Kumiko stifled a choke on the first swallow, then drank another sip that went down smoother. Maddie let the jug pass on by, her body a bit tired and unsettled from the day’s yo-yoing excitement. But nothing kept her from enjoying Mr. Garrett’s tunes on the harmonica. She clapped in time with the others while he puffed away. Occasionally he misplaced a note or rushed a phrase, but tonight all that mattered was the joy the melodies evoked. Even Jean and Merle, the quiet couple from Belknap—who Ida claimed had never quite recovered from the drowning of their little boy two decades ago—began to sing along, swept away by the festivities and laughter. By music that flowed from Mr. Garrett’s soul.
Music had that power, Maddie now recalled. It could bring back memories or, for the bliss of a moment, make you forget.
When Kumiko came to her feet, Ida’s nephew let out a whoop. “Looks like someone’s got a song for us.”
Kumiko raised a palm to decline and tried to explain she was only getting some water. By the gentle sway of her legs, she appeared to need a tall glass, having had her fill of Mr. Garrett’s concoction.
“Aw, don’t be shy,” Ida urged.
Kumiko shook her head. “I know only Japanese song,” she said bashfully. “My voice—no good.”
“We’re no opera stars ourselves,” Ida pressed. “C’mon. We’d love to hear anything at all.”
“Mother, sing for us.” Emma glimmered with hope, and in no time, the rest of the room joined in on the appeal. They didn’t stop until Kumiko relented.
It went so quiet that Maddie could hear the prelude of crickets through the closed windows.
Slowly, Kumiko closed her eyes. Then from her mouth came a Japanese folk tune that drifted out in a sullen tone. The lyrics grew steadily in volume, as did the grace of her syllables.
Emma whispered the translation to Maddie, seated on the rug beside her. She related verses of standing on a temple’s bridge: during Momiji, the season of viewing leaves, the trees in Kyoto blaze red and gold; their youthful green is gone, changed with no choice; the branch yearns to hold on, but a cold wind blows and the last leaf falls; a mere reflection on water remains, a memory of red and gold.
After a long beat of stillness, Kumiko opened her eyes. Looking startled by her surroundings, she wiped her moistened cheeks. The audience didn’t clap or speak, nothing to disturb the transcendence she’d formed over them like a dome.
Maddie glanced around, in awe that hers weren’t the only eyes welling. Songs of such sadness evidently needed no translation.
Kumiko bent her head and rasped, “I am sorry,” and with that, she fled the room.
Maddie debated on allowing Kumiko her space. Japanese people, she had learned, preferred to deal with issues in private. Yet so had Maddie’s father and brother, and both had ended up out of reach.
So she searched the house and porch, the barn and the shed. Finally she spotted her by a crooked fence bordering the freshly planted field. Maddie approached with caution and rested her elbows, just like Kumiko’s, on the top rail.
For several minutes, they stared wordlessly at the luminescent moon. The fact that the woman didn’t tell her to leave seemed an invitation to stay.
“I was arranged to marry—when fourteen year old.” Kumiko spoke softly, her gaze straight ahead. “Kensho Demura was true love for me. He write letter, say, We go away, you not marry Nobu. But in Japan, family first. Family always first.”
Maddie concentrated on the story, rather than the shock of how many English words Kumiko actually knew.
“Nobu get work in America, so I go. Wife always go. No ask question,” she said. “Later, my heart begin to forget Kensho. When I have Takeshi—Lane, ne?—I try be happy, have good family. We have new baby ... here.” She gestured to her stomach.
At the pregnancy reference, Maddie’s mind went to Emma. Then she recalled Kumiko’s mysterious phrase, from the night her daughter lay unconscious at Manzanar—please, not again—and Maddie braced herself for more.
“To make good luck for baby, must wear hara-obi. White belt for mother. Always start to wear on ‘dog day’ in fifth month. Dog have puppy very easy, healthy, so must be ‘dog day.’ Demo ... I so tired, I forget. Next day, I hurry, put on belt. Doctor say, inside me baby good. But I have much worry. We go doctor many time. Always he tell me, ‘Daijbu, everything fine.’
“Sorekara ... one night very late, I not feel baby move. I tell Nobu, ‘We go doctor.’ He say, ‘Kumiko, baby just sleeping. We wait for morning.’ I want to be good wife. I say, ‘Hai—okay.’ In morning, I wake up, but ...” Her voice strained and lowered. “Demo, too late. Baby die.”
Maddie gripped the rail as she watched Kumiko’s mouth go taut, an attempt to retain her composure.
“Nobu very sorry. He say we have more baby. But I say no. He try to make better, say one day we go back Kyoto. But work at Sumitomo very busy, too busy for us to go.” Kumiko paused briefly before continuing. “Many years pass, and I have baby inside. Very hard I try. I think, Everything be okay. Then ... she born kugatsu yokka. Fourth day, ninth month.”
“Emma,” Maddie realized. The girl’s birthday was September fourth.
“In Japan, kanji—writing of four and nine—this bad luck. Very bad. It mean death, and pain.”
The sum of four and nine, unlucky thirteen in America, wasn’t lost on Maddie. Nor was the cause of Kumiko’s initial resistance to Emma. “You were afraid something would happen to her,” Maddie concluded, “even after she was born healthy.”
Kumiko gave an almost imperceptible nod. “Many year I think, Kamisama make mistake, soon He take her back to heaven. Many year I blame Nobu for baby, for leaving Japan. For life without Kensho. Demo atode ... I see Takeshi and you. I see you marry. I think, Why I not more strong? Why I not follow heart? I see you and I have anger. Not because my husband is Nobu. Nobu very good man. Always give much for me, for children. No. I blame only Kumiko. For weakness.” She angled her face toward Maddie and asked, “Wakatta?”
Maddie meant to nod yes, that she understood. However, taken aback by the confession, all she could do was stare.
Kumiko looked away before Maddie found her voice.
“You, Mrs. Moritomo, are not weak. In fact, you’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever met. Think about what you’ve been through. Moving to some country thousands of miles away, to a life so different from what you’d known.”
Kumiko shifted her weight, a suggestion of leaving, and Maddie bristled. She didn’t want her to go. Yet she couldn’t think of anything to keep the woman there—except a confession of her own.
In comparison, Maddie’s burden now seemed minor. Nonetheless, she forced it out swiftly so as not to lose her courage. “When I auditioned for Juilliard last year, I failed. Halfway through a piece, my hands just stopped. It can happen to even the best students, from the pressure.
“What nobody knows is that I did it on purpose. I was afraid of leaving my family and home. I was afraid that ... that I might lose myself by letting them go.” Reflecting on the riots and Black Dragons, the challenge of fitting in, the opposition from Lane’s mother, Maddie was struck by the irony of just how far away she had landed.
Kumiko said nothing in reply. In the silence, Maddie wondered if she had divulged too much. But then their eyes met, and from the exchange came a flicker of warmth that spread through Maddie’s chest.
“We go back,” Kumiko said gently. “Company waiting.”
Maddie nodded, agreeing with a smile.
As they walked together, toward the glowing windows of the house, an owl called out to the moon. The sound channeled Maddie’s thoughts to a bird of another kind. Featured in Kumiko’s paintings, most of which camp officials had salvaged, were sparrows whose symbolism now became clear. Alone and grounded, they were creatures with wings that had forgotten how to fly.
They were pictures of Kumiko.
They were Maddie.
49
The only good Jap is a dead Jap.
Since arriving on
the Aleutian Islands, just off the Alaskan coast, Lane had heard the phrase muttered by plenty of guys in the 7th Infantry Division. It was no wonder so few enemies were delivered to the team of ten Nisei linguists for interrogation. Assuming TJ was alive, hopefully his Japanese captors found more value in gathering prisoners.
The possibility to the contrary, however, ravaged Lane’s sleep for yet another night.
On his cot, he wrestled with his wool blankets in search of a comfortable position. Alternating snores from eight of his roommates—the ninth was posted on a nearby ship, intercepting radio transmissions—wasn’t helping.
Sure, the pain Maddie would suffer from losing more of her family troubled him. But in truth, that wasn’t the core of his unrest. It was the realization that his last talk with TJ, packed with bitterness and spite, might have been their final one.
He flipped over and back before giving up. Insomnia won the battle.
Wrapped in his blankets, he clicked on his flashlight and padded across the Quonset hut. The damp, bone-chilling weather had made their three weeks here feel like three months. Or maybe it was the boredom, inherent in being stuck in the rear echelon.
He sat down, thumbed through a fresh stack of LIFE magazines sent by a linguist’s mother. The covers spoke for themselves. VICTORY OF BISMARCK SEA. SOLDIER’S FAREWELL, featuring the added bonus of a lieutenant kissing his sweetheart good-bye.
Lane tossed that issue aside. As if he needed a reminder of leaving loved ones behind, just so others could achieve victories he’d personally never see.
If your mom really wants to keep our morale up, one of the fellas had said about the magazines, she’d mail us some pinups next time.
Lane had laughed along at the remark. What he’d actually been thinking was that no pinup could hold a candle to Maddie. Even now, his pulse picked up at the memory of holding her, of sharing a bed on his last night at the farm. Perhaps he should have stayed....
Second-guessing made for a pointless pastime. He opted for stationery and a pencil. As he did every other day without fail, he penned his wife a letter, ever careful with his wording. Treading the line between his doubts and honesty was a slippery task.
May 29, 1943
My dearest Maddie,
Not much to say tonight except that I miss you terribly. I reread your latest batch of letters after chow this morning. You’d think they’d help me miss you less, but I have to admit they do just the opposite. That said, don’t you dare think about sending any fewer! With the bleak tundra here, the sun never in sight, a post at mail call is the best source of brightness a guy could hope for.
Thanks for the update about my mother and sister. I’m sure glad to know Ida and Mr. Garrett are treating you all so kindly. Please tell them I’m grateful. Also, tell Em to keep up with her letter writing to Papa, no matter how short or censored his replies may be. Hearing from family, a sign you haven’t been forgotten, means more than she could ever know.
I received another letter from Dewey. He doesn’t have anything to share about TJ yet, but said he’ll keep nosing around. Like you said, we have plenty of reasons to keep our hopes up. Regardless of what’s happened between your brother and me, please know I’m praying daily for his safe return.
Best close now. Morning will be here before long. Sending my love to all of you.
Yours forever,
Lane
On the envelope he jotted her address and set the post aside for censoring. Just writing to Maddie made him feel better.
He rose from his chair, knocking something to the ground. One of his roommates rolled over, but all kept snoozing. Lane directed his flashlight downward and onto the splayed book. A diary awaiting translation. Journals from fallen Japanese soldiers made up the extent of his assignments. Those, and harmless letters confiscated from an island resident with relatives in Kyushu. If any significant documents were floating around out there, the GIs were ignorantly pilfering them for souvenirs.
Lane retrieved the diary, its front cover smeared with blood. A dried cherry blossom peeked from inside. A wife’s gift, he guessed. A reminder that the soldier once had family and friends, a home and a life. Japanese scrawling filled the pages, a sample of Lane’s ancestry. If his mother had gotten her wish of remaining in Kyoto, this keepsake could have been his.
He shut the book tight and shoved it beneath the magazine pile. The deeper he buried the connection, the better.
As he turned for his cot, a muffled yell caught his ear. He went still, instinctively listening for sounds of battle. A silly notion. Although the Japanese were ferociously defending Attu, territory they’d occupied for close to a year, being vastly outnumbered by the Americans limited their movement.
“What’s going on out there?” a roommate grumbled.
Another voice boomed from outside. It couldn’t be later than 0400. Were they running a nighttime drill?
Lane peeked out to investigate. A wall of cold met his face, but the shiver that ran through him came from the sight. Guys were emerging from their tents in a frenzy. Engineers, clerks. An NCO was distributing rifles to them all.
“Grab a weapon!” someone yelled. “It’s a banzai attack!”
It took Lane a few seconds to comprehend. The claim meant Japanese soldiers were charging en masse.
“How far are they?” he shouted to anyone who might answer, then grabbed the arm of a skinny cook hastening past. “I said, how far?”
The guy looked scattered. “Cap’n says—he says they’re past the Ridge, closing in on our hill.” To reach Engineer Hill, the Japanese would first be plowing through the hospital tents below.
As the cook tore away, a GI appeared at the hut entrance. He was one of their group’s bodyguards. “Everyone up! We gotta get you fellas outta here.”
Lane spun around to find most of his roommates already rising from their sleeping bags. Their assigned guard didn’t waste time explaining, using clipped words to usher them from the command post.
“What about the patients?” Lane demanded in stride, throwing on his overcoat and helmet.
“My job’s to get you guys to safety. Now, move it.” His statement wasn’t heartless; the treachery of what could happen to a captured Japanese American GI was no secret. Save a bullet for yourself went as the unspoken rule. Of course, more relevant to the Army was the linguists’ potential value. They could prove to be priceless weapons if given a real chance.
But would that chance ever come?
Could that moment have arrived?
Lane fell back, discreetly, to the rear of the fleeing huddle. They were koi swimming upstream against the current of soldiers creating a defensive line. Thick fog aided Lane’s goal of dissolving into the shadows. From a snow patch on the ground, he snagged a rifle—he’d forgotten his own—and confirmed it was loaded. He pulled his helmet low to hide his face and ran.
As he approached the hospital clearing station, screams layered the night air. Shots were blasting inside the first pyramidal tent. All three were boldly marked with the Red Cross symbol, but patients were clearly being attacked. Wounded GIs, lying helpless in their beds.
Terror coated Lane’s throat, his mind. He crouched behind a withered tree. A wave of Japanese soldiers snaked toward the second tent. Lane took aim, and he fired.
No discharge.
He tried again—the M1 was jammed!
The men disappeared into the tent. More screams, more shots. Lane squeezed the weapon’s barrel to his chest. An urge for survival bit down on him, yet he summoned his strength, battled the instinct to race away. He had to do something before they killed them all.
A Japanese soldier materialized through the mist. He was marching toward the last ward. Lane ducked as additional enemy flew from the other tents. They rushed past and swarmed up the hill. But the lone soldier continued on his path, and through the door.
Defying all rational thought, Lane launched himself forward. “Get out here, you bastard! You coward! You filthy rat!” He yelled i
n English, in Japanese, anything to draw him into the open. Lane was two yards from the entrance when the soldier resurfaced.
With the butt of his M1, Lane took a swing. The man blocked him with his bayonet, a mere blade fastened to a rock, and immediately jabbed back. Pain sliced through Lane’s forearm as he dropped his rifle. Adrenaline thrust him onto the guy, a tackle to the hardened ground. The bayonet fell free as they scrambled for control.
Finally Lane’s hands reached the soldier’s throat and fastened like a vise. Tighter, tighter, he had to squeeze tighter. The man fought against the trembling grip, fought for a breath—until something blinded Lane. A handful of dirt. He blinked fast and hard, but the stinging loosened his grasp just enough for the guy to slip free and punch Lane in the face.
Toppling over, Lane felt his helmet fly off. In an instant, the soldier regained his spear; he hollered, drawing back to strike, before their gazes caught hold. The man froze. Lane could see the confusion in his eyes, a sudden recognition: The GI he was about to kill reflected his own image.
But the scare didn’t last. When the guy lifted his blade again, Lane’s arms rose in defense. Then a shot pierced the air, ripped through the soldier’s chest. His body wavered for a moment and collapsed onto Lane. The weight of death pressed down like a mountain.
Lane worked to wriggle free. Strengthened by panic, he succeeded in shoving him off.
“You okay?” asked an approaching sergeant.
Lane managed a nod.
A couple of GIs hurried into the wards. Lane rose slowly and followed into the third tent. Motionless mounds covered the beds. No wisps of breaths, no sign of hope. Had he somehow been too late?
The sergeant spoke to the room, announced that all the Japs were battling up on the hill. Gradually the patients came to life. A doc lit a candle. Below the lineup of cots, several other GIs rolled out from hiding. To stay alive, they had pretended to be dead.
Bridge of Scarlet Leaves Page 27
