A Song For Lisa

by Clifton La Bree

  Chapter Eleven

  Lisa sensed the involvement of the listeners, and a wonderful feeling of peace and contentment came over her. She had rediscovered the power of music to enrich the human spirit and, at the same time, found a part of herself that had been dormant for too long. She had a gift for musical interpretation and intensity of involvement that few professional musicians are privileged to possess. Lisa ended her playing with tears streaming down her face. She was pleased that the people in the room liked her playing, but she was especially thankful for what the music did for her. She had arrived at a decision that would affect her for the rest of her life. The music had given her the courage to accept the consequences. It was a moment in her life that she would always remember.

  Lisa announced that her last selection would be an old Irish folk song called Danny Boy. When she had finished, cheers and claps filled the room. She turned her wheelchair to face the audience and bowed modestly, moved by their enthusiasm.

  “Thank you. I’m so glad you liked it. It’s been a long time since I had a chance to play.” Tears of joy and discovery filled her eyes, she blushed shyly. She noticed Jonathon’s hospital bed near the door, and directed her chair towards him.

  Jonathon was smiling at her. “Your performance at the keyboard was fabulous, Miss Carter.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant. You look much better today. I hope your recovery will be complete,” said Lisa, eyeing Doctor Day standing in the doorway. “Here comes Doctor Day.”

  “I was worried about your absence from the ward, Lieutenant,” announced the doctor. “Now I find you in here listening to another patient of mine, Miss Carter. Isn’t her playing something special?”

  “It sure is, doctor,” Jonathon agreed.

  Lisa blushed again. “Don’t you know that flattery is the last resort of fools?”

  “Well, it’s true, Miss Carter. Your playing has lifted morale on this deck fifty percent. I heard most of your selections down the hallway. I love your rendition of Clair de Lune.”

  “I’m glad you liked it, doctor,” replied Lisa.

  “I came looking for you, Lieutenant, because there’s a launch bringing an investigative officer aboard. He wants to speak to you about the Medal of Honor. Are you prepared to meet with him?” inquired Doctor Day, as he checked Jonathon’s pulse and heart rate.

  “I hate to admit it, doctor, but I’m not very strong. My headaches are still as severe as ever. There are bits and pieces of the raid that are still fuzzy to me. I’ll do my best though,” Jonathon answered in a weak voice.

  Lisa watched Jonathon close his eyes. “I have to go now. Madame June has told me that she’ll be looking in on you from time to time. Thanks for being such a good listener, Lieutenant. Good-bye, Doctor Day.”

  “I’ll see you around, Miss Carter,” replied the doctor. “There goes a remarkable young lady. Conditions at the prison must have been atrocious. Most of the inmates have progressed beyond our expectations.”

  “Miss Carter has improved a lot…” Conversation was making Jonathon weary. “Would you take me back to the ward, doctor? I’ll see the awards officer whenever he’s ready.”

  “I’ll tell him, Lieutenant,” assured the doctor, pushing the bed towards the doorway. “I could stall him off until tomorrow.”

  “I’d appreciate that, Doctor Day,” answered Jonathon, closing his eyes and turning his head to a more comfortable position on the pillow.

  That next morning, pain still wracked Jonathon’s body. His left side felt as if it was on fire and every movement he made, within the confines of the hospital bed, increased the pain. He rang for the nurse and explained how he felt. She wiped the beads of perspiration from his forehead and stuck a thermometer in his mouth.

  “You’re running a fever of 104 degrees,” the nurse announce in a calm deliberate tone. “Drink all the water you can for now. I’m going to get Doctor Day. Have you had malaria?”

  “Not that I know of,” answered Jonathon, taking a swallow of cold water from the glass the nurse held to his lips.

  “Rest easy, Lieutenant. I’ll be right back.”

  “I’m not going anywhere, nurse,” Jonathon responded in a weak voice.

  A badly wounded soldier at the opposite end of the ward began to scream loudly. He was protesting the decision to cut off his severely shattered arm. He was a farmer and needed it to run his farm when he returned home. Jonathon heard Doctor Day’s reassuring voice trying to calm the young soldier.

  “I understand your position, Sergeant, but if we don’t amputate soon, you’ll die from gangrene that has started to spread already. Do hear me?”

  “No,” screamed the disagreeing sergeant. “I… I….”

  A few minutes later, Doctor Day stood over Jonathon checking his pulse and temperature one more time. The doctor’s normal jovial demeanor was shaken enough that even Jonathon, in his feverish condition, recognized his sober mood.

  “How old is the sergeant, doctor?”

  “He just turned twenty, Lieutenant. The longer this war lasts, the younger the wounded men are. He’ll be out for awhile. I’ve scheduled him for surgery this morning. Now, Lieutenant, I’m commencing stronger antibiotics to control your infection. The weakness and sore aching body you feel are caused by the infections somewhere in your wounds. Drink all the liquids your bladder can hold.”

  “I’d just as soon stay away from that addictive pain killer stuff,” Jonathon protested. “If you don’t mind, I’d prefer old fashioned aspirin. If it doesn’t work, I’ll try the stronger stuff.”

  Doctor Day admired Jonathon’s strong constitution. “I agree wholeheartedly, Lieutenant. The nurse will be in shortly. I’m due in the scrub room. The awards officer is on board. Anytime you feel like talking to him, let the nurse know.”

  “Thanks.”

  Later that afternoon, Jonathon awoke from a long nap. His headache had disappeared and the pain in his leg and arm was less acute. The fever was three degrees less than it was before Doctor Day prescribed antibiotics, and he was hungry for the first time since he had been wounded. The nurse offered him a chocolate frappe with an extra scoop of ice cream. It tasted good, satisfying his hunger and soothing his parched throat. Feeling much better, he told the nurse that he would see the awards officer.

  Once again, sounds of piano music wafted through the ward. Every patient that was awake cocked their heads to listen to the medley of folk songs played by Lisa Carter. Jonathon listened carefully to the light touch the former prisoner had on the piano keys. She rarely pounded them, even when playing difficult classical selections. Lisa had the gift of conveying the struggle between love and anger; happiness and despair; and choices and consequences. There was something captivating about her style that allowed the listener to become a part of the music, no matter what type she selected to play. He heard her play an old favorite of his, There’s A Gold Mine In The Sky. It brought memories of happier days in the rural town of Monson.

  “You have a visitor, Lieutenant Wright,” reported a nurse, interrupting his pleasant reverie.

  “Thank you, nurse.”

  A heavy-set infantry officer stepped into Jonathon’s line of vision and introduced himself. “I’m Captain Gaines, awards officer for Sixth Army.”

  “Glad to meet you, Captain. Pull up a chair if you can find one. I’m not sure that I can contribute anything that you don’t already know,” declared Jonathon.

  “Actually, Lieutenant, I’m most interested in your perception of the escape once the bridge was blown. As you know, all recommendations for the Medal of Honor are thoroughly investigated so that the deeds of the men involved rise to standards established by congress for the medal.” Captain Gaines paused a moment, noting the severity of Jonathon’s wounds and continued in a measured, precise tone. “By investigating each case thoroughly, the Medal of Honor continues to be the most coveted award in military history. Many are chosen but few succeed in receiving the medal. The fact that every man in your raiding party rec
ommended you for the award speaks highly for your courage and dedication to the mission. I salute you, Lieutenant.”

  The two soldiers talked for an hour and a half. Jonathon explained what they did and why he handled it that way. He ended the interview with the following observation: “If I’m worthy of the medal, then every man in the task force is entitled to the same treatment. They took the same risks I did and fought just as tenaciously. Without them, the raid could not have been conducted. If the medal is awarded to me, I want it understood by everyone concerned, that I’ll wear it only on the condition that it is shared by the soldiers who carried out my orders. They saved my life by bringing me out of the battle alive. My driver lost his life in the same blast. It would be unfair to his memory if the medal was only for me.”

  “I applaud your strong feelings, Lieutenant, and I’m inclined to agree with you. I’ve been doing this job now for two years and I’m still in awe of the inherent courage of the American soldier. It’s been a pleasure, Lieutenant Wright.” Captain Gaines stood up and moved his chair out of the way. “I wish you a speedy and full recovery from your wounds.”

  “Thanks for stopping by, Captain,” said Jonathon, closing his eyes, leaning back against his pillow. The medal meant little to him. His final statement to the Captain was true. Seconds later, he was sound asleep.

  Lisa continued to play the piano and rest as the hospital ship slowly plowed through the deep waters of the Pacific towards Pearl Harbor. Physically she was feeling stronger by the day, and her eyesight was improving so that she only used the magnifying glasses to read. Every waking moment she deliberated over the decision she had to make. Some of her dreams were filled with grotesque images of people with Japanese facial features.

  One night she woke up from a nightmare depicting her stomach full of large blood-sucking worms. She screamed and screamed and pounded on her stomach to kill the slimy crawling creatures. Talking to the chaplain did not help her. She had the feeling that he had little empathy for how she thought about the situation. Time was running out and a decision had to be made.

  She meticulously evaluated every aspect of the issue using her own standards of right and wrong. At times she was afraid she was going mad. The baby growing inside of her was becoming a tortuous burden. One day she wanted to be free of it and the next day she would hear the lonely cry of a baby in her sleep. She woke up filled with doubts. The dilemma was consuming her. Days went by with no clear resolution to the problem. Lisa experienced a turning point in her deliberations one day when she and Madame June visited Lieutenant Wright in his ward. They were permitted to wheel his bed onto the deck so that he could be in the sun and watch the ocean.

  “I really appreciate a chance to get out of the ward,” Jonathon said. He was still being heavily medicated with antibiotics, but he was improving. His color was near normal and his appetite was increasing daily. “When I see how badly some of the men are wounded, I feel fortunate. Just being able to eat a normal meal when I’m hungry is a blessing. If I ever cease to be thankful for all my blessings, then God should punish me.”

  “We’ll be in Pearl Harbor soon,” said June, checking the blankets around Jonathon. “We don’t want you to catch a cold, Lieutenant.”

  Lisa was quieter than usual. She had become more withdrawn since Doctor Day informed her of her condition. She had shared it only with June, who understood her wide mood swings.

  “I expect we’ll be parting company at Pearl. I’m not sure if I’ll be held there until I’m recovered or shipped on to the States,” Jonathon wondered aloud. “My wife, Hope, has probably been notified of my wounds.”

  “Where is your home, Lieutenant?” Lisa asked, thinking how his wife must be worried about him.

  “I grew up in Monson, a small town in northern Maine. My wife and daughter live there with my parents.”

  “We’re practically neighbors,” exclaimed Lisa, thinking how appropriate it was that he was from northern New England. “I lived in Twin Mountains, New Hampshire.”

  “I thought I detected a down east accent,” Jonathon smiled at her.

  “You must miss your wife and daughter,” inquired June.

  “I haven’t seen either of them since late 1941. Faith was only six months old at the time. She’s the joy of my life. She won’t know me when I get home,” Jonathon said with a sigh. “Life took on a new meaning for me when she was born. Without children, we don’t reach our full potential. Hope claims that she would be lost without the baby to care for. Little children are our hope for a better world.” Lisa and June saw the tears forming in his eyes. Suddenly he looked tired and drawn.

  “Why don’t we take you back to the ward, Lieutenant, so that you can rest easier.” June and Lisa directed the cumbersome bed toward the door. Jonathon was overcome with memories of home and family. Lisa excused herself after they had placed his bed in the ward.

  Touched by his devotion to his wife and daughter, Lisa reflected on his comments about the value of children. Normally, she would have agreed with his assessment, but her situation was unique. A child should be the product of a man and woman in love with each other. Was it fair for her to bring a child into the world without a father to love it? Also, was it fair for her to subject a child to ridicule and possible hatred because of its ancestry when the child had nothing to say about that? These questions ran through her head hourly without any answers.

  After hours of praying and deep self-analysis, Lisa arrived at a decision. Five minutes later, she was sitting in Doctor Day’s office. He led her into the examination room and gave her a thorough physical examination. She had come to respect the kind and gentle doctor and was prepared to share her thoughts with him.

  “I’ve reached a decision about the baby I’m carrying, Doctor Day,” she announced with a tilt of her chin. “I’ve decided to keep the baby. I know that the father was a contemptible beast, but the child cannot be held responsible for him. I have the power of ending a life or giving it birth. It will be my responsibility to not only give the child birth, but to love and nurture him or her. I believe the child deserves a chance to live. There has been so much death and destruction these past few years. Maybe I’m making a mistake, but since I’ve made up my mind, I’ve found a peace and sense of self-worth that is comforting to me.”

  Doctor Day calmly listened to Lisa’s explanation. Tears welled in her eyes. He hugged the fragile lady and passed her some tissues. “Let the tears come, dear lady. Your decision has confirmed my faith in mankind. What a glorious day this is! I understand how agonizing your decision has been, and I agree with you one hundred percent. I also know that your decision may cause you pain and anguish at times. From what I’ve been able to observe, young lady, I believe you have that reservoir of strength to rise to any challenge. I have two favors to ask of you, Lisa.”

  “I’ll answer them if I can.” She wiped her eyes.

  “Would you consider it out of line if I asked you to be the child’s Godfather? And would you keep me advised of how things are going for you? This war isn’t going to last forever. When it’s over, I plan to return to Boston to resume my practice. Will you extend me and my wife the privilege of being friends? I would also consider it a privilege if you would allow me to be your family doctor!”

  Chapter Twelve

  Five years later—June 24, 1950

  Lisa and her four-and-a-half-year-old son, Terry, were riding in her 1947 Studebaker Champion automobile on their way back from Boston to Lisa’s childhood home in Twin Mountains. Her mother and father had passed away while she was in captivity during the war, and her sister Angeline had maintained the family homestead since their death. When Lisa returned home at war’s end, Angeline insisted that she live in the house.

  Lisa looked at her young son sleeping on the seat beside her and took his tiny hand in hers. The small boy reflected his Japanese heritage with angular facial features and eyes, though they were softer than a pure-blood Japanese. He was a Eurasian, a half-breed with Asian
and Caucasian blood. Lisa did not see the Japanese heritage when she looked at him, instead she saw a product of her womb. She had given him life and nurtured him and was teaching him the values she lived by. The only thing Japanese about him was his eyes. Beyond that he was as much American as any child in his kindergarten class at Twin Mountains. Regardless of how others perceived him, Terry was her pride and joy. He gave meaning to the difficult years she had spent since being released from the prison camp on Luzon.

  She defended him as much as possible from despicable and hurtful remarks made by adults or children. Many World War II veterans carried a deep-seated hatred for anything remotely Japanese. Some referred to him as a little “Jap” and were contemptible of his presence. Other epithets were like “slant eyes,” “Tojo” and one with frightening connotations for Lisa was “hara-kari.” Few of the younger children who called him that understood the meaning of the words, but they were applied to him just the same, simply because he was different.

  Terry was told at an early age what the derogatory name-calling words meant. Lisa made a point of informing him why others perceived him the way they did and emphasized that it was not him personally that they hated. Lisa knew that Terry was too young to understand. She maintained a very protective cocoon around him, intentionally avoiding large crowds or gatherings where Terry might be the target of ridicule, such as restaurants and supermarkets; consequently, they lived a rather reclusive life. He deflected unkind remarks with all the pride his mother had taught him, and would reply: “I’m an American!”

  The measure of protection Lisa could wrap around Terry was limited when he was allowed to have social interaction with children his own age. As a matter of fact, Terry handled the barbs of racial prejudice from children his own age with an amazing attitude of tolerance and forgiveness for a five-year-old. Obviously obnoxious people were avoided whenever possible. Lisa’s hopes and prayers during those youthful years was that eventually, people would accept him on the basis of his character and integrity instead of the heritage he was not responsible for. She had dedicated herself to preparing him for the moment that she was certain would come someday.