The Plum Blooms in Winter

by Linda Thompson

  He passed on the Bible. No thanks. Something a little lighter to start with.

  He picked out The Spirit of Catholicism. To honor Meder, and Eileen. “Watt, you’re next.”

  Watt grabbed the Bible with an eager glint in his eyes.

  Vitty and Nielsen made their choices.

  Dave fleshed out the ground rules. “We’ll rotate the books down the ranks. Two weeks enough?”

  Watt shook his head.

  “Three weeks then. Fresh reading material in three weeks.”

  Watt took the leather-bound Bible and perched on the cellblock steps. He cracked it open with the enthusiasm of a kid who’d found the key to his big sister’s diary.

  Vitty settled on the step beneath him, his own book forgotten for the moment. “Where’s that one about the shadow of death?”

  Watt thumbed through the pages. “That would be Psalm Twenty-Three. Here it is.” He read quickly, in a muffled voice, for fear of the guards. “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul.”

  Leadeth...restoreth...The church language took Dave back to Jenny’s funeral. The cloying scent of lilies all but choking him. His mother mouthing the words along with the pastor, her red lipstick in stark contrast to her pallid face and black dress. Each syllable she whispered framed in the glossy ruby oval of her lips. His father stone-faced on the other side of her. Dave was eleven.

  The Lord is my shepherd. That was the one Mother spouted most in those last tense months before Jenny died. When he came in from school with his little sister, Julie, Mom always abandoned whatever hymn she was hammering out on the piano—she played nothing else during Jenny’s sick years—and rushed to the foyer. Hugged them both. Took their wrists and pulled them into the parlor.

  “I went to see Jenny today.” Red blotches marred her nose.

  Dave swallowed hard. Missing Jenny was a constant dull ache. She was the one who’d put aside what she was doing to make time for him when no one else did. Even if it was “boys’ stuff”—Tinker Toys and erector sets.

  It had been weeks since he’d seen her. They wouldn’t let kids inside the sanatorium. “How is she?”

  Mom’s lips tightened. “She’ll be fine. God will heal her—I know He will. We simply have to believe with all our hearts and pray.”

  But they didn’t pray hard enough. Or they didn’t believe hard enough. Or Jenny’s tuberculosis was too big for God.

  Watt was still reading. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me; Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.”

  Vitty’s eyes softened with regret. “I should’ve paid more attention in Catechism.”

  Watt clapped Vitty on the shoulder. “We all should’ve paid more attention. Sweet old Mrs. Connelly. I reckon I was the death of her.”

  Dave kept his mouth shut. After Jenny’s funeral, he never walked into a church again until his wedding day.

  A guard called them in. Dave made his way through the dank passageway into his bare cell. He placed the brown volume in the middle of the empty desk.

  The book wasn’t large. He’d be likely to have the thing memorized by the time three weeks were over. It wasn’t new, but it was in good condition. There was an inscription inside the cover.

  To Samuel, with best wishes for a bright future. May you turn here in days both sunny and dark.

  Love, Aunt Cecilia

  May, 1931

  He looked around his dim cell. It was hard to imagine any darker days than he was in the middle of.

  He pictured the Bible and shook his head in amazement once more. Where do you get an English Bible in China?

  It hit him in a flash. The only possible explanation for a little actual kindness from the commandant.

  These guys know they’re going to lose this war. Someone up the chain must have gotten nervous that there might be repercussions from Meder’s death.

  A broad grin spread across Dave’s face. The guards were always feeding them fantastical accounts of Nippon’s tremendous victories. It was a great day when Nielsen worked out that these “victories” were getting closer and closer to Japan.

  He opened his book, flipped past the table of contents, and dove into the first chapter. He was confronted with a discussion of what distinguished Catholicism from other branches of Christianity. He struggled to focus his fevered brain on it. It felt like listening to one side of an argument—one he didn’t care about. He pressed his thumb into his thigh and felt the bone give a little. Got up to use the benjo and noted how hard it was to get his legs to respond. How the room swam around him.

  What he wanted to hear was how he was going to walk through the valley of the shadow of death and come out alive. But if Meder’s God was up there, He wasn’t giving out any answers.

  Maybe Dave had stopped asking.

  Chapter Thirty

  Friday, December 31, 1948

  Osaka, Japan

  The coupe rolled up to the alley behind the Oasis. Yahiro clamped a hand over Miyako’s mouth and dragged her from the car. Her foot slammed against the running board and she gave an involuntary scream.

  He shook her like a pair of dice, then pressed the flat of the blade into her back. “Open that mouth again and I’ll carve my name in your flesh,” he snarled.

  The three men hemmed her in, herded her into the gilded cage that was the brothel.

  Yamada-san opened the kitchen door. Haruko-chan looked up from a pile of dishes she was drying. Her lips parted, and her eyes went round as the August moon.

  “Midori-san.” She barely breathed it.

  Yamada-san scowled at her. “Quit gawking and get Imai-san.”

  Haruko’s mouth pulsed, but she bowed, wordless, and retreated from the room.

  The driver plucked a cloth napkin from a pile. “Hold her while I gag her. Wouldn’t want screaming to disturb Imai-san’s business.”

  Yahiro grabbed her from behind while the driver implemented his suggestion.

  Imai-san stormed into the kitchen, pale beneath her powder, lips pressed into a contrasting red line. Haruko followed in her wake, eyes enormous. Imai-san elbowed Yahiro out of the way. “I’ll attend to this refuse.” She focused her fierce gaze on Miyako. “You. I see the thanks I get for trusting you.” She hauled her manicured hand back and slammed it across Miyako’s cheekbone.

  Stinging pain ignited the side of Miyako’s face. She bit back a cry.

  Haruko made a choking sound. Imai-san’s eyes rested on the girl, and she jerked her chin toward the kitchen door.

  Yamada-san’s face softened a bit. She put her hands on Haruko’s shoulders and led her out the door. The girl took a final horrified look at Miyako as Yamada-san bundled her out of the room.

  Yahiro leaned against a counter, inspecting the edge of his blade. He looked up at Miyako, something feral lurking behind his gaze.

  The driver elbowed him, sneering. “This one’s looking worse for wear, Ya-kun. Let’s ask Imai-san for two of her good-looking girls.”

  Imai-san shot the men a dismissive glare. “We’ll see to you.” She looked at Miyako, and a tight smile formed on her lips. “As for this one, she can spend the night in the shed.” She gestured Yahiro over. “If you would, please.”

  Yahiro rubbed his hands together, then heaved Miyako across his shoulders like a sack of rice. The brute followed Imai-san out onto the garden path.

  Imai-san slid the shed door open. Miyako got a glimpse of the woman’s face by the light of a paper lantern. No hint of mercy in those icy eyes.

  Yahiro pushed a box aside with his foot. He slung Miyako on the rough plank floor and straddled her, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand. He flashed the knife out with the other. He looked up at Imai-san. “You want her punished, yes?”

  Imai-san regarded them for a long moment. “Hai, but we’ll handle it. Come inside. I think I’ve got something you’ll lik
e.”

  “Fine.” He slipped the knife in his pocket and rested his hand across Miyako’s neck. “Stay right here, little bird.” He caressed her neck, then gave it an abrupt squeeze before he stood.

  Miyako wheezed and fingered her throat.

  Imai-san stared at Miyako with a stony expression. “You need to learn your place. You can cool off out here while you consider that—and what kind of lesson you’ll get in the morning.” She shoved the shed door closed and turned a key in the lock.

  The odor of dust, fecund earth, and pine siding filled Miyako’s nostrils. Pallid winter moonlight oozed through a dirt-streaked window mounted high on the end wall. It illuminated a cluttered space no larger than her tiny room.

  She sat up and pulled her wool coat tighter around her. Listened to their footsteps crunch toward the main building, leaving her alone.

  She worked at the knot on the gag as her eyes adjusted. She pushed a collection of gardening implements out of her way and settled on top of a burlap bag in a corner. It gave very little beneath her. Whatever it contained had the consistency of fine gravel.

  It was going to be a long, comfortless night. And in the morning?

  No, thank you. She wasn’t staying around for that.

  She heaved a deep breath and looked around. The door looked sturdier than she’d expect for a garden shed. And why the lock?

  She shuddered as realization grew. The structure must have been reinforced for this purpose. How many other women had sat here, waiting for their punishment?

  No, no, no. She got up and slammed her weight into the door. Took a frantic step back and tried it again.

  That door wasn’t budging. She rubbed her shoulder and scanned the space. From what Imai-san said, she had all night. Something would come to her.

  Gravel ground outside in the garden. She froze. The footsteps had a solid ring—a man, not Yamada-san. And definitely not Imai-san.

  He started up a tuneless whistle.

  Yahiro.

  “Che!” She gasped out a strangled little cry of surprise and took a desperate look around for something—anything—she could use to fend him off.

  His feet pounded the gravel outside the shed door. “Little bird?” A mocking sing-song. “Are you still in your cage?”

  The door rattled.

  Moonlight glinted from a length of steel rod on a high shelf near the window. She took a deep breath and nursed a desperate hope that it belonged to something she could use as a weapon.

  Yahiro whistled to himself outside the door. Metal grated on metal within the lock box. She listened in horror.

  How long will it take him to pick it?

  She climbed up on a barrel and grabbed the steel rod. She yanked at it, and was jubilant to discover it was attached to a pair of shears. She pulled them from beneath some other clutter and brandished them. They were the kind professional gardeners used on trees. Lethal looking, with eight-inch blades attached to three-foot handles.

  The lock rattled again, louder. She backed into the corner farthest from the entrance, pulse drumming in her ears. She squeezed her fists around the handles, leveled the point at the door, and hoped with all her might those vicious blades wouldn’t somehow get turned on her.

  She stood, riveted in place, rehearsing the principles Suga-sensei had stressed in his wartime bamboo-spear drills for neighborhood women.

  Adopt a strong stance.

  The lock’s mechanism clicked into place. The shed door slid open. Yahiro loomed at the opening, peering into the shadows. He spotted her and broke into a leering grin, eyes and teeth catching the dirty light. “Oh ho.” He slipped his knife from its scabbard. “Little bird has a beak.”

  He stepped into the shed and closed the door behind him. Crouching, he edged toward her, eyes fixed on her weapon. Moonlight glinted off his blade. “You are going to sing for me tonight, little bird.”

  She took a half step away from the wall, breath whistling through her teeth. Soft knees. Engage your thigh muscles. Use your whole body.

  She took a deep breath and lunged, jabbing the shears point first at his belly. He snapped them aside with a quick forearm block. Twisting his arm around the handle, he grasped the shears midway along the shaft and gave them a yank. She hung on for an instant, but it was tug-of-war and he won. She let go and slammed against the wall.

  The fear that hunted her clutched at her again. It was the redheaded G.I. with his tickets. The taloned beast from her nightmare, snarling and snuffling. The police sergeant, squeezing her throat.

  But this time it was Yahiro, sick passion fueling a hellish fire behind his eyes. With a bare knife in his right fist and the pruning shears—a weapon as fierce as a samurai’s pike—in his left.

  Well, she was through being helpless prey. She was going to beat him off this time. Or he would have to kill her.

  A sturdy-looking shovel lay along the wall beside her feet. She plucked it off the floor, clenched her fists around the handle, and stretched it like a staff in front of her chest.

  He chuckled like a fiend and feinted with the knife. She side-stepped out of his way.

  One chance at this. Has to count. Like in her dream.

  He edged toward her, his knife threatening from one side. He jabbed the tip of the shears from the other. She stepped back into a crouch and eyed him.

  A predatory grin split his face. “Sing, little bird.” Excitement throbbed in his voice. He pricked the tip of the shears at her ribs again.

  She cracked the shovel’s handle down on his elbow, and he cried out. She sprang at him with adrenaline-born power and slammed the blade into his face.

  He lurched back, his features a contorted snarl. “You’ll pay for that.”

  Not if I can help it. She brought the shovel up behind her shoulders like a baseball bat and swung. He lifted an arm to block the blade, but the shovel had too much momentum. It struck the side of his head with a crack. He put a hand to his temple and glared at her.

  Che! Here he comes. She heaved the shovel behind her shoulders again.

  But then he stopped. His eyes went vacant. A fleck of saliva foamed at the corner of his pudgy lips.

  She firmed her grip on the handle and lobbed the shovel across his head. He teetered, crumpled against a bag of fertilizer, and sagged onto the floor. The knife slipped between his fingers. He twitched once, then stopped moving.

  Her heart ballooned with fierce pride. She’d won.

  He looked almost harmless, slack-featured on the floor. She groped in the corner for the napkin they’d used to gag her. She found it in a clump behind the bag of gravel. His head was thicker than hers, but the napkin was just big enough to gag him.

  She knelt beside him and looked down—into his eyes. He mouthed something.

  She dropped the napkin and sprang to her feet. Forcing down her panic, she picked up the shovel and brandished it above her shoulder. They stared at each other.

  If I kill him, the police will come looking for me. She couldn’t afford that.

  He let out a moan. She held the shovel at ready. If he so much as twitches my direction, I’ll club him to a pulp.

  His eyes rolled back and closed again, and his head lolled to the side. She didn’t dare try the gag again. He was out for the moment, but every second was borrowed time. She pocketed his knife, grabbed the shears, and slid the door open.

  15 January 1944, Nanking, China

  636 Days Captive

  Dave was at work honing the nail’s tip. Footsteps and guttural voices sounded in the corridor outside his cell. He jammed it beneath his blankets and went to stand near the door.

  I’ll have my usual.

  Right on cue, a guard slid the upper slot open, spied on him for a moment, then opened the lower slot and pushed a small tin tray through. No surprises, unfortunately. He picked up the tray and carried it to his desk. Found his place in the book again and brought the broth to his lips.

  But the broth sloshed, slicking his fingers, and he lost his grip on
the cup. Soup spilled over his prison uniform. The cup clattered onto the floorboards.

  He swore. He wasn’t going to get any more soup.

  He picked up the cup. And saw crude letters etched across its base.

  CONNIE G BATTLES

  US MARINES

  His hand shook so hard he almost dropped the cup again. He set it on the tray in slow motion.

  Ever since they’d left Tom behind at the Kiangwan camp, the Japs had them so isolated they could have been buried alive. That cup was a fissure in their crypt. There was—or had been?—at least one other American in the camp. If Battles was still here, Dave had a way to communicate with him. A way to get the word out that he and his fellow Raiders were alive. A way to make the Japanese accountable for what became of them.

  He let loose a low whistle. How many minutes did he have before a guard came around? He slurped down his tea, then checked the bottom of the teacup. Blank.

  He retrieved the nail and sat down with the teacup. His fingers shook, and his pulse drummed in his ears, but working fast, he managed to scratch all their names in tiny letters on the bottom.

  WATT DELHAM

  VITIOLLO NIELSEN

  DOOLITTLE RAID 4/18/42

  He put the cup on the tray and took several deep breaths. Willed his pulse to slow.

  How likely was it an American would see his inscription before some Jap did?

  The more he thought about his odds the less he liked them. But this was worth any risk he had to take.

  Over the course of the next couple days, Dave found opportunities to whisper the good news to the men. He encouraged them to check their dishes for messages.

  They’d come up with a means of communicating when the guards were out of earshot. Morse code, through the walls. Knock for dot, scratch for dash—Meder’s invention, of course. A day or so later, Nielsen knock-scratched some news.