Bridge of Scarlet Leaves (29 page)

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Authors: Kristina McMorris

BOOK: Bridge of Scarlet Leaves
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47
T
he rice was moving.
Protein,
TJ told himself. He carried his mess kit from the slop line and sat on the dirt. The huge April sun beat down and baked his gruel. Get hungry enough and a guy can force down just about anything. At least today they threw in a piece of steamed sweet potato. Like a cherry on a sundae at Tilly’s Diner.
Using two fingers, he scooped the watery meal into his mouth, mixed with tiny pebbles, maggots, and God knew what else. And he did it without complaint. From POWs crazy enough to protest about their measly rations he’d learned to keep his head down and mouth shut. In the middle of an island jungle, it was a wonder the camp cooks could scrounge up any food at all.
“Mm-mm, lookee what I got today,” Tack declared. He limped over to his usual spot on the ground. His knee was still healing from the crash three months ago. “Pumpkin pie with a big glob of vanilla ice cream.” Flies circled his rice like buzzards in the humid air.
Ever competitive, Ranieri sat next to him and said, “You’re getting cheated, pal. I got my mama’s world-famous Spaghetti Bolognese. On the side here is a soft chunk of garlic bread, dripping with butter, hot from the oven. And to wash it down, a whole bottle of Chianti.” He licked his fingers.
TJ’s stomach grumbled thanks to the numskull’s description. If not for the body aches from their bamboo sleeping bays, pains that wriggled through his joints like the bedbugs and rodents through their barracks each night, TJ would have moved out of earshot. Instead, he buried his nose in his food and tried to ignore the dopes.
“You know what I miss the most?” Tack slurped from his bowl. “Creamed corn and honey biscuits. What I wouldn’t do for a basket of honey biscuits.”
“You buggers can keep the lot of it.” A British airman closed his eyes and smiled dreamily. His grimy uniform hung like oversized rags on his thinning, barefooted frame, same as most prisoners. Dirt stained his skin, same as
every
prisoner. “All I need,” he said, “is a big plate of blood pudding like my mum makes it.”
“Blood pudding?” Ranieri looked disgusted. “You Limeys all vampires, or what?”
“It’s a sausage,” the guy clarified.
“No,” Ranieri told him, “it’s repulsive.”
“Ah, you Yanks don’t know what you’re missing.”
Tack turned to TJ. “How about you, Kern?”
“Don’t bother,” Ranieri muttered to Tack, who continued regardless.
“Tell us what you got there for dinner.”
TJ’s mumbled reply didn’t vary from any other day. “Rice.”
Ranieri shook his head. “What’d I tell ya.” He smacked a mosquito on his arm. “A waste of breath every time.”
TJ hated anything that proved the guy right, but not enough to participate in group bonding. Caring about another fellow only meant setting up for a fall. After the plane crash, seeing half their crew floating dead among burning debris, TJ should have remembered that. But their crisis had interfered, and he’d found himself working as a team with those who’d made it into the raft. He’d even given a good amount of his water rations to the injured bombardier—for little point. The guy didn’t last two days.
When the remaining four crawled onto the shore of some Philippine island, they’d deliriously traded congratulations and shoulder pats, only to be captured minutes later by occupying Japs. On his knees, TJ had watched Cabbie, the father of young twins, beheaded for his officer’s rank. For a culture that viewed the Emperor as a god and valued honor above all, those who surrendered as “cowards” and worshipped the Lord Almighty were an abomination.
Yet they kept the inmates alive. Who knew why? For duty maybe. For kicks. So they could bat them around like catnip whenever the mood struck. TJ’s crew had passed through two other prison camps before settling here, and nothing was different. POWs at each of them, to lessen the frequency of being pounced on, made a habit of studying their captors. TJ didn’t bother with anything past the basics. He despised them all equally.
“Happy ain’t lookin’ too good.” Tack motioned his chin toward the pudgy guard. Among those dubbed Tojo’s Seven Dwarfs—wielding samurai swords rather than pickaxes—this one was known for his permanent grin.
“It’s that moonshine he drinks,” the Brit said. “Could topple a bull from the smell of it.”
“It’s not moonshine,” Tack explained. “It’s
sake
.” He’d learned this from giving the jovial guard discreet English lessons. Payment was cigarettes and bits of food, which Tack always shared with others.
Ranieri suddenly grinned. “Two smokes says Happy loses his lunch out here in the open.”
“You’re on.” A redheaded GI beside him perked. “Guy drinks like my old man. No way it’s coming back up.”
Curiosity prodded TJ to glance at the guard, who did look more green than yellow. Last night’s talent show must have given him cause to indulge. He and the other guards had watched the POWs recite jokes, impersonate stars like Bogey and Jimmy Durante, belt out songs—only one cut short by booing—and put on a Three Stooges number. TJ was amazed the camp commander had permitted the prisoners any relief from their reality.
But then, that’s why they called him “Looney.” Not for being a crackpot. For being unpredictable.
At that moment, as though conjured from TJ’s thoughts, the regal-looking commander strode into the roll call area. His angular features appeared etched in stone. An interpreter called for the four-hundred-some prisoners to stand and bow.
Grumpy was on the ready with his bamboo stick. Above his toothbrush mustache, pleasure filled the guard’s expression as he pummeled POWs who took too long. TJ hustled to his feet, glued his gaze to the ground. Eye contact with Looney would lose you a head. Eye contact with Grumpy would earn a beating so brutal, death would be a treat.
Shined to a perfect gloss, Grumpy’s black boots approached. The closer they stomped, the more TJ’s left shoulder blade throbbed, as if his muscles were reliving the last daily whupping from the jackass.
“Hayaku, hayaku!”
Grumpy shrilled nearby. He kicked a mess kit away from a skeletal inmate, who reached for the spilled rice. A reflex, no doubt. Just like the sharp twinge of TJ’s instant fist—which instantly drew the guard over. A potential challenge must have offered more appeal than the pitiful crouching prisoner.
TJ dropped his fingers with head bent, trying to remain one of the numbers, though still expecting a pounding. But Grumpy just stood there, a blatant dare to glance up. And TJ wanted to. God, how he wanted to push back with a hateful glare, right before throwing an uppercut at that sadistic face.
It was a tempting idea. If nothing else, just to see the guy’s initial surprise....
Another pair of boots appeared. They belonged to Dopey, the seemingly mute guard. He stopped next to Grumpy. A bad sign. TJ doubted his current ability to take them both on.
A needless worry, as it turned out. Dopey simply tapped Grumpy on the arm and pointed toward the small wooden stage. Their commander was ascending the steps. The two guards dispersed to their assigned spots at the end of the row. TJ didn’t know whether to feel relieved or shortchanged.
Over the faint trill of tropical birds, the commander shouted an order in Japanese. Two Marines were marched along the barbed-wire fence and into the arena. Blood trailed down their faces, their torn dungarees. Guards tied their hands up and pulled out thick bamboo clubs. The Marine with an eye swollen shut struggled to break free; the other stared, unseeing, having lost his will to fight.
Looney’s translated words were forebodingly simple. “Try to escape, and
this
will be you.”
For the infinite minutes that spanned their beatings, TJ’s mind looped the first song that came to him. “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” He replaced the sounds of screaming and bones breaking with verses of peanuts and Cracker Jack, the memory of a bat smacking a ball.
When there was nothing left but limp shells of men, Looney ordered them cut down.
And then they were shot.
The POWs bowed to the exiting commander. As the corpses were dragged to a mass grave, the audience returned to their seats on the dirt. Tentative murmurs gradually grew, like a sprinkling toward a drizzle, until the horror seemed never to have happened.
TJ picked up his mess kit. He held the sweet potato he’d saved for last, unable to eat. His stomach twisted into vicious knots—not just from revulsion that this had become normalcy, but over his shameful gratitude for being alive.
48
I
n the barn, Maddie yelled through the wire mesh, “Throw out a handful!”
Kumiko hugged the bucket to her chest and shrieked for help.
“Chotto tasukete!”
Feathers flew as chickens pecked for grain around her shuffling shoes.
When Emma started for the coop, Maddie stopped her. “It’s okay. Let her do it.” Then she told Kumiko, “They don’t want to hurt you. Just stay calm.” She spoke more sternly. “Toss the feed
away
from you.”
The lesson sank in at last. Kumiko began to fling the cracked corn, causing the chickens to scatter. She grabbed another fistful and spread out their meal. Confidence eased into her face, lifted her chin. This was the Kumiko Moritomo that Maddie recognized. Though with a softened edge.
“That’s enough now,” Maddie called to her. Kumiko appeared to be enjoying the activity a little too much. “Really, that’s enough. You don’t want them to pop!”
Reluctantly, Kumiko exited the coop.
Maddie held out her hand to take the pail. She wondered if she would have to pry it from the woman’s grip. “I’ll let you feed them tomorrow, I swear.”
As Kumiko surrendered the bucket, Emma snorted a giggle. Surprisingly, her mother joined in with a soft laugh. It was a lovely sound, a braid of happiness Maddie used to weave with her own family, with her brother.
At the recollection of TJ’s disappearance, her smile slipped away.
The Army had sent additional letters, but their investigations failed to produce any updates good or bad. Thus, Maddie relied upon nightly prayers and faith that intuitively she would sense any devastating loss—about Lane, too, whose deployment came sooner than expected. Something told her she would know, in her heart, if either of them were gone.
“Mr. Garrett’s back,” Emma exclaimed.
Maddie listened and barely caught the rumbling of his truck traversing the long driveway past the cornfields. Impressive that the girl had heard it. But then, Emma always did have an ability to hear what others didn’t.
“Mother, can I ride the tractor with him? Please, can I?”
Kumiko only hesitated a moment before nodding. “
Demo,
be careful,
ne?
” she hollered after Emma, who was already leading Yuki in a dash from the barn.
“How about we start on supper?” Maddie suggested. Kumiko answered with a smile, which fell at the sound of Emma’s yell.
“Maddie, come quick!”
The dog’s frantic barking magnified the pull that brought Maddie outside. “What is it?”
Emma pointed toward three pickup trucks snaking up the drive, clouds of dust billowing like fear. Things had been calm on the farm since their family’s arrival. No protests, no visitors. Maddie, however, wasn’t naïve enough to believe the Midwest was immune to racism. If the West Coast wanted Japanese residents out—even neighbors they had grown up with—why would people in Illinois be any different? Separated by vast acres of farmland, perhaps hatred just took longer here to gain momentum.
“Get in the barn,” Maddie said. With Mr. Garrett in town and no field hands in sight, the three of them were on their own. “Stay there till I say,” she commanded.
Emma ushered Yuki and her mother inside, and Maddie took off running for the house. She retrieved the remaining shotgun from the rack above the fireplace. The barrel felt cold, the weapon heavy. Swallowing her nerves, she shook out casings from a box stored in a nearby drawer. She loaded the shells as Mr. Garrett had shown her—lessons meant for fending off coyotes. Then she emerged from the house to find the trucks still approaching. In the lead pickup rode two men—one older, one younger—with a shotgun racked behind their heads.
Maddie clenched her weapon diagonally across her chest, hoping to God she wouldn’t have to use it. The trucks rolled to a stop on the graveled road, just as Kumiko reappeared. The woman held a rusty hoe, all too reminiscent of the shovel Maddie had carried during the riot.
Go hide,
Maddie was about to insist, but Kumiko’s expression said an objection would be pointless. Besides, Maddie had to admit, she felt stronger with the woman standing so clearly on her side.
The driver of the first truck stepped out from his door. More than six feet tall with a mountain man’s build, he gripped the hips of his overalls.
“Something I can do for you?” Maddie kept the tremble from her voice.
He didn’t look the least bit intimidated. Why should he be? Between him and the teenage boy, plus two other couples, they far outnumbered Maddie’s gang. “I gather we heard right,” he said, referencing Kumiko with his chin. “That the Garrett farm is housing a couple Japanese from the camps.”
Maddie edged her finger toward the trigger, and gave a single nod.
“Well, then,” he said. “We’ve come to welcome them to the neighborhood.”
An old newspaper article passed through her mind. Below the photo of a burning cross, the caption had read:
A Southern lynch mob welcomed their new neighbors.
Just then, one of the gals moved closer. Middle-aged, she wore a faded shirt and trousers, her hair sleeked into a ponytail. Her eyes shone soft and warm, like the afternoon sunlight filtering through the fields. “If it’s a bad time, we could certainly come back. Or if you’d rather, we could just leave the goodies Jean here brought for ya.”
The other woman, more proper in a long skirt and blouse, held up a basket of food.
Maddie sighed inside. With a hint of embarrassment, she relaxed her grasp on the gun. “Sorry. You can never be too careful.”
“Oh, we understand.” The first woman dismissed the concerns with a flick of her hand. “These parts are brimming with crazies. I ought to know. Been raised here all my life.”
Maddie smiled and patted Kumiko’s arm, a sign they were safe. But as it turned out, her mother-in-law didn’t need reassurance.
“Please,” Kumiko told the group with a slight bow of her head, gesturing to the house. “Please, come.”
 
The post-supper chatter had just died down when Mr. Garrett uncorked his homebrewed liquor. Ida, the ponytailed spitfire, poured a glass for Kumiko, who sat with her on the couch. Maddie could sense a struggle between propriety and courtesy before Kumiko ultimately accepted.
“To our new neighbors,” Ida said, lifting her glass. “May the Lord watch over you and keep you in His care.”
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, ‘
Daij
bu,
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.”

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