Bridge of Scarlet Leaves

by Kristina McMorris

  Indeed, the lineup of what TJ would call “classical-composer trading cards” had gradually become a scrapbook. Even Tchaikovsky had recently given up his reign for a picture: Maddie watching a judo match with two Japanese friends from the garment factory. With cameras prohibited at Manzanar, she was grateful for the sketch sent by an evacuee.

  “Some are friends, the rest are family,” she explained. “And then there’s Bach, of course.” Her sole remaining judge on the musical panel.

  “Bach ... ,” Mr. Garrett said. “He an uncle of yours?”

  Maddie’s throat cut off an impolite giggle. “Um—no. He’s a composer. A pretty famous one.”

  “Any tune I might’ve heard?”

  Good golly, where would she possibly start? She strove to enlighten him without inundating him with too much detail. “You know, I’m sure several of his pieces would sound familiar if you heard them.”

  Mr. Garrett threw his head back, chuckling. “I’m just pulling your leg. I’m real familiar with old Johann.”

  Maddie shook her head, as stunned as she was relieved, and laughed with him.

  “So are you a fan of classical music?” she asked when they quieted.

  “Didn’t start out that way. Though it grew on me ’cause of Celia.” He rarely volunteered information about his late wife.

  “Did she play an instrument?”

  “Played the piano as a girl. Gave it up for one reason or another. But she sure loved listening to those songs. She’d put ’em on every evening after supper, didn’t miss a day.”

  Maddie smiled, touched by the reminiscent look in his eyes, the flickering of his mind projecting those moments together.

  “Follow me,” he said all of a sudden.

  “What is it?”

  He nodded toward the hall. “Got something to show ya.”

  Maddie’s mind flooded with possibilities as Mr. Garrett rummaged in the attic. At the base of the pull-down ladder, she watched him descend with a wooden crate. He set the box on the floor and slid away the large brown handkerchief to reveal a collection of records.

  “Seeing as we weren’t blessed with children,” he said, “I suppose these sorta became like kids to Celia. Bringing them out to keep us company. Letting ’em play, then tucking them into bed.”

  Maddie knelt beside the box. She took care in going through the sleeved disks. Schubert’s “Unfinished Symphony” and Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. Dvoák’s Symphony in E minor, op. 95.

  “Gramophone broke down a while back,” he told her. “Otherwise, I’d let you give them a listen.”

  She continued flipping. As if clicking through radio channels, she heard snippets of Beethoven and Schumann and Wieniawski. “These are all lovely. Your wife had exceptional taste.”

  “Well, she married me, didn’t she?”

  Maddie boosted a grin, which collapsed at the discovery of the next record. A performance by Yehudi Menuhin. It was a famed rendition of Bach’s Chaconne for solo violin. She touched a tattered edge of the label, and thought of her father. Was there any chance at all he had noticed her missing?

  “Ah, yeah,” Mr. Garrett remarked, leaning over her. “Celia liked that one an awful lot. Made her a little sad, but it didn’t stop her from playing it as much as the others.”

  Maddie had never considered the Chaconne anything but challenging and brilliant and powerful. “What about the piece made her sad?”

  “Oh, it wasn’t so much the notes as the story behind it. You know, about Bach and his wife and all.”

  She shook her head, exposing her ignorance, inviting him to elaborate.

  “Gosh, let’s see... .” One elbow leaning on the ladder, he scratched his stubbled jaw. “As I recall, Celia got this bit from her old piano teacher. Said that Bach had been busy traveling—working for some prince, I think. When he finally made it home, come to find out his wife had passed on while he was away. Already buried too. A real misfortune, especially with seven children to raise. So they say—though don’t quote me here—that he wrote that song about all the grief he was feelin’.”

  “I had never heard that before,” Maddie said in wonder.

  The man exhaled a breath, a personal mourning in its heaviness. She knew that breath. She understood the desire to awaken memories of a loved one, only to be reminded that memories were all you had left.

  “Anyhow,” he said, straightening. “Tractor needs some tuning up. You take your time with those. Just leave the box when you’re done. I’ll put it away before bed.” With that, he started heading out.

  “Mr. Garrett.”

  He stopped.

  “Thank you,” she said, “for sharing these.”

  He smiled ruefully, then continued on.

  Left alone, she reviewed the Chaconne from a new perspective. It was as if she had passed by a landscape painting all her life, framed and hung in a hall, and suddenly learned that hidden beneath the strokes was the original Mona Lisa.

  As she entertained the idea of emotion underlying the composition, a series of buried notes rose from the depths of her mind. A saxophonist’s version of “Summertime.” She’d listened to the man play at the Dunbar, his feelings rather than technique ruling every haunting phrase. For what she’d viewed as self-indulgence, her ear had found fault in his loosey-goosey style.

  Now, though, the memory of that tune stirred her emotions. For it signaled the last time she, TJ, Lane, and Jo had all been together, like a necessary complement of four strings to make a whole. Replaying that night, she saw them running from the cops, hiding in an alley, teasing, laughing. Long since divided, they had entered the “bridge” of their lives. In music, that’s what they called the transitional period. A time to reflect on what had passed and to prepare for a new phase.

  A fluttering in her stomach trailed the thought. Her baby was moving around, as if reminding her that blessings, too, had been gained along their journey.

  “You’re right, sweetheart. You’re right,” Maddie murmured, and reclined against the wallpapered hallway. She rubbed her belly and, rocking side to side, she hummed “Summertime” for them all. A wish for tomorrow. A lullaby of hope.

  55

  By the light of the moon, Lane traced the image of her face. His fingers glided down the photo, over Maddie’s shoulder and down her beautiful, rounded figure. In just a few months he would be a father. A father! The idea was overwhelming and frightening and amazing all at once.

  What would the child look like? Would he be an athlete? Maybe a lawyer ... a judge. Or would it be a girl? One smile from her and Lane would be nothing but putty.

  Doggone it all. What was he doing? Hiding out in a jungle infested with as many Japanese soldiers as disease-carrying bugs wasn’t the place to be thinking about the future.

  He tucked Maddie’s picture back into the dome of his helmet, next to Emma’s crane. He needed to concentrate on why he was here, what he came to do. Not stoke fears over what he stood to lose.

  “Moritomo,” Sergeant Schober said quietly, approaching the Banyan tree. Lane sat amidst the protruding, interwoven roots, waiting for recon orders. “Cap’n wants you to sneak into the field. See if you can hear anything.”

  Lane strapped on his helmet. He followed without pause, in spite of knowing what he was in for. The prior night, he’d volunteered to crawl into the same meadow. Not surprisingly, Captain Berlow hadn’t objected. For an hour, Lane had eavesdropped on Imperial soldiers discussing their unit’s positions. From either ignorance or arrogance—perhaps from both—the Japanese tended to speak carelessly about such things, secure in the belief that no outsider would understand their language.

  The details Lane had related helped the Marines wipe out an entire machine-gun nest. Still, the captain remained unimpressed. Translated maps, insightful interrogations. Nothing could win the guy over. All Lane received were snide remarks about being too chummy with the POWs. Berlow didn’t realize that screaming to make them talk was pointless. Intimidation only clammed them up.
Show them compassion and they answered every question.

  The reason was simple. Japanese weren’t trained to be prisoners of war; they were never supposed to be taken alive. And few of them were, in fact, until Schober had offered a reward of three Cokes for the delivery of each POW. The prisoner count had substantially risen.

  Now near the edge of the field, Lane admittedly felt more fear than compassion.

  Sergeant Schober gave a hand signal, directing him northeast. Lane waited for acknowledging nods from the Marines positioned close by. Being mistaken for the enemy was a major reason most MIS guys weren’t stationed at the front.

  On his stomach, he inched his way through the tall swaying weeds. A decent breeze helped camouflage his movement. Island noises rode the salty air, reminding him of nights spent on the California coast. Tipping back beers with TJ, cracking jokes around a bonfire.

  Finally he heard a murmur of voices. He moved in on them to discern the words. Idle chatter filled most of the exchange, hunger and pitiful rations the looping topic. Nothing Lane wasn’t experiencing himself. Even with his jittery nerves, he could eat a feast for ten. His belly let out a grumble at the thought. He grabbed his middle to mute the gurgle, flattening his face in the dirt.

  The men continued without a break, thank God. Time to get out of here before it happened again.

  Lane started to crawl backward, but then caught the word “shgeki.”

  Assault.

  He stopped and leaned forward, listened intently. Once he’d gathered ample information, he suppressed his alarm and returned to find Schober. Lane passed along what he’d heard, about the enemy forces closing in on the area. They were using tunnels for strategic movement to get a drop on the Marines. He relayed the quantity of their soldiers, far outnumbering the American outfit, and their plans to attack at dawn.

  A mere flitter of concern appeared in the captain’s eyes, but the urgency of his orders conveyed the weight he afforded the report.

  “Captain, I have an idea,” Lane interrupted. Before Berlow could dismiss his input, Lane tossed out his proposal.

  The man chewed on his cigar for several seconds, then grumbled. “This don’t work, you’ll be the first one they shoot.” A statement of the obvious.

  “It’ll work,” Lane insisted.

  If it didn’t, they could be overrun by morning.

  “Well then,” Berlow replied, “what are we waiting for.”

  As the plan spread through the company of Marines, Lane took up position in the field, no more than five yards from the captain. Berlow wanted a front row seat, where he could immediately adjust if the scheme failed. Clearly he was already banking on the need for plan B.

  Lane hugged his rifle, keeping low to the ground. He eyed his wristwatch. Thoughts of his wife, his family, his unborn child, crammed themselves into every trudging minute.

  Finally, the anticipated hour arrived. At 0300, Berlow gave him the cue, along with a look that said, Don’t you dare screw this up.

  So much for camaraderie.

  Following a quick silent prayer, Lane inhaled a lungful of air. And in a sharp commander’s voice, he shouted, “Totsugeki! Totsugeki!”

  A drove of Japanese soldiers, fooled by the order to charge, rose in the meadow. They let out hollers as they ran straight into an instant shower of ammo. Lane took a chance and repeated his yell, his prime contribution. He wasn’t expected to fire unless necessary. More men appeared and fell into the weeds. It was an all-out turkey shoot.

  Off to the right, Berlow fired away, cutting down the opposition. But then a dark form materialized out of his sight line. A Japanese soldier leapt straight at the captain with bayonet raised. The scene rolled out in slow motion, each frame a still life of impending death. Just in time, bullets halted the enemy, jerking his chest in rapid hits, and slammed him to the ground.

  Berlow threw Lane a glance. It was only then Lane realized that he himself had pulled the trigger. A banzai shout from another soldier yanked the captain back to his duties, and before long, Lane too was firing against the other side.

  Come morning, the counterattack a success—including the surrender of several dozen Japanese—Lane joined others in scouring the field. He focused on finding documents, averting his conscience from the faces of those, in one way or another, he had murdered. With purposeful steps, he hurtled the obstacle course of pockmarked bodies, and wondered how many more sacrifices it would take to bring this blessed thing to an end.

  56

  Amazing how a single night can entirely change how you view a person. TJ had learned this from both his father and Lane. What he hadn’t expected was a Japanese guard to reinforce the theory. But back in June, that’s what had happened when flawless English slipped out while the guy talked in his sleep. It took TJ threatening to report Dopey, about his snoozing on post, to uncover the shocking truth.

  “I’m an American,” Dopey confessed, seated on the ground against the rock where he’d nodded off. “I was born and raised in Claremont. Graduated from Berkeley in ’41.”

  “An American?” TJ found himself stuck on the lone admission.

  “After my dad died, my mom moved back to Nagoya to be with her sisters. Took my little brother with her. She understood why I wanted to stay. California was my home. But then she had a stroke.” He layered his arms over his bent knees, shook his head. “I was only planning to be there a couple weeks. Once I got there, though, it was hard to leave until I knew my mom would be okay. And my boss at the ad firm said he’d hold my job for a month. So I stayed. I mean, how was I supposed to know what was about to happen... .”

  “Pearl Harbor,” TJ murmured.

  Dopey worked his heel into the ground as he continued. “I tried everything I could. Went to the embassy, wrote officials in the States. Nothing worked. They weren’t letting anyone with Japanese blood back into the country.”

  In the pause that followed, TJ’s grip remained on the bars of his open-aired cell. His initial shock was dissipating, though not his wariness. Regardless of citizenship, the guy was a Jap soldier. “If you were such a patriot, then why the hell are you here? How can you stand to wear that uniform?”

  “I was conscripted,” he said gruffly. “You think I want to fight for the Imperial Army? Watch Americans being murdered every day?” He jerked his face away, yet even in the dark, with only the moon lighting their corner of camp, TJ could see emotion cross his features, his shoulders dip. He could feel the guy’s guilt as distinct and binding as the seams of a ball.

  “Eventually I found a way to escape,” he went on. “Got papers and a travel pass through the black market. I was all set to go. But then ... in the end, I couldn’t do it.”

  “So you stayed by choice?” The question wasn’t a challenge. TJ was sincerely perplexed.

  “You wouldn’t understand,” Dopey muttered.

  “Try me.”

  Though looking hesitant, he replied, “Because of my family. If I’d fled like that, abandoned my duty, I would’ve disgraced them. All just to serve myself.”

  “But—that doesn’t make sense. Who would’ve looked down on them for that? A couple of pencil pushers in Tokyo?”

  “No,” he said, a statement of fact. “The whole country.”

  For six weeks following that exchange, TJ and Eddie—that was Dopey’s real name—had spent their nights gabbing in secret.

  It had been nice for TJ, having someone actually respond when he talked during his stint in the cage. And clearly Eddie had missed speaking, not just in English but in any language. At military training, his subtle but telling American accent had spurred distrust. So he’d learned to open his mouth only when needed. This was also, TJ guessed, the reason Eddie had been assigned guard duty at their prison camp. Really, how much damage could a potential spy do while entrapped by barbed wire on a remote island?

  In some ways, Eddie Sato was imprisoned as much as any POW here.

  “I’m sorry it’s over.” This served as TJ’s standard rep
ly when prisoners asked how he’d managed in solitary. Viewed as a hero for his offense, he’d received the question a whole lot. “I’m sorry it’s over,” he’d tell them, and they presumed he was being sarcastic, or arrogantly brave.

  Truth was, he meant it.

  Five months had passed since he’d been returned to his thatched barrack. He’d enjoyed reuniting with fellas like Tack and Ranieri—Ranieri had mostly regained his health by then, plus a permanent case of gratitude. The space to stroll and stretch was also a welcome change, not to mention a bath and shave. But while lying in his sleeping bay at night, he’d think of Eddie and their talks, from starlets and radio shows to meals from home. They’d traded jokes and stories, and created a game of tossing pebbles onto circles drawn in the dirt.

  It wasn’t until discussing the great hitter Ted Williams, though, that TJ had realized what he relished most about their chats: With features sculpted by the shadows, Eddie could have so easily been Lane. Like it or not, TJ missed his old friend. The person he could go to with family frustrations or for help with school projects, to swap advice on dating and girls. To share whoops and boos over every broadcast from the World Series, a buddy to celebrate with whenever the occasion arose.

  He wished he could tell that to Lane, but the guy was about as far from reach as Bovard Field. TJ stewed on this thought for several nights. Only when it brewed into a feast of an idea—one that could deliver him to freedom—did he risk conferring with Eddie in private.

  In the inky blackness, hidden behind the latrine, TJ tried not to inhale the fumes. The facility was nothing more than a walled-off slit trench. His past “honey details” had required him to scoop up bucketfuls to be used as fertilizer for Looney’s garden, which was how TJ knew this was the perfect spot to meet. Aside from a few emergency runs by POWs with dysentery, the stench would deter anyone from coming out here by choice.