The Language of Threads by Gail Tsukiyama

Author:Gail Tsukiyama
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: St. Martin’s Press
Published: 1999-10-30T16:00:00+00:00

On other days, a numbness would set in among the prisoners, an awful awareness that this was not a game. Electricity and water were turned on and off without warning, and during the winter of 1942–43 the cold winds from the bay kept them awake all night with icy feet and chilblains. Rumors circulated among the women, whispers of the torture and beating of men accused of espionage or of trying to escape. Dysentery and malaria began to take lives in their cramped quarters. By the beginning of 1943, Mrs. Finch saw the rows of makeshift gravestones multiply in the cemetery overlooking Stanley Bay.

One October morning, shouting abruptly awakened them. Heart pounding and feet numb, Mrs. Finch rose from her cot and peered out the window. In the pale light, she could just make out a group of Japanese soldiers dragging several men out the camp gate in the direction of the beach.

“What is going on?” Mrs. Tate whispered.

“They’re taking some men down to the beach.” Mrs. Finch massaged her feet, trying to get the circulation flowing again, then hurried to dress.

“Where are you going?”

“I want to see what’s going on. Don’t worry, go back to sleep. I’ll be right back.”

“Over my dead body. I’m going with you.” Mrs. Tate rose quietly from her cot and quickly dressed.

Groans came from the other cots as the door creaked open and they stepped out into the morning air. They closed the door quietly behind them, then caught the quick movement of a guard making his rounds and froze. When the guard disappeared and it was safe again, Mrs. Finch sighed with relief.

“This way,” Mrs. Finch said, stealing behind their building and across to the next. From her favorite spot, they had a clear view of the beach.

“Look!” Mrs. Tate pointed down to the open beach.

The soldiers pushed the six internees out onto the sand. All of the prisoners had their hands bound behind their backs. They stumbled forward and were made to kneel on the sand with their heads bowed. A soldier stood straight beside each prisoner like a dark guardian, hand poised on the shaft of his sword.

Mrs. Finch pressed closer to the barbed wire, noting how the prisoners were evenly spaced three feet apart. Seagulls squawked and circled overhead. “What are they doing?” she whispered.

An answer came before either woman said another word. As the sky brightened into morning, a glint of sunlight caught the swords as they swung down and beheaded one prisoner after the other. Mrs. Finch thought she heard a man cry out, “Wait!” before the sharp edge of the sword silenced his voice forever.

Mrs. Finch stood stunned, her thumb pressing into the sharp point of the barbed wire, drawing blood. A quick sting followed by a dull throb. For months after, every time Mrs. Finch closed her eyes she saw again the perfect arc of the sword as it rose up and swung down, cleanly separating each head from its body. The thick silence suddenly broken

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