Atonement for Iwo. Lester S. Taube

lips trembled. “You don’t love me,” she wailed.

      He jumped to his feet, his face flushed with rage. “No!” he shouted. “I don’t love you. You’re just an orgasm, a crying, nagging, smothering nobody who isn’t worth a shit ten minutes out of bed.” He stamped out of the apartment.

      When he returned, hours later, reeling from too much beer, she was gone bag and baggage.

      Masters turned over onto his side. Now forty five and a half dead man. God Almighty, what is wrong with me? Why can’t I find just a little of the peace I’ve searched for all my life? It’s as if a rot has been placed inside me, that I have been condemned to unhappiness.

      And then, for the first time in twenty years, he forced himself to admit it. Yes, I knew Schneider was going to raise his rifle and shoot that Jap sergeant. I knew it the moment he came up and aimed and fired. I could have stopped it. I could have said, “Do not fire.” I could have even pushed up his weapon. But I didn’t. Because I wanted him to shoot!

      God Almighty! I’ve murdered a man!

       CHAPTER 2

      In the morning, Masters made his way slowly down the three flights of stairs to the basement and unlocked the small, storage room provided for each tenant of the old, apartment house. Inside were two battered footlockers, a dust covered Valapack, and a Samsonite suitcase. He sat on a footlocker for a few minutes to rest, then kneeled and opened one. Among the folders of army orders, certificates, Veterans Administration letters regarding his pension for wounds, and personal papers, he found the wallet and the thousand stitch belt.

      Back in his one roomed apartment, he opened the wallet. It was mildewed, cracked, and heavy with the odor of the sands, cliffs and volcano ash. The small amount of Japanese money was gone. Bert had swiped it when he was six or seven years old to show round the neighborhood. It had then disappeared casually, as if it had been placed in a clothes drawer and had fallen to the floor while the clothing was taken out, then carelessly laid on top of the bureau to be swept up during a periodic housecleaning.

      Directly in the center of the wallet and its contents was a jagged hole, bored out by one of his submachine bullets on its way through the pocket of the Japanese sergeant’s shirt before thundering into his chest. Master lifted the leather flap and took out a picture and a small, white name card.

      The picture and the card were stuck together. He sat in a chair next to the single lamp in the room and peered closely at the photo. It was of a short, slim man of twenty two or so, seated on a bench in a photo studio and wearing a khaki uniform and visored cap. Master strained to see if he had stripes of rank on his collar or sleeves, but the picture was too distorted by the passage of time. On his lap was a child. It would have to be a boy, for he wore a little visored cap similar to that of the soldier. The features of the man and child were blurred. He tried to guess the boy’s age. Perhaps six months old.

      Standing slightly behind and to one side of the soldier was his wife, a slender woman, straight as a reed, dressed in a kimono, her hair piled high on her head and perfectly arranged. He could not see her face, for the bullet had torn squarely through it. In her left arm she held another child, about two years old, who was likewise dressed in a kimono with an obi peeking out from the side. The girl’s face was the clearest. It was long, serious, containing large, expressive eyes and a pixie type snub nose.

      Masters sat fascinated by the picture, putting it down with great reluctance at noon to eat a frugal lunch and to take a nap. When he awoke, he continued studying it until suppertime, then, when he had eaten; he put on a pot of water to boil and held the photo and card over the steam. Patiently, he moved his hand to and fro until he had them unstuck, giving a sigh of relief to see them come apart without damage.

      The name card bore a line of Japanese characters running from top to bottom. The bullet had entered a bit off center and touched one of the characters, but they were all readily identifiable.

      He placed the card and photo on the lamp stand to dry, then switched on the television. Frequently, during the evening, he turned off the television set and picked them up, staring as intently as before.

      The following morning, he bundled up warmly and descended the staircase to a store at a corner. There he looked up a telephone number, then entered a booth and dialed.

      A woman’s voice answered. “Berlitz Language School, good morning.”

      “Do you have courses in Japanese?” asked Masters.

      “Of course, sir. Three times weekly, on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, at seven p.m.”

      He hesitated. “How much are they?”

      “One moment, please.” A short time later she was back. “In a group course, it is seventy-two dollars for twelve weeks.”

      “Thank you.”

      That evening, Masters registered at the school, disappointed to learn that new classes would not begin until after the first of the year.

      “Could I speak with the instructor for a few minutes, please?” he asked the registration clerk.

      The clerk glanced at her watch. “I don’t think he’s started his classes yet.” She directed him to the proper room.

      The instructor was a stout, middle aged Japanese. Masters handed him the card.

      “Could you please tell me what is written here?”

      “It’s a name. Ito Tanaka.”

      “Does it have any meaning?”

      The Japanese shook his head. “No, it’s just a name. Quite often a woman carries a name with a meaning, such as a flower or an incident, but it’s rare for a man. It’s a common name, though, this Ito Tanaka. Probably a farmer or a villager.”

      Masters walked home slowly, muttering, “Ito Tanaka. Ito Tanaka.”

      The next morning, he made his way to his former insurance office. George Brighton was in his office checking over delinquent accounts.

      “For Pete’s sake, Keith,” he said, getting up to help Masters doff his overcoat. He placed it on a rack near the door. “What are you doing out in this weather? Don’t you know it’s freezing outside?”

      Masters took the seat offered by Brighton and smiled. “Of all the things I’m not afraid of, it’s catching cold. George, I want to borrow on my policies.”

      “All right, Keith.” He rang for a clerk and told her to fill out the forms. “Do you want the money right away?”

      “No, let it come through normally.” He hesitated. “I’m going to Japan this summer.”

      “Japan! Are you out of your mind?”

      Masters leaned over the desk. “George, you’re one of the most understanding people I know.” He gnawed gently at his lip for a few moments, concentrating on how he should express himself. “A couple of nights ago, right after you left, I started thinking about myself. I guess when you’ve faced death as closely as I did last summer, you begin to ask yourself some questions.”

      Brighton interrupted. “You’ve faced death long before last summer. What about the War, and Korea?”

      “That’s different. I was a husky kid then. In battle you know one thing if you don’t get the big one that day, you’re still young and healthy and can fight like a son of a bitch the next day. Since last summer, I learned that I can’t fight anymore. All I can do is delay the big one.”

      “Okay, Keith. You’ve got something on your mind. Let’s have it.”

      Masters sighed and chewed his lip harder. “A couple of nights ago I realized that I had murdered a man.”

      Brighton eyes opened wide in surprise for the merest moment, then he got up, strode to the far end of the office