“It’s not a good idea,” said Evgeni. “They’ll just punish him, too. A man in the government whose daughter is a thief at best, a traitor at worst? You’ll kill your father by telling him.” He shook his head. “Emi, why didn’t you listen? I told you not to go.”
“I know,” said Emi, embarrassed. “But I couldn’t just let Jiro Mori die in front of me. I didn’t know what else to do.”
“There are much younger men starving,” said Evgeni. “Boys like Kenji,” he said, looking at him. “It is worse to see the youth die.”
When another month had passed with no word and even Ernst had stopped asking Emi for help, she tried to get Evgeni to help her approach an embassy. The Swiss Embassy was now in Karuizawa, and she knew they often acted as go-betweens for government affairs.
“For a Jewish refugee? They’re not going to want to touch it,” said Evgeni. “Do you know how many foreigners the Kempeitai have tortured and killed already? The Swiss are not going to get involved with them.”
“The Polish Embassy?” asked Emi, her guilt and desperation building like a disease.
“Not here. It was in Tokyo but was forced to shut down in ’41,” said Evgeni. “Emi,” he sighed, “Ernst was there before you, yes? You did not force him to steal the food. He would have been caught with you there or without you there. Don’t put your life at risk to help his father.”
“But I should have been caught, too,” said Emi. “I should have been the one at the fence.”
“You weren’t,” said Evgeni firmly. “Stop trying to get yourself killed now.”
For the next six months, Emi, Kenji, and Ernst shared the streets of the town, but never a conversation. All were focused on finding enough food for their families, but it was becoming so scarce that people in town were dying by the dozens from malnutrition. Evgeni and Ayumi’s youngest daughter had become very ill, not strong enough to even stand, and Jiro’s swelling had come back. He was bedridden again, and like everyone else in town, this time Emi did not know what to do to help. The forest had been pillaged of all things edible, so much so that Emi never saw deer or even fox in the woods anymore. There were no mushrooms, no watercress, daikon, or carrots, and even the milking goats were being slaughtered out of desperation for meat. The government rations had practically stopped and the black market was wiped clean.
Just before the new year, Emi was headed to the shrine on the way to the German farm, to pray for a different outcome for 1945, when Evgeni stopped her with a shout.
“Is it your daughter?” she asked, when he was close and she saw the grief on his face. She knew they were afraid that Kiko would not last the winter.
“No,” he said, his hands on his thighs, resting and trying to find his breath. “The Kempeitai brought Oskar Abrus home this morning. They marched him through the street, holding him up like a marionette. He was so beaten, Emi,” he said, looking at the ground. “I didn’t even know it was him until someone screamed out his name.”
“But he’s home!” said Emi, relief overwhelming her.
Evgeni shook his head. “He died just hours after coming home. He told his family that they’d tortured him every day for the last six months. They put a water hose down his throat then kicked his stomach. They burned him all over his body with hot irons. They even hung him by a rope before cutting it down moments before he suffocated.”
“And then he died? Right after they released him? How do you know all this?” she said, wanting to run to the Abruses’ house.
“Ernst told me. He came to the store. He’s looking for you.”
“For me?” said Emi, taking a step back. “His father just died. Why is he looking for me?”
“He didn’t say,” said Evgeni.
“Do you think Oscar said anything about me? About Kenji?” said Emi, whispering.
“I don’t know,” said Evgeni, his frustration with Emi still apparent. “But if you’re being tortured by the Kempeitai, anything is possible.”
CHAPTER 32
CHRISTIAN LANGE
FEBRUARY–JUNE 1945
I’ll eat it,” said Christian as Jack eyed him suspiciously during a particularly animated dinner in the Philippines at the end of February. Leyte had been secured by the Americans at the beginning of the month and the Seventh was staying on the island, training for their next Pacific campaign. No longer being riddled with gunfire, and eating food cooked by Filipino families, the men were high on the fact that they’d made it through two Pacific campaigns without dying. Before they’d shipped out, there had been a nervous silence all over base, a shared frisson of fear. That was now replaced by a shared relief and occasional pulsating joy.
“Damn it’s hot here but I love this weather,” said Jack, slipping on a pair of sunglasses, even though they were inside. “Do you remember Wisconsin in February, kraut? Cold. Painfully, freezing cold. But how ’bout it here? Beautiful . . . where are we?”
“Leyte,” said Christian. “Still Leyte.”
“Right, Leyte. Beautiful island. Warmer than a virgin’s—”
“Stop!” said Christian, cutting him off.
“Still so innocent,” said Jack, laughing. “I love it. I’m glad you forced me to enlist, kraut. Because it turns out, I may have nine lives after all.”
“Fine, it’s decent here,” said Christian laughing. He’d never minded the weather in Wisconsin, but Southeast Asia in February, for boys who had escaped death yet again, was a much-needed opiate.
“I even appreciate this disgusting pineapple,” Christian said, putting several slices on his plate. “We’re in an entirely different country and they’re still giving us pineapple.” He smiled at the Filipino woman who was serving them lunch and held out his plate for more.
Jack and Christian bounced off their joy for the next week, constantly buoying each other up. There was news that the Red Army had pushed into Germany, gaining unstoppable momentum. And though their unit was training much farther south than Manila, they were told that the units stationed in the north had almost liberated the Philippine capital from the Japanese military. But on a day when their elation felt as if it would go on forever, the realities of war brought it crashing down.
On the morning of February 24, Perko appeared in their bunk before they had left to hit the showers, which were little more than a bucket with a string. He looked right at Christian and said, “Lange, Jesus Christ. I have terrible news.”
“My parents are dead,” said Christian, sure that there was no other reason that Perko would approach him that way. “My mother,” he said, his voice cracking at the thought of Helene Lange as dead as her baby girl.