friend and his girl strolled up, her face flushed from the kissing. George-san glanced at them. “Why don’t you two head over to the Pearl Cafe? I’ll be along in a few.” He wrapped a hand around Miyako’s arm. “What the heck happened to you yesterday?”

  “I am so sorry, George-san! I, ah, had trouble with the police.”

  “The police?” He studied her through narrowed eyes. “Why?” He shifted her so the light hit her face. “Is that a shiner? Where on earth did you get that?”

  She brought her fingertips to her hairline to hide the bruise. “I stopped at the Abeno to see a friend. You know Kimi, yes?”

  “Sure.” His stare told her go on.

  “They arrest me.”

  “Arrested you? For what?”

  “For nothing! I wasn’t doing anything—I promise.”

  “They arrested you just for being there. And that’s why you stood me up.”

  The disbelief that rang in his voice made her cringe. “That’s what they do to pan-pan, George-san.”

  “Really?”

  “Hai.”

  Perhaps the harsh glint in his eyes softened a bit. “Okay. Let’s assume I believe you. Then what?”

  “They, ah, took me to the office. Made me stay for V.D. tests.” At least, that’s what should have happened.

  “They held you in jail? For tests? That’s why you went AWOL on me?”

  “I’m so sorry, George-san.” It was jail, in a manner of speaking.

  He snorted like a caged bull. “Where I come f
rom, you get a free phone call.”

  “Not here, George-san. Please forgive me. Kimi say you looked for me. But I couldn’t come. They had me.”

  “And the cops did this to you.” He jutted his jaw. “Not our MPs, I hope. Your guys?”

  She nodded.

  He stared at her in silence for a couple of seconds, pain creasing his features. Then, slowly: “What did they do to you, exactly?”

  “They...” The horror of the past week came rushing back. The pain. The humiliation of that hour in the back room. The way they left her. She shrank inside her coat. How could she form words to explain it to George-san? He’d hate her if he knew the full truth—how completely they’d shamed her. But not as much as she hated herself.

  “They hit me to get me into the truck.”

  He studied her, a sinew at the side of his neck working. “That’s it?”

  Shame choked her. She stared at the pattern of light reflecting from a dirt-streaked puddle.

  “There’s more you’re not telling me.” His voice sounded gentler now. “Look at me, Midori.”

  She did.

  “Did they—” He put his fingers under her chin and turned her face up. “Midori, did they, you know...”

  If he knows the truth he’ll want nothing to do with me. The soft patter of the rain, the smell of stale beer and wet pavement filled the silence.

  “They did, didn’t they? Someone raped you. And you’ve been holed up recovering ever since.”

  She dropped her eyes again and gave him the slightest nod.

  He pulled his hand from her chin and shoved his fists in his pockets. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I thought you...” Tears blurred the pavement at his feet.

  “You thought I’d what?” The fierceness in his tone hammered her ears. “Blame you?”

  She looked up and found him staring at her, a vicious glint in his eyes. “If you thought I’d blame you, you thought wrong. But if you thought I’d rip them to pieces and spread out the shreds for the seagulls, you thought right.”