If she rested now, she could look later. She’d learned an important lesson years earlier playing Go with her older brother, Akira-san. Sometimes the escape from a trap lies hidden in plain sight.
Sadly, Akira-san had been too busy for Go the last few times she’d seen him. The naval academy at Eta Jima hadn’t left much time for games with sisters. In fact, he’d barely had time for dinner the weekend he and Papa-san shipped out to war.
Mama-san would have struggled to forgive him if he’d missed it, even though he was her number one son. She and the maidservant outdid themselves that day. All their favorite dishes looked so elegant on the table. Papa-san’s beloved hotpot, sukiyaki, with generous portions of sliced beef and mushroom, simmered in Mama-san’s signature broth and dredged in raw egg. Akira-san’s favorite dish, kaki furai, oysters fried with crisp breading. And best of all, the dish she craved most—eel, skewered and braised with a tangy sauce. To round out the meal, a sake Papa-san declared especially good.
She sighed. How many years had it been since she’d tasted oysters or eel?
That was the day she’d given her men their senninbari. She presented the first package to Papa-san, in his place of honor on the cushion at the head of the table. And the second to Akira-san, majestic as a crane in his new officer’s uniform. She sank back in her own place between Mama-san and Hiro-chan, so handsome that day in his best little kimono.
Papa-san parted the elegant wrapping paper with a surgeon’s precision. He took the folded rectangle of cream-colored silk from the package and unfurled it. He made a careful inspection of the pattern she’d crafted, with the help of all those neighborly hands. The ferocious Japanese tiger alternated down its length with the Matsuura’s mulberry-leaf crest. A traditional victory slogan graced its center.
The belts had taken weeks to complete. She’d even sewn in amulets to increase their power.
It was all worth it when he acknowledged her efforts with a solemn bow. “It’s magnificent, Mi-chan. The most handsome I’ve seen.” His eyes glistened with satisfaction. “I’ll never face battle without it.”
How she’d beamed inside. His reaction was everything she’d wished for.
Akira-san’s senninbari looked splendid against his navy-blue uniform. “Hai, little sister. Papa-san and I will be sure victors in these.”
How precious those last hours together proved to be! The image of Papa-san standing between his sons, chest puffed with pride, had etched itself on Miyako’s memory. If only she could have frozen that moment in time.
Light footsteps sounded in the corridor outside her room, followed by Imai-san’s lyrical voice. “Hello, there.” The shoji slid open. “I took a little break from the evening’s business. Have you thought it over, Ishikawa-san? Can we discuss your contract in a serious way?”
She took a deep breath and swallowed hard. “Hai, Imai-san. I’m ready.” Whatever it took to see Papa-san.
“That’s wonderful, child.” Her tone was velvet. “I didn’t want to get heavy-handed.” She settled on the edge of Miyako’s futon, her peacock-patterned silks billowing like dusk-kissed clouds. “Let’s see. Where did we leave off? Ah. With my generous offer of sixty thousand yen, in return for only two years’ work here.” She radiated warmth. “Think how fast that will go by. We’ll just be getting to know each other.”
“You’re very kind.” Miyako hoped she managed to keep the sarcasm out of her tone. It seemed she had to play along if she wanted any freedom. “I can settle for sixty-five. If I can see Papa-san tomorrow.” Since she couldn’t have the money this week, the amount didn’t matter. But surely Kamura-san with his thriving restaurant would help her. She’d have to figure out a way to get to him.
“I think you underestimate how weak you are, Ishikawa-san.”
“It is against my better judgment, but I suppose I could accept your proposal, assuming Yamada-san goes to the hospital with you.”
Miyako stared at Imai-san. Yamada-san.
Imai-san gave her a thin smile. “Yamada-san is not negotiable, Midori-chan. Let’s see how you feel tomorrow. It will all depend on whether you’re strong enough.”
Oh, she’d be strong enough. Strong enough to see Papa-san. And strong enough to leave her warden behind on some street corner, wondering what happened.
5 May 1942, Tokyo
16 Days Captive
Dave’s days and nights melded into an unbroken haze of misery. He rested as best he could in his stifling cell. No air moved through the barred window. No relief from the stench of his body or the wood box on the floor that served as his latrine.
It had to be mid-summer now—at least that’s how it felt.
Dull but constant pain across his shoulder. Ringing head. Swollen lip. And to top it all off, his head swam from hunger.
When had he slept last? He couldn’t remember. Even the lousy excuse for furniture they’d provided—a thin straw mat on the bare cement floor—looked appealing.
One minute. That’s all. What he wouldn’t give to lie down.
His eyelids drifted closed. His head sagged.
Something sharp jabbed at his back. He jolted awake. A guttural voice battered his ears. “Horyo. Okiro.”
He grunted. “No sleeping. I know.” Miserable guards and their stakes. His cell door had a narrow slit they used to feed him. The guards would peer like gremlins through it. Jab him with long poles if they found him doing anything off the approved list—including sleeping—any time of the day or night.
Like I’m some stinking zoo animal.
Silently, he renewed the pledge he made to himself a hundred times a day.
Nothing that will help these demons in yellow flesh. No matter what. Nothing that will help them at all.
What about the other guys? Watt, Vitty, Braxton, Smith. How were they holding up?
If someone broke, he couldn’t blame them. But it wouldn’t be Dave Delham.
Uncle Verle’s voice echoed down the hallways of time. “Doolittle! Outside roll! What a dang hero!”
Take that, Huns. If Verle could outlive the German gas and drag his wounded buddy out of range of their guns, David Delham could handle these guys.
Jimmy Doolittle won a dogfight and piloted a plane across the Andes with both ankles broken in spite of pain that nearly blacked him out. If Doolittle could make it through that and go on to mastermind their mission, Dave Delham could take whatever the Japs dished out.
Eddie Rickenbacker lived through that Eastern Airlines crash in Georgia. Crushed, burned, left for dead. If Rickenbacker could survive that ordeal, David Delham could gut it out through this.
Doolittle. Rickenbacker. Verle. They were men. And so was he.
Hobnailed boots struck the floor at the end of the hall. It had probably been two to three hours since his last interrogation session, so they were due to get to work on him again.
A pair of soldiers burst into his cell. He was halfway to standing when they grabbed him and yanked him the rest of the way. They dragged him through his cell door, along the corridor and around a corner before he could find his feet.
Into an interrogation chamber. They all looked the same. Featureless. Windowless. A single door. A wooden table in the middle with various implements laid out. Some of them he knew all too well from earlier sessions.
A pile of towels and several full pitchers. Those would be for the water treatment. Water streaming into his mouth and nose until his lungs burned and screamed. Until he fought them for air with all his might. Until he slipped from consciousness. Then they brought him back around and repeated the process.
A set of sharpened bamboo skewers and a hammer. There were many soft places on a man, and these ghouls found them all.
A bamboo rod about five feet long and four inches in diameter—that was new. His knees went weak beneath him. What is that thing for?
He had learned he was in the hands of the Kempeitai, Japan’s crack secret police. The yellow gestapo. He’d heard reports of their cruelty while he was
still on American shores. Those reports had been no exaggeration.
It was the usual scene. Several chairs on one side of the table confronted one lone chair on the other. Four expressionless guards, an officer in charge of the session, and an interpreter. The guards and the officer changed from session to session, but the interpreter, Ohara—with his argyle socks and his cultured accent—was a constant.
Dave knew two of the guards this time. Brutus, and the one he’d nicknamed Ratface for his pinched jaw and prominent incisors. He seemed to be the head guard.
It took real force of will to go sheep-docile and let them shackle him into that chair. He had to battle every instinct he had. But he’d discovered the hard way it was better to save his strength. Endurance was the brand of strength he needed now.
Nothing that will help them. No matter what. Nothing that will help them.
He glanced at the table full of implements. No matter what.
Doolittle. Rickenbacker. Uncle Verle. He was going to need them all.
Ohara looked up at him and rubbed his hands together. “Well, well, horyo. Here we are again. I don’t believe you’ve been completely truthful with us on this issue.” He slammed his hand down on the table. “What is the range of the B-25?”
Showtime.
Chapter Sixteen
Tuesday, December 28, 1948
Osaka, Japan
The day dawned gray. Miyako slipped into Fusako’s dress, Tome’s shoes and an old coat of Imai-san’s and made the trek to the station with Yamada-san. The two women climbed onto the train. After endless starts and stops and stations, and a few more long blocks on foot, she stood at last with Yamada-san in the lobby of Osaka Hospital.
The elevator lifted them to the fourth floor. Miyako’s anxiety mounted with it, tightening like a vice around her chest. The way she’d seen him last—his face drawn, his skin papery. Such a struggle to breathe. How would she find him now?
Yamada-san eyed her with concern. “You don’t look well.”
She shook her head. “If he’s awake, I don’t know what I’ll say to him. How do I explain why I left him alone for so long, ah? And if he’s not? I’m so afraid for him.”
Yamada-san sighed and patted her arm.
Papa-san wasn’t in his old bed near the door. Her breath caught as she scanned the room. Many of the chairs were occupied by older women—devoted family members who’d no doubt been there for hours. Guilt thrust a fresh spear into her chest. Poor Papa-san, no one to see to him all those days.
She walked between the rows toward the back of the room, looking over the haggard faces. Several pairs of eyes followed her. They had to be thinking she was the most neglectful daughter in Japan.
That was when she saw him—the last person she had hoped to find there. In a chair against the far wall, back to a boarded-up window. His face dour. His arms folded in front of the line of silver buttons that marched down his uniform. Braid on his epaulets gleaming in the gray light.
Captain Oda. He stared at her, craggy features twisting with distaste.
She put a hand on a column to steady herself. He’d found Papa-san. What had he told him?
She made her way toward Oda and the bed next to him, where Papa-san surely lay, with the halting steps of a condemned person. Her pulse beat in her ears. She reached the last row of patients. Papa-san lay quite still, head flat on the pillow. She couldn’t see his eyes around the oxygen mask.
A few more hesitant steps and she stood at the foot of the bed. Papa-san’s color was ashen, and an ugly bruise stained his jawline. His eyes were open, but he had them fixed on the ceiling.
Oda’s eyes drilled into her.
“Papa-san?” Her voice came out a croak. She tried again. “Papa-san, I’m here.”
He glanced at her. His brow creased. He frowned and looked away.
In an instant she was around the side of his bed. She dropped painfully to her knees and leaned over him. “I’m so sorry I haven’t been here for you.” She pinned Oda with a stare across the bed, then looked at her father. “I got robbed on the way home from work. They beat me up—you can see my bruises. Look.”
He winced and closed his eyes. Pain dug furrows around his features.
She put out a hand and touched his cheek. He flinched away. Moisture glinted in the crease at the corner of his eye.
Merciful gods. Please let him listen. Let him feel my dying heart.
“Papa-san, I’m sorry. I wanted to take care of you. If I’ve done anything wrong, I did it to keep a roof over your head.”
Captain Oda heaved himself from the chair. His shadow fell across the bed. “That’s enough, whore. He won’t talk to you.” His cane clacked on the floor.
He came around the bed to where she knelt, grabbed her upper arm, and jerked her to her feet. “If you want to do something kind for him, leave. Give him his pride, ah?” He gave her arm a yanking twist that sent pain stabbing through her shoulder. She yelped.
No. That can’t be it. That can’t be what Papa-san wants. She pushed an elbow into Oda’s diaphragm and fought to break his grip on her arm. “Say something to me, Papa-san.” Her voice broke. “Say something. Please, Papa-san. Tell the captain to leave me alone. I’m your daughter.”
Papa-san stared at her, jaw working. Surely he was poised to speak. To tell Captain Oda this wasn’t what he wanted.
The captain released his grip. He took a half step back. She dropped to her knees beside Papa-san’s bed and leaned toward him, breathless.
He spat in her face.
05 May 1942, Tokyo
16 Days Captive
Sweat sent a chill through Dave’s body. These yellow demons were always trying to piece together how the B-25s had penetrated so far into their defenses. That was information he had to protect.
He eyed his opponent. “The B-25’s range? It depends.”
Ohara nodded at Brutus, who delivered a slap that rocked Dave’s head. His ear rang from the blow.
“We expect direct answers, horyo.”
He glared at the man. “It does depend on several things.” He fought the tight little smile that wanted to tweak the corners of his mouth. They could break his body, but they could not break his spirit, and that shamed them, right down to their rotten, soulless cores.
Knowing that kept him going. It had to. It was the only victory he could hope for.
Ohara cocked his head at the table with its implements. “I warn you, horyo. One way or the other, we get the truth.”
The officer watched the exchange with the intensity of a snake. He gave some direction to Ohara.
Dave’s eyes drifted to the table. Which treatment would he get today? He tried to ignore it—the fear that wound its way through his belly, turning it into a cold, desolate pit. A fear so tangible it felt like an eighth person in the room.
But that was another tactic he’d learned. Not to fight the fear, but to resist in the face of it. They could rip his humanity from him in a thousand ways. But as long as he could still resist, could still protect his country, he was still a man.
He was still a man. Right, Uncle Verle?
Ohara paced in front of him and stopped. “We’ll try the rod today, I think.”
Dave’s eyes fell on the unfamiliar instrument.
Doolittle could do this. Rickenbacker could do this. Uncle Verle could do this.
Dave Delham had to do this.
He clamped his jaw shut. Locked away the words they were after.
He was still a man.
The pain from the bamboo-rod torture was so intense Dave blacked out. He woke again to a pitcher of cold water in the face. Thankfully he’d lost all feeling in his legs.
The guards holding his shoulders let go. He slumped to the ground, writhed on the floor. He heard himself making noises. Sounds that belonged to a wounded animal. Broken and pathetic.
The four guards watched, impassive. The officer stood and stalked from the room.
Ohara looked down at him with his trademark
sneer. “I see we’re done for now. We will have more questions for you, horyo. Very soon.”
10 June 1942, Tokyo
52 Days Captive
The Kempeitai were inventive—Dave gave them that much. They knew exactly how far they could take a man without actually killing him. His days passed in unrivaled misery, a mind-numbing cycle of sleep deprivation, starvation rations, questions. Until there was nothing left of him but sheer will.
How much longer would sheer will hold him together?
His mind wandered to his crew—his guys. Watt, Vitty, Smith, Braxton. He never saw other prisoners, but he had to assume those four were still in this compound somewhere.
That sobbing in the distance. Was it one of them?
Each muffled cry that battered his ears carried with it a whisper. You will die in here. With your men. They will pry the truth out of one of you. And you will all die.
He worked to find some brighter thoughts to keep from drowning in a sea of regret.
Eileen. How gorgeous she’d looked when he presented her with the little velvet box from Hahn’s jewelry.
It was the evening after he enlisted. Before he broke that news to her, he parked outside her ivy-covered Alpha Phi house, pulled the flask of Bourbon from his glove compartment, and threw back a hearty swig of liquid courage. He knew she’d be outraged, but he had a plan he hoped would counter that. It revolved around that magical little box.
She ushered him into the sorority’s formal living room, and he told her he’d joined up. As soon as he managed to spit it out, he dropped to one knee in front of the big stone hearth, slipped that box from his pocket and popped it open.
She crossed her arms, narrowed her eyes and quirked an eyebrow at him. “Really. You’re really telling me, after the fact, that you’ve joined the Air Corps. Then you’re asking me to be your little military wife.” But she reached for the ring, like she had to touch it to make sure it was real.
The Plum Blooms in Winter Page 15
