The Plum Blooms in Winter

by Linda Thompson

  When it was over, Dave eased himself back on the pallet, spent and slick with sweat. “Thank you. That was...” The edges of his vision blurred. His voice seemed to slur from somewhere far away. “Really something.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Monday 20 April 1942

  Jiangxi Province, China

  This time Dave woke to Chen jostling his good shoulder. “Eat, Dev. Eat. We leave soon.”

  Dave screwed his eyes shut. Opened them again. The squalid room was still there. The peeling paint and rustic furniture looked even grimmer in early evening’s flat half-light. They’d bound some kind of compress around his shoulder and secured his arm with his sling. Amazingly, the pain had subsided to a dull ache.

  “You sit?” The kid was in uniform, tension written all over his face. “Come to table?”

  “Sure. Thank you.” Truth was, the effort to stand made the room swim, but he wasn’t about to admit that.

  He spotted his bottles of rye up on the shelf with his other things. That familiar pang of need ran through him.

  They’d fired up the brazier. Charcoal smoke and spicy cooking odors helped mask the pervasive fish smell. The waning light revealed a new cast of characters—Chen’s family. A wiry middle-aged fellow with black hair like porcupine quills sat on a rickety-looking bench near the brazier. His left leg was lashed to a plank—a crude cast. A handmade crutch straight out of Dickens lay on the floor. A small boy with a cheerful face and eyes that shone like black marbles fidgeted on the bench beside him.

  A woman with wayward gray hair looped into a lopsided bun bent over a table, working long strands of straw into a half-formed basket. The wide-brimmed hat of a field laborer rested beside her.

  A teenage girl with Chen’s features and a braid that hung to her waist stirred a large pan over the brazier. She glanced up at Dave.

  All five of them shared the same broad noses, inquisitive eyes, and—except for the little guy—anxious round faces.

  Fear looks about the same everywhere.

  Chen gestured Dave to the table.

  The cooking smells had Dave’s stomach rumbling. He grabbed his bottle from the shelf and set it on the table. “Chen, will you join me for some not-so-good American whiskey?”

  Chen took an anxious look at his sister, probably to gauge her progress. He gave Dave a curt nod and sat down.

  Chen’s mother brought over a teapot and a pair of small cups with no handles. She poured for them both.

  “Thank you.” Dave tried a little bow. Her careworn face lifted in a smile. She responded with a torrent of syllables. He grinned at her. “Ask her if she’d like a little whiskey,” he said to Chen. “And your dad.”

  Chen relayed the offer. Chen’s mom nodded and produced three more teacups. Chen’s dad stumped over to join Chen on the bench.

  Dave poured out a scant jigger each. The discovery that his bottle was almost drained sent a slight tremor to his hand.

  This better buy me a lot of goodwill. He threw back his jigger.

  The others took tentative sips. Chen coughed, screwed up his face, and put the cup down. But his dad leaned back on the bench. “Ahh.” He gave an appreciative nod.

  Chen’s sister spooned whatever she was cooking into a wooden bowl and placed it in front of Dave. Rice with an oversized poached egg. Duck? Goose?

  The way his stomach was rumbling, he’d have eaten cobra eggs.

  He fingered the chopsticks. He’d never held one before. He picked one up, skewered the egg, and took a wolfish bite.

  Chen’s sister giggled. She led the boy to a corner near the fire, sat cross-legged on the pile of sleeping mats, and spun a top on the floor. The little fellow crouched in front of her and chortled.

  Of course, big sister would find time for him when no one else could.

  Girl’s cute. But fifteen, tops. He blinked and, for a second, saw his older sister, holding a toy he’d owned years ago—a metal gyroscope top, painted in circus colors.

  Jenny. The usual sense of loss yanked at him.

  Feet squelched outside the window. Chen exchanged a glance with his father and stood. He got to the door in two brisk strides, cracked it open, and carried on a low-voiced conversation with a man outside. He turned toward Dave again, his expression unreadable. “We go, Dev. Now.”

  “What is it? What’s up?”

  “Japs in next village. They look for Americans.”

  Dave’s adrenaline surged. “How far away?”

  “Ten li. They have truck.”

  Ten what? “How many minutes?”

  “Road no good. Fifteen minutes, maybe ten.” Chen held his jacket out for him. “Come.”

  Dave cussed and shoved the rest of the egg into his mouth. The young soldier helped him put on the jacket and sling. He was amazed to discover he had limited motion in his left arm.

  Chen’s sister rushed Dave’s shoes over and helped him put them on, then scooped up the little boy. His mother flew around the room, thrusting supplies into a large round basket—blankets and mysterious food items. A few finger-length dried fish dropped to the floor, their heads still on.

  Chen grabbed his canteen and backpack and hustled Dave out the door. The women followed, Chen’s sister balancing the little boy on her hip. The women took off at a brisk pace along the broken sidewalk that lined a row of two-story buildings with stained plaster walls.

  Pete was standing lookout on the far side of the rutted road, next to a small stream that washed through an ancient-looking stone channel. He was equipped with a backpack and his rifle, an archaic bolt-action number. He turned and strode to meet them in the waning light.

  The thrum of a truck broke through the orchestra of frogs and crickets. Faint but unmistakable.

  Chen muttered what had to be Chinese curses. “Come, Dev.” He set off at a lope around the corner of the house.

  Dave and Pete followed him around the corner and along an uneven alley overgrown with grasses. They crossed the village’s only other street. Through another narrow alley between tall walls, and they were in a broad field of weedy-looking plants that reached to his shins. The lemony color of their blossoms was intense, almost luminous, even in the dusk. Chen’s mother and sister had disappeared into the crowd of villagers that dotted the field—a few dozen of them, mostly women and children, running for the forest. Its twilight fringe loomed maybe thirty yards ahead.

  The truck noise swelled. Everyone picked up their pace. Why couldn’t these people grow something tall, like corn? Something that would hide them? Their dark hair and garments stood out in stark contrast to the carpet of lively yellow blossoms.

  Dave’s longer legs got him into the forest before the Chinese soldiers. He halted and caught his breath until they ran up.

  “Japs—at bridge.” Chen spoke fast, between gasps.

  A pistol barked from the far side of the village. Chen and Pete froze, stared at each other for a second or two. Chen’s face dissolved into an agonized expression. He cocked his head to the right. Pete gave him a slow nod.

  Chen led them to a ledge that topped a large rock outcropping just inside the canopy of the woods. It was a superb vantage point. In the waning light, they could survey most of what passed for Main Street. Chen’s house stood at the nearest end.

  Headlight glare washed across peeling, smoke-darkened plaster. The Chinese boys flopped flat on their stomachs. Dave flattened out as best he could beside them, wincing.

  The Japanese truck jolted into view—a dark rectangular mass behind a pair of taped-over headlights that looked like slitted reptile eyes. About a dozen soldiers dismounted, hitting the ground running. Bayonets reflected the scarce light. Truck doors slammed. Guttural commands echoed from stone and plaster.

  The officer fired into the air. Dave tensed like a tripwire. Not the way he’d planned on seeing action.

  Pete braced his rifle on the firm ground. He aligned his sights on the soldier nearest them. He squinted with concentration, but his agitated breathing had the
weapon shaking. The kid was terrified.

  Dave knew exactly how the kid felt. But he pushed away his fear.

  A few soldiers circled behind the structures. The rest split into four pairs and began a methodical sweep of the buildings, starting from either end of the village. One man, clearly the commander, paced the street from end to end. A vicious-looking curved sword swung at his side.

  A pair of Japanese took up stations in front of Chen’s house, with a third on guard behind.

  Chen and Pete carried on a whispered conversation.

  “Where’s your dad?” Dave said in a low voice.

  “In house. Too slow.”

  “What’re you going to do?”

  “Don’t know. One gun. Thirteen Japs.”

  Dave slid his Colt from its holster, set it alongside Pete’s rifle. “Two guns.” It sounded smart and daring. Too bad he didn’t have a smart, daring plan to go with it.

  One of the soldiers—the taller of the two—pounded on Chen’s door and yelled something.

  Pete squinted through his sight.

  Chen’s door cracked a few inches. The soldier kicked it open. He and his companion burst into the house, rifles at ready.

  Commotion erupted. Crockery breaking. Two male voices shouting. A third voice responded in a wheedling tone. A moment passed, then another smashing sound.

  Chen reeled off a stream of ugly-sounding syllables.

  Dave stared into the village, transfixed with horror. This is all because I’m here.

  The door to Chen’s house swung open. Chen’s father appeared, followed by the taller soldier, who propelled him by the scruff of the neck. He stumbled into the street, his gimp leg and handmade crutch tripping him up.

  The Japanese soldier pushed him to the dirt in front of the officer.

  Chen squirmed and made a sort of whimpering noise. Pete put his hand on Chen’s arm and muttered something.

  Do they know? Do they know which family helped me? “We gotta do something, Chen.”

  “How? So many Japs.” Chen’s voice had a strangled sound.

  He glanced at Pete. The fellow’s almond eyes showed white all around the irises. His hands had a visible tremor.

  Fine bunch of heroes—a cripple and a pair of raw kids. Chen was right. They weren’t winning any firefights.

  The Japanese held a brief conversation. The tall soldier handed something to the officer. The officer trained the flashlight on it to get a better look. The beam refracted through a glass bottle.

  My stinking bottle! What was I thinking?

  Chen made a gurgling noise.

  The Japanese officer glared at Chen’s dad. Made an imperious gesture with his chin. The two soldiers dragged the fellow to his feet. The square-built one took a position behind him, bayonet poised at the small of his back.

  The officer paced in front of the poor man. Brandished the bottle at him. Chen’s dad cowered, edged away—right against the point of the bayonet. That brought him up straight.

  The officer ran his fingers over the English words on the label. Gestured with the bottle. Badgered Chen’s dad with a torrent of syllables.

  Chen gasped and issued a quiet moan.

  The officer yelled something in a rising tone. Chen’s dad withered but shook his head.

  The officer closed his fist around his pistol, hauled back, and slung the full weight of the piece against the older man’s temple. Chen’s father reeled. He tottered on his injured leg and careened to the ground.

  Chen spewed an explosive string of words. He reached over, grabbed Dave’s pistol, and racked the slide. It chambered a round with a double clack.

  Every trained soldier in the world knew that sound. The soldier nearest them—one of the men guarding the escape route behind the village—swiveled.

  Chen’s father rolled onto his back, grimacing. Pushing himself up to a seated position, he gave his chin a defiant lift and shook his head once more.

  The officer holstered his pistol with a deliberate motion, his eyes not leaving the old man.

  Chen took a deep breath, squinted through the Colt’s sights.

  What happened next came so fast it took Dave a second to register what he’d seen.

  The officer whipped his sword from its scabbard. It split the air. And just like that, the old man’s head bounced on the street. His body slumped to the ground, like a puppet whose strings were cut. Blood pooled in the dirt.

  Chen shouted another emphatic stream of syllables and fired.

  The soldier with the bayonet jerked and let out a hoarse yell. He crumpled to his knees, grabbing at his shoulder.

  Chen took aim again.

  The officer dove for cover behind the truck. The Japanese guard ducked around the corner of a thatch-roofed hovel. He pointed his rifle in their direction and yelled something at the others. Half a dozen of them scrambled for cover, rifles and flashlights trained at the forest.

  Chen eyed Dave and grimaced. “Run, Dev. This our fight.”

  Dave stared at the kid—now fatherless. Just like that. Because of him. “It’s my fight now.”

  “No. We all dead.” Chen returned his attention to the scene around the truck. “You run. Get airplane. Kill many Japs. For us.”

  Bullets ripped through the branches around them.

  “Go.” Chen gave him a shove. “Go.”

  It took a beat, but in the end, he told himself Chen was right. Much as he might want this to be his fight, it couldn’t be. This was a suicide action where he’d be—again—useless. Die without inflicting any damage.

  He dug in his pants pocket and slid Chen the extra magazine.

  Saturday, December 25, 1948

  Osaka, Japan

  The teacup shook in Miyako’s fingers. She gave Captain Oda her brightest smile, hoping to distract him, and set it on the table.

  He studied her over his cup. “And your mother? She’s still here in Osaka, perhaps?”

  Her gaze fell to the teapot. He wasn’t the only man who’d seemed a little too admiring of Mama-san. “I’m very sorry to say she was killed. Like so many others, during the firestorms.”

  His teapot became, for a second, Mama-san’s iron natsume at home. Mama-san’s calm hands placed the pot on the brazier. Coaxed a red linen square into an elaborate fold. Used it to wipe the edge of Papa-san’s heirloom tea bowl with infinite care.

  Then Miyako was looking at the clawed fingers of a charred corpse.

  She started.

  He sat back in his chair, took a long breath. “I am truly saddened to hear it. Your mother was a beautiful and gracious lady. Those last months of the war were a horrible time. Tragic.”

  She swallowed around the lump in her throat.

  He gave her a moment, then: “And your grandparents? Are they well?” He must have found the answer in her face. “Them too, ah? I see. Again, I am sorry. Fine people. Such a loss.” He set his cup down. “So, you’re alone. How are you managing?”

  His voice was soft, but his eyes narrowed.

  She steeled herself. “It’s been difficult. I miss them all so much. But I’m getting along.”

  “You found work?”

  “Hai. I’ve been fortunate.”

  “Where?”

  “The Yamato Steel Works.” Her standard story. “I managed to rent a decent room not too far from the factory.”

  Something shrewd and hard danced around his eyes. “The Yamato Steel Works?”

  She nodded.

  “I know one of the managers there. Man I served with in the Navy. You won’t mind if I call him, then?” He pulled the telephone toward him, eyes drilling into her. “We can settle this thing in a minute, and you can be on your way, ah?”

  She groped for a safe answer. “What’s his name? I work the night shift so he might not recall me.”

  “Otani-san. You know him, perhaps?” Oda rifled through his Rolodex file.

  “Hai, I think it sounds familiar.”

  “Exactly what is the nature of your work there
—so I can prompt his memory?”

  “I’m an office girl. I type, file, answer the phone. Keep books and records.”

  “Well, then. We’ll see whether he can place you, ah?” He picked up the handset. “Sumiyashi-ko 4-3-3, please.”

  The seconds it took for the call to go through felt like an hour. She rested her fingertips on the amulet on her handbag and silently entreated the great Buddha for a miracle. Oda’s friend could be out for the evening. Or better yet, he could confuse her with someone who did work there.

  “Otani-san. Oda here. Hai, very nice to speak with you as well. Please pardon the interruption at this hour, but I have a young woman in my office. I need to verify her employment at the Yamato Steel Works.” With every syllable he uttered, a new weight settled on her chest.

  She folded her hands on her lap in the formal manner, so they wouldn’t shake and betray her nerves.

  “Hai. Her name is Matsuura Miyako.” He listened for a few seconds. “Hai. I see. What about the night shift?” His eyebrows gathered over the bridge of his nose. “Ah. Hai, very good. Domo arigato.”

  He put the handset in its cradle and stared at it for an instant before he looked up at her. “Otani-san tells me they can’t get raw materials.” His words were deliberate. “Running at a fraction of their capacity. They’ve let many people go.”

  She put on a mournful face. “Hai, Captain Oda. That’s true.”

  “Do those phones ring often during the night shift, Matsuura-san?”

  “No, Captain Oda, not often.” She worked to keep her eyes locked on his. “I mostly catch up on the paperwork.”

  “I don’t think there’s much paperwork, either.” He snapped the words at her. “In fact, Otani-san specifically told me the night clerks were no longer needed. They let them all go.” He leaned toward her for emphasis. “Every single one of them, Matsuura.”