The Woman at the Harbor

The next morning, a woman appeared at the harbor.

She rowed a battered fishing boat to shore by herself. It was the crudest kind of skiff, its planks split in several places and lashed together with fishing nets and grass rope. Only half an oar remained; the other half had broken off in the water. She pulled at the broken oar stroke by stroke. The boat zigzagged, but she held a steady course.

The sea wind had tangled her hair and plastered it across her face. Her lips were cracked and peeling, with dried blood at the corners. Her clothes were crusted with salt, and a torn cuff exposed a thin wrist. She had lost one shoe. Her bare foot rested on the planks, sand and mud lodged between her toes.

The sentry stopped her. The old man in the guard booth was awake this time. He rose with his cane and blocked the gate. He had buttoned his uniform crookedly, one side higher than the other, but he stood straight.

"What do you want?" the old man asked, his voice hoarse and thick with phlegm.

The woman jumped off the boat. She stumbled on the gravel but did not fall. Her gaze passed over the old man's shoulder to search every corner of the yard: the training ground, the dormitories, the office building.

"My daughter." Her voice was parched, as if she had gone a long time without water. "The Mafia took her. Someone said they saw the Marines bring the children back."

The old man held his cane across the gateway and did not move aside. "This is a Marine Branch. You can't just walk in."

The woman did not try to push past him. She stood at the gate with her hands at her sides, her fingers trembling. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. The sea wind blew her hair across her face. She did not brush it away.

The mess hall door opened.

Mino ran out.

She was barefoot. The gravel dug painfully into her soles, but she did not stop. She ran across the training ground, through the yard, and past the gate. Her feet slapped against the dock planks, faster and faster.

The woman saw her.

Mino threw herself into her arms.

The woman wrapped her arms around Mino's back and held her so tightly her knuckles turned white. She rested her chin on Mino's head, closed her eyes, and pressed her lips to her daughter's hair.

Mino sobbed in her arms, loudly, clutching the woman's clothes as if her mother would disappear the moment she let go—just like that day in the village, when the Mafia had torn her from her mother's embrace.

Jack stood aboard the patrol boat.

He had not gone out to sea today. He stood there watching the two of them at the harbor.

Colin stood beside the dock, one hand braced against a piling and the other in his pocket. He watched Mino and her mother, his eyes reddening. He turned away, wiped his face with his sleeve, then looked back.

That night, the 16th Branch mess hall was livelier than it had ever been.

Eleven children sat on benches with bowls and plates before them. The mess hall had brought out every piece of tableware it could use. It still was not enough, so someone dug an old crate out of storage. The plates were chipped and the rims of the bowls had lost bits of glaze, but no one cared.

The children ate slowly. Their stomachs had gone too long without food to handle a quick meal. The youngest boy vomited after two bites, then went on eating.

Mino sat beside her mother. The woman did not eat; she fed Mino instead. Mino was already eight, but her mother still blew on each spoonful to cool it and held it to her lips as though she were feeding a baby. Mino opened her mouth and took the spoon, never looking away from her mother's face. She was afraid her mother would vanish if she did.

Godo sat in a corner with an untouched bowl of rice before him. He watched the woman feed Mino for a long time. Then he lowered his head, shoveled a mouthful of rice into his mouth, chewed twice, and could not swallow. Kafka sat across from Mino, breaking a piece of bread into small bits and putting them in one of the youngest boys' bowls. The boy could not reach the bowl, so Kafka fed him one piece at a time.

Doni washed the dishes. He did not know how and used too much soap. Foam spilled out of the sink and spread across the floor. He stood in it, washing the dishes one by one, slowly but carefully.

A Marine approached Jack and spoke in a low voice. It was the scar-faced man. He had lost the most at cards today and spent the whole day swearing, but now there was no trace of that thug's expression on his face. He looked cautious, as if afraid to disturb something.

"Sir, that woman... can she stay the night?"

Jack did not put down his bowl. He glanced at Mino and her mother, then at the other children in the mess hall.

"She can stay until she wants to leave."

The scar-faced man froze for a moment, then nodded and turned away. After two steps, he looked back and opened his mouth as if to say something, but swallowed the words. He went to the kitchen and said something to the cook. The cook looked up from the stove, glanced at the woman in the mess hall, and nodded.

The next morning, Mino's mother was still there.

The kitchen light came on before dawn. Mino's mother stood at the stove wearing an apron she had taken from the wall. It was so big it looked like a dress on her. She had rolled her sleeves to her elbows, exposing her thin forearms.

The cook stood beside her with a kitchen knife in his hand, unsure what to do. He had cooked in this kitchen for three years and had always been the first to arrive each morning to boil water, chop vegetables, and make porridge. But today someone had beaten him there. When he opened the door, the porridge was already cooking. Rice rolled in the pot, and its aroma drifted through the gap beneath the lid.

"You..." The cook opened his mouth.

The woman turned around. She had tied back her hair and washed her face. The dried blood had fallen from her cracked lips, revealing new pink skin beneath. Her eyes were no longer red. The dark circles remained, but her gaze was much calmer than it had been yesterday.

"I'll help make breakfast." Her voice no longer shook. "It's not like... I have anything else to do."

The cook looked at the pickled vegetables she had sliced and lined up neatly on the counter, every piece the same length. He looked at the porridge, with just the right balance of rice and water, neither too thick nor too thin. He looked at the floor. She had mopped it, and it was still damp.

He put down the knife, took another apron from the wall, and tied it around himself.

"All right. You cook, I'll tend the fire."

Breakfast was ready half an hour earlier than usual that day. The porridge was made with fresh rice, not old. The pickled vegetables had been cut into fine strips and drizzled with a little oil. The black bread had been steamed until it was a little softer.

The Marines stopped short when they entered the mess hall and saw an unfamiliar woman behind the serving window. The scar-faced man was first in line. He glanced at the woman, then at Jack, and said, "Thank you." The Marines behind him said it too, one by one, each thanking her as they passed the window. No regulation required it. They said it of their own accord.

The woman nodded and kept ladling porridge.

Mino spent the day with the other children. They no longer huddled in corners. They ran across the training ground, chased one another through the mess hall, and made a racket in the dormitory. They were so loud that Bastian poked his head out of his second-floor office to look down at them. He frowned and pulled his head back inside.

Because of one woman and a group of children, the whole base seemed to have come alive.

Jack crossed the training ground, passed the armory, and walked to the dock. There were boats on the sea and an island in the distance. On that island were the Mafia, and in the Mafia's hands were more children, more hostages, more people who deserved to die.