C-U-P...B-A-C-K, Nielsen signaled.
M-A-R-I-N-E-S...G-O-T...M-E-S-S-A-G-E
So Nielsen had a cup with an etched response. And Marines, plural. More than one. This kept getting better.
Dave stood and took his best crack at a jitterbug.
The Tincup News Service had commenced irregular operations.
27 January 1944, Nanking, China
648 Days Captive
The cups made their rounds. In due course, the airmen learned some things. Battles was still there, along with six other Americans.
They got some war news, too. US HAS GILBERT ISLES, one teacup headline crowed. RUSSIANS ON GERMAN BORDER came etched beneath another cup.
Dave’s heart beat out an unsteady rhythm in his chest. I might make it through this. If they hurry. Lord, please bring me home from this war.
One morning, his prison sandal slipped off in the frost-slickened yard. He looked down to shove his foot into it. A tangled pile of twigs beaded with clumps of frost lay on the hard ground beside his foot. They must have blown from the plum trees on the free side of the wall, victims of the storm the night before.
He stooped slowly to pick one up. A dozen buds spread along its five-inch length, their lively pink jumping out against the glaring white frost.
Watt walked up and gave a quiet whistle. “Dangest thing, those trees,” he murmured. “The way they bud right through the frost. Almost gives you a little hope.”
“You think Tom’s right? You think the tide’s turned?”
A guard started toward them. Watt cocked an eyebrow and moved on. Dave held onto the twig until the guards called them in.
His legs barely carried him up the cellblock stairs and to his cell. He fell into his chair and stared at his window sill, where Bob’s nail lay—out of sight, and out of reach unless he stood on his desk.
I might make it through this. I might make it home.
If they hurry.
Chapter Thirty-One
Friday, December 31, 1948
Osaka, Japan
Miyako stepped out of the shed and closed the door behind her. But that would hardly keep Yahiro contained when he revived.
She looked around. Bamboo and ornamental juniper. Not much cover. Twin rows of windows along the brothel’s two buildings faced into the garden.
She needed to get out of sight. Fast. And then get outside that wall.
She dropped into a crouch with her back against the shed. Stay low and move slow. A flash of movement could draw eyes. She kept in a deep crouch and inched her way toward the yew trees around the shed’s corner, hauling along the shears. She wasn’t going to leave that weapon for someone else to find.
She’d almost made it to the corner when she heard it—a cough followed by a gruff sound inside the shed.
Yahiro. She dove for the space beneath the yew trees.
The gardener had been methodical. There was a cleared area about two-and-a-half feet high beneath the bottom branches—no doubt the work of the shears she carried. She pressed into it. Needles stuck in her hair and pricked at her stockings.
Yahiro rumbled to life mere feet away, inside the pine wall beside her. Bellowing like a bear.
She froze, pulse hammering. The way he was shouting, he’d have the whole brothel out to investigate. Why, oh why, hadn’t she clubbed him again?
A frantic look around only confirmed what she knew. The only way out was up those trees. And she was going to need both hands. She stuffed the shears into the darkest corner she could reach.
She pushed into the branches and grabbed at one. It folded under her weight.
Yahiro groaned and hollered, his words slurring. “Where are you? When I get hold of you—”
She groped up the tree for a thicker branch. Found one and put her knee on it. It buckled, but held. She boosted herself up. Damp needles dragged at her hair and slapped at her face.
The garden wall loomed beside her, an expanse of smooth plaster. She tugged herself onto a sturdy-looking branch a little higher. She was high enough to put a hand on top of the wall.
Commotion echoed from the main building. Voices rang and heavy footsteps sounded on the gravel. They’d heard him. They’d find her any moment, peel her from the tree, drag her down for more punishment. She had to get over that wall.
The next branch she tried snapped beneath her weight. She half fell onto a thicker branch and grabbed at a limb for balance. She pulled herself up, bringing her shoulders level with the top of the wall. But there were still three rows of wicked-looking barbed wire between her and the street.
She fumbled at the buckle of the fabric belt that cinched her waist, yanked it free and threaded it around the barbed wire. Tugging it as tight as she could, she gathered the wire into a tight bundle—tight enough to step over. She looped the belt into a half-knot to secure it.
A male voice, only a few feet away at the front of the shed. “You lost her? How’d you manage that, baka?”
Another one. “Guess that impudent whore got the best of you.”
Yahiro growled some colorful curses. Coarse laughter followed.
“Where’d she go?”
“I don’t know.”
“We’ll find her.” The second man’s voice was a snarl. “Get up. She can’t have gone far.”
“I’ll rip her limbs off this time.” Yahiro’s voice sounded more distinct.
Sheer terror pushed her up the tree. The trunk thinned as she climbed, and the tree rocked and swayed. Somehow she got her thighs level with the top of the wall.
Footsteps sounded behind her. “I heard something. Over there!” The undulating tree had given her away.
She flailed for balance, then managed to get her right foot on top of the wall. She tugged herself up by the belt and found a precarious perch for her left knee on the edge. Wrapping both fists around the belt, she eased her way up to a crouch, then a stand. She stepped over the wire and teetered on the wall’s narrow top.
The tree beneath her rustled. She looked down to see Yahiro on the ground beneath her, his face a malevolent leer. Another goon stood behind him.
His fist closed on her ankle. “Got you now, little quail.”
Miyako shrieked and stomped her heel down on his wrist. He yelped and let go.
The effort sent her further off balance. She clung to the belt with all her strength and slipped backwards, down the street side of the wall. Her legs scraped along the rough plaster and her chest smacked against it.
She dangled for an instant above the sidewalk. Let go of the belt and dropped to the ground.
Free. Now she had to keep it that way. She took a frantic scan around her.
A male voice sneered from within the brothel garden. “She outsmarted you, moron.”
Yahiro answered. “Not for long. Give me a boost, baka. You come around through the front.”
Yahiro’s friend was headed for the Oasis’ main door to her left. An alley yawned to her right. She sprinted toward it.
Heavy impact and an “Oof.” Yahiro hit the pavement behind her.
She glanced back. She had a half-block lead on him—not enough. At least he didn’t have the shears.
She drank air in huge gulps, pumped her arms, and pounded along the pavement as fast as panic could propel her. She plunged into the alley and dashed down it.
Footsteps thudded behind her—closing.
A streetlight illuminated a circle of pavement at the alley’s far end. She focused every ounce of strength on reaching it.
She could hear him behind her, panting and growling curses.
A few more steps and she’d pop out of the alley. Just a few more—
A pair of American airmen bartered with a vendor on the opposite side of the street. If only she could get close enough to get their attention. She hoped they’d be the decent sort.
Two more paces. Yahiro’s fingers closed on her arm. She wrenched away, put on a final burst, and stumbled into the circle of light. She gathered her breath and
screamed in English.
“Help! Help me!”
Yahiro grabbed at her shoulder. She shrugged him off. “Stop!” she screamed—again in English, for the Americans’ benefit.
The redheaded one looked up. “Hey.” He put down the trinket he’d been examining and started in her direction.
Yahiro grabbed at her again, cursing.
The second American joined his friend and they jogged over, sizing up the situation. “What’s the matter, little lady?” the redhead said.
Yahiro cracked a grin, which made his scar writhe along his jaw. “My girlfriend. We had little fight.” He pulled her to him. “Come on, sweetie. No more fighting.” He tried to plant a kiss on her cheek.
She pushed at him. “Don’t believe him. Lying baka.” She aimed a slug at his jaw.
Yahiro caught her wrist and held it fast, a lethal fire behind his eyes.
The dark-haired American glared at him and squared his shoulders. “Hey, jerk. Do the lady a favor and take off.”
Yahiro’s eyes darted around, no doubt observing the dozen or more gaijin in plain view along the street. The second gangster came up behind him, a short distance back, still in the shadows.
She worked at twisting her wrist from Yahiro’s grasp. “Let go of me. Now.”
He squeezed it harder, giving her an oily smile. “Okay, baby. If that’s how you want it. But don’t worry.” He bowed over her hand and grazed her wrist with his lips. He looked up into her face. “You’ll hear from me later. I promise.” He let her break away.
She wiped her wrist on her coat, then brushed two or three pine needles out of her hair.
Yahiro and his friend slipped into the alley. The redhead watched them go. He circled an arm around her waist. “You look like you’ve had one heck of a night. My name’s Pat. What’s yours?”
“Midori.” She gave him a bright smile, hoping he wouldn’t notice how filthy her coat was. He followed her fingers with his eyes as she unbuttoned it and slipped it off.
She thought she spotted the gangsters in the alley’s shadows. She fawned on her new friend for their benefit.
Pat turned to his buddy. “I’d say Midori here needs a beer. What d’you say, Harry?”
Harry laughed, not entirely a pleasant sound. “I’d say several.” He gave her a crocodile grin. “Midori. Now ain’t that a pretty name?”
She took stock. Entertaining a pair of flyboys was the last thing she felt like doing at that moment, but in view of the alternative—
The longer I keep friendly with these two, the better.
A sharp twinge in her gut reminded her she hadn’t had a bite for hours. And there weren’t two sen in her pocket.
She dimpled up at the redhead.
26 February 1944, Nanking, China
678 Days Captive
Book exchange day. Next up for Dave was the Bible. He’d been doing warm-up rounds with the other Nanking Book Club selections for weeks. Time now to take on the heavyweight.
It was Cyclops who brought it to his door. He slipped the Bible through Dave’s food slot, same as the other books. But being bigger and heavier, it slid to the floor and fell open. Like his mother’s fell on the floor of their parlor the day after Jenny’s funeral. Dad had ripped it from her hands and flung it.
Mom gave a sharp little cry.
“Enough of this idiocy.” Dad stared at her, his expression savage. “Time for you to give up these silly delusions. Your all-seeing, all-knowing, all-powerful God didn’t help Jenny. He’s not going to help you.”
Dave had picked the Bible up off the parquet. Held it in his hands, the void from Jenny’s death giving way to a different emotion—cold rage. He couldn’t decide who he hated more.
Dad, for treating Mom like that.
Or God, for letting her—and Jenny—down.
Like that day in the parlor, he rescued the Bible from his cell floor. Slipped the smaller book he’d been reading out through the slot.
He thanked Cyclops and opened the Bible near the middle. Psalms. Where was the one Watt read in the yard, about the shadow of death?
It came to him with an ease that surprised him. Psalm Twenty-Three.
He flipped to the passage. 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.
Thou art with me?
He’d never felt more alone. Unless spying eyes through a slot or a few whispered words in the prison yard counted as company.
Fear no evil?
He’d never felt more afraid. Death stared him down from every direction.
All right, God. Show me you’re real.
Show me Dad was wrong.
Genesis 1:1. In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Friday, December 31, 1948
Osaka, Japan
Pat and Harry picked out a place halfway along the block. “This joint looks all right.” Pat shot a quizzical look at Harry, who shrugged, then at Miyako.
A pair of soldiers burst out the pinewood door, giving them a glimpse into the crowded room inside.
“It’s perfect.” She flashed Pat a smile and followed it with an anxious glance over her shoulder. As she feared, Yahiro and his cohort loitered a block or so behind them. A shudder ran up her back, and she edged a little closer to Pat.
“Mr. Slick there wasn’t your boyfriend, was he?” Pat put his arm around her shoulders.
“No. He and his friends were trying to, ah, do bad things to me.”
“Well, we can’t have that, can we?”
Pat pulled the door open and ushered them into the nightclub. The room was packed with American servicemen with their broad smiles and ringing laughter. More than a dozen crowded the bar. Perhaps twenty more ringed tables grouped around a small dance floor. No chance Imai-san’s thugs would follow her in here. The tension faded from her frame for the first time in hours.
A bevy of Japanese beauties buzzed around the men, colorful as hummingbirds after nectar. Dance hostesses flirted and flattered. Waitresses plied them with food and beverages—anything to separate the gaijin from their dollars. The jukebox delivered throaty female vocals.
Pat eyed a woman’s swaying backside in a pale blue skirt before returning his attention to Harry and Miyako. “How does a guy get a beer in this place?”
Harry cocked his head at the bar. “Belly up, lightweight. It’s whiskey for me.” He put an arm around Miyako’s waist and scooted her toward the bar. “You too, sweetheart.”
“Please excuse me, Harry-san, but I’d like to powder my nose first.”
Except I don’t have any powder. That was in her handbag, which had been lost somewhere between the kushikatsu shop and the Oasis’ shed. She made her way to the ladies’ room, avoiding looking anyone in the face.
She was a disaster—dirt splotched her skirt’s hem, mud spattered her shoes, a big rip was spreading up her stocking. She did her best to brush and spot-clean her outfit, but no comb, no powder, no lipstick—not much she could do about her face.
Amazing those men would even talk to her.
She smoothed her hair into place with her fingers, gave her reflection a hopeless sigh, then turned away to rejoin her flyboys.
On her way out of the powder room, she nearly ran into the young woman with the light-blue skirt. “Please excuse me.” She bowed, and the woman bowed in return.
Her skin tone’s close. Would she? “Pardon me,” Miyako said. “My handbag was stolen earlier. I don’t suppose you’d consider—I know it’s a lot to ask—loaning me your compact?”
The young woman gasped. “Ah! How terrible. Of course.” She pulled a compact out of her handbag, handed it to Miyako, and tittered a little. “You’re very welcome. Kindly help yourself. You’d like my comb too, yes?”
Miyako found Pat and Harry right where she expected them, at the bar. A half-full glass of beer stood in front of Pat, an empty shot glass and two full
ones in front of Harry.
Harry threw his second glass back, slapped it on the wooden counter, and wiped his mouth. “Trust me, darlin’. This is just what the doctor ordered. Now.” He handed her the third glass. “Bottoms up.”
The amber liquid scorched its way down her throat.
Harry waved at the bartender.
Pat studied her. “Did you have dinner?”
She gave him a wry smile. “No, I did not.” Dinner had been the least of her worries.
Pat grabbed Harry’s shoulder and spun him toward the dining area. “Give her a break, Harry. The lady’s hungry. I could use something to eat myself. Let’s have a seat.”
They found their way to a table. A few minutes later, she was slurping steaming noodles flecked with whitefish pieces from a large celadon bowl, an American looming on either side.
“This stuff ain’t bad.” Pat speared a piece of fish. “A fellow could get used to it.”
“Speak for yourself. Not a decent burger on the whole cursed island.” Harry deposited a forkful of teriyaki into his mouth. “They might have a few tasty dishes, though.” He turned to leer at Miyako and slid a glass of beer closer to her hand. “Right, honey?”
Her giggle sounded a little edgy in her own ears.
“New Year’s Day.” Pat leaned back in his chair. “Should be eating baked ham and listening to the bowl game.”
Harry swigged his beer. “We’ll catch it on the radio later. We only need to kill a few more hours.” He looked over at her. “Next dance, toots?”
“Of course.” She gave him a quick bow, then renewed her attack on her noodles until the jazzy rhythms of Twelfth Street Rag died out. The jukebox cranked out the piano intro to a more sedate piece.
Pat sighed. “This one always makes me think of Cindy. Wonder what she’s up to.” He lifted his glass to his lips, a distant look in his eyes.
“Sleeping, lunkhead.” Harry planted a hand on Miyako’s arm. “C’mon, doll.”
The Plum Blooms in Winter Page 26