Along the Broken Bay

by Flora J. Solomon

  “A job. I was a high school principal in Ohio. Married almost fifteen years . . . my wife died of cancer. Her name was Shelly.” His jaw clenched.

  Gina felt a desire to hug him. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Thank you. It was a sad time in my life. My church in Ohio supported the Santa Catalina School in Manila. The principal had just retired, and my pastor asked if I’d be interested in the job. I came to love that school and the people. Leaving it was a lot harder than leaving Ohio.” He reached for the vodka and took another swig. “Thank you, Edna!” He gazed around. “Those buggers ought to be back.”

  The hunter guides returned and held up two dead monkeys.

  “Uh-oh,” she whispered to Marcus. “I may get sick for real.”

  He snickered. “I’ll hold your head.”

  The guides cooked their meal over a fire started by rubbing bamboo sticks together. The dinner, a concoction of monkey meat, rice, bamboo shoots, and a pinch of an unfamiliar spice that gave the dish a distinctive flavor, was served on a large banana leaf. Gina sat in a circle with the others and ate with her hands from the common leaf, so hungry and spent she didn’t give a thought to health or hygiene. Marcus held a conversation in a mixture of Tagalog, English, and pantomime with a young man whose grin revealed filed teeth. He moved his arms like rocking a baby and held up three fingers. “Three something,” Marcus said to Gina, and she nodded and smiled.

  Sipping some kind of alcoholic brew, Gina and Marcus watched the guides pitch lean-tos for the night. Gina asked, “When will we get to the bay?”

  “Tomorrow evening. You’ll be on your own then. You up to it?”

  “Kind of late to ask that, isn’t it?”

  “Hmmm. Yeah.” He reached deep in his pocket for an envelope. “I’ll give you this now in case things are hectic later. I know Davy gave you money to live on while you’re getting established. Here’s a little more.” He extended an envelope.

  She placed her hand on her chest. “Thank you so much, my dear friend, but I can’t accept it. You need it for yourself.”

  “Not really. I have more. All I need. Take it, Gina. None of us knows what you’re getting into. I’m not so sure you should even go. It’s a lot to put on your shoulders.”

  Now that she was away from the familiar surroundings of the Tinian compound, the task charged to her was taking on an ominous scope, making Gina second-guess her ability to carry it out. “I feel the weight. But I think I’m up to it.”

  He pressed the envelope toward her. “Take it. Eventually Cheryl’s going to need shoes, and she won’t find any up here.”

  That argument made it easier, and Gina accepted the offer. “Thank you. I’ll pay you back, one way or another.”

  Marcus rolled his eyes. “Geez, just take it. It’s a gift.”

  In the morning the trip down the mountain resumed. It was dark by the time the Negritos led them into a village where nipa huts lined the water’s edge and fishing boats bobbed on windswept waves. A man at the end of one dock waved them over.

  “That’s Moody,” Marcus said. “He’ll be taking you across Manila Bay tonight.”

  So this was happening. Marcus, her protector, her last contact with the friends she trusted, was leaving her on the shore of this vast bay in the hands of a stranger named Moody.

  Marcus noted the rising winds and thickening clouds. “You may get wet.”

  Chapter 11

  MOODY

  Q. What’s a Japanese girl’s favorite holiday? Erection Day. Q. Why are there never any Japanese bingo players? They disappear when they hear B-29. Q. Why wasn’t Jesus born in Japan? He couldn’t find three wise men or a virgin. I laugh. I cry.

  —Ray Thorpe, Bilibid Prison, May 1942–October 1942

  Gina sat huddled in a small motor launch on the water’s edge, holding a giant banana leaf over her head, inadequate protection from the monsoon rain that was pouring down in sheets. She was traveling across the bay to a shack just outside Manila, where she would stay until a farmer picked her up and drove her into the city. Cold, she wrapped a blanket around her body. “How long will this last?” she yelled to Moody over the howl of the wind.

  He tapped his ear and shrugged his shoulders, indicating he hadn’t heard her. It was a moot question anyway, Gina knew. The storms during the rainy season could last two days or an hour, a factor Marcus, with all his planning, had been unable to figure into her trip. When the wind let up and the rain lessened to a drizzle, Moody pushed the boat away from the shore with a pole. It rocked in the choppy current as he tried to tease the engine to life, repeatedly pulling the cord, but it sputtered and died. After he primed it with alcohol and adjusted the choke, the motor caught hold. Moody flashed Gina a smile. Reassured by his smile and on their way again, she relaxed a bit.

  There wasn’t much to see in the dark night on the black water, except a few points of lights on the coastline, and there was nothing to hear except the muffled putt-putt of the small motor. Woozy with fatigue from the long hike down the mountain, Gina lay on the boat’s wooden seat and went into a half sleep. The fishy smell, the rock of the boat, and the drone of the outboard motor all took her back to her childhood, when she’d fished with her father on Puget Sound and learned the difference between a perch and a rockfish and how to bait a hook. On those excursions he’d told stories of his childhood and his parents, vaudevillians who had immigrated from a small village in Italy. Gina adored her feisty grandmother, who had taught her how to move gracefully and project her voice from the stage.

  When they neared the shore, clouds rolled over again, and the wind picked up, rocking the boat and swirling the water. “Hang on,” Moody hollered, and he set the throttle at full speed. The craft skipped across the water, each slap of the waves on the hull jolting Gina so hard she clenched her teeth to keep from biting her tongue. A bolt of lightning hit close by, and the hairs on her arm stood to attention, just as a cloud opened and the world turned gray with the downpour. The boat slowed and stopped. Moody hauled her onto a wobbly dock barely visible in the driving rain and pointed to a small tin-roofed building. “Go in there,” he shouted as he fought the wind to tie down his boat.

  Gina hurried along the dock and across a muddy street to the building. The sign over the door read THE SHIP SHACK. She banged on the door until a grizzled old man answered. A brown-and-black dog stood alert beside him. After stepping into the dimly lit interior, Gina gazed around the store stocked with fishing gear, hats, tools, knives, and several shelves of books. A clock on the wall read 2:35 a.m. Both the man and dog eyed the bedraggled woman with curiosity.

  Gina addressed the old man. “Moody said to come in here.”

  He cupped his hand to his ear and shouted, “Speak up, girl.”

  Gina felt her body jump.

  “Moody said to come in here,” she shouted back.

  “Fool!” the old man sputtered in his too-loud voice. “Shouldn’t be on the water. Didn’t expect no one in this storm.” He disappeared into a back room and returned with a towel that he handed to Gina.

  “Are we close to Manila?” Gina patted her face and arms dry.

  The old man grunted, and she wondered if that was a yes or a no. He lit a lamp with hands that were gnarled with arthritis, all the while mumbling something Gina could not decipher. He nodded toward her. “Come with me.”

  The dog followed along as the old man led them across the uneven floor to the back of the store and up a narrow staircase. The low-ceilinged room at the top reeked of oil, and a blackout shade shielded a small window. Boxes and barrels, fishing rods, nets, and tools cast eerie shadows in the dim lamplight. A cot against the wall was covered with bedding that looked well slept in.

  Gina felt tears forming from hunger and cold, or maybe fear, and she felt the stab of guilt she had been grappling with all day at leaving Cheryl behind. She quieted herself by chanting in her mind, All this will be worth it—you’ll see. Not a hollow promise, she hoped.

  The old man rumma
ged in some boxes for blankets and dry clothing for her to change into. “You are very kind,” she loudly said, but he gave no indication he’d heard her.

  His voice boomed, startling her again. “There’s a privy out back.” He and his dog descended the stairs.

  Alone, she put on the dress the old man had given her, detecting a moldy smell. The motion of the boat and the odor of the fuel had left her woozy, and she wanted a comfortable bed with clean sheets and soft pillows. There was no comfort in this room, with its plank floor and rain hammering on the tin roof.

  Her nerves were jangled from the long day’s travel. Sitting on the bed, her hand went to the locket, and she wanted more than anything in the world to be with her daughter right now, singing the lullabies her mother had sung to her.

  A door downstairs banged shut. Moody’s voice filtered up the stairs. “Son of a bitch. It’s a screecher out there. Hey, Bandito, how you doin’, ole buddy? Yeah, you like that, don’t you? Here, take this. Good dog.”

  Gina envisioned Moody scratching the dog behind his ear. She heard stomping on the stairs.

  Moody, still dripping with rain, stepped into the room, followed by Bandito, who was carrying a newspaper in his mouth. She studied the man, who was shorter than she was and slightly bowlegged. His hair was as black as any Filipino’s, but his eyes were hazel and his skin a golden brown. Was Moody his real name?

  From a bag he removed bottles of beer and a bowl of rice and vegetables and placed them on the table, then took the newspaper from Bandito and tossed it aside. “Good boy,” he said, pouring beer into a bowl for the dog. He opened another beer for Gina and handed it to her. “You comfortable enough? Need anything? Dry clothes, blankets?”

  Gina thought a hug from her daughter would be nice. She said, “Thanks. Your dad took good care of me. I don’t think he heard me say thank you.”

  “Don’t worry about it. He knows. Go ahead and eat; you look hungry.”

  “Thank you. I am.”

  He leaned back in the chair and ran his hand through his hair. “Man, I could use a towel.” He reached over and grabbed Gina’s. “Tonight, don’t leave the building unless you need to use the privy. Have my dad check the alley before you go out. We’re close to Manila, and the Japs wander up this way.”

  Gina drank the beer, it going down easily, and Moody opened another, which she accepted. No doubt she’d have to use that privy in the alley with Japs roaming around—not a pleasant thought. She drank the second beer more slowly and ate the rice and vegetables, which settled her queasy stomach. “What time are we leaving?”

  “Early. My mom will wake you up. She wanted me to give you this.” He reached into his shirt pocket for a packet of powder. “Stir it in a cup of water. It will help you relax.”

  “Oh. I won’t need it—I’m so tired I could sleep standing up. Tell your mom thank you, though.”

  He pushed the packet closer. “It’s not for tonight. It’s for the trip. We rigged up a cart, and you’ll be hidden in it. Mom says it’s not fit for a dog. It’s not that bad. I rode in it once just to see. But take the powder if you panic in enclosed spaces.”

  Gina choked at the description of her vehicle and covered it up as a cough. She wiped her chin. “How long’s the trip?”

  “Two hours or longer if we get hung up at the checkpoints. There are three. Any movement or sound could give you away; then we’d both be guests of the Japs in Fort Santiago.”

  The trip sounded odious. She glanced at the packet of powder. No. She needed to be in full control of her body and mind on the dangerous trip with this strange man. She left the packet on the table.

  Bandito woofed, and his legs twitched in his sleep.

  “Rabbits,” Moody said. “He lives to chase them. Anything else? Any questions?”

  Gina’s mind was fuzzy with fatigue, and the beer had pushed her over the edge. “I can’t think of any right now.”

  “Okay. Sleep good.” He slapped his leg, and Bandito’s head popped up. “Come on, boy.” The dog stretched and yawned and followed Moody down the stairs.

  Gina picked up the newspaper that Moody had left and read the headline news. José P. Laurel had been elected president of the Republic of the Philippines, and a pact of alliance had been signed between the new republic and the Japanese government. Former adviser to General MacArthur Señor Salvador Estevez had been released from prison after declaring loyalty to the Japanese and had been appointed an adviser to the newly formed legislature. The print blurred before Gina’s tired eyes.

  She lay down on the odd-smelling bed, still dressed in the garment Moody’s father had given to her, and the next thing she knew, someone was coming up the stairs. With her head still buried in the pillow, she opened one eye to see a wizened Filipina carrying a basket. The woman smiled and put the basket of fruit and biscuits on the table. “For you, miss.”

  Gina sat up and rubbed the grit from her eyes, thinking the night had disappeared too quickly. The woman pointed to a pitcher of water and a basin.

  Gina guessed the woman was Moody’s mother. “Thank you, madre. You’re very kind.”

  The woman nodded. “I wish you well.”

  Still half-asleep, Gina poured water into the basin, filled her palms, and held them to her face, enjoying the moment, a normal one. Her hand went to the locket and her thoughts to Cheryl, still snug asleep, she assumed, and when she awoke, Vivian would provide a good breakfast and Edna a school lesson. Gina already missed her best friends.

  She had slept in the dress she would wear today, a dreary smock, but who would care? From the basket she selected a banana and a biscuit, a satisfying breakfast. Peeking from behind the blackout curtain, she saw Moody and a lanky man in the yard preparing a slat-sided horse-drawn cart for the trip. She picked up her bag full of wet clothes to join them. “Morning,” she said.

  “Morning to you,” Moody said. “This here’s Deke. This is his cart, and he’ll be driving.”

  Gina nodded to Deke and then inspected the bed of the cart, where a tarp and bunches of bananas partially camouflaged a small coffinlike structure. She crossed her arms, glad for the first time that Cheryl wasn’t with her.

  Moody gestured at the small bunker. “The sides are lined with bagged charcoal. Deke will put a mattress down. You’ll be safe in there. We’ll be stopped at three checkpoints. The guards will search for contraband by stabbing through the bananas. It will scare you, but you can’t move or make a sound until I give you an all-clear.”

  “Okay,” Gina said, certain she could endure anything for two short hours, but after Deke completed the hideout and Gina climbed onto the moldy-smelling mattress mottled with stains of unsavory colors, her heart began to pound. A tight squeeze—there was barely any headroom.

  Moody handed her a canteen of water. “You’re sure you’ll be all right?”

  Resolute, she nodded. “I can do it.”

  “Then here we go.”

  Moody and Deke piled bags of charcoal and bunches of bananas over the top and sides of the bunker until the space became even more tomblike. Gina’s heart raced so fast her breathing couldn’t keep up with it, and she felt she could die in this crypt—and no one would be the wiser until it was too late.

  With the first strides of the horse, the cart jerked. “It’s going to be bumpy for a while,” Moody called back to her. “Close your eyes and concentrate on your breathing. Long, slow breaths. It will slow your heart rate. You’re going to be fine.”

  Gina latched on to his words, finding the sound of his voice comforting. She followed his instructions, and her anxiety lessened. Moody seemed to know what she was experiencing, and she wondered how many people he had smuggled into Manila—a dozen, a half dozen? Was she the first one? Did he have a backup plan, if something should go wrong? She wished she had asked him more questions last night.

  The cart bumped along the rural road and then turned onto a smoother highway. Gina relaxed a bit. Her thoughts drifted to the people working in the undergrou
nd, awed by how far their reach extended—from a hotbed in Manila, according to Marcus, to ranchers like Señor Ramos to the guerrillas forming in the mountains to fishermen, boatmen, and farmers scattered all through the country. The realization of its magnitude and her anticipated part in it brought on a poignant connection to the Filipino people she’d not felt before.

  The cart’s speed dropped to a crawl, and Moody called, “Checkpoint. Be still. Be quiet.”

  She put her hand on her heart, hoping to slow its beat.

  The cart inched forward and stopped. She heard Japanese voices demanding licenses and identifications. Gina, sensitive to every sound, detected footsteps circling and then the thump of a bayonet jabbing through the slats into the bananas. A yelp tried to escape, but Gina gritted her teeth and stifled it. Charcoal dust rained down, and she swallowed the need to cough. When the cart moved forward, she began to cry, and there was no place for the tears to go but from the corners of her eyes into her ears.

  “All clear,” Moody called. “Only two more to go.”

  Only. The temperature in the cart rose to unbearable; the air stayed thick with charcoal dust.

  “Checkpoint,” Moody called twice more, and each time Gina experienced the harsh voices, jackbooted steps, and jabs of the bayonets. Her heart thumped so hard again she had to steel herself to keep from jumping out of her skin.

  After what seemed an eternity, she heard the city’s church bells chime nine o’clock. Her hopes soared—Saint Sebastian’s or Santo Domingo’s? Gina wanted out of this cave, and she bit her tongue to keep from shouting Moody’s name. The cart took a sharp turn to the right and stopped.

  Moody called, “Hold on, Gina. We’re coming.” A moment later she glimpsed a sliver of light and Moody’s face emerging from behind the bananas. He opened the tomb, and a soft pink hand tugged at Gina’s. Rising, she squinted against the bright light of day and found she was in the courtyard of Malate Church, standing beside a priest dressed in white vestments now streaked with soot. The priest nodded toward a doorway. “Quick, come with me.”