Bridge of Scarlet Leaves

by Kristina McMorris

  This, Lane realized, was the picture Dewey didn’t want him to see, because of the natural question to follow: If this was how a survivor looked, what about those who remained imprisoned?

  “Excuse me.” Lane edged himself forward. “Are you the one who knew TJ? TJ Kern from Boyle Heights?”

  The patient turned his sunken eyes in Lane’s direction, studying him, not answering.

  Lane removed his damp garrison cap and continued, “My name’s—”

  “Tomo,” Vince finished.

  The nickname gripped Lane’s throat. “That’s right,” he said softly.

  “Thought as much.” Vince leveraged his weight onto his bony elbow. Then he offered his hand, and a heavy smile touched his dry lips. “It’s a real pleasure. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  61

  Eyes squeezed tight, Maddie waited for the signal. She could smell the sulfuric burn of a match.

  “Almost ready... .” Emma drew out the words. “A couple seconds, and—oops, wait, a couple more.” She giggled. “Okaaay, open them!”

  “Surprise,” exclaimed the others.

  At the kitchen table, Maddie’s vision landed on the round chocolate cake. The whole group sang “Happy Birthday” with Yuki howling along. A merry occasion if not for the blazing fringe of candles.

  “Good grief,” Maddie moaned, “this is depressing. Twenty-two looks more like a hundred.”

  “Oh, hush now.” Ida flicked the air. “You just wait another decade before you start complainin’. When my next birthday rolls around, we’ll need to put the fire department on alert.”

  Mr. Garrett raised his bottled beer in the manner of a toast. “Well, I think all you ladies look youthful and lovely.” His words addressed the whole room, but his gaze lingered long enough on Ida to make her blush.

  “Time for a wish,” the gal said abruptly, causing Maddie to smile.

  Beside the counter, propped on Kumiko’s hip, Suzie gurgled. Light from the flames bathed her tiny face in orange. “Ma-ma,” she greeted.

  Maddie couldn’t resist kissing the nine-month-old’s round nose. Her silky auburn hair smelled of lavender, her olive-hued skin of love and warm milk. She was a perfect blend of Maddie’s and Lane’s features. “What do you think, peanut? What new wish should I pick?”

  She asked because, quite honestly, she wasn’t sure. Her daily wish for confirmation that her brother was alive had been granted, and now she continued to pray every day that both he and Lane would return soon and safe. These were nothing new. Even her old standby didn’t apply; for in this very moment, as her gaze circled the room, she discovered that the yearning for a family of her own, in an unexpected way, had come to fruition as well.

  At the table, she leaned over the dancing wicks. She lowered her eyelids, inhaled a breath, and wished that she would remember this night forever—so that someday she could share the magical memory with her father.

  Then she blew out the candles.

  “So let’s see how it tastes,” Ida said.

  Emma motioned toward Suzie, cringing. “I think someone’s already checking that for us.”

  “Suzie-chan.” Kumiko gasped.

  The baby glanced up at the group. Chocolate covered her cheeks. Her little pudgy fingers were still plunged into a ceramic bowl bearing remnants of frosting. Yet her deep brown eyes seemed to say, What? Did I do something wrong?

  Kumiko distanced Suzie from the bowl. “Dame yo. This no-no,” she admonished in a gentle voice.

  “It’s okay,” Maddie assured her. “She was just testing it for me. Weren’t you, cutie?”

  Suzie replied by slobbering on her chocolaty fists.

  “So what’s the verdict?” Maddie asked. “Did Emma’s cake pass the test?” On cue, Suzie’s eyes locked on the platter. She squealed with delight and reached with both hands.

  Everyone burst into laughter, even Kumiko, whose occupied arms prevented her from modestly covering her mouth. Her smile was charming and perfectly white, just like her son’s, and Maddie found herself hoping that one day Suzie’s would look identical.

  “Onsan, open mine first.” Emma beamed, holding out a wrapped box.

  Maddie removed the paper. She lifted out a turquoise flowing skirt, sewn from stitching skills she’d taught the girl. Thankfully it had an adjustable waistband. Maddie still had some pregnancy pounds to lose, and her cesarean section hadn’t made it easier. She hugged Emma in gratitude, same for Ida and Mr. Garrett, who had purchased an oval-shaped jewelry box. The Viennese Waltz tinkled upon opening the lid.

  And then came the last present.

  After passing Suzie over to Ida, Kumiko retrieved an item from the hall closet. Eyes lowered, she handed over the blanketed painting. “This not very good, but please accept.”

  Maddie had learned about the customary phrase from Emma. It wasn’t to be taken literally, but rather viewed as a compliment, a formal acknowledgment that the recipient was worthy of much more than any gift.

  This message alone, delivered with such sincerity, tightened the area around Maddie’s heart. Carefully she peeled back the blanket to reveal the depiction of a ship riding the ocean. Between the dragon-shaped helm and puffed ornate sail were seven Oriental figures clad in colorful kimonos.

  “Boat is Takarabune—Treasure Ship,” Kumiko explained. “People here, they are Seven Lucky Gods.”

  Emma added, “Each one stands for a different kind of fortune. That’s why one is carrying fruit and another one has a spear. And that one there has a bundle of fish. The really cheerful one is Hotei. He’s the god of good health.”

  The individual images were stunning, but their collective meaning even more so. They were a group born of optimism, traveling forward on a journey unknown, with faith they would eventually find land together.

  “What about this one?” Maddie asked Emma, pointing to the most prominent figure. The lone female in the center. In vibrant dress, she held an instrument resembling a guitar.

  Kumiko supplied the answer. “That one Benzaiten. She goddess of art, beauty. Goddess of music.” Benzaiten is you, she said without words.

  Speechless, Maddie bowed her head in thanks. She had often worried that the closeness she’d shared with Kumiko following Suzie’s precarious birth would dissolve as time passed. Yet here they were, two seasons later, and their bond continued to expand. The best part was, the more she learned about Kumiko, the more she understood Lane.

  In the beginning, Maddie had believed she and Lane were the same; later she’d feared they were too different. All the while, they were actually somewhere in between. They were a perfect marriage of two cultures. A perfect complement of two people.

  “How about a song?” Mr. Garrett declared, already fishing out his harmonica. “Who knows, maybe tonight we can even get the birthday girl to whip out her fiddle.”

  Maddie tossed him a playful glare. “Not likely.”

  High on the moment, though, she actually did feel an urge to entertain the idea.

  Mr. Garrett grinned. “So what’s the first request? Emma, you got one for me?”

  The girl could always be counted on for suggestions.

  “Emma?” he repeated.

  Maddie turned to discover Emma’s face glued to the window. Lines of concern etched her face, drawing Maddie over. “What is it, Em?”

  Through clouds of dirt and descending sunrays, a taxi trudged up the drive. It was the kind of vehicle that often delivered telegrams. Announcements of casualties.

  Maddie couldn’t recall heading for the door, but in a flash she stood on the front porch. Fear drained her of the moisture needed to swallow. She only realized the whole family was beside her when Suzie whimpered an ominous cry. Maddie thought to relieve Ida of the baby, but worried the forthcoming news would turn her limbs to water.

  Please make me strong, I have to be strong for Suzie.

  It took the cab a million years to roll up to the house.

  Finally the car stopped. Everyone watched as the d
oor swung open, and—

  Lane’s father stepped out.

  Relief spread through Maddie in a heated wave, reaching the tips of her ears. The urge to simultaneously laugh and cry threatened her balance. She gripped an arm of the closest person—Mr. Garrett—with both hands.

  Emma dashed over and hugged her father. “Papa, Papa, Papa,” she cried, as though willing his presence into permanence.

  He seemed to hold his breath while Kumiko approached. Without hesitation, his wife reached out and embraced him. His eyes flared in surprise. Then tentatively, he returned the gesture and squeezed their huddle close.

  They were together again, a family reunited. Even Yuki was welcomed into the center of their circle. It should have been a moment of bliss and warmth for all the people there. Yet from a revelation, a chill penetrated Maddie’s skin: Despite his being Lane’s father, the man was a virtual stranger, one who’d been incarcerated by her race; a father who, in fact, had chosen a different daughter-in-law.

  Right or wrong, Maddie was seized by a feeling that Mr. Moritomo was about to ruin everything.

  62

  Nine months had passed since the breakout, yet prisoners’ commentaries on the story still thrived at TJ’s camp. With Christmas around the corner, fertile grounds for depression, hope was the key to survival. Ranieri’s gang had provided that: hope that soon they’d all have a chance to escape themselves. The only other topic covered as frequently was the camp baseball game, one that had gifted them with a taste of both normalcy and revenge.

  At the top of the sixth inning, the POWs had been up by a run, a miracle considering the sad shape they were in. TJ was rearing up for a knuckleball when a camp-wide alert cut the game short. Looney flew into a rage and a frantic search party ensued. The game never resumed. There was no prize. No winner. Well, except for TJ, who knew in his gut he’d done the right thing by staying behind.

  Scuttlebutt claimed Happy was caught passed out with a flask at his post, where an incriminating hole appeared in the wire fence. Some said that while being arrested he was too drunk to walk without help. Prisoners laughed about the tale, unaware that sleeping powder had laced the man’s liquor.

  Two mornings later, guards escorted him to stand before the camp. It was one of the rare times TJ had seen the guy without the jovial grin that defined him. Initially, TJ presumed Happy was being executed for being an inadvertent accomplice, but the interpreter explained otherwise. Rooted in the samurai code, the guard had been granted permission to perform seppuku, a penance to restore his honor. He had taken full responsibility for the crime, and this alone had prevented the commander from decapitating fifty POWs.

  Happy knelt on the stage in a white robe. He sipped from a cup and ate a small plate of food with chopsticks. On the small wooden block before him, he wrote what the translator described as a death poem. Then he loosened the upper part of his robe and tucked the long sleeves beneath his knees to angle himself forward. As a “friend” stood behind him with samurai sword in hand, Happy gripped a short blade wrapped in white paper. Staring distantly at the crowd, he held the silvery tip to his bare stomach.

  An irrational sense of injustice seized TJ. You don’t have to do this, he wanted to shout. It wasn’t all your fault!

  Of course, he stayed silent, as did Happy while making a sideways cut to his own abdomen. In that split second before his merciful beheading, TJ glimpsed the look in his eyes. It wasn’t fear or fanatical determination. Rather it was a deep-reaching regret, one TJ recognized from his father.

  “So, Kern, when you gonna get us a rematch?” a grimy POW now asked, but TJ continued to shovel the mud, not answering.

  “What’re you—dense?” muttered a GI, working in a nearby trench. “Even Looney isn’t nuts enough to let us do that again.”

  “Damare!” Grumpy marched over and slammed the butt of his rifle into the GI’s shoulder. No question, the prick had turned meaner since the escape. “Shigoto ni modoranka!”

  TJ, too, followed the command and dug faster. The hole he stood in was waist deep. His blistered hands shook from exhaustion. Brown water splashed with every scoop. Another monsoon season had come and gone, but for days rain had been soaking the jungle. Not a treat when you’re literally forced to live in it.

  TJ and twenty other POWs deemed well enough to work had been ordered to this spot, a mile or so from camp. Until completing their task, they were to eat, sleep, and burrow in the mud like moles. A scattering of blue sky today provided their sole break in the monotony.

  “Don’t make sense to me,” whispered a corporal shoveling close by.

  TJ would have ignored the remark if not for one thing. The guy had learned some basic Japanese from his parents, former missionaries in Okinawa. If the airman had caught whiff of a secret, TJ wanted to know. Before replying, he glanced up and confirmed Grumpy had moved on to harass one of his own men.

  “What doesn’t make sense?” TJ said quietly, still plowing the ground.

  “Why are we building bomb shelters for the whole camp? Why not just the Japs? They don’t give two shits if we die or not. And why put them so far away? Bombs start dropping, ain’t none of us making it here in time.”

  The thought had crossed TJ’s mind.

  “I’ve kept my ears open. None of them is saying squat. They’re up to somethin’. And it ain’t good, I know that much.”

  TJ’s arms slowed. He surveyed the deepening holes scattered about. Could they be digging their own graves? If Ranieri’s group had reported even a fraction of what took place here, wouldn’t Allies have sent help by now?

  That’s assuming his buddies had reached friendly shores....

  A shout from behind awakened TJ to a more pressing thought. The fact that he’d dropped his shovel. He scoured the murky puddle. Found a rock, his own foot. He’d just recovered the handle when a grip yanked at his collar and slid him out of the trench. TJ reflexively shielded his face. Past his wrists, he glimpsed Eddie standing over him, rifle butt raised, an internal struggle on his face. This was the first work detail they’d shared in months.

  Another guard hollered, urging him to strike. It was Grumpy, closing in with a glower.

  Eddie tightened his grip and lifted the weapon.

  “Please don’t, Eddie!” TJ begged. Once the words came out, he registered his mistake. He shouldn’t have said the name.

  Eddie confirmed this with a dark glint in his eyes. Being the guard who’d requested the ball game, a suspicious act, he had even more to prove than before.

  “Tate!” Eddie waved the barrel of his rifle to illustrate the command to stand.

  TJ continued to shake, though now from fear, while he climbed to his feet. Eddie shoved the nose of his weapon into TJ’s side. Grumpy continued to watch in judgment. Instinct told TJ to close his eyes and wait for the shot, but he couldn’t break from Eddie’s gaze. Somehow, regardless of the company, in that moment, he didn’t want to die in the blackness all alone.

  Eddie pointed the barrel at TJ’s face. His grip found the trigger. After a brief pause, his finger began to flex—then he stopped and jerked his head upward. A dull roar sang from the sky.

  TJ knew that sound. He knew those engines.

  The revelation spread through the prisoners like a gust of wind. They scrambled out of their ditches. Between a checkering of clouds passed the most beautiful sight TJ had ever seen. An American bomber!

  With the B-25 headed their way, the ragtag group jumped up and down, waving deliriously with joy. TJ couldn’t help joining in their whooping. Allied bombers meant the Japs could be losing their stronghold. It meant the camp had been found.

  Grumpy’s shrieks did nothing to regain order. He scuttled this way and that, looking confused over what to do.

  Eddie merely stared at the sky, speechless as usual, until releasing a bellow that rattled TJ’s bones. Not from its volume, but from the meaning of the English words. “Get down!”

  TJ’s gaze shot to the sky. Bomb bay doors were spl
ayed open. In his mind, he could hear the crew’s radio announcement. Bombs away!

  The POWs were celebrating too much to notice.

  “Hit the dirt, hit the dirt!” TJ shoved one of them into a hole before diving in himself. He didn’t hear the bombs whistling downward, just a series of explosions shaking the earth, punctuated by an enormous boom. They’d hit an ammo dump, from the sound of it. Trees burst into flames. Dirt hailed over TJ’s body, rolled tight into fetal position in the pooled water. Screams sailed through the air—men’s screams. They were being killed by their own side.

  Or did sides exist anymore?

  As if to answer, a B-25 zoomed overhead and dropped another payload.

  63

  One hundred thirty-nine American POWs—all murdered. Lane had tried to convince himself it was just propaganda, but multiple accounts from men who’d survived the Palawan Massacre verified the horrors. Only eleven had made it out alive. With the Allies gradually recapturing the Philippines, MacArthur had sent out a directive to the area’s Japanese commander in chief, citing warnings of accountability for the mistreatment of prisoners.

  Evidence of crimes by their captors was soon set aflame. The POWs at Palawan were ordered into air raid shelters they’d built themselves, then the structures were doused with gasoline and torched in a coordinated effort. Nearly all who broke out were bayoneted, shot, clubbed, or tortured.

  Palawan wasn’t TJ’s prison camp, but the same could happen there any time. And Lane carried in an envelope the proof supporting his claim.

  He strode into the building with a look of confidence. It had taken a dozen phone calls to secure the meeting—not to mention a furlough pass, as well as hitchhiking jaunts on four different jeeps in the roasting January heat—in order to reach Melbourne. Now all he had to do was make it through the officer’s door.