While Moody and Deke transferred bananas to a garage where the priests stored food for Manila’s most impoverished populations, Father Brady James Morgan led Gina inside the crumbling seventeenth-century church, where she felt the cool peacefulness of it for a moment before her world went black.
Chapter 12
FATHER MORGAN
Without stopping to think, I aid a soldier who has fallen, and I suffer a beating for it. The insult to my sense of decency is worse than the guard’s cruel blows.
—Ray Thorpe, Bilibid Prison, May 1942–October 1942
Gina heard her name and struggled to pull out of the darkness. She was nauseated, and her left arm felt restricted. An unfamiliar voice said, “Take a couple deep breaths, Gina.”
How did he know her name? She opened her eyes and saw she was lying on a bed in a stark room. A priest in his vestments and a doctor in a white coat stood beside her. An IV dripped into her arm. “Where am I?” she asked. She tried to sit up, but the nausea redoubled to a gag, and she lay back. Cold, she felt clammy too. When she saw she was covered with coal dust, the events of the last hours came to her. She asked more urgently, “Where am I?”
The priest said, “You’re in the nuns’ quarters at the Malate Church. You’re dehydrated, and you passed out. Dr. Lopez started an IV. You should feel better soon. Lie here and rest for a while. When you’re ready, Miss Lyda, my secretary, will bring you clean clothes and show you where you can shower.”
Dr. Hernandez Lopez took Gina’s pulse and flashed a light in her eyes. She wondered whether he knew how she’d gotten into this weakened state. He didn’t ask. “As soon as your stomach settles, I want you to drink half and half water and juice. No coffee, tea, or alcohol for the rest of the day. Do you have any questions?”
She couldn’t think of one and shook her head.
“All right, sleep for now. You’re safe here.”
The two men left the room. “Wait,” Gina croaked, but they were out of earshot. How long had she been here? Where was Moody? How much did they know?
She slept the rest of the day, sensing someone coming in periodically to check her IV but not waking her. When she sat up, Miss Lyda, a gangly woman with her hair pulled back in a bun, provided her with underwear, a skirt, a blouse, and slip-on shoes. “They’re from our charity closet, but they’re clean. Dr. Lopez said I can remove the IV. I left a towel, soap, comb, and such in the shower for you, two doors down on the right.”
Gina grimaced as the needle was removed from her arm and a bandage put in its place. “A shower? Do you think I really need one?” She held up her coal-blackened arms.
Miss Lyda smiled. “Keep the bandage on for a few minutes, and then shower. When you’re ready, Father Morgan would like you to join him for dinner.”
Gina scrubbed the coal dust out of her hair and off her body with multiple applications of shampoo and soap. The warm water rushing over her felt wonderful, and she basked in it as long as she dared, letting her mind wander. The trip was harder than she had anticipated, and as much as she missed Cheryl, she was glad she had not exposed her to it.
Dr. Lopez . . . where had she heard that name before? While toweling dry, she remembered—his name was on the list of contacts Davy had given her.
“You look much more comfortable,” Miss Lyda said. “Is there anything else you need?”
“Maybe another change of clothes? The few I brought are soaked and dirty.”
“Of course. I’ll let you choose from what we have. Come with me now; Father Morgan is waiting.” She led Gina through a thick-walled stone passageway, past ornate pilasters and octagonal openings on the way to Father Morgan’s office, soon passing through a vestibule where an elaborately carved glass case enshrined a small statue of a woman. The miniature stood erect, ornately dressed in beaded purple-and-white vestments with her hands outstretched, as if offering comfort. A gold medallion-shaped crown framed her ivory face and graceful features. Gina stopped to admire her.
“She’s beautiful, isn’t she,” Father Morgan said as he approached from a side room. “She’s Nuestra Señora de Los Remedios, Our Lady of Remedies. She was brought to this church in 1624 from Spain. Our young mothers recovering from childbirth, or those with a sick child, pray to her for a fast recovery. Our Lady has been known to perform many miracles. Sadly, we’re going to be locking her away.” He turned to his secretary. “Thank you, Miss Lyda. I’ll take Gina from here.”
Gina walked with Father Morgan down another long hallway.
“Nothing anymore is sacred,” he said. “The Jap soldiers come into this church and sleep on our pews and defecate on our floors, and that’s the least of what we deal with on a daily basis.”
“Oh, Father. How do you handle it?”
“By rising above it and focusing my energy where it matters. To survive in Manila, you must learn to do that too.”
“I couldn’t possibly. I’ve seen too much . . . our men marching north. The Japanese are a cruel race. I have fear and loathing for them deep inside of me.”
“My dear, I, too, have seen what the Japanese do. The Filipino soldiers come to our hospital half-alive and full of hate. We heal their bodies and, hopefully, their souls so they can return to their families and be useful. Given time and with help, I expect your soul will heal too.”
Gina didn’t want her soul to heal. Her hate for the Japanese was deserved, appropriate, and righteously savored, and she doubted she could live up to Father Morgan’s standard. Irritated by his benign acceptance of Japanese cruelties, she said, “I doubt that, Father.” She felt his sidelong glance.
In his office, an arched window overlooked a tropical garden anchored by a stately statue of Queen Isabella, a once-beloved Spanish monarch from the mid-1800s. The furniture was dark and heavy, and a side table was set with dishes, glasses, and cutlery. He motioned to Gina to sit on the leather couch and took a side chair himself. “I was getting worried for you this morning. So many bad things happen on the road nowadays.” He pressed his fingers against a tic in his left cheek. The twitching muscle relaxed, leaving his square-jawed face serene. “Davy McGowan’s a parishioner here. He sent word that you were coming. How is he?”
“Better. He was stabbed multiple times before he escaped the Japs. It was touch and go for a while.”
A frown creased Father Morgan’s forehead.
“How much do you know, Father?”
“I know that you’re working with him, and you need a place to stay until you’re issued a residence pass. That alone tells me more than you realize, but fill me in.”
Gina told him a brief history of her moves from Manila to her cottage to the mountain hut, Davy’s arrival, and the beginnings of the guerrilla unit. Father Morgan listened, in turn frowning and nodding until Miss Lyda arrived with a food cart.
At the side table he gave the blessing before serving the hearty vegetable-beef soup from a tureen. Gina broke apart a baking powder biscuit and poured herself a glass of carabao milk. “How did you avoid the internment camp, Father?”
“I’m Irish. All six of us priests are. Our American brothers and sisters are interned in Santo Tomas. May I ask . . . where is your husband?”
“He was working on Corregidor. I heard the men from there were sent to Bilibid.” All Gina’s fears and desires tumbled out. “I don’t know if he’s with them. Can I find out? If he’s there, can I see him? Or send a package of clothing and food?” she pleaded. “Or at least a letter?”
“My dear. Hundreds of prisoners are processed through Bilibid every week, and almost all are transferred to other prison camps. The Japanese don’t release the prisoners’ names. We have no way of knowing who passed through. Promise you won’t do anything that will bring attention to yourself or your husband. It would be dangerous to you and those around you.”
“I promise. I won’t. I know the Japs’ cruelty, and I hate them for it.”
“Be very careful. Hate strips the vitality out of one’s life. It consumes energy
that can be channeled elsewhere—like volunteering at Remedios Hospital. We’ve just recently opened. The ladies from the Catholic Women’s League keep the hospital operational, and we are always short of help.”
Gina listened with interest. The money Davy and Marcus had given her wouldn’t last long. “Can you hire me? I’ll be needing a job.”
“No, unfortunately I can’t. Our funds are limited. We’ve begged and borrowed every piece of equipment, and most of our staff, even our doctors, are volunteers. Don’t rule out volunteering. It’s an opportunity to meet people and integrate yourself into the new society.”
He folded his napkin and placed it on the table, signaling the end of the meal. “As soon as Miss Lyda has you ready, I’ll take you to Señor and Señora Estevez’s hacienda. The decision to accept you into their home wasn’t made lightly. It’s a precarious position for them, and you must strictly follow their house rules. I can’t stress that enough.”
Miss Lyda led Gina to a small room and showed her a neatly folded nun’s habit. “You’ll wear this outside. There’s a bit of art to putting it on.”
Gina suppressed a smile; a nun she had never been. She stepped out of her skirt and blouse and into a cotton slip. Miss Lyda helped her into an underskirt, a black serge tunic pleated at the neck, an apron called a scapular, and a belt that held it all together. She slipped black shoes onto Gina’s feet, hung a silver cross around her neck, attached a rosary to the belt, and slid a silver ring onto her left hand. “Now the pièce de résistance.” She stuffed Gina’s hair under a white cap and secured it with a bandeau and a starched linen wimple that covered her cheeks and neck. Over that she arranged a black veil. “The skirt’s a tad long. Be careful not to catch the toe of your shoe on it. One last thing.” She handed Gina rimless glasses. “No prescription in these.”
After having worn cotton slacks and shorts for months, Gina felt weighed down by the layers of material, and the wimple felt scratchy on her neck. She took a few cautious steps in the unfamiliar shoes, hoping she wouldn’t trip on the overly long skirt.
Father Morgan’s calesa was waiting in the courtyard. He nodded his approval at her appearance and handed her a fake residence pass with a picture of a nun who resembled Gina somewhat. “You’re Sister Margaret Mary. If we’re questioned, let me do the talking. I’ll say we’re on our way to a funeral. With all the disease in the city, there’s enough of them around lately.”
Clutching a bag of her sodden clothes and another with clothing Miss Lyda had given her, Gina ducked her head and climbed under the buggy’s canopy. “Do you think we’ll be stopped?”
“We’re never sure. If the Japanese are anything, they’re unpredictable.”
The driver maneuvered the buggy through Manila’s streets crammed with people walking, riding bicycles, or in horse-drawn vehicles. Only a handful of cars was seen, and neither a bus nor a trolley was evident. Japanese flags flew boldly atop buildings, hung limply from street posts, and even fluttered from bicycle handles. Japanese soldiers wearing white pith helmets and carrying rifles patrolled the streets, demanding ID checks and expecting civilians to bow and make way.
Gina swallowed dryly. Manila’s magic was gone, replaced by an undercurrent of fear potent enough to be sensed by an observer. Believing herself vulnerable even with a fake ID and wearing the habit, she sat back in the seat where she couldn’t be seen. After a time, the buggy drove through an iron gate and down a long driveway, stopping in front of a hacienda-type house that Gina hoped was her safe haven.
Chapter 13
FRANCA
I’m one of nine thousand men imprisoned in this camp. Disease is rampant. Cruelty is unrestrained and violent. I’m losing weight rapidly, and I’m having long stretches of hopelessness.
—Ray Thorpe, Cabanatuan prison camp, October 1942–January 1944
A Filipino maid opened the massive front door of the hacienda. “Father Morgan, Sister. Please come in.”
Sweltering under the heavy nun’s garments, Gina gladly stepped inside, where thick walls insulated the interior from the day’s ruthless heat. She had forgotten what splendor was—this foyer was larger than the whole of her nipa hut. An elaborate gold-and-crystal chandelier hung from a high-beamed ceiling. On a round table underneath the fixture, an urn as tall as Cheryl held big-headed sunflowers, colorful zinnias, and natural grasses. A curved staircase of polished mahogany ascended to the right.
The maid said to Father Morgan, “Señora Estevez was called away. She asked that I take our guest to her room and make her comfortable.”
Father Morgan put Gina’s bags of clothing, one still wet from the trip, on the floor. “I’ll be leaving then. Give my regards to Señora Estevez.” He turned to Gina. “We’ll be in touch. Don’t forget what I said about volunteering.”
“I won’t, and thank you, Father.”
The maid picked up Gina’s bags. “I am Millie. We will be going up the stairs.” She pointed to the right.
On the way, Gina glanced through arched doorways to see marble fireplaces, thick-legged tables, and couches upholstered in heavy damask. Holding the long habit’s skirt, she followed Millie up the staircase, hoping she wouldn’t trip. In a wide hallway, life-size paintings of dark-eyed men in full military regalia and women with enigmatic smiles and wearing elaborate dresses stared down at those approaching. Gleaming swords and guns, from palm-size pistols to long rifles, were displayed on the walls or in glass cabinets.
“Your room is here, madam.” The heavy door glided open to a chamber swathed in gold velvets and royal-blue damasks. A four-poster bed dominated the space, with an ornately carved wardrobe against the opposite wall. Millie led her past a windowed alcove that held a table and two cushioned chairs to the bathroom. Gina peeked in and almost fainted with delight at seeing a big bathtub and fluffy towels.
Millie placed Gina’s bag of belongings on a luggage stand. “Are you hungry? May I bring you something to eat?”
“No, thank you. I had a meal with Father Morgan. When will Señora Estevez return?”
“In a couple hours. She asks that you not leave this room, madam.” Millie pointed out a call button by the bed. “If you need anything, you can buzz me here. Is there anything else I can do for you now?”
There was nothing Gina wanted more than to soak in that big bathtub. “No, thank you. What should I do with these?” She gestured at the nun’s garments.
“Leave them outside the door, and I will send them back to Father Morgan. If you have anything you would like laundered, put it outside the door too.”
Gina peeked in the wardrobe, finding a cotton robe and slippers. A few books were on a shelf, and the Manila Tribune was on the nightstand. The headline caught her eye: “US Forces Surrender the Malinta Tunnel.” She stepped to the window to better see the accompanying picture, a horde of American soldiers exiting the tunnel with their hands held high and under heavy Japanese guard. She studied each face, hoping to see Ray’s, seeking assurance that he had survived the bombing of Corregidor, but none were familiar. She tossed the paper aside.
The bathroom was a dream come true, with thick bars of soap, bottles of shampoo and lotions, a drawerful of grooming accoutrements, and even a bottle of clear nail polish. Señora Estevez must be an angel.
She stripped off the cumbersome nun’s garments and immediately felt pounds lighter, and then she drew a bath, adding a handful of lavender bath salts, swirling it into the water and sniffing the lovely scent. When she stepped in, sat down, and lay back, “Ahhh” escaped from the back of her throat. She closed her eyes to enjoy a moment of peace and pleasure. However, Estevez came to mind. Where had she heard that name before? She mulled it over. From the Junior League—there were so many women—or a school friend of Cheryl’s, or a client of Ray’s, perhaps?
She breathed deeply to clear her mind, hoping to induce a few moments of peaceful feelings, but Vivian’s face crossed her inner vision. She’d be shaking out the girls’ bedding now, getting rid of whatever b
ugs had crawled or flown into them. Did she hear Cheryl crying? Her hand went to the locket. Was Maggie consoling her child? Gina squeezed her eyes closed. She wondered if Marcus had gotten back to the camp yet.
There was no clearing her mind, with its too many worries and much wondering, and there was no enjoying the sensations of a scented bath knowing the deprivations of those closest to her. She defaulted to the once-mundane tasks: shaving her legs and underarms, a job more difficult than she expected; clipping her nails and filing them smooth; and brushing her teeth with mint-flavored toothpaste. Pulling the coverlet back on the bed, she ran her hand over clean, crisp sheets, then selected Gone with the Wind off the bookshelf and sank back into soft pillows, reading the first pages before feeling lonesome for her loved ones and the guilt of unwarranted indulgence. It was then the flood of tears came.
Gina woke up when Millie came into the room carrying a tray with coffee and juice and placed them on the side table. Disoriented, Gina sat up and pulled the sheet to her chest. She realized she was in a comfortable bed in a beautiful room. Sunshine streamed through the window. “It’s morning? I slept through the night?”
“Yes, ma’am. Señora Estevez thought it best. Breakfast is on the sideboard in the morning room. She will meet you there when you’re ready. Is there anything else I can get you now?”
It had been a long time since she’d been asked that question, and Gina smiled. “No, thank you, Millie. I’ll come downstairs.”
Gina’s thoughts went to Cheryl and how much she would have loved sleeping in this big bed. She would be waking up soon and eating breakfast, possibly today a bowl of berries, before her school session with Edna.
Real coffee! It gave her a boost. She sipped the coffee and prepared for the day, brushing her hair, which was softer this morning, and slipping on a dress too small in the bust and too big in the hips. She sighed, remembering her closetful of tailored dresses of not so long ago.
Along the Broken Bay Page 12