After a torturous silence, a Japanese order shot out from the shadows. “Let him in.”
The soldier jerked his weapon twice, signaling Lane to move. Inside, the man who had spoken sat cross-legged on the floor. His army insignia marked him as a sch, the equivalent of sergeant major.
Lane realized his oversight. He should have borrowed an officer’s bars. Rank was everything to the Japanese, ingrained by centuries of feudalism. Lane’s T4 grade, a lowly technician, hardly commanded respect.
Too late to turn back.
He compensated by bowing deeply from the waist. He stayed there until the sch waved for him to sit. Once settled, vision adjusting to the darkened space, Lane made out forty, maybe fifty civilians in the background. Faces worn, clothes raggedy, they huddled in nervous quiet. The handful of Imperial soldiers appeared to be in no better shape.
Christ ... how long had they all been living here?
“You are Nisei,” the commander observed in Japanese.
Lane affirmed with a nod.
“Hm.” A sound of intrigue—or perhaps disdain. “So you fight for America?” Not a question. An invitation into a minefield. The wrong answer and the world could explode.
As a precaution, Lane secretly hovered his hand over his knife. “I serve humbly,” he said, “the country of my birth.” He tipped his head down. “As do you, Sch.”
The man pondered this for a long moment. Then, to the closest soldier, he said, “Get him some rice.”
Lane breathed a little easier as he accepted a small wooden bowl. Given the circumstances, it was the best rice he’d ever had. A burger couldn’t have tasted better.
For at least an hour, sharing a lemon soda, they discussed Japan and MacArthur and the tragedy of war. A father of three girls, the sch had been raised in the Kyoto Prefecture, where propaganda evidently ran rampant. American soldiers were believed to torture and execute POWs, abuse captured women, roast and eat enemy babies.
No wonder the Japanese would rather commit hara-kiri than surrender to alleged monsters.
Falling back on his Kyoto dialect, Lane worked to dispel the rumors. Only when the commander appeared reasonably convinced did Lane broach negotiations. He just hoped a mood shift in the cave didn’t result in him becoming a hostage.
“Sch, the reason I am here is ...” Enabling the commander to save face would be a must. “I was ordered to extend to you a proposal. Out of acknowledgment of your valor, and that of your men, my leader is offering a peaceful solution.”
The casualness of the man’s expression shut down. “Surrender.”
Carefully, Lane replied, “Yes.”
Shows of interest from the other Japanese soldiers intensified.
“The area is surrounded by the Allies,” Lane explained. “With your meager resources, you will all soon perish. If you choose to come out, each person will receive rations and clothing. Medical attention will be given to the sick.”
“And what of shame?” A cool challenge. “What remedy can you provide for presenting oneself a coward?”
A baby broke into a liquidy cough, drawing Lane’s attention to the natives. The lives of women and children rested in this conversation. More specifically, in his next reply.
“A coward,” Lane maintained, “doesn’t sacrifice his own worth for the well-being of others. According to the Bushido, the act is a noble one.”
At the reference, the commander’s eyes displayed marginal surprise. The warrior’s ancient code, as detailed by Lane’s father, called for benevolence. Among its other seven virtues were respect and honesty.
“Should you surrender, you will all be treated with the same regard.”
Tension turned the space stifling. Not just from the man’s silence, his unreadable face, but from the thought of the flamethrowers Berlow was apt to send in at any moment.
“I shall leave you in private now, as you have only an hour to consider a great deal.” Lane went to stand, spurring a soldier to lift his pistol. The sch jerked his chin an inch, a sign to let him go, or permission to shoot.
Banking on the former, Lane pivoted around and embarked on the longest walk of his life. The light waiting outside too closely resembled heaven.
He reached the opening and raised his hand, signaling Schober to hold their fire. Before descending, however, Lane braved a final note to the commander. “One day, perhaps we will make sense of this war. But may that day come when we are safely home with our families.”
Still, the sch said nothing.
The captain checked his watch. “They got ten minutes,” he warned Lane. The deadline for surrender was rapidly closing in. “They go so much as one minute past, and we get ’em out my way.”
Sweat drenched Lane’s entire shirt. He stared hard into the slanted opening of the cave, willing faces to appear.
Five minutes ...
He glanced at the audience. More Marines had gathered for the impending outcome. A few had taken bets.
Four minutes ...
Come out, damn it.
Three minutes ...
Two ...
“Well, that was lovely,” Captain Berlow said. “Sergeant, let’s do what we should’ve done from the start.”
“Hey, look,” someone yelled. “They’re coming out!”
Lane snapped his head up to find civilians surfacing from the cave. They crawled down one by one, aided by Marines at the base of the slope. Japanese soldiers came out next, hands held high. But no sign of their commander.
Thoughts rushed at Lane in a flurry: the lack of protest his father put up when arrested without grounds; the seemingly docile acceptance of Japanese Americans when ordered from their homes.
All this time, Lane had attributed those actions to a cultural weakness. Yet it wasn’t that they were weak. They were simply willing to do anything, even at the cost of their pride, to avoid a display of shame.
“Got one more, Cap’n,” Schober reported.
At the edge of the cave stood the sch. His gaze connected with Lane’s. As it held, the man slowly raised his hand toward his head. The pistol, Lane remembered. It was too far away to see, but he envisioned the man pulling the trigger and diving to his death. An antidote for dishonor.
Lane ran forward to scream, Nooo! But the sch opened his hand. There was no weapon inside. He was merely angling a salute. Then he turned around and started down the mountain.
Reeling from relief, Lane bit out a laugh.
Kishi kaisei. The old adage came to mind: Wake from death and return to life. From even a desperate situation, a person can wholly return.
As the prisoners were searched for weapons, a slew of Marines encircled Lane, congratulating him on the achievement. There would be no reward from the captain, no gesture of approval; the guy had already left the scene.
What Lane got instead was a feeling of camaraderie. And for today, that was enough.
53
By day four, TJ chose talking as the activity that would prevent him from going nuts. Not talking to himself. That actually would be crazy. He spoke instead to Dopey, who’d been awarded nightly guard duty for whatever he’d said to the commander that landed TJ in the cage.
Dopey, of course, never contributed to the chats—which was why he’d become the perfect companion on nights like this, while the rest of the island slept.
It remained a mystery to TJ why he’d been spared. So far, punishment entailed no worse than being locked in an isolated bamboo cell in an open corner of camp. But then, there was no telling how long they planned to leave him there. Maybe keeping him alive in solitary forever, anxiety-ridden over tomorrow’s fate, was a form of torture in itself.
“Now, what was I saying?” he continued as Dopey paced nearby. A rifle hung from the guard’s shoulder strap. “Oh, yeah. DiMaggio’s hitting streak. A total of fifty-six consecutive games. Enough to make you speechless, isn’t it?” TJ considered his company and laughed to himself. He straightened his legs out in front of him on the dirt, his knees poppi
ng from the needed stretch. His bare feet could almost touch the cell’s other side.
“Rumor has it, if Joltin’ Joe had hit just one more, the Heinz company would’ve given him ten thousand buckaroos. All for smacking a tiny white ball.” Realizing Dopey wouldn’t understand the logic, he explained, “It’s on account of the sauce they make. Called Heinz 57. Supposed to have fifty-seven ingredients in it, though I wouldn’t take that for gospel. I mean, can you actually think of fifty-seven different ingredients that would fit into a little glass bottle?”
In the moon’s dim glow, Dopey rubbed his eyes below the lid of his military cap.
“Probably hard to imagine,” TJ said, “since you seem like a simple kinda guy. Just splash some soy sauce on everything, right? I’ve tasted the stuff before, by the way. Lane—the guy I told you about, the one who looks sort of like you—well, his real name’s Takeshi. Moritomo’s his last name. Maybe you’ve heard of him?”
Dopey sat down, his back against a large rock.
“Yeah, well, you never know. Small world.” TJ scratched his developing beard. “Point is, he bet me I wouldn’t try some octopus with that black sauce on it. Tasted like salt water on a piece of rubber. Nasty stuff if you ask me.” He shuddered as his taste buds relived the event. “Was worth it though. Got myself a Babe Ruth baseball card out of the deal.”
The timing of the win had been perfect. TJ had ruined his own copy when he’d accidentally dropped it into a puddle during recess weeks before then. He still couldn’t believe Lane had been dumb enough to gamble that card. After all, the Bambino had been Lane’s favorite....
At that moment it dawned on him. Lane had given it away intentionally.
Flicking away the notion, TJ studied a bamboo bar with vertical lettering, carved by either a rock or a fingernail. KILROY WAS HERE. Nobody seemed to know who Kilroy was, or if he actually existed. It had become a game U.S. servicemen played, being the first to write the phrase in every foreign town they reached. Even in war, guys would find amusing ways to pass the time.
“So you must have been the youngest in your family, huh? Had to fight to get a word in?”
Dopey produced a bundled handkerchief from the pocket of his uniform trousers. He unwrapped the same kind of snack he’d eaten every night since TJ had been put in here. A black strip of dried seaweed looped the packed triangle of rice. Thankfully, since Dopey didn’t seem the sharing type, nothing about it struck TJ as appetizing.
Didn’t these people ever get a craving for something better? Like a nice juicy steak? A bacon lettuce sandwich, a side of crispy fries? A platter of Spaghetti Bolognese from Ranieri’s mom?
TJ tried not to think about whether or not Vince had survived. There had been no sight of him, and other POWs weren’t allowed to make contact with TJ, much less provide an update. Regardless, oddly enough, cutting Ranieri free that night didn’t feel like a waste.
“You got radio shows in Japan?” he asked Dopey, whose mouth stretched in a long yawn between bites. “I don’t mean those dumb Tokyo Rose propaganda reports. Something more like Easy Aces. Or The Burns and Allen Show. Those two were a stitch together, especially Gracie.” TJ continued listing his favorites, as far back as childhood. The detective dramas, the Superman episodes. He was recapping the Man of Steel’s special skills when the guard began to snore.
It was startling to see a Japanese soldier do anything remotely human. So much about them seemed robotic. Even their features hardly varied, with their slanted eyes and black hair, yellow skin. Resembling demented men of steel, they marched and killed without question or emotion. Well, besides hatred. And they followed orders to the letter, or faced the consequences.
TJ wondered what punishment they might earn for falling asleep on post. A beating or beheading? Eagerness poured through him as he imagined causing any one of them misery.
He scanned the area through the bars. The trick would be to snag a supervisor’s attention without waking Dopey first.
Then he realized ... they’d just replace the guy. With the way TJ’s luck had been going, he’d get someone like Grumpy, who wouldn’t hesitate in beating TJ to a pulp to shut him up. Probably better to leave things alone.
TJ tipped his head to the side and gazed at the stars. Once again, he penned Jo an imaginary letter.
Dear Jo,
I’m still in this dang cage, but at least it’s not raining tonight. Sleeping in the mud is no picnic, trust me. I wish I were tired. With the heat and humidity, I took too many naps today and now I can’t fall asleep. So I’ll just look up at your stars instead until counting them wears out my eyes.
It’s a clear night, so it’s not too hard to imagine lying on the baseball mound with you again. Remember how you liked the idea of someone on the other side of the world admiring the very same stars? Bet you didn’t think that person would be me. I haven’t seen Orion and his buddies lately. In my mind, though, I can see his belt and sword just fine. Above those is Taurus. And then there’s the brightest one—I think you called it “Seerus.” Makes you think of your father watching over you, right? I wonder if your dad was the person who nicknamed you Jo. Funny that after all these years, I don’t know your real name. Josephine doesn’t seem to fit. Neither does Joanne. I should have asked you that before I left. I should have asked you a lot of things.
What I regret most, of course, is sending you that last letter. Odds are high I won’t be making it home—guys die here daily by the dozen. I was just so afraid of hurting you, maybe even more of getting hurt myself. But now what pains me more than anything is that you’ll never know how much I care. And all because—
A voice interrupted him. It was a mumbled whisper, but in English. The lazy English of an American. Some POW had made it out here!
TJ pressed his face between the bars, straining to search in the shadows. Could it be Ranieri coming to return the favor?
“Ranieri,” he shouted quietly. “That you?” He waited, hearing only the clicks and coos of the jungle. “Ranieri.”
Vince had been trying to concoct an escape plan since they’d arrived here six months ago. Had he figured out a way to sneak out? If not, he was taking the same risk as TJ had, and they could both wind up wishing the sharks had gotten to them first.
“Where are you?” TJ pressed.
Several seconds passed before the voice returned, at a higher volume. “I can’t go. I told them... .”
“Shhh,” TJ ordered. What was he thinking? Did he want to wake up Dopey?
“I wanted to ... I wanted to ...”
“Wanted to what?” he demanded in a hush.
“You can go ... he’s here and—so I can’t ...”
The phrases didn’t make sense. Was some delirious prisoner skulking around?
TJ’s gaze darted back and forth, hunting for the guy. He needed to confirm his own sanity, that the voices weren’t imaginary. He was about to call out once more when he spotted the source of the gibberish.
It couldn’t be possible. Had to be a dream.
He pinched himself, twice. Then the person spoke again. And there was no question it was real.
“Ho. Lee. Crap,” TJ breathed.
The visitor wasn’t Ranieri, or another POW. He was Dopey, the mute prison guard, rambling in his sleep.
54
The best way to handle her predicament, Maddie had decided, was not to dwell on “what ifs.” She could drive herself mad with an endless list of potential disasters. What if Lane didn’t come home? What if she had to raise their child alone? In four months, when their “half-breed” baby was due, what if the hospital turned her away?
And among the worst she could imagine: What if the combined races prevented their child from ever fitting in?
“Worry no good for baby,” Kumiko had insisted while first tying a hara-obi, the white maternity sash, around Maddie’s waist. The advice had come without Maddie uttering a single concern. Maybe Kumiko had read her expressions. Maybe she’d simply been pondering her own regrets. It
had, after all, been the time of Obon. No different from the August before, Kumiko had grown sullen until the festival dates ended. Against cultural tradition, according to Emma, Kumiko had again neglected to pay tribute to the departed. Only this time, Maddie understood the reason.
“Now, why didn’t you say you played the fiddle?”
Mr. Garrett’s voice snapped Maddie’s attention to the doorway of her bedroom. He entered holding a medium-sized cardboard box he’d picked up from Ida. The hodgepodge of garments, collected from the local church, was meant for various stages of Maddie’s widening figure.
“Bet you play a whole lot nicer,” he said, “than the mess of notes I blow on my harmonica.”
“That’s nonsense.” Maddie smiled, seated on the corner of her bed. The quilt beneath her was soft and handmade, warm in dusty pinks and yellows like the rest of the room. “I think you play beautifully.”
“In that case, you might need your hearing checked.” He winked. “Just be warned, now that your secret’s out, you’re in charge of kicking off our next sing-along.” As he set the container down in the corner, Maddie’s eyes dropped to her violin resting on her lap.
“Afraid I won’t be of much use.” She trailed her fingers over the strings that had lost the magic she used to rely on. In the wake of Obon, with thoughts of her parents surfacing anew, the draw of her touchstone had been too strong to deny. Her hands, today more than usual, had yearned to feel the grain of the wood, its pattern like veins of a heart that no longer beat. She knew better, though, than to restart its pulse. Even if awakened, its soul had changed, its voice had been altered. An old friend she didn’t recognize.
“It got damaged from being in the desert,” she told him.
“Ahh, I see. That’s too bad.”
Maddie set the instrument back into its satiny tomb.
“Looks like you got quite the album there.” Mr. Garrett gestured to the lid.
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