Atonement for Iwo. Lester S. Taube

as “battarian”, since most Japanese were unable to use the letter ‘l’. His face saddened. “We have absolutely no information as to what happened to most of the twenty two thousand people on the island. With the exception of a handful who surrendered, we have listed all others as having been killed in action.”

      “We had several thousand casualties, too,” said Masters, remembering quite clearly saying goodbye at the graves of many of his men and fellow officers before leaving the island.

      It caught the man short. “Yes, of course,” he mumbled.

      “Tanaka’s family? What about them?”

      The man scanned the dossier again. “As of nineteen fifty, his wife and two children were residing near Akimo, a small village about one hundred and twenty miles northwest of here. That was sixteen years ago. I would assume that they are still there.”

      “Why would you assume that?”

      “The Nipponese peasant remains with the land, especially a widow with two small children.”

      “How can I find out for certain?”

      “The National Police would be able to assist you.”

      The National Police were indeed helpful. Within minutes, a sergeant, eyeing Masters curiously, wrote out a name and address on a slip of paper.

      “Mrs. Tanaka now resides in Tokyo,” he said. “Is it possible to explain why you are looking for her?”

      “It’s a personal matter.” Masters observed a gleam of amusement flicker across the sergeant’s eyes. “Does something amuse you, buster?” he growled.

      The gleam instantly disappeared. “Of course not,” he replied politely, handing over the slip of paper. On it was written, ‘Kimiko Tanaka’ and an address.

      Outside the police headquarters, Masters flagged down a cab and showed the slip of paper to the driver. “Yamanote,” said the driver as Masters stepped inside, and promptly took off with a breathtaking dash of speed.

      Masters found the word in his information book with an explanation that it was the finest residential section of Tokyo.

      The taxi drove west into the suburbs and drew up in front of a large, magnificently designed one story house of polished, white stone, its roof of glistening red tiles rising at the eaves in a classical Japanese arch. A fastidiously tended garden surrounded the house, and was in turn enclosed by a high, bamboo fence. Masters looked with dismay at the driver.

      “Is this the right house?” he asked.

      The driver nodded. “Yes, Mister. Same address as on paper.”

      “You’d better wait.” He climbed out, opened the gate, walked up the flag stone pathway to the front door and knocked. A small, wizened woman came to the door. “Mrs. Tanaka?” he asked.

      The old woman, a number of teeth missing, bowed and answered.

      “What?” asked Masters, not understanding her.

      She spoke again.

      Masters shook his head. “Is Mrs. Tanaka here?” he asked once more.

      The taxi driver, observing the situation, came up and talked to the woman. He turned to Masters. “Mrs. Tanaka,” he explained, “lives here. Not home before seven o’clock tonight. Works at store downtown.”

      “Can you get the address of the store?”

      The driver spoke briefly to the servant. “Have address. You want to go there?”

      “Yes.”

      The driver turned his vehicle and drove to the Ginza sector of downtown Tokyo, where he drew up in front of a large, fashionable shop. Masters paid him off, then glanced through the windows as he slowly strolled by. It was an exclusive women’s boutique, selling lingerie, dresses, sweaters and night wear. Six or seven smartly dressed saleswomen were waiting on customers. Masters walked on a couple of blocks, took a coffee, then returned. It was still busy inside. His eyes passed over the women inside, hoping to pick out the one he was seeking. Two of them were about her age.

      He waited for a lull in the business, then entered. A young woman came up at once. “May I help you, please?” she asked in Japanese.

      “I am looking for Mrs. Tanaka.”

      “One moment, please.” The salesgirl knocked at a door at the rear of the store and went inside. A short while later, a woman came out.

      Masters studied her closely as she approached. She was a small woman, about five feet tall, slender, with black hair drawn tight into a bun at the back of her head in the old fashioned manner. He saw immediately that she had had eye operations to reduce the slant, and that her cheeks and lips were slightly touched by cosmetics.

      She was an elegant woman, typically Japanese, well formed, erect, walking with a graceful air. He guessed her age to be forty.

      “I am Mrs. Tanaka,” she said, keeping her eyes from looking directly at him, another old custom.

      “My name is Keith Masters,” he started in Japanese.

      “Would you prefer to speak English?” she asked, with only a faint accent.

      “Yes, very much so,” he replied, relieved. He glanced round. “Could we speak privately?”

      “Of course. Please.” She led the way to the office in the rear. It was tastefully furnished, a polished walnut desk, two slim straight-backed chairs, a cushioned sofa, and thick wall to wall carpeting. Fresh flowers were on the desk, carefully arranged in a hand painted vase. She motioned courteously for him to be seated while she remained standing.

      He drew in a deep breath as he reached into an inner pocket of his jacket. “Do you recognize this?” he asked, handing her the photo.

      She took it with a bow of her head and glanced at it. Suddenly, her eyes widened and her lips parted. The color flew from her face. A slender hand darted to her mouth to stifle the cry welling up. Her black, intense eyes flashed towards Masters, eyes filled with a groping hope mingled with the terror of final judgment.

      “Where is he?” she finally whispered hoarsely.

      “He is dead,” said Master bluntly. “Sit down, Mrs. Tanaka.” Her eyes had closed and her hands had covered her face. She stood rigid, silently weeping, then began to rock with grief. “Do you want some water?” he asked. She shook her head.

      He rose and walked to the window behind the desk. It faced a cobblestone alley where half a dozen boys were playing baseball with a small wooden bat and a rubber ball. He deliberately looked away until she regained her composure.

      “Where did you get the picture? How do you know that my husband is dead?” The two questions were whispers.

      He turned. “I was on Iwo Jima. One of my men took it from the body of a Japanese sergeant. He gave it to me.”

      She was fighting desperately for control. “Was it definitely my husband?”

      He nodded. “It was him. I will go now.” He started towards the door.

      She trembled as if he had struck her. “Please, please, do not go. There is so much I want to ask.”

      He stopped. “All right.” Picking up a pencil from the desk, he wrote his name and hotel on a pad. “I am staying here. I will not leave until we speak again.”

      She gave a sigh of relief. “Please, Mr. Masters.” She glanced quickly at her watch. “I will be leaving in an hour. Would you visit my home this evening, for dinner?”

      “I’ll come over afterwards. Eight o’clock.”

      “Do you know the address?”

      “Yes. I was there earlier this afternoon. An old woman gave me the address of this store.”

      As he started from the room,