Tal faced the two dozen barracks. Every head crammed into a window or opening was riveted on him. Seventy yards off, motionless in the doorway of his own barracks, stood his father. Old McElway held Remy back.
The charging guards shouted, closing fast. From his doorway, Remy shook a fist. Good enough, Tal thought. This was for Remy and the rest, and especially for her, because he could do it and it had to be done. Tal drew a deep breath to steel himself.
He thrust the cigarette pack high over his head, where she could see it. She was in her window in her red robe. Tal wanted to run through the camp, stop beneath her sill and toss the smokes up to her like roses, just to give her something because no matter what little he had, she surely had less. In six months, they’d seen each other every day. Always she seemed worn, but was never less than beautiful and that made her heroic. She perked up whenever she saw him. They made little waves to each other, lifted chins. He’d winked but had never gotten near enough to see if she’d returned it. They’d never spoken. This morning, if he could run right up to the barbed wire below her window and shout “Hello” and “What’s your name?” what more could the guards do? He was already in dutch.
Six Japanese galloped his way. Two had rifle stocks poised to crack him. Tal had only moments left. No sense wasting good smokes after all the trouble MacArthur had gone through to deliver them.
Tal tore quickly at the pack and shook one out on his lips. He flipped open his silver Zippo to flick for a flame. He’d stolen this lighter two years ago from a Japanese who’d left it on a tabletop close to an open window. Tal hoped for a light on the first try. The guards were only yards away and not slowing. The Zippo scratched and fired. Tal lit up the smoke. He blew as big a cloud as he could into the faces of the guards, and made them run through it to tackle him.
~ * ~
Flanked by four armed guards, Tal entered Major Toshiwara’s office, leaving outside the silent crowd that had followed from the field. Remy walked at the front of the gathering beside Mr. Lucas, the youngest member of the Internee Committee.
The commandant’s office was sparse save for a desk with no papers, a lamp, a tiny bonsai in a clay pot, and a porcelain rice bowl branded with the rising sun. The commandant’s fan oscillated, looking for him in the empty chair.
Tal still throbbed from the thumping these small guards had given him on the grass. He’d balled up and taken it. Nothing was broken—they hadn’t pounded him with real enthusiasm—but his ribs ached from a rifle butt and his ears rang. Though none of the guards smiled now, neither did they seem particularly interested in continuing hostilities. All four were much older than Tal.
A quiet rap sounded on the office door. Mr. Lucas stepped inside. The man, lanky and balding with a sharp face, shook a censorious nose at Tal while moving to a corner. The room had grown warm and close. The whirring fan did not alleviate this.
After minutes, Tal had not sweated but the guards perspired, browning their khaki tunics at the pits and collars. These four had run, yelled, and clouted while Tal hadn’t exerted himself beyond a quick stroll into the field, then covering up while they whaled on him until Mr. Lucas and his father begged them to get off.
Toshiwara entered. The little commandant stared straight ahead at his waiting chair, avoiding eye contact until he was seated. At his rear came Lieutenant Nagata, second in command of the camp. Stocky and seething, Nagata planted himself in front of Tal. He dropped his right shoulder, badly telegraphing the binta. Tal braced and withstood the slap with a straight spine. Nagata cocked his hand for another wallop. He bellowed, “Rei!”
Tal dipped the burn in his cheek toward the floor, bowing at the waist ninety degrees, hands at his sides. Behind him, Mr. Lucas took the same posture.
The commandant spoke in a weary voice. “Jubun” Nagata, called off, took a backward step.
Tal straightened, fixing his eyes well over the head of Nagata. The short guard spun away, taking his place behind Toshiwara.
Another guard entered. This one stood as tall as Tal. Toshiwara waited in and out of the fans swinging breeze. He fingered his bonsai, releasing a long breath through his nose.
“Fuson”
Behind the commandant, the tall guard translated.
“Insolence.”
The commandant laid his hands on the desk. He looked onto the backs of them while he spoke. Tal listened to the translation, gazing at the top of Toshiwara’s gray head.
“What can be done? I am called from my garden to discuss insolence.”
The commandant tapped his chin. After moments, he pointed at Tal.
“You believe yourself to be a young samurai. I can see this. You are a warrior in your heart. I respect this. In return, I will give you a lesson today.”
“Commandant . . .” At the rear of the room, Mr. Lucas took a step. Nagata heaved up an open palm to warn him from making another move. The committee man stilled. The commandant never averted his eyes from Tal. Behind him, the tall soldier continued to interpret.
“A samurai has courage, yes. But he uses this only in the name of his master. He does not flout authority. You are a prisoner in Japanese-held territory. We are the masters in this land. Yet you feel no embarrassment in this. You walk into the field to smoke a cigarette dropped by an American plane, to embarrass us instead. A samurai may never accept his defeat, or his disgrace, but he will take his proper place. He plots revenge, yes, but shrewdly. He does not do it with such crudeness, so openly.”
On all sides of Tal, the guards, even the interpreter, nodded. Only Nagata stood inert as a gargoyle, hands locked behind his back. Tal’s cheek sizzled from the binta.
The commandant continued. “You wish to earn respect. From the people in the camp. From your father. But I know you to be a thief. Lucas has told me this, others as well. A samurai does no such dishonorable thing as thievery. Honor is above everything, even life. Loyalty to a principle. This is Bushido.”
The commandant was done speaking directly to Tal. He cast his eyes again on the petite perfection of his bonsai tree. He stroked the tiny branches, spoke to the simple clay pot.
“You think you understand suffering, young Tuck. You believe much is warranted in its name. This is true. The samurai builds force of will from misery, it strengthens his belly, knocks away the rust of the body. Once you are at peace with suffering, you will find honor.”
The commandant smoothed his hand across the emerald of the tree as if over the crown of a child. The fan cooled him as best it could. Like Tal, the commandant did not sweat. This was worrisome.
Lucas spoke. “Commandant.”
Toshiwara did not look up from his plant to respond. “Nan desu ka?”
“The boy will be punished by the Internee Committee. Let us handle our own. His actions will get him an adequate sentence. You have my word.”
The interpreter turned Lucas’s words into a monotone, devoid of the committee man’s attempt at authority. The commandant awaited the translation. Then the interpreter spoke for him:
“Adequate, perhaps, but the insult was directed at Japan. So Japan will decide what is adequate in this instance. And what is instructional.”
Lucas was undeterred. “Commandant, with respect, that’s a violation of a long-standing agreement we have had with other commandants and with you. The Japanese handle matters of security. The Internee Committee is in charge of administration. The boy did nothing to breach the security of the camp. That makes this a civilian matter for the internees to deal with. We will punish the boy.”
The commandant rose in the middle of the interpreter’s words. “Nagata?”
The stumpy lieutenant grunted, “Hai”
Without another word or glance, the commandant walked out of the room. The click of the closing door set Nagata in motion. He gestured to be followed outside.
Mr. Lucas said, “I protest.” The interpreter did not translate this.
Tal pivoted amid the four guards around him. They marched him from the office. T
he waiting crowd remained in the hundreds. Shadows slanted in the warm early sun. Remy in his battered hat had not moved.
The guards rushed Tal past his father. Nagata strode in front with a military cadence. Lucas stayed behind on the commandant’s steps to address the crowd. Only a few dozen hung back to listen. The rest trailed Tal, led by Remy.
The guards escorted Tal to the pillars of the main gate. Outside the wire, six more Japanese manned a pair of dirt pillboxes. The men were dank and dusty from standing beside the road, faded by the sun, lean and hungry. They showed no measure of eagerness for the boy being marched toward them for a reprimand. They seemed abused in their own way. With the first barked order from Nagata, all the guards snapped to stiff attention. Tal’s legs weakened to see the gate was not being swung open.
Wasn’t he going to be forced to stand outside the wire on a cement block for ten hours, like Mr. Scheyer? Tal had made himself the promise before he’d stepped out of No. 11 that he was ready to do twelve hours, fifteen. The camp would see, and so would she. This was how he would tell her to keep hanging on, by showing that he would endure also, and that they would do so separately and together.
The tall interpreter moved beside him. “Yours will be a different penalty.”
Tal’s father and the crowd had been stopped from following. They stood back in a quiet, hardened picket.
“Walk here,” the interpreter said. He led Tal to one of the concrete posts framing the gate. “Raise your hands.” The interpreter’s manner stayed emotionless.
Tal hoisted his arms. The interpreter laid a palm against his back to make him step forward, put his arms around the post. Nagata spat another command. One guard outside the wire removed his leather belt. He wrapped this around Tal’s wrists, securing him to the pillar.
Tal focused on his breathing to fend off panic. His bladder stung with urine suddenly pressing to be relieved. He tightened his gut against it, refusing to add that humiliation. He filled his lungs and held, to stop from panting. He balled fists on either side of the post and squeezed.
Nagata moved close. He spoke in Japanese, words the interpreter did not bother to reveal. Tal assumed it was a pronouncement of punishment.
Nagata tugged out his own leather belt. He held it up for Tal to examine. He stepped to Tal’s rear, out of sight.
Tal had only moments. Once the beating started, he’d be unable to gird his body more. This had all gotten out of hand. He found his father at the head of the gathering, held at bay by the guards.
Remy spread empty hands in front of him, implying, This is a waste, boy, what are you doing?
The first lash from Nagata struck between his shoulder blades. Tal’s threadbare shirt did nothing to cushion the strap. With little flesh on his frame, the belt beat against his bones. He felt the shock in his teeth and in his heels.
Tal turned his head behind him, into the camp, to her building. He glared at Remy. In distress, his father ran both hands through his hair. Remy looked down the wire fence, for the red robe in the third-floor window.
He shook his head. No.
With the second flail of the belt, tears welled in Tal’s eyes. He fleered his lips and grit his teeth. He buried his head beneath one raised arm, stuck his nose in his armpit, and kept it there while Nagata beat him, first across the back, then on the buttocks and against his bare calves. With every blow Tal growled into his own shoulder, made the noises of an angry, whipped dog, and made himself remember it.
Nagata thrashed him a long time. When Tal’s hands were finally untied and lowered, he could not form a sentence or a coherent thought. He could only summon willpower to keep his knees from buckling. The Japanese left him by the gate pillar. Blurry, Tal watched them walk off without understanding that he was no longer being beaten. The pain from neck to ankles had not quit. Tal swayed forward. He did not know where he might go or why but sensed only that a stride was required of him.
His forearms were lifted and supported, as if he were in an easy chair. The buzz of his pulse and the hurt searing his awareness masked many sounds. One voice cut through.
“Easy, boy. Easy.”
Tal freed his hold on himself. Remy did not let him fall.
~ * ~
Tal woke facedown on a white linen pillow. His head felt weighted as if by chain mail. Both arms lay heavy along his sides.
He raised his head to see where he was. The sensation of crackling, a breaking shell, preceded a burst of agony across his shoulders. Tal collapsed into the pillow, mouth open.
When the ache passed and he could focus, he rolled one eye above the pillow. Tal lay on a cot in a row of four, all of them made with white linens. Shelves of bottles and cardboard boxes filled the wall at the end of the room. An old man lay nearby, gaunt Mr. Goldstein, with rattling breaths. Mr. Goldstein had been an accountant in Manila, with offices above the Exchange Cafe. A doughboy in World War I, he’d been a lifelong fight fan, had managed a few middleweight pugs, and just last month asked Tal if he might like to train to be a professional boxer when the war was done. He said Tal had the broad shoulders for it. Though he’d left America, Mr. Goldstein was always optimistic and patriotic to a fault. Tal had not known he was in the infirmary.
Tal tried to reach to the cot on the other side of him, to jostle Remy. His father snored. Moving the arm almost cost Tal his consciousness.
“Hey.”
Remy did not move.
“Remy.”
His father snorted, squeaking the bedsprings. He removed the fedora balanced over his face. “What?”
“Wake up.”
Remy set the old hat aside and swung his legs to the floor. He did not stand but put elbows to knees. He wore sandals, cut-off shorts that were unhemmed and unraveling, and a brown vest buttoned over a white T-shirt. Remy kept the distance between them. Tal was relieved, so tender was his back that the heat of anyone standing close might agitate him.
Remy pressed his palms under his chin, touching his index fingers to his lips. This was one of his few tells as a gambler. It meant he was sure of his cards.
“You’re a vexatious boy.”
Tal nodded against the pillow.
“How bad does it hurt?”
Tal closed his eyes for a moment, intending to take stock. “I can t really describe it.”
“They give you anything for the pain?”
“They got nothing to give.”
Remy grabbed a drinking glass off the table between the cots.
“I figured. I brought a little something.”
From beneath his mattress, Remy pulled a bottle filled with a strawberry-colored liquid. He emptied the bottle into the glass then brought the concoction under Tal’s nose. The sniff of fermented guava curled Tal’s nostrils.
Remy whispered, “Bomber lotion.”
“Where’d you get that?”
Remy grinned. “Don’t ask your old man questions, boy. Like I don’t ask you. No sense us being disappointed in each other.”
“Got a straw?”
“After a fashion.” From another pocket Remy withdrew a thin reed of hollow bamboo. He placed one green end in the liquor, the other into Tal’s mouth.
“Suck it all down. That’s right. It’ll take the edge off.”
The red mash tasted bitter and had a syrupy texture.
Tal finished the glass. Remy rinsed it out and drank the remains. He did the same with the bottle. Bootleg alcohol was strictly prohibited. A year ago, homebrew had been readily available on the camp’s black market. The past few months, it had grown scarce with every other form of nutrition.
Tal asked, “What time is it?”
“Just past dinner. You been out around ten hours.”
Tal licked his lips, looking for his hunger. He figured it must be there but was hidden in his body. He didn’t worry, it would return.
Remy settled again on the neighboring mattress. “That was some shellacking you took.”
“How bad’s it look?”
�
�Nagata wore you out pretty good. You got a few cuts, mostly around your neck and shoulders. The nurses didn’t have any gauze, so they made some strips out of sheets. You’re already scabbing up. Down your sides you’re red as raw steak. Back of your legs’ll heal all right. Your ass came out the best. You’re a Tuck, so that’s gonna be your strong suit.”
Tal bit his lip. “Don’t. Nothing funny.”
His father held up a hand in apology. He produced a second bottle from under his mattress. “Got you some sabila. Had to play a Dutchman for two hours to win it off him, or I would’ve been here sooner. You were out like a light anyway.”
Remy stepped beside the bed. Tal’s back prickled with alarm when Remy reached down to him.
Broken Jewel - [World War II 05] Page 3