Why bring him so far? They could have thrown him in prison in Manila with everyone else.
A young lieutenant appeared. “Out!”
Zenji’s legs nearly buckled as he tried to stand after sitting so long.
“Welcome to our hotel.”
An old military fort.
The lieutenant moved Zenji along. “We have a fine room waiting for you.”
A six-by-six-foot windowless cell.
For a week Zenji survived on leftovers provided by guards who were kind enough to spit a few morsels back onto their plates and shove them into his cell.
At first he couldn’t even look at the half-chewed food on the greasy metal plates. But by the end of the third day, he ate.
On the eighth day two men came for him.
They took him to a room with a small window high on one wall. The smell was obscene, a mixture of urine, vomit, and decay.
A single metal chair sat in the center of a scarred wood floor with round holes bored into it. Above, a rafter ran the length of the ceiling, and from it hung a rope.
Zenji’s stomach lurched as the guards forced him down onto the chair. They backed off and stood along the wall, faces blank.
Why were there holes in the floor?
And what were the dark stains marring the wood around his chair?
A silent half hour passed before a man walked in, casually. All the time in the world. He wore the white armband of the Kempeitai, and his smile said he’d been looking forward to this moment.
“I am Colonel Nakamichi. You and I are going to get to know each other.”
Let me be strong.
The colonel slowly walked around Zenji. “What is your rank in the American army?”
“I have no rank. I am a civilian.”
Colonel Nakamichi stopped behind Zenji.
He leaned close and whispered, “I have heard that you Americans believe in a place that burns with unending fire. Is this true?”
Zenji said nothing.
“I see.” The colonel roared with laughter. “And so shall you.”
That was the end of the interview. Nakamichi wanted Zenji to think about this place of fire. He knew how the mind created stories more terrifying than reality.
A guard dragged Zenji back to his cell and left him to think about what would happen to him when they returned.
Alone at night, Zenji filled his head with images of terror.
Just as Nakamichi had planned.
Two months passed before they came for him again.
During that time, Zenji was moved to a twelve-by-twelve-foot cell with five Japanese soldiers whose only crime was that of having been captured by the Americans.
This disgrace was costing them between five years and life in prison.
Zenji felt bad for them. He was grateful that they were quiet and left him alone. He knew they glanced at him from time to time, but he never once caught them doing it.
His bed was a short straw mat on the floor. His warmth, one thin blanket. The benjo, the common toilet, was a round hole cut in a plank of wood over a trench. Water flowed down the trench from time to time to wash the stink and waste away.
There was also a small cold-water faucet for everything from drinking to bathing to laundry. It could have been worse.
Outside the safety of his cell, the prison was filled with rapists, murderers, and deserters. Zenji was thankful beyond measure that he hadn’t been thrown in with them.
His cellmates didn’t bother him, but they made him stay in the corner, where rats crept in while they slept. All night long, Zenji twitched awake as the rodents scurried past.
Morning and evening, the six men filed out to the cook shack and stood in a long silent line with their wooden bowls. Zenji gobbled down the slop, usually white rice topped with ground hot pepper, and a bowl of watery vegetable soup.
One night, back in his cell with his food, Zenji paused and looked at his meal. He imagined it was a steaming bowl of udon, the comforting noodle soup Ma made.
What were the black balls mixed in with the rice? He moved into a spot of light and squinted.
He pointed them out to the men in his cell. One guy picked one out with his chopsticks. The small black ball was attached to a long white tube. “Mushi.”
Worms!
Instantly, Zenji’s stomach knotted.
But still … he had to eat.
He tried to pick every putrid worm out. Hopeless. Worm guts had been cooked into the rice. He had two options: toss his food and starve, or cringe and eat.
He ate.
* * *
When they came for him again, he’d been left alone so long he’d forgotten about the colonel.
As the guards dragged him away, his cellmates cowered, wishing they were invisible, praying that they would not be next.
Zenji was taken to the same room. He sat in the same chair and looked at the same holes and stains on the scarred wood floor.
The guards stood outside as two Kempeitai took positions against the wall.
Minutes later, Nakamichi entered, and for a few moments, paced without speaking.
Trying to make me nervous, Zenji thought.
The colonel stopped, and facing away from Zenji, asked, “Have you enjoyed our hospitality?”
Zenji snorted in surprise. Hospitality? Almost funny.
Almost.
The colonel turned.
Zenji looked at a small smear of mud on the toe of one of Nakamichi’s shiny boots.
Not as perfect as he thinks he is.
The colonel kicked Zenji’s foot. “I have some news.” He looked concerned, almost fatherly. “You are in grave danger.” He paused. “You have been charged with treason.”
“Treason! How can you do that? I’m an American.”
Colonel Nakamichi opened his hands. “You have interrogated Japanese soldiers for the Americans?”
“They hired me. I’m a civilian who speaks both languages. That’s all.”
“You are not a civilian.”
“I am a civilian.”
“So … your code name is the Bamboo Rat.”
Zenji looked Nakamichi in the eye. “A strange name. Bamboo Rat. No, that’s not me. Why would I have a code name? I’m a civilian.”
The colonel sighed. “When you lie, I can do nothing … except …”
Zenji’s mind raced. They had good spies in Manila. But they don’t know who I am. They’re fishing.
The colonel raised his eyebrows. “Tell me the truth, and … maybe then I can save you.”
“You can’t charge me with treason. I’m not a Japanese citizen. I am an American civilian!”
The colonel turned to a guard. “Isuwo mottekoi!” Get me a chair!
The guard brought in a comfortable armchair. The colonel sat and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He shook one out, lit it, and sat smoking.
Zenji’s fear rose and fell like a wild sea. He began to sweat. Bamboo Rat was coming up too often. They were trying to connect pieces of information. A feeling like slithering snakes prickled over his skin.
I am a civilian, I am a civilian. There is no other story.
The colonel blew a smoke ring. “Let’s start again. What is your name?”
“Watanabe.”
“You are Japanese.”
“American Japanese.”
“Your blood is Japanese.”
“American Japanese blood. Born in Honolulu.”
“What is your military rank?”
“I have no rank. I am a civilian.”
“Where do you live … Watanabe?”
“Honolulu.”
“The Americans have mistreated you there?”
“No.”
“Do you miss Japan?”
“I’ve never been to Japan.”
Colonel Nakamichi stood and crushed the cigarette under his boot. “Are you not ashamed of that? Are you not humiliated to be on the side of the Americans, and not on the side of your family’s blood?”
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br /> “I am not ashamed or humiliated.”
“You speak perfect Japanese. Why?”
“It’s the language of my parents. I learned from them.”
The colonel shouted in his face. “You are Japanese! Yet you fight with the enemy. You are a disgrace!”
Zenji clenched his jaw.
Colonel Nakamichi jerked his chin toward the two Kempeitai.
“Ro-pu!”
One man left, and two returned.
Zenji kept his gaze on the floor, seeing only their boots and the coiled rope in one of the men’s hand. They closed the door.
The man began to uncoil the rope. The other pair of boots stopped in front of Zenji. “Well, would you lookie here.”
English?
Zenji looked up … and felt sick.
“No English!” Colonel Nakamichi snapped.
John Jones continued in Japanese. “Why do I always find you in some kind of trouble, Watanabe?”
Zenji turned away.
Colonel Nakamichi looked at Zenji. “You have met this man?”
Zenji didn’t answer.
The colonel sat back. “It doesn’t matter.” He nodded to Jones. “Tell me what you know.”
“He’s military,” Jones snapped. “In the Malinta Tunnel I saw him in uniform. He’s U.S. Army.”
Colonel Nakamichi turned to Zenji. “What do you say to that?”
Zenji pressed his lips tight. One day he would destroy John Jones.
“We had to leave Manila quickly,” Zenji mumbled. “I had no change of clothes. I borrowed a uniform. No insignias.”
“Naine,” Jones said. Not likely.
Zenji glared at him.
The colonel drummed his fingers on the armrest. “Ashiga tsukanaiyouni musubi agero!” Bind him! Raise him off his feet!
The two Kempeitai yanked Zenji off the chair. One tied his hands behind his back. The other tossed the rope up and over the rafter.
They’re going to hang me!
Still, he would not struggle. He would not beg, or confess. He would never be the coward that the murderer Jones was. They’d have to hang him first.
Once the rope was over the rafter, the Kempeitai ripped off Zenji’s shirt and strung the rope under his arms, circling his back. They yanked him to his feet and pulled on the rope until he stood on his toes. Then higher, until his feet swung.
The pain in his shoulders made Zenji gasp.
“What is your rank?” the colonel asked calmly.
Tears of pain welled in Zenji’s eyes.
Jones stepped back. “Just tell him and end it.”
The colonel lurched out of his chair. “Your rank!”
“I … have … no … rank.”
“Nugase!” Strip him!
The colonel’s reaction felt good. It gave Zenji the power he needed. Nakamichi was losing it because he knew nothing. Zenji was winning.
The Kempeitai stripped Zenji.
He hung naked.
The colonel lit another cigarette and slowly blew the smoke up into Zenji’s face.
“One more time. Your rank?”
“No … rank,” Zenji managed. His shoulders felt as if they were about to separate from his body.
The colonel sucked on the cigarette, turning the tip red. He reached out and pressed the glowing embers into Zenji’s armpit.
“Ahhh!” Zenji yelped.
He stared through tears into the colonel’s eyes as the colonel burned him again, and again.
“Your rank.”
Never!
The colonel tossed the pack of cigarettes to the two Kempeitai. They lit up.
Jones watched as they burned Zenji all over his body in the most painful places.
I am not here, Zenji dreamed.
An old soul, very strong.
There was a light, a glow, somewhere in his mind. On the other end of the most excruciating pain, Zenji found himself in an oddly bearable place.
Alive and not alive.
In this place he thought of an ocean, blue and clean.
His vision blurred, and began to fail.
Hurt beyond hurt, he floated in a dark cave at the edge of the sea, caught in an agonizing surge that pounded soundlessly.
Rage and not rage.
“Your rank.”
Here and not here.
“You will tell me!”
For a second, Zenji saw a small dog, gasping. Refusing to die. In that moment he knew he would live through this torment.
Nakamichi’s face contorted. “Traitor to your country! You will die! Tell me your rank and I will save you.”
“… Civilian.”
I will survive, and I will hunt you down. I will not stop until I find you. You and Jones. I will kill you both.
The colonel raised his hand.
How many more burns?
A hundred? Two hundred?
What did it matter?
Zenji closed his eyes.
Were his arms still attached to his body?
The colonel waved a hand. “Let him down. We continue later.”
Zenji squinted through watery eyes. The colonel was a blur, leaving the room as Zenji slumped to the floor.
They dragged him back to his cell and dumped him. Zenji lay on the oily floor for over an hour before managing to crawl to his corner. His arms worked. Still attached.
His cellmates ignored him, and seemed to be afraid of him.
But Zenji wanted to be left alone.
That night, lying in the dark and staring at the small window high on the wall, he could see a star.
Its clean light against the black sky, more beautiful than any sight he’d ever seen. It was alone, as he was alone, and that filled him with wonder. Even in pain there was still wonder.
He was alive.
Tears filled his eyes. “Ma,” he whispered. “I’m here.”
* * *
Days passed.
He lay in his corner for hours, until his bladder finally forced him to move. His burns raged, most of them infected.
He needed bandages, ointment, disinfectant. The burns had turned yellow with pus. The only way to clean them was with water from the faucet in his cell, and that water was questionable.
His coarse prison pants rubbed like sandpaper and made the infections too painful to walk. Once, he removed his clothing and shuffled around naked, but the guards forced him to put his clothes back on. When he asked to go to the prison infirmary, they said no.
When he slept, his clothing stuck to his wounds. In the morning he had to peel the fabric away, making it impossible for the wounds to heal.
Zenji’s spirits soared when the guards announced that a fifty-gallon drum of clean hot water for the prisoners to bathe in would be placed on the prison grounds. He could almost feel the soothing water wash away the filth. He would heal!
More than two hundred fifty prisoners filed out to sit cross-legged in orderly rows facing the steaming drum of clean water.
But all two hundred fifty prisoners would bathe in the same water. The tub would not be refilled or even reheated. How could this be? The last man would get oily, frigid scum.
Zenji and his cellmates ended up in the front row. He’d be one of the first! He thanked the universe.
But they were all given numbers on small squares of paper—the order of a man’s bath. Each would be allowed one minute in the tub.
Zenji stared at his.
212.
He waited over three hours, and when his turn came, the water frothed with oily brown and yellow bubbles. Zenji backed away. That poisonous soup would be worse than lying in rat droppings. It could kill him.
A guard snapped and shoved him back toward the drum. “Kono kitanai mizuni haitte sono kitanai karadawo arae!” Get in. Clean your disgusting body!
Yes, his body was disgusting. But the water was worse.
“Haire!” Go!
Zenji sank into the cold scum.
He waited his full minute, absolutely still.
&
nbsp; The next day his wounds raged. Zenji begged the guards to let him go to the prison infirmary.
This time they let him.
The young medic gave a quick glance at Zenji’s burns. “What is this? How did this happen?”
“I was burned with cigarettes during interrogation. The burns got infected. I have nothing to clean them with.”
“Interrogation?”
“More like torture.”
“Do you expect me to believe a Japanese officer would do this?”
“Yes, that’s what happened.”
The medic slammed Zenji against the wall. “You lie! That would never happen! You are diseased and are trying to blame us for your condition.”
“No, sir, I—”
The medic shoved him again. “Get out!”
Two weeks later, Zenji was back in the interrogation room. With careful washing several times a day, his wounds had slowly improved.
What if they strung him up again? Burned the burns? The thought made him feel sick.
Colonel Nakamichi sat in his wicker chair, legs crossed. “Good to see you again, Watanabe.”
Zenji managed a slight nod. Maybe courtesy would work better.
“Would you like some water?”
“I’m fine … sir.”
The colonel nodded. “Have you remembered your American military rank?”
“Sir, I have no rank. I am an American civilian. I jumped ship and—”
The colonel raised a hand. He sighed and nodded to the three guards. Not Kempeitai. Specialists? Brought in to break him?
He braced himself.
Two guards lifted him off the chair and tied his wrists together in front. They flung the rope over the beam and raised his arms over his head.
Zenji’s shoulders still ached. He gritted his teeth, waiting for them to jerk him off the ground.
Instead, they came at him with fists.
Whomp!
In the gut.
Air burst out of Zenji with a sickening gasp. His glasses flew.
Whomp! Whomp!
The force of the blows was unbelievable. Hitting him in the gut, face, kidneys, and ears.
Zenji’s eyes swelled, his broken nose and shattered lips bled. He remained conscious, but only enough to wish he could die.
“Yamero!”
Hunt for the Bamboo Rat Page 14