The Plum Blooms in Winter

by Linda Thompson

  They reached the station entrance. She got up on tiptoes for a final kiss. “You’re so kind, George-san. I can’t wait for our trip.”

  He gave her a parting squeeze. “Same here.”

  “Sunday at three. Don’t forget.”

  He walked away and disappeared around a corner. It wasn’t hard to let yearning paint her face.

  An airman and his Japanese sweetheart strolled along the sidewalk, fingers interlaced. How easy it looked, to simply enjoy an evening with your lover. She sighed, and it struck her like a mallet on a gong. How much she wanted that kind of simple romance with George-san.

  A dozen endearing memories crowded her mind. Running her hands through his thick, bristly hair. Swigging whiskey straight from his bottle in a succession of hotel rooms. The way the corners of his eyes crinkled when he laughed. The glow on his face when he showed her the pictures from home with his new baby niece.

  A dull ache filled her chest, but she did her best to jar herself out of the mood. One must live without regrets, in Kamura-san’s words. Feelings for a man were something a woman of the night could not afford.

  At least she hadn’t seen Yamada-san since they’d ducked through the club. George-san didn’t know it, but he’d helped her win back her freedom.

  It was more than time to connect with Kamura-san—perhaps he could help her keep that freedom. His restaurant was a few blocks away. An easy walk, just over the Ebisu Bridge. She started north.

  Revelers thronged the streets, headed for Osaka’s chief entertainment district. Salaryman with their hats and briefcases who’d gone straight from work to their drinking. Japanese couples out for an evening. American Marines and airmen on leave. A mother with a trio of children, munching on lime-green pastry balls on sticks.

  She’d gone about a half block when a powerfully built Japanese man in a brown pea coat crossed the street fifty feet in front of her. He turned up the broad sidewalk in her direction. Maybe she imagined his eyes following her.

  A moment later, she heard heavy footsteps closing behind her. She glanced over her shoulder. Another athletic-looking Japanese, this one in a leather jacket. The streetlight gleamed on his slicked-back hair.

  Something about the two of them—their decisive gait and relaxed-but-ready bearing, perhaps—set off alarm bells in her head.

  Imai-san’s associates?

  They couldn’t have tracked her. But if they had, what could she do about it? Her mind darted like a bat after a mosquito. She didn’t come up with much, except to hope there was protection in the crowd.

  The man walking toward her passed her. He was watching her. No mistaking it. He converged with the man behind her—two pair of footsteps, a pace behind her. A slight head twist gave her a glimpse of the brown pea coat to her left. Leather-jacket-guy strode along at his elbow, behind her to the right.

  Merciful gods. Panic spiraled up her spine and made the skin on her neck prickle.

  A line had formed along the sidewalk a few feet ahead. A shop was selling kushikatsu through a window. She joined the queue. The two men fell in line behind her.

  Hai. She had a problem.

  She turned and faced them. “You’re following me, ah?” she said, in a voice loud enough to carry.

  Leather Jacket gave her a crooked grin, his mouth pulled taut by a scar that ran from his neck up onto one cheek. “No, young lady. Enjoying a little evening stroll. Happened to get hungry.”

  Pea Coat spoke up in a rasping voice. “Why would we follow a girl who just broke a legitimate contract of employment with a fine entertainment establishment?”

  The man next to her edged away. The five or six others in line developed a sudden interest in the pavement.

  Leather Jacket issued a barking laugh and reached for her arm.

  “Legitimate?” She spat the word, packing it with all the scorn she felt. She twisted away and strode back the direction she’d come.

  The Coats ambled after her. One of them started up a tuneless whistle.

  She ducked her head and picked up her pace—not that it would help. She wasn’t going to outrun these men. And strangers on the street weren’t prepared to interfere, it seemed.

  A beefy hand settled on her left shoulder. She shrieked and shook it off.

  The sidewalk was too anonymous. She lunged through the nearest door. One of the Coats followed on her heels.

  It was a small eatery. A heavy-set man with grizzled hair worked behind a counter fitted with a commercial grill at the rear. Half a dozen patrons wielded chopsticks around small tables.

  She rushed up to the counter, panting. “Onemai shigasu. Help me!”

  His eyes rested on her for an instant before they fixed on the men behind her. He sucked his breath in sharply past his teeth. He set his spatula on the counter next to the grill, a slight tremor to his hand, and bowed. “Yahiro-san. Welcome. I, ah, wasn’t expecting you gentlemen tonight.”

  Leather Jacket came up behind her. In an instant, he had her clamped against him, his hand so tight on her face she had to work to breathe. “Ah, Negishi-san. We’re here to claim a little”—he lifted her so her feet dangled—“lost property.”

  She squealed, squirmed, and kicked at him. He grunted when her heel found his knee and squeezed her harder against his barrel of a chest. He reeked of sweat and raw fish.

  She pinned pleading eyes on Negishi-san. “Help me!” But the paw across her mouth made her words indistinguishable.

  Sweat slicked Negishi-san’s furrowed forehead. He stood by and watched her struggle, a pathetic look of helplessness on his face.

  Pea Coat spoke in the same rasping voice behind them. “Arigato, Negishi-san. I’ll let Morimoto-san know you assisted us in this matter. I’m sure he’ll agree to a few more days’ extra consideration on that loan.”

  She did her best to sink her teeth into the fleshy part of Yahiro’s hand. Unperturbed, he lugged her around the counter and through the curtained doorway to the kitchen.

  15 December 1943, Nanking, China

  605 Days Captive

  For Dave, day came to mean delirium. Hallucinations centered around family and friends and long tables loaded with fried chicken and biscuits and crisp summer salads and peach cobbler. And increasingly, night meant nightmares.

  Back in Chen’s forest. The twilight pulsed with the sound of crickets, bullfrogs. Spying birds trumpeted his every move. Eerie croaking noises he couldn’t identify filled the woods in the gloom.

  He couldn’t see Chen, but he heard him just ahead, rifle jostling and canteen clanking.

  A hoarse shout rose from somewhere to his right. A cry for help.

  He knew the voice. Meder’s.

  “Chen. This way,” he shouted. He ran toward Meder’s voice, pushing through brambles, branches scraping his face.

  There was still time after all.

  His blood pounded a rapid drumbeat. He forced his way through a thicket and stumbled into a clearing. Meder stood in the middle of it, knees bent in a fighting stance, fists up. A dozen shadows circled him, snarling, glowing red eyes fixed on his torso.

  Dave wrapped his fist around his Colt. Seven bullets. Not enough.

  Shoot one. The rest will scatter.

  The biggest of the shadow-beasts crouched, haunches quivering. On a straight line between him and Meder.

  He tried to raise his pistol, but moving his arm was like pushing through a thick wall of rubber cement. It took all his strength to bring it up, cock it, train it on the beast.

  His finger grazed the trigger.

  What if I miss?

  Too late. The monster lunged, all muscle, teeth, and claws. Meder pinned Dave with a last agonized stare as he went down.

  Four of the remaining beasts swiveled their heads toward Dave.

  Dave’s nightmare disintegrated into another gray winter morning. He stared wide-eyed around his cell. Adrenaline ebbed and confused emotions churned. Relief flooded him for an instant before a black depression swallowed it.

&nb
sp; Dark dream. Dismal cell. Didn’t matter. Bob Meder was still dead.

  A bitter wind blew at exercise time. More pacing around the yard in the unending quest to get warm. Flexing and blowing on chill-stiff fingers.

  I bet we heat our POW barracks. Unlike the Japanese.

  Nielsen was doing his rounds just ahead. Dave picked up his pace. When he was even with the man, he started in the usual stage whisper. “Nielsen—”

  Nielsen didn’t turn his head. “Shh. The Sportsman’s staring.”

  Sure enough, the Jap’s prize wrestler lounged near the cellblock stairs. His eyes bore an eager glint Dave had come to recognize. The Sportsman was ready for a fight.

  “Suits me.” Dave’s pulse quickened. He relished the feel of it. “I’ll stick his sumo up his—”

  Nielsen dropped back.

  The Sportsman pushed off the wall, swaggered up, and knocked Dave on the shoulder. “Sumo!”

  “Hai.” Dave pictured putting a fist through that smug face and allowed himself a taut smile.

  He followed the Sportsman into the center of the yard and assumed a fists-up fighting stance. The Sportsman crouched and started a slow circle. The other guards and prisoners gathered.

  “Go, Dave. Deck ’im good.” That was Watt.

  “Give it to him, Delham,” Nielsen said. “You can take him.”

  The guards chanted in unison. “Nippon. Nippon.”

  The Sportsman was a half foot shorter than Dave, but solid. As for motivation, Dave was mad enough to lay on a good pounding. In a fair fight, I’d have a sporting chance.

  Fair fight. That was a good one. This was anything but. Dave’s vision blurred with fever. His fists wove in front of him.

  It still held true that rations got better for a few days after the Sportsman won. Dave scanned his buddies’ faces. His eyes rested for a moment on Vitty’s. The man’s eyes burned with the intensity of a starving lion above hollow, pasty-white cheeks. He was wasting away.

  No two ways about it. Dave needed to end this round with his butt in the snow. But he wasn’t going to let it look easy. If he could, he’d get off at least one good punch first. He took a deep breath, summoned all his focus, and got his feet moving.

  “Hai-ya!” The guard lunged. Dave teetered out of the way. The Sportsman retreated.

  “That’s it!” Watt whooped. “Keep ’im guessing.”

  Back to the wary circling. The Sportsman feinted a lunge. Dave managed to dodge again, and the Jap spectators jabbered. He sucked at the air, the footwork wearing him down.

  If I’m going to get a punch in, it’ll have to be soon.

  The Sportsman leapt at him, this time directing a foot toward his gut. One unsteady step and the kick passed to his right. He turned, planted his left mitt on the guard’s shoulder, and cocked his right fist. He pictured Bob, laid out in that coffin and let his seething anger swell. He channeled the energy into his muscles and delivered a crashing right hook to the man’s face. It connected with a satisfying crack.

  The Sportsman grunted in pain, fell back, and grabbed at his jaw.

  It felt good. Real good. But Dave swayed on his feet. It took him long seconds to regain his balance, muster the strength to follow up. The Sportsman was ready for the next punch and blocked it. Dave teetered. The guard bunched his bulk like a rhino readying his charge and came at Dave with a rapid-fire series of kicks.

  Time to take one for the guys.

  It was over in a moment. Dave on his back on the soggy ground. The Sportsman straddled him, arms high in victory. “Nippon Bansai!” He struck a pose, with his hobnailed boot pressing a waffle pattern into Dave’s chest.

  The guards took up the cheer, celebrating and clapping each other on the shoulders. “Bansai! Bansai!”

  There’d better be a lot of extra grub for this. He looked up, found Vitty’s eyes. Vitty nodded slowly.

  Dave’s gut convulsed. Not now, dysentery. He forgot his pain, focused on one thing—willing his bowels not to release. A second passed, then two. Three. Maybe there was a God.

  Oh, no.

  Nothing he could do about it. He grimaced and rolled quickly onto his back. If he gave his pants a good coat of mud, maybe no one would see the stain, and he wouldn’t have to put up with the guards jeering over that too.

  And maybe, just maybe, they were all too busy congratulating the Sportsman to notice the stench.

  Moments passed. He lay perfectly still, eyes closed. His face went hot. His thin cotton uniform went wet and cold.

  “Bansai! Nippon Bansai!”

  His gut churned harder. He opened his eyes.

  That was when he saw it, about eight inches from his face. No more than a glint of steel beneath the snow, but at this range he could see it was a nail head.

  From Meder’s coffin.

  A weapon? Maybe with the right opportunity. A thrust at someone’s eye. He was burning to get at one of these guys.

  What are they going to do? Kill me?

  Starving. Filthy. Dysentery ripping holes in his gut from the inside. Lice chewing away at him from the outside. All dignity erased. A shell of the man he’d been.

  Pure hatred kept him going. What did he have to lose?

  The guards were busy congratulating the Sportsman. He moved his hand a couple inches and palmed the nail.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Friday, December 31, 1948

  Osaka, Japan

  Yahiro shoved Miyako through the kitchen door and into the alley. He slammed her against the building’s rear wall and used his bulk to pin her there, one hand over her mouth. She thrashed with all her strength, but she was vised between the thug and the wall—two immovable objects.

  He growled in her ear, “Calm yourself, or I swear you’ll be sorry.” He spoke to the other man, who’d followed them out. “Ando, get my knife.”

  Looking over Yahiro’s mitt, she could see Ando’s hand work a large folding knife out of Yahiro’s jacket pocket. Fear pushed shards of ice into her chest.

  Yahiro took the knife, thumbed it open, and flashed it in front of her eyes. “No more fuss. Or you’ll feel this.”

  She froze.

  He pressed the flat of the blade against her cheek. “I could kill you. But it would be a lot more fun just to hurt you.” He used the knife to move her hair out of the way and put his mouth against her ear. His breath came in heavy pants. She could feel his pulse pound behind his ribcage.

  “I like the smell of you.” He bit her earlobe. Hard. The sudden pain made her yelp.

  “Shh. Or the blade bites too.” She felt steel again, this time on the back of her neck at her hairline. He started up that tuneless whistle again.

  Ando leaned against the wall beside them and looked her over. “I don’t see what the fuss is about. They’ve got better-looking girls at the Oasis.”

  “Maybe Imai-san wants to make her an example.” Yahiro followed this with a throaty laugh.

  Despair welled up, a noose around Miyako’s neck. They’d have a painful lesson for her at the brothel—that was certain. But merciful gods. Surely Imai-san would have more sense than to let this monster administer it.

  It wasn’t long before a dark-colored coupe pulled up at the end of the alley. They wedged Miyako in the back seat between the two goons. Yamada-san sat next to the driver. She peered over her shoulder at Miyako.

  “So, Midori-chan. I see you’ve met a few of our honored business partners.” She smoothed her coat. “You might be interested to know that Yahiro-san has been following you since you tried to run off at the club.”

  Yahiro elbowed her. He made a point of displaying the knife, open on his lap, and gave her that twisted grin.

  Yamada-san waited until their laughter died. “I assure you this girl’s not going anywhere.” She clamped her jaw shut with an air of finality.

  27 December 1943, Nanking, China

  617 Days Captive

  The weeks crawled by. Dave thought about Bob Meder every waking hour. And those thoughts fil
led him with a blinding, choking rage. As time passed, the rage chilled to match the winter landscape. But it never went away.

  He smuggled a fragment of concrete in from the yard and worked at Meder’s nail. Honed it to an ever-finer point. He examined its three-inch shank, tested its point against his palm. Sharp enough to gouge flesh with ease.

  Getting there. For Bob.

  At exercise, Cyclops headed into the middle of the yard, carrying a sack of something. He bellowed an order. “Horyo. Koi.”

  Dave and the others converged.

  Cyclops beamed at them. “This good. You like this. I bought for you in Shanghai.” He produced a pile of books from his sack.

  Books? “For us?” Dave’s voice rose with surprise. “We can have these?”

  “Hai. Commander-san said hai.”

  So Watt’s letter had borne some fruit after all. Right after Meder’s death, Watt badgered the guards into allowing him to write to the commandant. Along with better food and generally better conditions, it begged for reading material.

  Something spiritual is what we need most, Watt wrote. Could you find us a Bible?

  Watt collected all their signatures before the guards made him give back the pen—too bad, it might have worked as a weapon, which in Dave’s view would have been the real value of the exercise. He signed but knew it wouldn’t result in anything. These gargoyles couldn’t care less.

  But now, probably thanks to Cyclops, here were books. Five of them. And among them? A Bible. He stared at the silver-embossed black leather, shook his head, then stared again.

  Vitty studied the titles. “Guess we each pick a book?”

  “By rank, as always,” Nielsen said. “Delham, what’s your pleasure?”

  He scanned the books. Some distraction through all those empty hours would be a great thing.

  The Son of God. The Hand of God. The Unknown God. The Spirit of Catholicism. Spiritual reading, all of it. Like Watt had requested. But if it gave the men a little comfort, it was a good thing. At least it wasn’t Little Women. In his fragile condition he might cry.