The Plum Blooms in Winter

by Linda Thompson

  A woman’s rich alto floated across the compact dance floor. A ballad about lost love. Miyako looked at Pat. He peered into his glass as if he’d found the answer to some existential question there. The rakish angle of his cap spurred a wistful thought of George-san. Merciful gods. What would he think if he saw her now, flirting with these two?

  A pang of regret speared her. If she’d told him the truth, she wouldn’t be in this mess.

  Harry maneuvered her around a breathless departing couple and onto the dance floor. He pulled her into a tight hold, his body flush against hers. He led her out in a slow foxtrot, swaying with the song’s sinuous rhythm. The whiskey on his breath mixed with the odor of his sweat.

  The jukebox continued its warble. His hand strayed down the curve of her back. He drew her in so close his belt buckle ground into her stomach. His lips brushed the top of her hair. “I’ve got an hour or two to spare. Whaddaya say, baby? Go somewhere?”

  She went stiff. Do I dare give him a flat no? Or do I need to string him along?

  A push from behind knocked her out of rhythm. Harry steadied her, but his attention was riveted over her shoulder.

  “Well, look who we found.” The voice boomed from behind her.

  She swiveled to see the speaker. Another American in an airman’s uniform. Fair skin. Short, dark hair. Small, close-set eyes. Big. And three of his bigger buddies flanked him.

  The newcomer folded his arms across his chest. “Someone oughta clear this trash off the dance floor.”

  “Calm down, Bowman.” Harry’s voice was steady, but she could feel his muscles tense. “We ain’t looking for trouble.”

  “Oh, I think you are, Perkins. I told you what would happen first time I ran across you off base. And see? Here you are.” He glanced at Miyako. “You better tell your yellow gal goodnight. Things are probably going to get ugly. In fact”—he reached for her—“why don’t I give her a special escort off the dance floor. Find her some place nice and safe.”

  Harry’s arm locked tighter around her.

  “Wait a minute.” Bowman stopped and looked her over. “I recognize you. Aren’t you Sanders’ girl?” He peered into her face. “The one that went missing on him.” He chortled. “Oh, this is rich. Wait till I tell Sanders where you turned up, and who had his hands all over your butt.”

  Pat shouldered his way through the crowd ringing the dance floor and took up a post beside Miyako and Harry. “Look, she’s not part of this. Leave her be.”

  Bowman took another swagger-step toward them. “And if I don’t?”

  Harry jeered from behind her. “That’s it. Show us all what a big man you are.”

  Pat stepped between her and Bowman, jaw set. “I said leave her out of it.”

  “Fine. My real business is with your friend here.” Bowman stared at her over Pat’s shoulder, eyes lit like a wolf’s. “Be off, Jap girl.”

  Pat turned and gave her his elbow. “I’ll see you to the door. Be right back, Harry.”

  She took his arm, her heart melting with gratitude. He maneuvered her toward the front entrance. The gang. Her pulse raced. “Wait. Please, Pat-san. There’s another door, yes?”

  Pat gave her a quizzical look but clearly wasn’t going to spare it much thought. He turned and marched her through the throng, then along the narrow hallway that led past the bathrooms.

  “You’ll be all right from here, won’t you?” He glanced over his shoulder toward the dance floor. “It’s true, what Bowman said? You’re Sanders’ girl?”

  “You know George-san? Hai, I’m his girl.”

  Pat’s spine went straighter. “So who was that Jap guy on the street, again? Old flame?”

  “What is ‘old flame’?”

  He folded his arms. “Old boyfriend.”

  “No. I told you, he’s yakuza. Those guys were after me for money they think I owe. Please, Pat-san. You’ve helped me so much, but I have to ask for one more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Talk to George-san. Tell him I didn’t do anything. I wasn’t going to leave with Harry. I needed to stay here with you two, to get away from those guys.”

  “Sure thing.” He started to turn away.

  She grasped at his sleeve. “Tell him I’ll make it all up to him. When I see him.”

  A crash sounded from the bar area, followed by loud yells.

  “Gotta go, babe.” He wrested his arm from her and took off at a run.

  She called after him. “Tell George-san. Please.”

  He was gone.

  She huddled into a corner, sucked in air through her teeth, and let loose a racking sigh. What exactly would George-san hear, and who would he hear it from first?

  If you’d let him, he’d have kept you out of this mess.

  She couldn’t help that now. Live without regrets. She had enough trouble facing her that moment. How long had she been there? Not long enough to outlast the yakuza.

  Her pulse picked up pace. She told herself she was safe for the time being. Calm yourself. Think. The bathrooms were to her right. The kitchen to her left. The gangsters would watch all the doors.

  A thud sounded from the bar area, followed by shattering glass. Confused cries and shrieks arose. A husky male voice yelled, “Call the cops!”

  Cops. She froze, pulse pounding. Japanese NPA would be the first to come. She couldn’t be there when they did.

  No more time to think.

  The men’s room door swung open. A Marine swaggered out. She bowed. As she straightened, she spotted something over his shoulder. A crude pine ladder propped against the men’s room wall.

  Storage ladder. Where does it lead?

  She checked to make sure the Marine wasn’t watching her. The antics on the dance floor had his full attention. She pushed into the men’s room. It was open to the rafters. The ladder gave access to the storage space above the kitchen.

  She swarmed up that ladder like a sailor. She stepped across the top rung onto a haphazard pine floor. The space was lit only by the bare bulb above the mirror in the bathroom below. She had to pause a moment while her eyes adjusted to the dim light.

  Perfect. Absolutely perfect. She sighed out her relief. The tension that had a python’s death grip on her gut loosed its hold a little.

  The dank space was crammed with supplies packed in every sort of box, sack, and barrel. A tall stack of crates loomed in the farthest, darkest corner. She picked her way to it, the ruckus downstairs masking the creaking from the uneven floor. Heaving and grunting, she pushed the boxes away from the corner until she’d opened a cubbyhole behind them. She toppled a sack of rice into place and, exhausted, dropped in a pile on top of it.

  She lay motionless for a long moment, too weary to think. But the reality of her predicament intruded soon enough.

  It was Saturday morning by now. The gaijin bomber would be in Osaka the next day. And here she was. Hunted. Destitute. And no closer to her goal.

  Hot tears welled behind her eyelids. She blinked furiously, then gave up the battle, balled her fists, and let them come.

  Her last waking thought was a fervent hope that no one would need kitchen supplies until morning.

  Miyako started awake. Every joint stiff. The storage room was dim, with gray daylight filtering up from below. Rain pattered on the roof above her head and dripped into a bucket near her elbow.

  Morning. She had to get out before anyone showed up.

  She sat for a breathless moment, listening. No noises in the building. Apart from the rain, she heard only muffled calls from the street outside and a cat yowling somewhere in the distance.

  She eased her stiff legs into motion and made her way down the ladder. Slipped into the ladies’ room and did what she could to clean up.

  She edged into the deserted kitchen. It was a treasure trove. An array of knives glittered on the counter. The full range, from a delicate paring knife to an impressive meat cleaver. She cast an involuntary glance around before picking up the largest knife that
would fit in her coat pocket.

  The solid weight of the knife brought it home. All the planning, all the running and fighting—it would be over the next night. If she did her duty, all the spirits would rest at last from the weary years spent crying for justice. Akira-san, whom she idolized. Funny little Hiro-chan, whom she adored. Not to mention lovely, gentle Mama-san. She could give them rest. And Papa-san would know she’d avenged them, and he’d see his daughter’s worth before he went in peace to his deathbed.

  She wrapped the knife in a clean cotton napkin and slipped it into her pocket, next to the folding knife she’d taken from Yahiro. A persimmon and three packets of rice crackers went in the other pocket. She grabbed another persimmon, cracked the restaurant’s rear door open, and took a careful look in both directions.

  No motion. She inched through the door, still scanning. No sound except the drizzle. No one in sight, save a solitary peddler spreading a display of vegetables on a wet cloth. It seemed she’d actually gotten them off her track.

  Of course, she’d thought that before.

  She had a day and a half to raise ten thousand yen for Tsunada-san. She was going to need to eat more than persimmons, sleep somewhere, and—she looked at her rumpled, spotted coat—find a decent outfit. And all her cash was gone with her handbag.

  Kamura-san. What time did the restaurant open?

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  7 March 1944, Nanking, China

  688 Days Captive

  It was the worst part of the day in Dave’s airless wooden box of a cell. Several empty hours stretched ahead before dinner, and his book was his only distraction.

  The Book. The Bible. He’d skipped around, but now he had the ribbon positioned about three-quarters of the way through, at the end of the Gospel of Luke.

  Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.

  He paused and absorbed the words. Ran his index finger under the line of letters.

  He rubbed at his aching eyes. Stood and retrieved his pet project—Meder’s nail. Tested its fine point against his palm as he considered Jesus’ words.

  Dave knew a few things about torture, all from the receiving end. Compassion for those on the giving end was nowhere on his list. Jesus’s brand of forgiveness was far beyond him. How’d Jesus do it—forgive those men?

  Why’d He do it? The nail’s point glinted in the cell’s dim light. If an opportunity to use the thing ever cropped up, Dave knew he’d be ready. Did that make him a sinner?

  No. It just made him a man in tune with the hard realities of this world. Jesus’ words made for a pretty sentiment, but in real life a man couldn’t live that way. Not as long as Hirohitos and Hitlers and Aotas stalked the earth.

  He closed the book.

  Emphatic jabber started up outside his walls. Scant seconds later, they were yammering at his door.

  Speak of the devils. He barely got the nail stashed under the blankets in time.

  Aota—who else?—burst in, brandishing a knife. “Horyo. Koi.” Before Dave could react, the guard grabbed him, swung him from his chair, and yanked him, stumbling, into the dim hall.

  What the—

  Seven or eight of them stood crammed into the corridor. Rough hands—the heavy-set guy they called Dim—shoved him up against the wall and held him there. Nielsen hit the wall, hard, next to him. The other airmen got the same treatment.

  He winced. So they’d discovered the Tincup News Service.

  Aota strode in front of them, wearing a ferocious scowl.

  Dave bristled. “What’s this about?”

  Aota unsheathed his twelve-inch knife. He pointed the blade at Dave’s face. “Damare.” He gestured at one of his henchmen, who pulled something from a box on the floor.

  A tin cup.

  “Let me get this straight,” Watt said. “This is about a teacup?”

  Aota flipped the knife to his left hand. He spun at Watt, hauled back, and socked him in the gut. Watt groaned and hunched over.

  Aota stepped back with a self-satisfied little smirk.

  You filthy—

  Aota reached for the cup. “You dare write lie about Nippon on this thing. Who write this?”

  Dave glared at him. “Write what?”

  The brute turned the teacup over to display lettering on the bottom.

  JAPS PUSHED TO MARIANAS

  Dave squared his shoulders. “Never saw that.” Which was true—that one hadn’t gotten to them yet.

  Aota bellowed. “This is lie.” He threw the cup as hard as he could against the wall. It clanged onto the floor.

  “If you say so,” Dave distilled two years’ worth of rancor into his voice. “We haven’t seen a newspaper since we got here.”

  Aota strutted up to Dave. Put the point of his knife at his throat. “You lucky captain no see. We all in big trouble.” He gave an order to the guard with the box, who extracted another cup. Aota took it with his spare hand, flipped it over, and held it in front of Dave’s nose. “You so smart guy. What this thing?”

  WATT DELHAM

  VITIOLLO NIELSEN

  DOOLITTLE RAID 4/18/42

  Dave swallowed hard. There was no squirming out of this one. Clearly one of the four of them had done it, and there was no way he’d let one of his men take the fall for what he’d done. “Oh, that. That was me.”

  The tip of Aota’s knife dragged horizontally across Dave’s throat—the blade so sharp his nerves didn’t register searing pain until Aota lifted the knife away.

  Aota’s upper lip curled. He shifted the blade with a quick move, positioning the tip over Dave’s heart. “Your friend? He die because his heart stop. Beri-beri. And you, ah? How you heart?”

  Firing on about three cylinders. Dave closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to look at Aota. But he couldn’t help smelling him.

  Aota gave the knife a little push that broke Dave’s skin. A trickle of blood started down his chest, racing the blood from his throat. “No more writings. Or I stop heart for you now.”

  Dave raised his hands in the air. “Okay. You win.”

  Aota replied with a growl. He cocked his head at the other prisoners and issued some command in Japanese. The guards shoved the other men in their cells.

  Aota pushed at the cup with his foot and glared at Dave. “What you do this with?”

  His mental gears engaged. There might be an opportunity here. He produced a puzzled face. “What did I use to write it?”

  “Hai.”

  “Lay off with the knife and I’ll give it to you.” He groaned and clutched his gut. “But I need a minute. Benjo. The dysentery.”

  Aota snarled.

  “Onemai shimasu.” Dave gave the man his best agonized expression. “I’m sick.” Time slowed as he waited for Aota’s response.

  Aota considered for an instant, then barked at the men restraining Dave. They flung him through his cell door toward his benjo. He dropped his pants and crouched over the stinking hole in his floor. Glanced up at the door. The yellow vermin were laughing among themselves and—understandably—paying no attention to him.

  Now or never. Two years in prison and this was it. The closest to an opportunity to get even with a guard he’d seen. The closest he was likely to get.

  He’d stowed the nail in a hurry earlier, so it was close at hand. With his eyes glued on Aota, he reached for the pile of blankets, fished for the nail. He found it behind the cement fragment. He wrapped his fist around it. A voice—Eileen’s, perhaps—whispered something in his ear. Something about keeping his head. Not doing anything stupid. But it was drowned out in an instant by a louder voice—Aota’s, railing at him.

  He squared his shoulders and stood. Pulled up his floppy prison pants and secured the drawstring. Dropped his right hand to his side and made the nail firm between his knuckles. He knew nothing but the solid feel of the nail. Heard nothing but the roar of his blood in his ears.

  Two-and-a-half inches of honed carnage protruded from his fist.

  Aota stoo
d closest to Dave’s cell door, that twelve-inch blade back in its sheath.

  Perfect.

  Something in the pit of Dave’s stomach went hollow. Aota had no doubt practiced swordsmanship since he was a tot. Dave had never in his life gouged anything with a nail.

  He took a deep breath, screwed his eyes shut, and summoned an image of Bob’s face, relaxed and joking around aboard the Hornet. Then again, gray and swollen in that pine box.

  Am I a man or not?

  He summoned his strength. Even mouthed something like a prayer for power and speed.

  Okay, Aota-san. Your time of reckoning has come, big fellah.

  He hoisted himself onto his chair. Took another unsteady step onto his desk. Paused to let his balance catch up with him.

  He braced himself, then whooped out a war cry.

  Aota looked over at him. The man’s mouth gaped. He launched into the cell, knife drawn and poised over his shoulder. Dim and another goon rushed in behind him, batons at ready.

  Aota yelled and thrust the blade. Adrenaline flooded Dave’s system. Time stretched. The knife came at his belly in slow motion, glinting in the filtered light. He sidestepped it and struck at Aota’s arm behind it. The bony edge of his forearm crashed into Aota’s wrist.

  The knife point missed his hip by an inch.

  His blow jarred the knife loose. It slammed against the wall, dropped to the floor.

  Triumph. Disarmed the brute. Dave teetered and crumpled onto the Jap. Drove the butt of his left hand at Aota’s nose. The man fell, twisting like a snake. Dave threw a punch with his right that went wild, the nail gashing Aota’s scalp. Dave landed on his back, the guard on top of him. His wrist smashed against the chair leg. The nail dropped to the floor, rolled away useless.

  Dim and the other man closed around them, clubs raised.

  Dave lunged for the nail. The third guard’s hobnailed boot came down, hard, on his wrist.

  Aota had Dave pinned. He sat up and straddled him, his face a broad snarl. Aota’s knees pressed on Dave’s thighs. The sole of the third guard’s boot crushed his wrist. His heart did a crazy, lurching jig inside his chest.