The First Immortal

by James L. Halperin

  Several minutes passed before the hugging and cheers and whistles ceased, and Rand could finally continue. “Purgatory is now your camp, and the Nips are our prisoners. But remember, we’re no longer at war. I know some a you guys are mad as hornets. I’ve hated ‘em as much as any a you, but grudges just ain’t part a the American way. So remember that, and do us proud.”

  Ben immediately found Ensign McGuigan and hugged him. “Without you, I would never have lived to see this day.”

  “Best thing I ever did,” Mack said. “Couldn’t’a picked a better man to pull from the drink. Or a braver one. Every hour you spent helping Epstein treat those sick boys, you gambled against getting sick yourself. Until a few months ago, that could be a death sentence. Now you just go home and become the kind of doctor you were here in Purgatory. Any doc can pass out pills or poke your butt with a needle, but I ain’t seen too many who let you know they give a rat’s ass. And it matters, boy. It matters a lot.”

  Most ranking officers at Japanese prison camps would commit suicide rather than face Anglo-American military justice.

  Taisa Hiro Yamatsuo, however, would spend fifty-eight months in an allied military prison, return home to marry, build a successful manufacturing business, produce six daughters and a son, and be felled by an aneurysm in November 1987, having recalled his short conversation on April 12, 1945 with Fire Controller Third Class Benjamin Smith countless times during the final forty-two of his eighty years of life.

  June 17, 1947

  Ben’s fifth semester at Harvard had ended the week before, but he looked forward to the summer session scheduled to begin in nine days. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and gazed out their tiny window upon the steamy street below. They had no electric fan—he and Marge needed the money for food and rent, and certainly didn’t want to ask their parents for more handouts—but they’d become used to the heat.

  Ben and Marge Smith had been married fifteen months. They lived on a noisy street near Harvard Square in Cambridge in a rented one-room apartment, a fifth-floor walk-up with no hot water and a bathroom shared with two other families down the hall. The seventeen dollars monthly rent seemed like an extravagance. The GI Bill barely covered Ben’s tuition and expenses, forcing him to get through Harvard College and Harvard Medical School on loans, scholarships, and part-time work. Yet even after Marge became pregnant, he was sure they could scrape by.

  “Benny, I think it’s time,” she said.

  The bag was already packed. Calmly, he walked her downstairs and hailed a taxi. Although they couldn’t afford it, he refused to chance the bus. “Boston Veterans Hospital, please,” he told the cabdriver. “Fast. My wife’s about to have a baby!”

  The driver’s eyebrows slid up his forehead as if trying to escape. “Don’t worry, ma’am. We’ll make it.”

  Throughout the trip, Ben held Marge close, rubbing her back and shoulders.

  The fare was sixty cents, but Ben gave him a dollar. “Best cab ride we ever had.” In fact, it was the only cab ride they’d ever had.

  “Hey, thanks,” the man told them, his hand closing over the two silver halves. “And good luck.”

  Ben escorted his wife through the emergency entrance. The walls were clean and white. Even the floors looked spotless; more safe than sterile. While Marge waited, Ben checked in at the desk. The Veterans Administration would pay for everything. Their first child would be born in a real hospital.

  Husbands, even premed students like Ben, were required to sit in another room while their wives endured labor and delivery, so he found a pay phone and called Toby Fiske. Also a Harvard premed, Toby still lived at his mother’s house in Wakefield.

  Toby arrived about ninety minutes later and waited with Ben. Except for the two young vets, the large waiting room was empty. They sat, mostly in silence, surrounded by vending machines, coffeepot, water cooler, and dozens of magazines. How blessedly and terribly apart males were, Ben thought. Vended treats to make them feel at home. He hoped Marge was okay, but doubted she was feeling too at home right then.

  “You scared?” Toby asked.

  “Not really,” Ben said. “Wish I was inside. With Marge…”

  “Instead of out here with the likes of me?”

  Ben laughed. “Yeah, though I wouldn’t’ve put it quite that way…”

  Toby smiled. “What I actually meant was, are you frightened, y’know, about parenthood? And all that responsibility? Don’t think I could handle it myself.”

  “Actually,” Ben laughed, “I’m more alarmed at the prospect of giving up sex for the next six weeks!”

  “Well, I can see how that… Hey? You mean you’ve still been having sex?”

  Ben nodded. “Remember the pennies-in-ajar parable?”

  “Sure,” Toby said. “If a newlywed couple puts a penny in a jar every time they make love during the first year of the marriage, and removes a penny every time after that, no matter how long the marriage lasts, they say, the jar will never be empty.”

  “I told Marge that story before we got married She took it as a challenge! We actually keep a piggy bank by our bed now.”

  Toby laughed. “You sly devil.”

  “Y’know,” Ben said earnestly, “we always wanted a family. Not sure I envisioned it happening quite this soon, but I think we’re ready.”

  “Scary time to have kids,” Toby said, “with the A-bomb and all. They say the commies’ll have one in ten years.”

  Ben was amused at his friend’s bluntness. Toby and he had always shared their thoughts without affectation or artifice. “They’d never dare use it. Old buddy, this is the most exciting time in history. If anything, I was born too soon. When I think of the scientific miracles this child might see… Our baby’s gonna live a much longer and healthier life than you or I will. And see things we can’t even imagine.”

  “I thought you were planning to live forever.”

  “Well, maybe I’m more realistic now. I feel lucky to be alive at all. But my children or grandchildren might. My own immortality’ll come through them, I guess. Which is good enough for me,” Ben said, suddenly realizing it wasn’t true—but easier not to think about. This child might never die, but he certainly would. He pushed the jealousy from his mind before he could quite recognize it. Life was short, and too damn precious for negative thoughts.

  Sam and Alice Smith arrived several hours later. Marge’s parents, Oscar and Mary Callahan, who had the foresight to bring a deck of cards, showed up shortly after that. The six spent the ensuing hours telling jokes, pacing the floor, and taking turns at gin rummy and hearts.

  In all, Marge’s labor lasted thirteen hours. When the nurse told them it was a healthy baby boy, Toby gave Ben a great bear hug, lifting him a foot off the floor. “It’s real now,” Toby said. “I didn’t think I’d envy you one little bit. But maybe I was wrong.”

  Moments later the same nurse escorted Ben inside to look at his son through a large window, and suddenly everything changed. Staring at the tiny infant, barely distinguishable among perhaps a dozen others lying in bassinets, he felt none of the love or even pride he’d expected. The smooth glass seemed too cold and resolute a barrier to penetrate with either hand or heart. His warm breath frosted the window, throwing his own air back upon him, as if the glass had become a cube, closing him in, trapping him within itself. He tried to smile but found it impossible. It should have been the happiest moment of his life, shouldn’t it? Ben looked into himself with horror, finding nothing to be quite where he thought he’d left it.

  June 17, 1950

  Ben wondered how they could possibly expect him to keep this up for twelve months. He’d only been an intern for a week, and already could hardly stay awake during rounds. He’d just come off two straight shifts, treating emergency cases and helping deliver babies from five last night to nine this morning. It was nine-sixteen A.M. as he walked off the subway at Brigham Circle, several stops before his own neighborhood. He headed toward Harvard Medical School, and amble
d inside Benson’s Delicatessen, where Toby was seated alone at their usual booth by the window.

  “Boy, am I beat.” Ben dropped onto the banquette. “This damn internship’s gonna kill me.”

  “Hell, Ben. You look like it already has. Always knew you were a pansy.”

  “You know, I think I’ll enjoy reminding you about this conversation. Next year.”

  “Fortunately, I’m a Libra. We don’t need as much sleep as you Capricorns.”

  Ben looked at his friend to see if he was joking, then strained not to groan or roll his eyes. Jesus, he actually believed it. “Toby,” he said in a rare display of frustration, “Hitler had a whole team of astrologers advising his every move. Don’t you think if that crap really worked, the Germans would’ve won the… oh, never mind.”

  “Well, you don’t have to get all hot and bothered over it. It’s just for fun. I swear I’m not consulting my horoscope to decide whether I should invade Poland or anything.”

  “Sorry,” Ben said. “Bad night. Listen, Marge is pregnant again.”

  “Gee, that’s great!” Toby exclaimed. Then he gazed at Ben’s face. “Isn’t it?”

  “Don’t know. Fact is, we tried everything not to get pregnant. Rhythm, condoms, even abstinence. Which didn’t last long. It was kind of an accident. You know what I’m saying?”

  Ben recalled the weeks after his first child, Gary, was born. Baby Gary had been a colicky infant with an impressive lung capacity. There was simply no way to reason with a baby in distress, utterly frustrating Ben, who’d never been around babies before.

  Marge adored Gary, and would rock him for hours while he screamed in pain. But Ben had come to regard his son as an unbearable intrusion into a life he now remembered with shortsighted fondness. He’d refused to change the baby’s diapers and couldn’t seem to help Marge in any way. In the sanctuary of his work, Ben would invariably begin to forget his anxiety; he’d decide that today would be different. Tonight, he would help Marge more. But once home, the noise, the closed quarters, the lack of sleep, even the odors, would combine to restore Ben’s claustrophobic panic.

  “You’re such a gentle, even-tempered man,” Marge had told him, “except when it comes to Gary. I’d like to tell you that I understand, but I don’t.”

  She was right. Everything his son did seemed to anger him, and Ben had no idea why. He’d once vowed never to spank his children, no matter what they did; there were plenty of enlightened ways to punish misbehavior without conveying a message that violence is acceptable. He’d wanted his children to resolve their conflicts peaceably, and knew that parents must teach by example. Yet once his son had reached toddler-hood, he found himself shouting whenever Gary misbehaved. Then, even spankings had come. These had never been given in outward rage; the shock of them for Gary seemed to be more that they occurred at all than any attendant pain. But for Ben, the horror at the spankings dwelt in the fact that they seemed to be delivered by a stranger who would briefly inhabit his body. He didn’t know that guy, and certainly didn’t like him.

  Over these past three years, every time he’d looked at his son, or heard his voice, or smelled him, Ben would feel almost suffocated. Even now, with Gary turning three years old today, things weren’t much better. Ben felt barely able to stand having him around.

  “I don’t get it,” Ben added. He felt his eyes beginning to moisten. “How can I love my wife so much, and my son so little?”

  “I’m sure it just takes time,” Toby assured him. But Ben knew it was a lie.

  After he and Toby finished breakfast, Ben headed home. Marge and Gary were already gone; for the boy’s birthday, she’d promised to take him to an animated film and then out to buy him more crayons and drawing paper (as if he didn’t already have enough). But Ben decided it was just as well. He undressed, climbed into bed, and fell asleep immediately.

  He woke around four P.M., feeling warm, bare, familiar skin next to his. Marge lay beside him, gently stroking his erection with her left hand, cupping his testicles with her right.

  “Gary just fell asleep,” she whispered, “and I’m already pregnant.”

  He kissed her sweetly, wanting to go slowly, to please her; she usually liked it best when they took their time. But all at once she climbed on top and used her right hand to pull him inside of her. Their lovemaking was passionate, urgent.

  When they finished, Ben held her close and she began to cry.

  “What’s wrong?” She didn’t answer.

  “You’re worried about our second child, aren’t you?”

  “Ben, I love you so much. I know you don’t want this baby—”

  “I do,” he interrupted, “if you do.” Then he reflected on her words and started to cry himself. “I love you, too,” he finally said. “Always will. I don’t know what it is between Gary and me, but I’ll figure it out. I’ll work at it day and night and become a good parent. Marge, I swear to you. I’ll be a better father from now on.”

  August 30, 1960

  For the rest of his life Ben Smith would remember this day in exceptional detail. He and Marge did not make love that morning; Jan had been up too early. Instead, they dragged themselves out of bed to make breakfast.

  The brownstone on Boston’s Beacon Hill was bright, open, spacious—and a cluttered mess. It was built for luxury living but had been forced to adapt to the children, like a purebred show dog living at a junkyard. There were no antiques or decorator furniture, no expensive paintings or Oriental rugs. The walls were adorned mostly with family photographs, dents and scratches, and the occasional crude drawing unmistakably crafted by young fingers.

  Some of the artwork, invariably those compositions signed by the eldest child, possessed an engaging, mathematically evolved synchronicity of design, and a refined balance of color and light. But even these works were rarely admired, at least not by Ben. With so many toys scattered about, it was perilous to walk the halls without looking down.

  Marge prepared French toast with maple syrup and sausages. Ben concocted a huge mushroom, onion, and ham omelet.

  All three older children had returned home from summer camp; the whole family was now together. Ben had arranged a part-time schedule so he could spend more time with them before school resumed in two weeks.

  Rebecca and Maxine wandered into the dining room just as breakfast reached the table. Marge sent Rebecca back upstairs to rouse Gary. He’d been up late the night before, as usual; studying, reading, and drawing.

  But far from being proud of his son’s artistic and scholastic accomplishments, Ben considered his own childhood, and Gary’s suffered by comparison. Sure, at Gary’s age he had studied hard, but not constantly, for chrissake; Ben also remembered hanging out with friends, playing sports, and spending time with his parents and relatives, listening to the radio or just relaxing. He’d never been that obsessive, had he? Hell, Gary rarely even watched TV with his sisters. It was hard to remember when the boy had last left his room at all after school, except to eat.

  Two days ago the Smiths had bought their first color television. Barely twenty-five years earlier, Ben had had trouble convincing Toby that a “radio with moving pictures” was even scientifically possible. And now they could broadcast films in every hue of the rainbow. In a few more years, they would barely notice. Amazing!

  The girls noticed today, though, and insisted the set remain on in case some program actually appeared in color, which none did; most color broadcasts were scheduled for evening.

  Nineteen-sixty was an election year, so Ben, Marge, and their children—thirteen-year-old Gary; Rebecca, nine; Maxine, eight; and Janette, six—talked about politics at the breakfast table. Ben and Marge declared their intentions to vote for Richard Nixon, although she seemed less convinced than he did.

  “Kennedy’s so much cuter,” Rebecca interjected. “I’d vote for him over Nixon any day.”

  Ben scowled at his daughter, but with a distinct twinkle in his eye. “That’s some reason to vote for a president
ial candidate.” He laughed, and she laughed back. Ben would have done anything for his girls, and they all knew it.

  “Kennedy was talking about whether we should send men to the moon,” Maxine volunteered.

  Ben almost said: I wish he’d put himself and most of his family there. But instead he smiled. “Grandma Alice told me some of her friends are worried. They think going to the moon might be against the will of God. How do you feel about it?”

  “I think it’s kinda cool.” Rebecca giggled.

  “Oh, but I agree with Alice’s friends,” Marge deadpanned. “Space travel’s so… artificial. We should all stay home and watch television—like God intended!”

  Everyone laughed.

  “I’m not sure I l-like Nixon,” Gary announced nervously. “He s-seems phony.”

  Ben felt inexplicably offended. Nixon was General Eisenhower’s vice president, for chrissake! An image flashed through his mind of Mack McGuigan risking his life to rescue him. Japanese sailors had often left their wounded behind, but that wasn’t the American way: Ike’s way. Ben believed that Mack, Eisenhower, and therefore Nixon, were somehow akin. Voting for anyone else would almost be a betrayal. “Eisenhower was a great general, and an even better President. If Ike thinks Nixon’s up to the job, that’s good enough for me.”

  Gary cowered at Ben’s tone, but Marge smiled at him, pleased that he was willing to express an honest disagreement with his father.

  “I know what you mean,” Marge said to Gary. “Nixon’s smart enough. Still, if people don’t trust him, he can’t be effective as President. I’ll probably vote for him anyway, but I’m keeping an open mind till Election Day.”

  Emboldened by his mother’s words, Gary added, “Our P-President seems like a good man, but nobody’s perfect. I, uh, read something about him a few weeks ago in the Herald. According to the article, Eisenhower was sh-shocked and alarmed when someone told him half the p-people in the United States have average intelligence or less!”