Hunt for the Bamboo Rat Read online

  Also by Graham Salisbury

  Blue Skin of the Sea

  Lord of the Deep

  Night of the Howling Dogs

  PRISONERS OF THE EMPIRE BOOKS

  Eyes of the Emperor

  House of the Red Fish

  Under the Blood-Red Sun

  FOR YOUNGER READERS

  The Calvin Coconut Series

  This is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, and all characters with the exception of some well-known historical and public figures, are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life historical or public figures appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning those persons are fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or to change the fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2014 by Graham Salisbury

  Jacket art copyright © 2014 by Jon Valk

  Map copyright © 2014 by Joe LeMonnier

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Wendy Lamb Books, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.

  Wendy Lamb Books and the colophon are trademarks of Random House LLC.

  Visit us on the Web! randomhouseteens.com

  Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at RHTeachersLibrarians.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Salisbury, Graham.

  Hunt for the bamboo rat / by Graham Salisbury. — First edition.

  pages cm

  Summary: Zenji Watanabe, seventeen, is sent from Hawaii to the Philippines to spy on the Japanese during World War II and, after he is captured and tortured, must find a way to survive months of being lost in the jungle behind enemy lines.

  ISBN 978-0-375-84266-5 (hardback) — ISBN 978-0-375-94070-5 (lib. bdg.)— ISBN 978-0-307-97970-4 (ebook)

  [1. Spies—Fiction. 2. Prisoners of war—Fiction. 3. Survival—Fiction. 4. Japanese Americans—Fiction. 5. World War, 1939–1945—Philippines—Fiction. 6. Philippines—History—Japanese occupation, 1942–1945—Fiction.]

  I. Title.

  PZ7.S15225Hun 2014

  [Fic]—dc23

  2014005743

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

  v3.1

  IN HONOR OF

  LIEUTENANT COMMANDER

  HENRY FORESTER GRAHAM, USN

  KILLED IN ACTION 1945

  JAPAN

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map

  1: Chinatown

  2: Glass

  3: The Dog

  4: Bright Star in Paradise

  5: Suspicion

  6: Six Men

  7: In the Army You Die

  8: Be Bold

  9: The Mark

  10: Machetes

  11: Mina

  12: The Next Blue Moon

  13: Cover Story

  14: Lush Green Island

  15: The Momo

  16: First Contact

  17: Rumors of War

  18: Bad Feelings

  19: The Underworld

  20: Benny Suzuki

  21: The Nervous Man

  22: Full Alert

  23: Incriminating Evidence

  24: Towers of Smoke

  25: Handcuffed

  26: Switchblade

  27: Unbearable Disgrace

  28: The Rock

  29: Last Plane Out

  30: They Want the Tunnels

  31: Born in America

  32: High-Stepping Intimidation

  33: Kempeitai

  34: The Gunshot

  35: Sick Show

  36: The Remains of a Nightmare

  37: Treason

  38: The Rope

  39: Poisonous Soup

  40: Waterboard

  41: Colonel Fujimoto

  42: Houseboy

  43: Isabel Navarro

  44: Eight Tickets

  45: Esteban Navarro

  46: Outrage

  47: The Audacity of Courage

  48: Leaving the Weasel

  49: Baguio

  50: Into the Fog

  51: Red Teeth

  52: Sharp Edge of Steel

  53: Upstream

  54: The Trap

  55: Juicy Fruit

  56: Field Camp

  57: A Glimmer

  58: Yellow Ginger

  Author’s Note

  Glossary

  Resources

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Zenji Watanabe was in the middle of an early-morning daydream as he walked to his job at Honolulu Harbor. He was trying to imagine himself as a Buddhist priest like his teachers at Japanese school when a rat leaped out of a garbage can just ahead, sending the metal lid clanging to the sidewalk.

  He jumped back and adjusted his glasses. “Crazy rat!”

  Late for work, he was cutting through Chinatown, hoping he could make it without any trouble.

  But the rat changed that.

  Three Chinese guys sitting on their heels two blocks down looked his way.

  “Oh, man,” Zenji whispered.

  It was August 1941, and in Honolulu tensions between the Chinese and Japanese had risen like fire-spewing dragons because of what had happened in Nanking, China. In 1937, the Imperial Japanese Army killed over a hundred thousand innocent Chinese civilians. Maybe even more. To Zenji it was a tragedy. But some patriotic Japanese immigrants had publicly cheered Japan’s success. Anger at Japan still smoldered in Chinatown.

  The three guys were about his age, seventeen. They seemed as surprised to see him as he was to see them.

  One guy had hair that hung past his shoulders. “Hey!” He sprang to his feet.

  The others got up, shooting Zenji dirty looks.

  Zenji pretended not to see them, and turned casually down the street to his left. The second he was out of sight, he ran.

  Hide—an open door, a dark alley, a low window!

  Where?

  He spotted a rusted fire escape and climbed it, hoping it would hold. One floor up, he punched through a window screen and tumbled into somebody’s bedroom.

  He scrambled to his feet and glanced around.

  Empty … except for the biggest bed he’d ever seen. And a dresser with a huge mirror, a red velvet chair, a nightstand with a frilly lamp.

  A hotel?

  He edged back up to the window and peeked out. Long-hair guy ran into view.

  Zenji stepped back.

  “Man,” he whispered. “Now what?”

  What would his teacher-priests do in this mess? They believed that if you had compassion for people in your heart, everything would turn out well. Zenji wasn’t so sure about that.

  He decided they’d do one of two things: use kendo, their swordsmanship with bamboo sticks, or stand firm and peacefully face the problem.

  Zenji didn’t know kendo.

  Someone in the street shouted, “He’s here! I smell um.”

  The bedroom door flew open and slammed against the wall. A Chinese man the size of a garbage truck stood in the doorway with a baseball bat. He looked hard at Zenji and quickly took in every corner of the room.

  Zenji staggered back. “It’s not what you think, mister.”

  The big man pointed the bat at him as he came into the room, circling to his right, his eyes never leaving Zenji.

  “I didn’t mean to break in.… S
ome guys down on the street chased me. I was just walking to my job.”

  The man moved close enough to hammer Zenji’s brains to mush.

  Zenji put his palms out, trying to stop him. “I … I just got a job at the harbor, and—”

  “You know what this place is?” the man snapped. “You really want to bus’ in here? What’s your name?”

  Zenji looked for a way out. There wasn’t one. “Zenji … Watanabe.”

  The big man studied him, then lowered the bat.

  He stepped over to the window and looked out. “I don’t see nobody.”

  “They’re out there. Three of them. I didn’t do anything to them.”

  The big man grunted. “You Japanee, that’s what you did. Come. You gotta get out of Chinatown. Stupid to come here.”

  Zenji followed him down the hall. Four young women stuck their heads out from different doors.

  “Hey, Jesse, who you got there? What’s going on?”

  “Not’ing. Kid got the wrong address.”

  Oh, jeese, Zenji thought. Now he knew what this place was.

  He tried to smile at the women.

  Heat rushed to his face when one blew him a kiss.

  Jesse took Zenji out to the street, looking right, then left. He pointed with his chin to three guys crossing toward them, ignoring a honking car.

  “That’s them,” Zenji said.

  “They jus’ kids.”

  “Maybe, but there’s three of them and one of me.”

  The three guys strutted around Zenji, staring him down, ignoring Jesse.

  Zenji kept his mouth shut.

  Be calm. Don’t show fear.

  “We go,” Jesse said. “I take you out of here.”

  Zenji shook his head. “No. Thanks, but … I can take care of this.”

  Jesse stared at him. “You crazy?”

  “Prob’ly.”

  Jesse hesitated, and stepped back.

  Long-hair guy blocked the sidewalk. Barefoot, street-dirty feet, khaki pants, tight black T-shirt, a small star tattooed on his left earlobe, and eyes that darted like a lizard.

  The two other guys moved in around him. Their faces said You going get hurt, Japanee.

  Zenji tried to drag up some Buddhist compassion. These guys are just … these guys are …

  Scary.

  Think!

  Okay. They hate me. But I don’t have to hate them. Look them in the eye. Show no fear.

  Long-Hair grunted. “We going take your head off today, Japanee punk. What you t’ink?”

  “I’m not going to fight you.”

  Long-Hair leaned into Zenji’s face. “Sissy, you?”

  Zenji didn’t blink.

  Jesse crossed his arms, and people on the sidewalk watched, silent.

  They’re just guys like me, Zenji told himself. No different.

  Long-Hair and Zenji stared into each other’s eyes.

  Breathe. Long, slow breath.

  Think.

  He’s just a guy. Got a little sister.

  A dog.

  His mother likes him.

  Maybe.

  Zenji almost choked on a laugh.

  Finally, Long-Hair stepped back. “Pfff. Beat it, Jap punk. Nex’ time we not going be so nice.”

  Zenji nodded and eased around the three guys. He wanted to say something back. Friendly.

  Don’t push it. Could be they’re just afraid of Jesse.

  Zenji nodded to the big guy and walked away.

  He glanced back over his shoulder.

  Long-Hair ran a finger across his throat.

  After he turned the corner, Zenji stopped and took deep breaths. He held his trembling hands out, palms down.

  He looked again at the streets of Chinatown in surprise. He was trembling not because he was afraid, but because he’d just discovered something: that smile inside?

  It was real.

  Dang. Those priests were good.

  Zenji Watanabe was Nisei, meaning he was American-born Japanese. His parents were immigrants from Okinawa, Japan. In June he’d graduated near the top of his class from McKinley High School. Now he was driving a forklift, loading cargo onto ships while trying to figure out his next step.

  Zenji daydreamed about becoming a priest—which his older brother, Henry, thought was the funniest thing he’d ever heard—but he wasn’t sure what he wanted to do with his life. His Japanese school principal had encouraged him to go to Japan to study Buddhism. But that would be a long haul.

  Zenji’s other thoughts were to become a policeman, or maybe join the army. He’d been in JROTC, the Junior Reserve Officers’ Training Corps, in high school and liked it. “Rotsie,” they called it. But Ma was adamantly against the army idea. “You forget Germany, making trouble all over. What if they make trouble with us, too? In the army, you could get killed.”

  Ma was too protective, like a dog shielding her puppy.

  Zenji could only shake his head. Germany was on the other side of the world. How could they make trouble with the U.S.?

  For now, his job at the harbor was okay.

  But Zenji had a skill most guys his age did not: language. He spoke perfect English and perfect Japanese. He even understood a few words of Filipino, Chinese, and Hawaiian, picked up at work.

  He lived a few miles inland in Pauoa with his mother; his fifteen-year-old sister, Aiko; and his brother, Henry, who was nineteen. Their father had been killed in an accident at his job when Zenji was eight.

  Henry was an ace with numbers. Hawaiian Pineapple Company hired him right out of high school as an assistant bookkeeper, which was good. The family needed the money. Plus, he was going to the university part-time to get a degree in accounting. But Zenji knew Henry really went there to meet girls and go dancing. “One day you’ll understand, little brother,” Henry said. “Girls make the world go around.”

  Zenji laughed it off. “Girls make people nervous, you mean. What do you say to them?”

  Henry tapped Zenji’s chest with the back of his hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll teach you.”

  That made Zenji even more nervous.

  But he knew Henry really wanted to join the army like most of his friends. It was a good place to get a start in life. And besides, Pop had been in the army back in Japan. But Henry made more money at Hawaiian Pineapple.

  Zenji liked the idea of signing up, too. He and Henry talked about it a lot, but not in front of Ma. “At least the army would be a job.”

  “More than that,” Henry said. “Think of the respect you’d get.”

  “From who?”

  “Everyone.”

  “Except Ma.”

  Henry could only nod.

  Japan was making war noises these days, and their mother had heard people talking about it. Zenji noticed it at work, too. Fewer and fewer ships had brought goods in from Japan.

  “I heard some guys at the harbor,” Zenji said. “They say us, the British, the Chinese, and the Dutch are making it hard for Japan to get oil, so not so many ships.”

  Henry frowned. “Not good. With the Axis alliance and Japan siding with Germany and Italy, we could end up fighting our own relatives.”

  “That would be crazy.”

  But joining the army was impossible. The family would starve without their two paychecks. Like Henry, Zenji gave his money to Ma each month.

  Ma was strict, but she had a creative side, too. She wrote poems in Kanji characters, in a style she had invented. Then she’d have Zenji or Aiko write them out in English. They were seven-line poems: one word, two words, three words, four words, three words, two words, one word. Even though Zenji, Aiko, and Henry often made fun of them, the poems made them feel good. They held the family together.

  There was one about Henry taped to the wall in the kitchen.

  Boy

  Must become

  Man too soon,

  But God gave boy

  The strength to

  Be the

  Man.

  And for Aiko:
/>
  Girl

  On bike

  On busy street

  Must watch for people

  And not thoughtlessly

  Scare them

  Silly.

  Ma started writing the poems after Pop died.

  Pop, a dry-dock welder at Pearl Harbor, had fallen from his scaffolding. The memory of that day was still so painful Zenji could hardly let himself think about it. But he would make Pop proud. Somehow. Even if Pop wasn’t there to see it.

  * * *

  Zenji was eating lunch at work, sitting on a crate and looking out over the harbor. Behind him in the shade, two Hawaiian guys were joking about how cooks at Chinese restaurants were grinding glass into food served to Japanese customers.

  Zenji stopped eating. “Wait a minute,” he said, turning. “What’s that about glass?”

  The two guys stared at him.

  Zenji looked down, embarrassed at his boldness. These guys were at least forty. He wasn’t even half that.

  But this was important. He glanced back up.

  One guy winked. “Check your food, kid.”

  They laughed.

  Ground glass was still on his mind as he walked home—not through Chinatown.

  For sure, what Japan had done in Nanking was bad. But it didn’t have anything to do with him. He was American Japanese. The closest he’d ever been to Japan was at Japanese school, where he’d learned about Japanese culture.

  He kicked a crushed cigarette pack as he walked home on a road with no sidewalks. He passed small houses, where kids played in the street, moving out of the way for passing cars.

  “Hey, punk!” someone called.

  Zenji turned and grinned. “You the punk. How’s it? What’s up?”

  Tosh Otani, Zenji’s best friend since forever, slouched across the street. “Waiting for Naomi. You need a girlfriend, too.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  Tosh shoved him playfully. “You the most chicken guy I know when it comes to girls.”

  “I like girls.”

  “Could fool me. Hey, how’s the job?”

  “Good. Except I almost got killed in Chinatown.” He told Tosh the story. About the glass rumor, too.

  “Whoa. Stay out of that place,” Tosh said.

  “Right.”

  Tosh tapped the side of Zenji’s arm. “Gotta run.” He pointed his chin.

  Naomi was heading toward them, two blocks away.

  Zenji waved to her and kept going.