The Plum Blooms in Winter

by Linda Thompson

  They turned right out of the cellblock. The interrogation room door loomed a few feet down the hall. Zogaikotsu prodded her along with his baton. His arm snaked past her to open the door.

  Another ten or twelve hours of questioning? Bile burned up her throat. She was in no condition for this. She stepped in.

  Just one man sat behind the table this time, his cane propped behind him. Oda? Her gut went hollow. The police captain looked up at Zogaikotsu, his expression dour. “Leave us.”

  Zogaikotsu bowed and left.

  Alone with Captain Oda. She willed her legs to hold her steady.

  “Sit.”

  She sank into the chair, and he studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. She sat very still, almost not daring to breathe. What new doom was he about to unleash into her life?

  “You failed, ah?” he said at last.

  “Hai.” That was beyond dispute.

  “I am prepared to give you a chance to succeed.”

  She stiffened. “What?” The sound bounced off the bare walls. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Why? Why would you do this?”

  “For your father, of course. To live to see his haji removed, by his own offspring.” Oda stared somewhere behind her shoulder. “It’s clear your brother won’t do it. I would never have guessed it, but it seems you’re the one who inherited Captain Matsuura’s spirit, yes? In spite of the fact you’re a woman. And in spite of the, ah, unfortunate turn your life has taken.” He produced a pack of Chesterfields and offered her one. “All the more reason, yes? You can make amends for all that.”

  She reached for the cigarette. “Pardon my asking, sir, but how?”

  “Ah.” He settled into the chair and relaxed his shoulders. “We have it worked out. Your escape. Your next attempt.” A smug smile played at his lips. “We’ve procured a weapon you can handle. I’ll provide the details later. But you can trust we’ve worked it through a bit better than you did last Sunday, yes?” His smile evaporated. He leaned forward, fixed his eyes on her face. “You needn’t fail again, Matsuura-san.”

  She sat a little straighter. Her dream... What if it came, not from the Christian god, but from the Matsuura ancestors? A fresh invitation to her moment of greatness?

  Oda drummed his fingers on the table. “It’s not without risk, young lady. But there’s a chance you’ll escape with your freedom. If not, what is that, in the face of such a glorious opportunity?”

  Glorious. A sense of inevitability gripped her, as it had that night at the church. “What indeed?”

  Oda’s features shone with the nobility of his ideals. “Of course, you must be ready to spend yourself, should it come to that. Like any true-hearted soldier, yes? Prepared to go to the grave with honor.”

  Spend herself. She’d been born for that. Like a soldier. Like her father. Like her father’s father. Like—

  George-san. Her mind served up an image of her blond lover. And of that apple core, wobbling across the sidewalk. Nestling into the muck and dead leaves in the gutter.

  Pain twisted her chest. Spend herself? She’d been doing that for years. To the very core.

  Oda leaned toward her. “Your father wants this more than he wants his own life. I wish you’d seen the pride on his face when he heard about your first attempt, ah? When you succeed, you’ll have done everything a daughter should.” He sat back. The light caught the braid on his epaulets. His braid and brass had gleamed the same way in the hospital the day she ceased to be Papa-san’s daughter.

  She stabbed her cigarette into the ashtray. That moment was engraved on her mind like carving on jade. Daughter. Another voice had called her that, minutes before. A place-less voice. She could still hear its echo, still sense the comfort and acceptance that had flooded her at that word.

  God still has a use for you. Those were Akira-san’s words. The dream may not have been real, but Akira-san was. And Delham. And the guard she’d nicknamed Stolid, with his apple.

  Oda studied her from across the battered table. “You’ll be the faithful daughter your father needs now, ah?”

  She looked into his face—her father’s old friend. Deep gullies seamed his skin, cemented there through decades of ruthlessness. Driven by what?

  Honor. The quest that had fueled the old Japan. That still drove her father. But that Japan was gone. More than gone—incinerated. And in the Japan that replaced it, women had sold her. Men had violated her. Soldiers reeking of sweat and whiskey, with enormous freckled fingers wrapped around brothel tickets, had used her like yesterday’s merchandise.

  She’d been as trapped out there as she was in here.

  Perhaps there was a higher sort of honor. A duty to a different Father.

  Oda shifted in his chair. “Are you ready to go ahead with this?”

  She looked into his weather-beaten face and swallowed. “It will be difficult.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What I mean, Captain Oda”—she paused and took a deep breath—“is no.”

  Miyako sprawled where Zogaikotsu had flung her, face down on the hard floor of her cell. His voice growled from above her. “Seiza, horyo.”

  Hai, she’d kneel. The second she could get up. She squeezed her eyes shut, tried to focus her energy past her pain and into her muscles. Blood pooled in her mouth. She swallowed it, tasting salty copper.

  His boot squelched the straw floor mat beside her. It took everything she had, but she pushed herself into a kneel. She brought her forearm up to wipe a bit of moisture off her mouth. It left a vermilion smudge on her sweater.

  He stood over her, baton raised. He watched her for a second or two, a slight smile parting his lips. He spun on his heel and clanged the bars shut behind him.

  She sat motionless until the echo of his footsteps faded. Wiped her mouth again. She looked around the dismal cell. Holes like this were going to be her home for a long time to come.

  Daughter. The memory of that voice flooded her with warmth and peace. She breathed a sigh and closed her eyes.

  As long as she had her Father in heaven, a cell would be home enough.

  Now. Where to start? She bowed her head. “Lord Iesu,” she began.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Tuesday, February 22, 1949, Osaka, Japan

  Fifty-Second Day in Police Custody

  Miyako stood in a sunny tiled vestibule, blinking and rubbing her wrists.

  The guard she’d nicknamed Stolid grinned, the handcuffs he’d just taken off her dangling from his hand. He bowed, smiled, and opened the door in front of her. “We’re done with you, Matsuura-san. This way.”

  Done? Was it a prison transfer, or the trial where they’d make her incarceration permanent?

  After weeks in her tiny cell, the lobby beyond that door seemed vast. And radiant—so bright she couldn’t lift her eyes from the floor. She could see two pairs of shoes. Two men, one standing and one seated on a battered wooden chair.

  All that space. Those men. She fought the urge to shrink into a corner.

  “Go on, Matsuura-san. Unless you don’t want to be released.”

  She shot Stolid a sharp look. “Released?” She glanced down at her filthy clothes. Shame settled on her like a weighted blanket. Released!

  The standing man took a step toward them. “Mi-chan!” She knew the voice.

  She squinted at him, eyes adjusting to the glare. “Brother?” Was this real, or another dream?

  That beloved voice again. “Excuse me, sir. Can my sister come out here?”

  The guard gestured her forward. “Hai. Please proceed, Matsuura-san.”

  Her knees, wobbly from so many hours in seiza, went even weaker. But she managed to take one hesitant step.

  Akira-san strode to her, caught her up in his arms, and swung her in an exuberant circle. He put her down, and the room spun. She braced herself against his chest, giggling like a schoolgirl. She took a breath. How long had it been since she’d laughed?

  “Akira-san, are they releasing me?�
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  He smiled. “Hai. Let’s get you out of this place. We can talk more in the taxi.”

  The smell of sandalwood in his aftershave and wool in his jacket convinced her it wasn’t a dream. She clung to him for a long moment, then took a half step back, shame pressing her feet into the floor. She brushed his lapel, possessed by a compulsion to remove a layer of invisible filth she’d left there.

  “Congratulations, Matsuura-san.”

  She stiffened. She’d forgotten the second man. Another voice she knew all too well.

  She forced a smile and bowed. “Suzuki-san. Arigato.”

  Her prosecutor responded with a perfunctory head-bob. “The judge has agreed to release you into your brother’s custody. He has your parole instructions. Mind you follow them to the letter.”

  “Hai. Domo arigato.”

  Akira-san gave her shoulders a one-armed squeeze and picked up a package from a chair. He held it out to her with a small bow. “I brought you new clothes.”

  “Ah, so thoughtful.” She clutched it to her chest as if the package itself could hide her soiled garments. “How is Papa-san?”

  A deep shadow crossed his features. “We’ll talk, Mi-chan. Go ahead and change. The ladies’ room is over there.” He gave her a wan smile. “I’ll wait.”

  Her heart caved in at the look on his face. But he was right. There would be a better time and place to hear his news. She took the package with her to the ladies’ room.

  Clean, white porcelain fixtures glowed in filtered light. A small square of mirror hung above the basin. The hollow-cheeked, grimy creature who stared at her from its surface was someone she hardly recognized. A wave of nausea hit, making her steady herself against the sink.

  She took deep breaths until the feeling passed, then fumbled the package open. A blue rayon dress with a modest white collar. A toothbrush and tooth powder. A comb, a lipstick—not her usual vibrant red, but it didn’t matter—even a bar of scented soap and a washcloth.

  Her brother had thought of everything. At least everything a man could be expected to think of. She held the soap to her nose and filled her lungs with its pleasant crisp scent of gardenia.

  Cleaning up in the bathroom carried her thoughts to her old place. An image of Papa-san lying on his futon slammed into her mind’s eye. A pang of longing struck her. To see him, and perhaps be rewarded with some glimmer of recognition of how much she’d sacrificed for him. To go on serving him, if he’d let her.

  She let the thought go. She’d never stop loving him with all her heart, but she weighed her actions now through the eyes of a different Father. She had to.

  It took a few minutes of scrubbing to make herself presentable. The process left her skin red and the washcloth streaked with gray-brown dirt. She slipped the dress over her head, fighting an undercurrent of irrational fear that she’d re-emerge in the lobby to find Akira-san vanished like a mist. She felt at the waistband where the fabric hung loose. The white linen cuffs flapped around her bony upper arms.

  She frowned at her reflection. So much weight lost.

  She retraced her steps to the lobby. True to his word, Akira-san stood where she’d left him, in animated discussion with Suzuki-san.

  “They’ll understand she’s not—” He saw her and stopped, his face relaxing into an approving smile. “That’s much better. We can go shopping tomorrow, ah?”

  Suzuki gave her a glance and a perfunctory nod before returning his attention to her brother. “I need to be able to tell them we asked her, Mr. Matsuura.”

  Akira-san winced and faced her. “It seems someone leaked news of your release to the press, Mi-chan. Quite a few reporters are waiting for you.”

  “Reporters! Akira-san, no. What would I say?”

  Stolid spoke from the vestibule door. “If I might make a suggestion?”

  “Please.”

  “Suzuki-san could keep them occupied out front, ah? There’s a fire escape at the rear. I can take you two through the back office.”

  Suzuki-san acknowledged that with a brisk nod. “Fair enough. I’ll give you a couple minutes to get through the building, then I’ll hold their attention as long as I can.”

  Akira-san held out a simple trench coat for her. She slipped into it.

  Her prosecutor dropped into a real bow, from the waist. “Best of luck, Matsuura Miyako.”

  “Arigato, Suzuki-san.”

  Stolid led them through a double door on their right, then on past a row of lockers. Up a flight of stairs. A brisk walk along a narrow corridor with peeling paint led them to a double-paned window. Stolid shoved it open.

  “Through here. Hurry.”

  Akira-san clambered over the sill and half-lifted her into a gray day. A bracing breeze pushed tendrils of hair across her cheek. An overgrown plum tree spread a cloud of delicate pink above her head, its branches invading the fire escape’s steel banisters.

  Pinks, greens, brick reds. For the first time in months, something other than dismal browns and grays. She took it all in, giddy with the realization she was about to walk free. She’d lost all but the slimmest thread of hope this could happen.

  She had to wait until her legs steadied before she could bow to Stolid. “Arigato, Kusumi-san. I’ll never forget you.”

  Akira-san touched her shoulder. “Shh! I hear them.” He gestured toward the rusted steel stairs.

  Indistinct voices echoed from the front of the building. She gave the guard one last bow then hurried down, her brother behind her. She did her best to walk so her worn shoes wouldn’t clang on the steel. Plum branches brushed against her clothes and caught in her hair.

  The stairs deposited them in an alley, where fallen flowers dusted pocked concrete like pale pink snow. Akira-san hurried her toward the far end. He stopped at the edge of a busy sidewalk, keeping her hidden behind him, and took a good look around. The heady fragrance of jasmine from a hedge at her feet lay heavy on the breeze.

  Much of the tension drained from his shoulders. “I think we left them behind. Although I know we haven’t heard the last of them.” He glanced at her and broke into a laugh, then plucked something from her hair and held it out to her. A perfect pink blossom nestled in his palm.

  She lifted it from his hand and stroked one unbelievably fragile petal. She couldn’t take her eyes off it. A plum blossom. Vanguard of spring. Symbol of new life, in triumph over hardship. The tiny stamens and pollen grains picked up its soft shade in a vibrant magenta hue. She silently thanked Iesu for the gift.

  Akira-san spoke, his voice soft with wonder. “I always knew God had a better plan for you than rotting away in that place.” He guided her down the sidewalk, putting the police headquarters with its squalid memories farther behind them. “Is there anything you’d like before we get you settled at home?”

  Home. She gazed into his face—even his scars were precious now. She shook her head. That single word encompassed everything she yearned for.

  Her focus sank to the pavement. She still had something to tell him. She couldn’t imagine he’d want to give her a home once he knew.

  They settled into a cab. Of all the things they had to talk about, Papa-san was the topic that seemed easiest, given that the driver might listen.

  “How is he?” Miyako said.

  “He’s not good, I hear." Akira-san snorted. “Still indomitable. He won’t see me. But he might see you.”

  “Do you think so?”

  His lips twisted with irony. “We’ll find out, ah? You may have redeemed yourself, in his view.”

  She winced. “To think I once saw life his way.”

  “We all did, once.”

  She followed his eyes out the window, to a lot filled with charred rubble.

  Akira-san’s flat was two levels above the street, modest but clean. He hung her coat on a coatrack next to his and showed her a few more things he’d purchased for her—another demure dress with a high collar, a handbag that didn’t look too worn, a housecoat. “To get you by until we go shoppin
g,” he said. And finally, he bowed and handed her a box covered in silver foil.

  “Another gift? I’m overwhelmed, Akira-san.”

  “It’s the most important thing I have for you.”

  “Domo arigato, then.” She slipped the top off the box. A thick book nestled inside, bound in blue leather, with “Holy Bible” etched in silver on its cover. “It’s beautiful. But what is it?”

  “This is the book that will teach you what it means to be a Kirishitan.”

  She caught it to her chest. Tears filled her eyes. “You are so thoughtful.”

  He rested a gentle hand on her arm. “I can’t believe you’re finally here. What would you like to do? Eat? Sleep?”

  She sniffled and almost laughed. “Hai and hai. A little something to eat first, please.”

  “Do you want to go out for udon?”

  The street. The crowds. Her pulse surged, proving she wasn’t ready. She bit her lip and shook her head. “Maybe later. But if we could have something light here, that would be perfect.”

  He made a grand gesture toward a cushion next to the low table. “I’ll make tea and we can catch up, ah? Without a guard or a driver listening in.”

  The words catch up sent a ribbon of fear twisting through her breast. If only I didn’t have to break the spell. If only I could stay.

  She settled onto the cushion. Feeling something soft beneath her knees for the first time in weeks lent extra magic to the moment. The tiny plum blossom still nestled in her hand. She did what she could to straighten two crumpled petals. She placed it reverently on the corner of the table, trying to ignore the anxiety chewing at her gut.

  Like her old place, the flats on Akira-san’s floor shared a single kitchen down the hall, but he kept a few kitchen things in a cupboard in the corner. He switched on an electric teakettle, then fished around and produced a box of rice crackers, a plate of pastries, and a jar of sweet pickled plums. He placed a pair of cups on a tray and organized the snacks in dishes.

  She watched his every movement, trying to memorize the moment. The gentle homey rumble of boiling water filled the room.