Atonement for Iwo Page 18

  Masters lay back, the excitement was taxing his heart. He was suddenly very weary again. “I’ll think it over,” he said.

  Takahashi saw his condition, bowed, and prepared to leave. Kawamoto leaned over closer. “Hiroko...” He caught himself. “Miss Tanaka gave me this message for you. Mr. 0 has written. He is well and working in a factory.”

  Masters nodded, then closed his eyes. It had worked. He had given the boy his life in exchange for the one he had taken from the father. Nothing else really mattered - not really.

  Keith Masters reached a decision two days later, shouted for the guard at the door, and asked to see Takahashi. The attorney and his aide were there in almost no time. “I want a package deal,” said Masters. “Me and Ichiro, together.” The lawyer sat up, and Masters continued, “Our main objective is to help the boy - so that he does not have to continue running or remain in exile for the rest of his life. Have them consider this; if the boy returns voluntarily, it will take the wind out of the sails of the opposition who are saying that the escape was engineered by the Government. Ask them what they will give in return. If it is acceptable, I will reveal the names they want, and promise to remain silent in the courtroom - and afterwards.”

  They almost ran from the room. It must have been quite a bargaining session, for they did not return until nightfall, and their faces were drawn with fatigue. Kawamoto could not control his eagerness to speak. “The officials acquiesce. Tanaka’s sentence will be commuted to life imprisonment. Your sentence will be as last proposed - about five years actual confinement.”

  Masters did not hesitate. “Tell them the whole deal is off, that I am ordering my attorney to release my statement to the newspapers.”

  Takahashi sighed, for obtaining the commutation was more than he had hoped for. Courteously, he asked one question. “What would Mr. Masters consider as a basis for negotiation?”

  “Twenty years for Ichiro, no more. After all, he doesn’t have to return. And twenty years is a lifetime to a young boy. I don’t give a damn about myself. They can set their own limit on that.”

  The accidence came so swiftly that it caught the lawyer, Kawamoto, and even Masters off balance. Takahashi explained that the rumors had grown to such an extent that the administration was now completely on the defensive.

  “Do you have a water-tight agreement?” asked Masters. “No loopholes?”

  The lawyer smiled. “No loopholes.”

  Masters sighed in relief, then a thought suddenly struck him. “I’ve forgotten one thing - you must ask Mrs. Tanaka if she agrees.”

  “I already have.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said that the head of the house must decide.”

  “All right. Have Hiroko write to Ichiro right away and find out if he accepts.”

  The attorney’s eyes softened. “She was not referring to Ichiro,” he said.

  It took a few seconds for this to register, then Masters’ heart began thumping again, but not from pain. “Very well, have Hiroko write and tell him to return,” he said finally.

  The October winds were sweeping the streets. Masters stood at the barred window, looking out at the cloud-filled sky. He was fully dressed and wearing a fine overcoat which Takahashi had brought. He knew it had come from Kimiko. The door opened to admit two guards. One walked up to him and held out handcuffs. Masters raised his right arm and the cold steel encircled his wrist. They went out into the corridor, took an elevator down the three flights of stairs, and entered a police van. Masters drew his coat tighter against the cold.

  The courthouse was packed. The cuff was taken off, and he was escorted to a long table at the front of the room. Takahashi and Kawamoto were already there. They rose and bowed as he took his seat. His eyes flicked over the assembly seated to the rear. Kimiko and Hiroko were not there. He had given strict instructions for them not to attend, but deep inside he had hoped they would come anyhow, for he wanted to see them so badly. He knew Kimiko would obey, but he felt that Hiroko was enough of a rascal to come, regardless of his order.

  He didn’t look for the officials who had bombarded him during his hectic weeks in the hospital. He almost chuckled at the memory of the last meeting with them, when all the secret papers had been signed, sealed and delivered. They had crowded into his room and stood there, expectantly, to hear the names.

  “There are none,” he had said, simply. “I was lying.”

  They had not even become angry. In fact, he sensed a wave of relief sweep over them. Then, after the officials had left, the tall investigator and his partner had come in and taken down all the details which Masters had refused earlier. He did not mention his personal associations with Kimiko, nor did he speak of Hiroko, and the officers did not try to clear up certain points which evidently required the assistance of an accomplice. He realized that the tall man was aware of these gaps and had been ordered to cooperate.

  The court action was over by early afternoon. They called only Fujii, the two guards whom he had assaulted, and the old fisherman. They must have worked over the old man, for he had very little to say. The sentence followed swiftly on the heels of the verdict - Takahashi had gauged it to a hair - they gave him thirteen years confinement with hard labor.

  When the guards came to take him away, the attorney stood and bowed. Then, as he had done once before, he thrust out his hand in the American manner. “Goodbye, my friend,” he said.

  They took him back to his old room in the National Police Hospital, and the doctor immediately came in to check him over. He couldn’t get an injection into Masters’ arm fast enough.

  He later learned that it had been a rather hectic week. A couple of specialists had been called in, an oxygen tent had been quickly set up, and a flock of nurses had been placed around him - as if he was some goddamn pasha.

  In late November, they permitted him to get to his feet, and he finally began to stop wishing that he had died during his last attack so the pain inside would go away.

  Fujii came for him in the middle of December. He stood in the doorway, still and straight, and behind him were two guards from the prison. There was a hard glint in the adjutant’s eyes. All right, you bastard, thought Masters. Now you get your pound of flesh.

  One of the guards placed his clothes on the bed. “Get dressed,” snarled Fujii. Masters had to sit on a chair to put on his shoes, and when he leaned forward to tie the laces, he thought he’d still beat the bastard and die on the spot.

  Fujii snapped on the handcuffs himself, then tugged on them as he led Masters from the room. One of the guards picked up his suitcase and brought it along. They went down the elevator and got into a police car, which seemed to be the one that was used to take Ichiro from the prison. He wondered if he could be assigned to the same cell as Ichiro. He’d like that. But it would never happen, not with that vindictive bastard, Fujii, running things.

  He didn’t come awake until he saw the road signs pointing to Yokohama. “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “Be quiet,” growled the adjutant. Masters was tempted to ask why he was so damned mad; he was going to have thirteen long years to vent his spite. Instead, he looked wistfully out of the window.

  The police car drove through Yokohama and stopped at the docks. Fujii jerked him out of the car, literally dragged him to a building, and through it to a counter. He pulled out Masters’ passport and handed it to an official to be stamped.

  Masters’ heart almost stopped beating. Fujii towed him out of the building and to the open quay. A small ship was tied up alongside the pier.

  At the gangplank, the adjutant, his face reflecting absolute hatred and disgust, drew out a key and unlocked the handcuffs. He gave Masters’ passport to one of the guards following him, then turned to the white faced man.

  “The Government of Japan finds your physical disability incompatible with the execution of your sentence, and hereby expels you from this country.” Then he spat on the ground and walked away.

  Sw
eat was pouring down Masters’ face and body as he slowly mounted the gangplank. The guard handed his valise and passport to a steward, then took up a position on the wharf to see that the deportee left with the ship.

  The Japanese steward led him to a small cabin, deposited the bag on a rack, and left. Masters sat limply on the lower berth, head spinning, unable to realize that he was a free man.

  After a while, he became aware of the wetness of his body, and rose. Slipping out of the overcoat, he placed it on the single chair in the cabin, laid his jacket over it, and hung his sweat-drenched shirt on the corner of the double bunk. He sat down and took off his pants and shoes, flinging them on the jacket.

  He had to rest before he could build up the energy to stand and open the valise. On top was the blue, silk robe that Kimiko had given him. It was wrinkled, as if the suitcase had been searched and researched a dozen times. He draped it over his shoulders and sank back on the bunk, breathing heavily, harshly.

  There was a knock at the door. “Come in,” he said, his voice weak with weariness.

  The door opened. He sat silent for a long second. “Hello, Kimiko.”

  “Hello, Keith,” She motioned, and two porters rushed in, carrying a small mountain of fine, handmade luggage. They deposited the bags neatly to one side, bowed several times to acknowledge the tips they received, then quickly left.

  Her eyes could not meet his. To look at him, loving him so, would spell the utter collapse of her control. Desperately she glanced round the cabin. “It is too small,” she said. “There is not enough room for you to walk around. I will speak to the captain in the morning.” He knew she would, too.

  Her eyes settled on his clothes lying on the chair. Quickly she walked to the closet, hung up her overcoat, then picked up his pants and folded them neatly over a hanger. She put his jacket over the pants, and hung them next to her coat.

  “Where are your pills?” she asked, her back to him. He could see that she was crying.

  “In my pocket.”

  “Put them on the stand so I can see them.”

  “All right.” He placed them on the stand.

  She began unpacking his suitcase and stowing away his clothes.

  “This boat is going to America,” he finally said. “There are no actors in dragon masks there.”

  “They are not important,” she replied, firmly. “Anyhow, Mr. Takahashi said that I should write him in two years - that doors always reopen.”

  She still could not look at him. She saw his shoes and picked them up, looked around for polishing materials, then laid them to one side. “You should lie down and rest,” she said.

  He lowered himself on the bunk and placed his hands under his head, watching her every movement.

  Her eyes fastened on his shirt hanging on the berth. She took it down, looked at the collar, then carried it to the basin in the corner and turned on the water. It spurted out, splashing her perfectly tailored suit, but she ignored it. She filled the basin and began to soap the shirt, to wash out the sweat and the dirt - like the country women did. She was crying again.

  Then she began humming. Masters closed his eyes and listened. “What’s that you’re humming?”

  “It is an old Japanese song. A love song.”

  He leaned further back on the pillow and felt his body relax. “It’s nice. I like it.”

  “Then I’ll hum it,” she whispered, “every day of our lives.”

  Suddenly, she heard a sound - like the flutter of a dove’s wings as it takes off and soars skyward. Slowly she turned, wiped her hands on her skirt and walked to the berth. She drew up the chair and sat down, then reached out and gently closed the lids over the staring eyes. She lifted the lifeless arm, hanging limply against the side of the bunk, and laid it across his chest. Then, with infinite tenderness, she kissed his still lips.

  When all this had been done, she leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes.

  EPILOGUE

  Mount Surabachi still loomed high over Iwo Jima. Far below, at the northern tip of the island, two men assisted a woman down through a draw in the precipice to the sands below. Two others lowered a small rubber boat down to them. Carrying the boat, the two men followed the woman along the beach to where an arm of the cliff curved into the sea. They helped her step into the boat, then one of them rowed it around the bend.

  “Wait back there,” said Kimiko, as she stepped ashore. She drew her coat more tightly around herself, and faced the winds blowing from the sea, feeling the cold of the winter bite through her clothes, matching the chill in her heart. In one hand was a small, exquisite urn.

  Then she turned and slowly walked up to the cave. The stone wall had fallen, was covered by the sweeping sands, and the cave looked so much smaller than Masters had described it.

  She sank to her knees and she wept, rocking in the time-old ritual of mourning, raising her head between sobs so that she could breathe.

  Finally she set down the urn, and dug her hands into the sand, slowly and tenderly opening the grave for the middle-aged man with the cropped hair and light blue eyes. When it was deep enough, she placed the urn in the hole and, equally slowly and tenderly, smoothed the sand over it. Then she turned to stare out over the cold, gray waters, sensing in its relentless, undulating rhythm a kinship with the emptiness within her.

  The shadows were lengthening when one of the men rowed around the point. “Mrs. Masters,” he called. “We must be getting back. It will be dark soon.”

  Wearily she rose, turned to look once more at the cave and the smooth patch of sand, then she entered the boat.

  Had she dug a few inches more to one side, she would have touched the outstretched fingers of Ito, reaching out across the many years.

  The wheel had turned full circle.

  END

  Lester S. Taube

  Lester Taube was born of Russian and Lithuanian immigrants in Trenton, New Jersey. He began soldiering in a horse artillery regiment while in his teens, where in four years he rose from the grade of private to the exalted rank of private first class.

  During World War II, he became an infantry platoon leader and participated in operations in the Bismarck Archipelago, was attached to the 3rd Marines for action on Iwo Jima, and finally combat on Okinawa, the last battle of the war.

  After leaving the army and recuperating from wounds and malaria, he became general manager of a 400 employee electronic company in California, manager of a 450 employee paper stock company in Pennsylvania, and finally opened a logging and pulpwood cutting operation in Canada.

  Called back to duty during the Korea Police Action, he served as an advisor to the Turkish army, then as an intelligence officer and company commander in Korea.

  During the Vietnam period, he was stationed in France and Germany as a general staff officer working in intelligence and war plans.

  Prior to retirement as a full colonel, he moved to a small village in the mountains of North Tyrol, Austria, and kept a boat for five years on the Côte d’Azur, France.

  He began writing novels while in France, and after producing four books, which were published in a number of countries, and selling two for motion pictures, he stopped - “as there was heavy soldiering to do and children to raise”.

  Returning to the U.S. after 13 years overseas, he worked as an economic development specialist for the State of New Jersey helping companies move to New Jersey or expand therein.

  He has four children, all born in different countries.