The Lonely War (41 page)

Andrew thought he had known all the angles, thought he had figured it all out. He knew he would always have his man and that somehow they would be together. He’d forgotten about death, about the possibility of it.

The jungle closed in around Andrew like a great book snapping shut after the end of an engrossing story. His whole being shriveled to nothing. He felt as if he was moving swiftly from one moment to the next, but how could that be? He wanted to take the short sword from the cloth bag and plunge it into his heart, wanted the whole world to end. And why not—he was dead already, he could hear the voices from the black earth calling him. Death seemed natural, a natural chain reaction. His could be the last, the very last death of this war.

The unfathomable mystery, the single thing he couldn’t quite grasp, was why he loved this man so deeply that the loss could only be consoled by his own death. How could he possibly need anyone so fiercely? Did it have something to do with the opium? Was his need for Tottori somehow mixed with his dependence on the drug? Or could his mind be so unstable after months of smoking the drug that life no longer mattered? Or could love alone drive a man to death? Whatever the cause, it didn’t really matter. The end result would be the same.

The drizzle turned to rain. The wind died to nothing more than a breath. Birds shrieked. Their voices echoed through the soggy air. He knew he must deliver his package.
It was Tottori’s last request
, he thought,
but
afterward my turn will come. I’ll end this agony. Yes, after Kyoto
.

Part III
Japan

Only the dead have seen the end of war.

—Plato

Chapter Thirty-Five

August 15, 1946—1000 hours

T
HE
war ended with such a sudden and terrifying wretchedness that it catapulted the human race into a mixture of shock and abhorrence and relief. The horror unleashed on Hiroshima and Nagasaki did not kill as many people as did the conventional bombs that ravaged other cities. B-29 bombers leveled fifty-six square miles of Tokyo, along with Osaka, Kawasaki, Yokohama, and Kobe. The wooden buildings went up in firestorms. Of Tokyo’s eight million residents, all but 200,000 were killed or forced to evacuate. The atomic bombs, however, defined a new era in warfare, a new profundity of how mankind could destroy itself.

The crane is the symbol of Japan’s Emperor in much the same manner that the crown symbolizes the reigning monarch of England. On August 15, 1945, the voice of the Crane was broadcast over the airwaves for the first time: “Cultivate the ways of rectitude, foster nobility of spirit, and work with resolution so as ye may enhance the innate glory of the Imperial State and keep pace with the progress of the world.”

In factories and shops and homes, people listened to the Imperial Rescript announcing the cessation of hostilities. Hundreds of thousands gathered at temples, shrines, the imperial palace in Tokyo, and the Kyoto palace. A mass showing of sorrow and shame. One of the mightiest nations in the history of the world knelt, weeping for their lost generations, but also from relief. The burden of war, death, and devastation had ended.

Seventeen days later, aboard the battleship
Missouri
in Tokyo harbor, General Douglas MacArthur told the world, “A great tragedy has ended. A great victory has been won. The skies no longer rain death, the seas bear only commerce, men everywhere walk upright in the sunlight. The entire world is quietly at peace. The holy mission has been completed.”

The queer result of the war was that, even in crushing defeat, Japan accomplished its most cherished aim: Asia had freed itself of Western domination. Great Britain had lost Burma and would soon lose India, an independence movement was launched in the Dutch East Indies, the French were driven from Indochina, and the communists took control of China. A self-governing Asia would rise from the ashes of war.

Chapter Thirty-Six

December 12, 1946—0800 hours

A
BRILLIANT
sun rose after an all-night snowstorm, bestrewing crimson light between the sagging tile rooftops and through the bare branches of the maples and the snow-covered cedars. The city awakened after a long night’s slumber.

The park across the street from the Kobe Imperial Hotel was blanketed in snow.

Dressed in black quilted pajamas, thick overcoat, and a peasant’s straw hat, Andrew squatted on a bare spot under a great pine, playing Jah-Jai, his flute. He sat a few yards from the main path that led through the park, and he not only played, he waited. He knew they would come, as they did every morning.

He had waited since even before the workmen swept the snow from the stone path. Now he heard the clacking of wooden
getas
on the walkway. He looked up to see a grandfather being led by an impatient flock of children, begging him to hurry.  A few minutes later, an old woman in a potato-colored overcoat rushed by carrying a wooden bucket and a washrag, no doubt heading for the nearest public bath. He paused, watching her pass by, feeling an immense hunger in the depths of his belly. He played on.

His hunger was not for food, but for the opium he regularly smoked to slay the pain that stalked his waking hours, pain that had the power to reduce his vision to pinpoints of grayness and render him unable to move without causing shards of glass to slash inside his head.

The opium kept the hurt at bay, but it also robbed him of any appetite. Little by little over the past year, his body had melted away with each draw of the pipe, until he finally resembled the starving prisoners of Changi—leathery skin stretched over bone and cartilage, bulging eyes like those found only on nocturnal animals.

Over the sound of his flute, he heard faint voices calling, voices of those prisoners he had buried in the mud of Changi. And as the voices grew louder, he felt the ache in his head swell, crushing him, devouring what was left of him. It took over his mind and what was left of his gaunt body.

He laid Jah-Jai across his lap and pulled a pipe and a Ronson lighter from his coat pocket. He brought the pipe to his lips, lit the black loam, drew in a lungful of sweet relief, and another. The voices faded into delicious silence. Heat seeped into his wasted muscles. His hunger folded in on itself and was forgotten.

He placed the pipe in his pocket, picked up his flute, and played once again. As notes tumbled from the flute, he felt his body sinking slightly deeper into the soft damp earth.

Andrew spotted them strolling down the snow-dusted path, a child in his arms and a baby in hers. He wore his dark naval uniform. His white hat and gold buttons gleamed in the sunlight. She wore pleats and a thick wool sweater. The baby was bundled in a cocoon of powder-blue blankets with its tiny face peeking out.

A gust of wind, or perhaps a squirrel, shook a branch on the tree they were passing under and a fine cloud of snow fell through the air around them, sparkling crimson-gold in the light and surrounding them in a halo of brilliance.

Andrew stopped playing, awed by the vision. His felt his heart fill with Divine presence (or could it be the opium?).
It’s a sign
, he thought, and that gave him the courage to finally do what he had come there every morning for a month to do.

He brought Jah-Jai to his lips and played a melodic tune. He kept his head down as they passed and, as often happened, she stepped off the path and dropped some coins on the ground in front of him. He nodded but did not look up until they were ten yards down the path, heading toward the US Naval headquarters building.

Andrew looked up and played “Swinging Shepherd Blues.” The notes sailed over the crisp air, filling that little corner of the park with a jazzy sound in the same way the sun filled it with light. Andrew watched intently as they took a few more steps before halting. She stared at Mitchell as he turned to stare at Andrew.

It was the first time since coming to Japan that Andrew had managed a good look at his face. Andrew had remembered the singular details of that face: the jade-green eyes, slightly weak chin, strong eyebrows, short fawn-colored hair, and the fresh glow of his skin. But Andrew was surprised to find that he had lost the vision of what the entire face looked like, since his memory always focused on only one detail or another. The face was restored to the same fullness as the first time Andrew had studied him on the beach at Viti Levu, with perhaps a slight downward turn at the ends of the eyes to suggest sadness.

Warmth flashed through Andrew as the two men stared at each other. Mitchell staggered backward a step, putting his hand on her shoulder to steady himself. His lips parted, his eyes opened wide and glistened in the sunlight.

Mitchell lowered the toddler to the ground and took a few hesitant steps toward Andrew. Then he ran. Andrew jumped up in time to be swept into Mitchell’s arms. The force of Mitchell’s embrace lifted him off his feet and he struggled to breathe with Mitchell crushing him. Andrew’s skeletal body went limp. His head tingled from lack of oxygen. He surrendered to the strength and emotions surging through their joined bodies.

They sank to the ground until they were both on their knees, with Mitchell stroking Andrew’s face.

“I thought you were dead. I returned to the camp when the English parachuted onto the island. Tottori was dead and you had disappeared. I thought he killed you. Dear God, the life went out of me.”

“You told me to stay alive until after the war, that you’d find me and we could start new. It took some doing, but here I am.”

“Look at you. You’re skin and bones. What’s happened?”

Andrew peered over Mitchell’s shoulder. The woman held her baby and clutched the child to her side as she walked toward them.

“Honey, what’s wrong?” she asked. “Who is this man?”

Mitchell’s face dropped at the sound of her voice. “Andy, this is my wife, Kate. This our daughter, Helen, and the baby is little Andrew.” He turned to gaze at his wife. “Kate, this is Andrew Waters, the sailor who saved my life, the man we named the baby after.”

Awkward silence followed, accentuating the whisper of the breeze blowing through the branches above. Andrew eyed the boy, seeing Mitchell’s green eyes and fawn-colored hair stamped onto the boy’s features.

“I’m very grateful to you, Andy,” she finally said, “and I’m delighted to meet you. We thought you were dead all this time. Isn’t it a wonderful surprise that you made it through?”

“Yes, wonderful,” Andrew said, looking at Mitchell.

“Honey, get off your knees. You’re ruining your uniform.”

Mitchell rose and, still holding Andrew tight, lifted Andrew to his feet as well.

“Kate, take the kids to the apartment. Andrew and I have some catching up to do.”

“Of course. Perhaps we can all have dinner tonight? We can take Andrew to the officer’s club and have a real American meal. That should put some meat on his bones.”

Mitchell shook his head. “We’ll see. I should be home at the usual time.”

“Well, I hope to see you tonight, Andrew Waters.” Still clinging to her baby, she led Helen down the path they had come.

Andrew gently pulled away from Mitchell’s embrace and bent to retrieve Jah-Jai. Standing straight again, he watched a squirrel scamper across the white-powdered ground and dash up a tree. A bird screeched. The breeze stung Andrew’s eyes. He felt he must say something. He concentrated, saying slowly, “Kate is a real knockout.”

Mitchell laughed, no doubt from relief.

Andrew felt a panic welling up inside him. Mitchell’s expression changed, becoming sober.
Does he feel it too?
Andrew wondered.

Mitchell draped his arm over Andrew’s shoulders and squeezed. He stepped back and appraised Andrew’s face.

“You’ve lost so much weight. Are you sick?”

“I’m feeling better by the minute.”

“This is so bizarre. I’ve been thinking about you for so long now, and here you are. Listen, I have to check in at headquarters. But that shouldn’t take long. Then we can grab a bite to eat and you can tell me what happened to you.”

Andrew nodded as his panic faded.

M
ITCHELL
’
S
office was housed in a converted three-story hotel, which surrounded a Zen garden that showcased a shallow pond fed by a stone fountain. The pond was alive with koi, a collage of orange, yellow, white, and black movement. Rising from the water, a vermilion-painted
torii
stood—an arch that normally towered over paths leading to temples and shrines. The hotel was originally built for wealthy tourists and businessmen, but now housed a department of the US occupying forces.

Andrew was at once uncomfortable. He followed Mitchell across a plush, deep blue carpet toward the front desk. The building had been transformed into something foreign, something American. It had an immaculate nonsmell. Healthy-looking, nondescript men in snappy uniforms rushed by with unemotional expressions. Everything was so competent, so deliberate. The lobby literally hummed with purposeful activity. Andrew felt like an alien, a mouse scurrying across the floor before someone could step on it.

Maneuvering beyond the MPs at the front desk was surprisingly easy. Mitchell leaned over the white marble countertop, said something quick and sharp to the MP, and pointed to Andrew. The MP didn’t flinch. He responded with a crisp, reedy voice. Andrew looked for any hint of suspicion in the man’s face, but found none. Even so, his ears burned. He felt inadequate and sordid in his quilted pajamas and straw hat. He longed to take another toke from his pipe, but was too fearful.

Mitchell guided Andrew to a sofa that faced the garden and told him to wait, saying he wouldn’t be long. He hurried through the lobby and disappeared up a flight of steps.

Andrew stared at the torii, mesmerized by the elegantly minimalist structure: a blood-red arch rising from the mirrorlike pond. The movement of the koi caught his eye.
How appropriate to have a pond here,
he thought. A body of water, in both Chinese and Japanese cultures, symbolized centralized power. It showed who was in charge of Japan. Andrew saw the koi swirling beneath the surface, like the colorful Japanese people now trapped within the Americans’ military might. Indeed, on the wall at the far end of the garden hung a cartoonishly large American flag, looking garish behind the cool slumber of the manicured garden.