“I’m here to see Major Berlow, please.” Lane presented his most charming smile to the receptionist.
“And you are?”
“Sergeant Lane Moritomo, ma’am.”
She pushed up her bifocals and scanned her schedule. Frank Sinatra crooned “Blue Skies” through a tabletop radio. “Ah, yes. The major will be with you shortly. Have a seat, if you will.”
He thanked her and propped another smile, which she reciprocated. A good sign. He’d welcome any ally who had a connection to Berlow; the guy was his last chance. Also a last resort.
Lane had spent every day for the past several months slogging through various chains of command. He’d campaigned to politicians, brass, anyone in the upper echelons with the potential to liberate TJ’s camp. He’d referred them to atrocities shared by Ranieri: appendectomies with no anesthesia, iron-club beatings for stealing a single papaya, little or no medical attention while men suffered from malaria and scurvy, beriberi and tropical ulcers.
Although listeners extended their sympathies, reports from other Japanese camps were too similar to make Lane’s case stand out.
Helpless to do much more, he had thrown himself into his work. His spot at OCS had been confirmed but delayed. His goal of being home by New Year’s had changed to Valentine’s. He liked to visualize surprising Maddie at the station with a bouquet of peach roses, though the vision never lasted. Thoughts of TJ would crash into his mind and return him to task.
Hence, he applied tireless effort, surpassed expectations. He treated each document, each Japanese POW, as if the secret to achieving peace lay in their translated words. On occasion, he’d uncover an item of significance. He had even earned a promotion for his deeds. No doubt, the MIS’s Nisei and Kibei were collectively shaving years off the war. Their translation of the Z Plan, Japan’s naval counterattack strategy, enabled a major U.S. victory in the Battle of the Philippine Sea; decoding an intercepted itinerary led to the assassination of Admiral Yamamoto, mastermind of the Pearl Harbor attack; and the list went on and on.
The theory was simple: Win the war, and TJ would come home.
So long as the war didn’t outlast TJ.
“Sergeant,” the receptionist called. “The major will see you now.”
Lane rose, overseas cap resting on his manila envelope. He followed the woman’s directions toward the office in the northern corner of the building. Ringing phones competed in volume against snapping typewriters and chattering secretaries.
At the door, he heard a muffled voice. He rapped a knuckle on the glass.
“Yeah, yeah, come in!” The gruff response belonged to Berlow. A sniper’s shot to the knee may have raised the man’s military rank, even secured a cozy office, but obviously it had done little for his social graces.
Lane proceeded inside. Berlow sat behind his desk, his face slightly thickened. He was dictating notes to a young gal struggling to keep up. As predicted, the room was meticulously neat, not a speck of dust on the oak desk or cabinets. When the girl dared ask for clarification, he dismissed her with a grumble. She slinked from the room, head bowed.
Snapping a salute, Lane direly hoped his own encounter wouldn’t end the same.
Berlow returned the greeting in a vague motion, then pulled a cigar box from his desk. Was he going to offer one for old times’ sake?
“Nice to see you again, Captain—I mean—Major Berlow.”
The officer chose a single cigar, for himself, and slapped the lid closed.
Lane continued as planned, laying groundwork for the scene. “Speaking of which, congratulations on your promotion. I’d only just learned you’d been transferred from the islands.”
Berlow stuck the cigar into the corner of his mouth and his teeth clamped. “You come all this way to blow sunshine up my ass, Sergeant? ’Cause Colonel ‘Blowhard’ has decided to call a lunch meeting, giving you exactly”—he checked his watch—“ten minutes and three seconds to speak your piece. I wouldn’t waste them if I were you.”
Lane cleared his throat. Luckily, he’d prepared a speech.
“Sir, I’m here to inform you of a situation. I recently translated an official memo from the Japanese Ministry of War, sent to their prison camp commanders. In it are orders to execute their Allied POWs if our advancing forces are closing in on them. I’m convinced this memo set the stage for the Massacre at Palawan.”
Berlow chewed on the end of his cigar, devoid of expression.
“There’s also a camp on Magtulay, a small island south of Mindoro. With the Allies’ recent invasion of Mindoro, and General MacArthur’s return to Leyte, this camp is particularly vulnerable. Escaped POWs from there have already attested to numerous war crimes.”
Remembering his envelope, Lane reached inside to retrieve a copy of the memo. “I have the document with its translation here, confirming my report.”
The major threw up a hand to refuse the pages. “I’m familiar with Magtulay,” he ground out. “And the memo. And the mistreatment of our POWs—in a whole lot more Jap camps than this. So what is this really about?”
Lane slowly tucked the papers away, reviewing his now barren arguments. In a single swipe, the man had stripped the effectiveness of them all.
“Well?” Berlow pressed.
Coming clean seemed the only choice left. If nothing else, perhaps Berlow would appreciate Lane’s honesty, and the drive to protect his own.
“The truth of it is, sir,” he began again, “an old friend has been held there for two years. By the time our forces liberate the camp, it might be too late. Given your connections and experience, I was hoping you could help get these guys out.”
“Ahh,” Berlow said, sitting back. “Get ’em out. Just like that.”
Lane tried to expound, but the major cut in.
“Surely I don’t need to remind you that every soldier, sailor, and Marine out there is someone’s buddy or sweetheart. Some mother’s pride and joy. So you must have a mighty good reason this pal of yours deserves more attention than the rest.” A question and answer combined in one. More than that, his aloofness gave no hint that he and Lane were more than strangers. There existed no trace of their last somewhat genial exchange on the islands. No suggestion that they had served side by side in battle.
One would never know, for example, that the man behind the desk was alive because of the technical sergeant standing before him.
Lane had hoped to bypass that truth, but there was too much at stake. He straightened and replied, “It would be a favor, sir.”
Berlow cocked his head, waiting, eyes narrowing.
“After everything I’ve ... been through with your company.” He’d inserted the pause to draw out the allusion, which he let hang there, gaining definition.
Comprehension stroked the length of Berlow’s face. His features hardened as if coated in glaze. “I think we’re done here.”
An alarm rang in Lane’s mind, a warning to backpedal. “Major, all I meant was—”
“I said, we’re done.”
The tactic had proven a grave mistake. Push any harder and Lane could wind up behind bars himself.
In acknowledgment of his defeat, he simply said, “Yes, sir.” Then, left without choice, he headed for the door, his final solution crushed at the hands of Berlow’s pride.
As he reached for the knob, he noted the major’s cane, leaned against the wall beside him. At the sight, Lane’s view of the room changed. It wasn’t an office. It was a cage for an animal meant to run free, to hunt.
For Berlow, a man who thrived in the heat of battle and lived entirely for leading his pack, a desk job was a prison in disguise. Not all that different, perhaps, from an internment camp.
Turning back, Lane offered what he could. “I’m sorry about your leg, sir.”
The major didn’t respond, but the rage in his cheeks began to fade.
“Thank you for your time.” Lane saluted and again went to leave. When he stepped over the threshold, he heard Berlow curse to
himself.
A holler followed: “Sergeant, get your ass back here. And close the damn door.”
Despite the choice of words, the order landed in the realm of civil, with the potential for pleasant. Lane obliged, hope kept in check, and returned to his chair.
From a desk drawer, Berlow snagged a small matchbox and a clean ashtray. Amazingly, he lit his cigar. He stretched out a smoky exhale, as though savoring a long-denied delight. Finally, reclining in his throne, he confided, “There’s a raid in the works—on Magtulay.”
Lane’s whole body perked, first from elation, then from the fearful image of strafing fighter planes. “What kind of raid is it?”
“The kind that could get your buddy home safe and sound. Or, get him and everyone involved killed. Got several being planned at different camps in the area. Course, that’s not for you to spread around.” He continued once Lane shook his head in agreement. “There was talk about tasking our Raiders with the toughest ones, but now that Vandegrift disbanded the units, I imagine the Army’ll be tackling them solo.” He didn’t sound pleased about the decisions.
Those weren’t of Lane’s concern.
“Sir, about Magtulay ...”
“Huh? Ah, yeah. Well, it seems a Philadelphia congressman has a nephew who got himself shot down off Panay. Reports say he’s being held at your pal’s camp. Goal is to get him out before the Japs figure out what kind of bargaining chip just fell into their pocket.”
The news was miraculous, almost too good to be true—making Lane wary. “May I ask why you’re telling me this, sir?”
“G-2’s waiting on some captured documents, maps and such, from Mindoro. Seeing as you have a vested interest here, you might want to be in charge of translating those papers when they come in. Make sure nothing’s missed.” He added stress to his next point. “With a good number of Marines in that camp, part of my duty is to bring them home.”
So that was Berlow’s angle. To liberate guys sharing his uniform. But what about those who weren’t Marines? Or above all, any prisoner without a powerfully connected uncle?
Lane knew enough to understand that casualties would be considered a calculated cost. Also that TJ would be among those labeled expendable.
He couldn’t allow that. Which made what he had to do utterly clear.
“Major, could you tell me who I should speak to about accompanying the rescue team?”
Berlow expelled a sharp gray puff. The expanse of his forehead knotted. “Oh no you don’t. They don’t need you jumping in and fouling up their plans. And I’m not about to take responsibility for your welfare.”
“Please, sir, just consider it. On the front lines, I could contribute to the mission’s success. Listening in on enemy conversations, translating on the spot.” Even though Berlow hadn’t praised him for those acts in the past, Lane knew he was aware of them. “I simply can’t sit back and watch. Not when I know how much I could help by being there.”
Berlow shifted his gaze to his ashtray. He tapped a finger on his desk, mulling over the idea. The seconds passed as if dripping from a leaky faucet. “All right,” he muttered. “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll talk to the colonel.”
Lane suppressed a smile.
“Just try not to get yourself killed for Christ’s sake.”
“I’ll do my best, sir.”
For hours, during the jeep rides back to Sydney, Lane thought about his beloved Maddie. He questioned if he were making a mistake by putting himself in danger, their future on the line. In less than a month he could be on a ship sailing home to not only her, but the daughter he’d yet to meet. Suzie, his sweet baby bird.
He longed, too, to see the rest of his family, at last reunited after his father’s release. The man’s innocence should have been evident from the start. And yet Lane’s dad would never voice this; he would forge on with patience and endurance. Such admirable traits had apparently paid off in other ways. For, according to Emma, their parents had discovered a newfound affection. The idea still filled Lane with wonderment—as did every cherished letter from Maddie. Her mentions of even the most mundane daily tasks seemed like paradise when he imagined completing them together.
But how could he enjoy any of that without first doing everything in his power to bring her brother back? That was a gift she deserved for the love she’d given Lane, the devotion she’d shown for him and his family, when walking away would have been easier.
No wonder TJ had been so fiercely protective of her. If Lane had been in his shoes, what’s to say he wouldn’t have lashed out the same way, regardless of friendships sacrificed? Maybe it was too late to make amends. Maybe what had been broken could never be fixed. But for the relationship they’d once had, if a chance of rescuing TJ remained, Lane would be there to see it through.
64
Suzie’s piercing shriek sent Maddie racing toward the sound. She tore into the living room—a mother’s curse, she’d learned, was to expect the worst—yet no catastrophe awaited. Rather she found the opposite. Nobu, on all fours, was chasing Suzie’s wobbly walk around the doily-draped rocking chair. Ousted from her hiding spot, the girl bopped him lightly with raggedy Sarah Mae, then joined him in a bout of laughter.
Maddie sighed in relief, over more than her daughter’s safety. Her fear of their being shunned by Lane’s father, after he’d first arrived at the farm, lasted only until his wife declared Maddie and Suzie family. Behind closed doors, Kumiko may have detailed what the women had survived together, but more likely it was his wife’s transformed demeanor that had persuaded him. That, and the heavenly giggles of a child who was destined to further the man’s lineage.
“Nani yatten no, Papa?” Kumiko entered from the kitchen and tsked at his foolishness. Her fists pressed against the hips of her housedress. “M shizukani shite kudasai.”
He gently waved her off and turned to the girl. “No listen her, Suzie-chan. We not too loud.” Spiking his volume, he added, “This too loud. Ne?”
With a squeal, Suzie bounced in her winter jumper.
Maddie hid a smile from Kumiko, who grumbled under her breath. Before the woman swung back toward the kitchen, however, her gaze caught on Nobu’s. There was power in the exchange. Like a bolt of lightning, it struck in a flash and sent visible heat through Kumiko’s cheeks. Maddie knew that blush firsthand. She used to feel the same uncontainable glow every time Lane walked into a room.
Maddie resisted the memory, the onslaught of longing. “Suzie,” she called out. “It’s almost bath time.”
The baby, already a year now, shuffled back behind the chair.
Nobu bowed his head toward Maddie, and they traded smiles. Then he returned to Suzie and broke into her favorite tune. The girl babbled along to the Japanese nursery song, about a baby bird searching for its nest.
The scenario was a fitting one. In days, they would be leaving the only home Suzie had ever known. Would uprooting the child forever rob her sense of security?
Oh, nonsense. Surely it wouldn’t. Besides, better now than later. The more time spent here, the greater the loss.
Back in her room, Maddie held the cardigan to her nose. The yellow sweater, with its scalloped collar and pearly buttons, had often been her favorite for dates with Lane. She inhaled deeply now, tried again, but his scent was gone.
Resuming her task, she folded the garment and placed it in the suitcase on her bed. She continued to pack the pile beside her pillow. On top was a pale pink dress with daisy appliqués that Bea had sewn for Suzie’s birthday. If Maddie had known they’d be moving home by year’s end, she would have saved the woman the postage. Yet out here, being so removed from the happenings of the world, who could have guessed the government would finally regain its sanity?
The exclusion order, banning all Japanese Americans from the West Coast, had officially been lifted. At last, they could all go home.
Maddie ran her fingers over a bound pile of envelopes, set atop her nightstand. Soon, she would reunite with each of their
senders: Bea, who was about to burst from eagerness over meeting Suzie; Jo, whose grandfather’s stroke required her assistance with his care, cutting short her career in the pros. And of course, there was Lane. In mere weeks, he’d be traveling safely toward the States. Although eventually his stint at Fort Benning would mean their relocating again, he had assured her it would be temporary—and staying together was all that mattered.
God, she missed him. So often she dreamed of holding him close. How she yearned for Suzie to know her father, and, as always, her uncle, TJ—not separately, but as the friends, the brothers they once were.
Four years had passed since words and wounds divided them. Four years since America set out for revenge. Now, as Hitler waged desperate battles on the Western Front, the Axis powers were dwindling. Victory was within reach. Though for Maddie, only when the two men reconciled would the war truly be over.
A knock on the gaping door pulled Maddie’s attention to Emma. “Hey, pretty girl. Whatcha need?”
“Got a present for you.” Emma approached the bed, hands behind her back. Her movements had become as graceful as the hair that swung past her shoulders.
“Em, you shouldn’t have. You gave us plenty for Christmas.” No question, for Suzie, nothing could possibly top Emma’s gift of Sarah Mae.
“It’s not from me. It’s from Ida.” She handed over a photograph from Thanksgiving, a copy of the one Maddie had sent to Lane. In the image, Maddie and Suzie stood before the fireplace with Nobu, Kumiko, and Emma. A wisecrack from Mr. Garrett had caused the group to laugh just as Ida snapped the shot.
“But she’s already given me this picture,” Maddie said. “Is she certain she wants to spare it?”
“She told me it’s to be doubly sure we remember her.”
“As if we could ever forget.” Maddie’s aim for levity soared past its mark. She grabbed her violin case from the corner and sat beside Emma on the bed. From the lid, she removed Bach’s portrait—the last of the originals—and inserted the new addition. A complete display of memories. TJ. Lane. Marriage and war. The evacuation, the riot. So much had happened in a span of four years.
Bridge of Scarlet Leaves Page 34
