“I promise,” Gina said without hesitation, for in her mind she had her own definition of the word enemy.
Colonel Ito gave her a residence pass to sign, on which her signature looked oddly wiggly. He countersigned the document, and after final bows, Señor Estevez ushered Gina out of the office.
The ordeal had taken less than fifteen minutes, but Gina felt wilted. Not until she was outside the building did she allow elation to sweep over her. She was rid of the restrictions that had kept her in hiding, and her real work could begin. She couldn’t stop grinning, but Señor Estevez’s warning pricked her happy bubble.
“You’re past a hard step, but you must be vigilant. Wherever you choose to live, you will be spied on by neighborhood sentinels. Any missteps will be reported to the authorities, and you would be picked up for questioning.”
Approaching the car, Señor Estevez again motioned for her to be silent. He settled in the back seat, opened his briefcase, and buried his face in a folder of papers. However, at the hacienda, Franca opened a bottle of champagne, and they cheerfully celebrated Gina’s freedom and her flexibility to work in the underground.
Chapter 14
ARMIN GABLE
I observe the anguish of others with such a detached lethargy I fear I’ve lost my moral compass.
—Ray Thorpe, Cabanatuan prison camp, October 1942–January 1944
With her residence pass in hand, Gina searched for a place of her own to live, a laborious task, with Japanese soldiers billeted everywhere. Being persistent and not wanting to spend a centavo more than she had to, she found a room. It included a single bed, a couch, a table and chair, a hot plate, and a coffeepot. A window overlooked a small fenced yard. She shared a kitchen, a bathroom, and a hall telephone with two other renters. It wasn’t fancy, and it wasn’t even clean when she moved in, but the rent was cheap, and it would do.
She found a job working twenty hours a week at a diner. The pay was a pittance, but it helped to not deplete the money Davy and Marcus had given her. She missed Vivian and the way they had shared expenses, responsibilities, and their secrets and longings—and Cheryl, who had always lovingly been underfoot.
Not long after getting settled and anxious to get on with the task to which she was assigned, Gina searched through the bureau drawer for a specific bra and her small scissors. She checked that the blinds were closed and her door locked, a behavior bordering on obsessive. Keeping the light only as bright as she needed to see, she picked stitches out of the bra, separating the outer fabric from the lining, and plucked out the list of resistance contacts from where she’d hidden them. She selected three names that sounded familiar—Riker, Almacher, and Gable—and she memorized the addresses.
The front gate squeaked. Her heart quickening a beat, she listened closely. She had seen Japanese soldiers come into the yard to pee by the palm tree. Afraid of a bang on her door and a barked order to open it, as had happened to a housemate, she quickly refolded the damning list and tucked it back into the secret pocket and put the bra back in her drawer. After turning out the light, she sat in the dark, hearing noises from outside: shuffles, hoots, shouts of halt, dogs barking, a scream of pain, a siren’s wail, a gunshot—nothing out of the ordinary, she was learning.
Over morning coffee and a biscuit, Gina practiced her pitch to a Señor Riker, one of Theo’s trusted acquaintances. “Good morning, Señor Riker. I’m here on behalf of Dr. Theo Parker, a mutual friend. May I have a moment of your time?” She checked her image in the mirror before she left her room and hoped she looked credible in her secondhand clothes.
After summoning a taxi, she gave the driver an address in a neighborhood populated by the city’s wealthy businessmen. As he steered his horse through the neighborhood, she noticed the once-beautiful yards had lost their gardenlike aspect. Tangles of unkempt yellow bells lined the driveway and walkway of the house belonging to the Rikers. Children’s toys littered the front porch, and Gina tripped over a metal truck. Nudging it aside with her foot, she squared her shoulders and rang the bell. After what seemed a long time, a Filipino maid opened the door.
Gina flashed her practiced smile. “Good morning. I’m Signora Aleo. I’m here on behalf of Dr. Theo Parker to see Señor or Señora Riker.”
“The Rikers not live here anymore.”
“Then I’m sorry to bother you. Do you know where I may reach them?” Gina glimpsed a flash of a kimono and heard a command barked in Japanese. The maid slammed the door shut, and Gina jumped back at the impact. A bit wild eyed, she returned to the waiting taxi. “Did you know Japanese are living here?”
“No, ma’am, but they all over the city.”
Her own house was close by, and nostalgia tugged at her. Was her once-pristine neighborhood as shabby as this one? She wondered if Japanese women were wearing the jewelry Ray had given to her for anniversaries and birthdays or just to say he loved her. And if the original paintings she’d coveted and Ray’s coin collection had been sent to Japan. On reflection, she decided the risk of being recognized by a neighbor turned sympathizer, however low, outweighed her curiosity. She gave the driver the address to Mr. and Mrs. Almachers’. The name was familiar, and she searched her memory for a connection . . . a charity function? There had been so many.
She rang the bell, and a Filipino maid answered.
“Good morning. I’m Signora Aleo. I’d like to speak to Mr. or Mrs. Almacher on behalf of Major Davy McGowan.”
“Yes, ma’am. Wait here, please.” The maid closed the door.
Returning, the maid said, “Mrs. Almacher does not know a Davy McGowan. She asks that you leave.”
“But maybe her husband . . . ,” Gina managed to say before the door closed. Her ire rose, and she mumbled an obscenity before returning to the taxi to contemplate the value of continuing this task. People living in Manila were skittish for good reasons. Raising funds for Davy and Theo, even among their own friends, was going to be harder than she’d anticipated. Well, three was a charm, she thought, and having decided to give it one more try, she gave the driver the third address.
The ride was just long enough for Gina to compose herself and to think about how to readjust her approach. The house was grander than the previous two and unkempt like the others. She looked around for signs of Japanese occupation. Not seeing any, she rang the doorbell. An elderly gentleman with thinning white hair and intense brown eyes answered it. His white linen suit and starched shirt were impeccably tailored but threadbare and too big for his shrunken body.
“Good morning.” She affected what she hoped was a warm smile. “I’m Signora Angelina Aleo. I’m here to see Mr. Armin Gable on behalf of Major Davy McGowan, a mutual friend of ours.”
The man scanned her up and down and then glanced at the taxi waiting at the curb. “I’m Armin Gable. What do you want?”
“Major McGowan gave me your name, sir. I understand he’s a friend. May I please have a moment of your time?”
Mr. Gable led her into his study and motioned for her to sit in an expensively upholstered but well-worn chair. He sat behind a mahogany desk piled with books and papers. Artfully arranged on the wall behind him were a dozen photographs of Mr. Gable shaking hands with various legislators and military commanders, some from the previous war. Prominently displayed was a shadow box holding a 1924 Olympic gold medal. She was feeling hopeful for a successful encounter.
“How do you know Davy?” he asked in a raspy voice.
Gina brought her focus back to him. “Our children were in the same class at school. I worked on school committees with his wife.”
Mr. Gable half closed his eyes. “Aleo, Italian, but not raised in Italy. Your husband’s name perhaps. Do I detect an American inflection in your speech?”
Gina’s eyes blinked rapidly, and she took note that the frail man had a discerning ear. “No, sir. My parents were from Italy. They died when I was seven, and I went to live with my aunt in Canada. I’ve never been in the United States. I came to the Philippines with my
husband, Ricardo Aleo. He was from Italy, and we met when he was traveling through Canada. He swept me off my feet, so to speak. He died in a mining accident soon after our daughter was born.” The lies rolled off her tongue.
Mr. Gable continued to gaze at her. “I’ve seen you before . . . at the Alcazar Club, November 1930. You sang ‘Pirate Jenny’ from The Threepenny Opera. Not bad, if I remember correctly.” He displayed a wide grin of yellowed teeth.
Rattled by this turn of conversation and his steel-trap memory, Gina struggled not to squirm under his gaze. “Yes, sir. I’m impressed. How did you remember?”
“Voice. Body movement. A person gives away a lot without realizing it. You’re quite transparent.”
That wasn’t what Gina wanted to hear, and she tilted her chin up to mask a sinking feeling. “I worked at the Alcazar for a while after my husband died, but it’s neither here nor there. Today I’m here on Davy McGowan’s behalf.”
“Yes, Davy. When my wife died, I lost track of him and . . . what is his wife’s name?”
“Sissy,” Gina said, suspecting that he already knew.
“A nice woman. What happened to them?”
“She’s interned at Santo Tomas with their son, Harry. Davy was captured by the Japanese and left for dead by the side of the road. He’s hiding in the mountains.” She felt buoyed by Mr. Gable’s interest. “Davy organized a guerrilla unit to harass the Japanese, and he needs support. He gave me your name as someone who would help.”
“I see. So that’s why you’re here, asking for money. How do I know what you’re saying is true? Do you have a letter of introduction from Davy? One written in his own hand?”
She didn’t. She hadn’t even thought of it, and that was a mistake. “No, but what I do have are the names of good friends, like yourself, who might be willing to help him.”
“Names the Kempeitai would like to see for sure. Just how many doors have you knocked on this morning identifying yourself and those you’re supposedly helping?” He tapped his fingers on the desk. “Young lady. You aren’t ready for this kind of work. Do you have any idea what you’re getting into? Imprisonment, torture, death . . . a quick one if you’re lucky.”
Not ready! Gina’s rising frustration overflowed. She jumped up, and the chair toppled and banged on the floor. “I realize exactly what I’m getting into. I’m intimately familiar with what the Japanese do. I was in the town of Pilar when they marched our half-dead troops through there, and I saw what the Japs did to them. Now thousands of Americans—men, women, and children—are hiding in those mountains living in the direst conditions. They need food, clothing, blankets, and weapons to fight the Japanese. If you’re not interested in helping, I’ll find someone who is. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” She tried to leave but ran into a uniformed maid who was blocking the doorway.
“Stop,” Mr. Gable ordered. “Sit down.”
Gina stayed, but she defiantly remained standing while the maid put down a bamboo tray with glasses of iced tea and then righted the chair.
Mr. Gable remained unruffled by Gina’s outburst. “A bit of a spitfire, aren’t you? You’ll have to curb that, or you’ll find yourself in trouble. Sit down.”
This time she obeyed and sat with her arms crossed, questioning whose side of the war this man was on. The thought made the back of her neck prickle.
“You come into my house and ask me for money without offering proof of what you claim. You may be a Japanese sympathizer.”
“I’m—” she started to protest, but he held up his hand.
“I know who you are. You played your hand several times in the last few minutes. At least one of your parents was Italian. Your speech idioms are from the United States—West Coast, Seattle, or Portland. You came to Manila a single woman, most likely with an entertainment troupe, and met your husband here. He never worked in the mines, and I suspect you’re not a widow, at least not yet.”
Gina tilted her head up and stared down her nose at him. “Everything you said is a guess. How could you possibly know anything about me?”
“You told me yourself. If your husband died after your daughter was born, and if she is in the same class in school as Davy’s son, that would have been 1936, not 1930. Furthermore, if you were married to a miner in 1930, you would have been holed up in some mining town in the mountains, not singing at the Alcazar. Shall I go on?”
Her face paled as she listened to him unraveling her lies. With a dread rising inside her but needing to hear it, she nodded.
“The calluses on your hands tell me you have recently been living a hard life, so I believe you were in the mountains, and you may have run into Davy McGowan.”
She folded her hands to hide the few calluses that hadn’t yet softened.
His glare held contempt. “Haven’t you been warned about revealing too much information? It will trip you up every time.”
“Yes, I have. Señor Estevez—”
His voice rose again. “Never reveal a name! Until you learn to hold your temper and control your penchant for blurting out whatever is in your head, you are a danger to Davy and anyone else who needs covert support.” He flipped his hand in dismissal. “You can go now.”
She stood with her arms down and fists clenched like a child being chastised. “But Davy—”
He flipped his hand again and turned his back.
Gina slunk out of his house and into the taxi, thinking he was right. She didn’t understand the ways of the new Manila, and she was not ready, but worse, not suited for the work she had been tasked to do. Her fund-raising skills, which had once brought her accolades, now were a detriment, and she could put others in danger with her naivete. Rocking with the rhythm of the clip-clopping horse, she ruminated—she had made all the wrong decisions. How could she have been so stupid? Embarrassed and tearful, she wanted to curl up and hide.
Chapter 15
GETTING STARTED
My hand goes to today’s meal, a chunk of bread in my pocket. It brings me great consternation . . . shall I eat the ration immediately to quell my worst hunger pangs or divide it into discrete fare and risk its theft?
—Ray Thorpe, Cabanatuan prison camp, October 1942–January 1944
In the morning Gina woke up in a dark mood, and her hand went to the half-heart locket. She missed her daughter and wanted her back. Worse, she was surrounded by Japanese soldiers of whom she was terrified. Vivian had tried to warn her. Why hadn’t she listened?
She picked up the morning newspaper and read the headline: Supply Ship Arrives with Aid for the Philippine People. “Rubbish,” she muttered. The Philippines were being pillaged; every day loads of stolen wares and hundreds of pounds of rice and beans were trucked to the docks to be sent to Tokyo. No wonder prices were so high.
If she couldn’t raise funds for Davy, at least she could work for him. She needed another job. In this morning’s paper there were two ads for cooks, and she circled them, but being a cook would be her last resort. A promising ad caught her eye. Rosa’s Cabaret was auditioning singers from eleven to one o’clock today. It was a job she could do, but it would be risky, increasing her exposure in the city. She jotted down the address. No harm in checking it out. She looked at the clock. She had two hours.
It had been a while since she had sung for anyone other than family and friends. She spent some time vocalizing scales and sang “I’ve Got a Feeling I’m Falling,” a catchy tune with a good dance beat, pretending she was facing an audience.
She arranged her hair, pulling one side back and clipping it with a barrette. The only makeup she had was a lipstick, which she applied, and then she rubbed some on her cheeks and softened it with a dusting of talcum powder. After evaluating her image in the mirror, she darkened the rouge on her cheeks slightly, hoping it masked the toll of thirty-four years.
Dressing for an audition from the selection in her closet was tricky. All she had was her waitress uniform, which she’d had to purchase; an aide’s uniform she wore when she volunteered at R
emedios Hospital; and the dresses, slacks, and blouses she had been given from the charity shop. She selected a pale linen dress that complemented her dark coloring and left the top buttons open to show a bit of cleavage. The only heeled shoes she owned were from the charity closet, too, and a size too small. She peered in a mirror. Not too bad, she decided. Her face was not as dewy as it had once been, but her body was taut from the long treks in the mountains.
While riding in the calesa, she practiced breathing exercises to steady her nerves. The calesa stopped at Rosa’s Cabaret, which sat between Yee’s Chinese Restaurant and Irma’s Bakery. Gina felt sweat trickle down the back of her neck as she stepped into Rosa’s, the lobby full of, she guessed, nineteen-year-olds. She filled out the application and sat down in the first empty chair to get off her feet, feeling very much like someone’s great-aunt.
Once started, the auditions went quickly—a girl called into an inner room, the sound of a piano, and a short vocal that Gina would evaluate: off key, thin, squeaky, not bad, very nice. Most girls slumped out with mascara leaving black streaks on their faces, and Gina assessed them as they walked by: too heavy, bad complexion, not too bad. Her name was called. Feeling every eye was on her, she pretended to be the queen of the swanky Alcazar Club as she entered the inner room.
It was drab and stank of beer and cheap perfume. Cigarette-scarred tables were scattered haphazardly around. A trim woman with hair the color of straw and wearing slacks and a loose-fitting blouse sat alone at a table facing a small stage. In her hand was Gina’s application. She spoke with a German accent. “I’m Rosa Engelhard. Let’s see what you can do.” She pointed toward the stage, where a pencil-thin man sat at an old upright piano.
“Your music?” He extended his hand.
“I didn’t bring any. Can you play ‘I’ve Got a Feeling I’m Falling’ in G major?”
He nodded and played a few bars. Gina snapped her fingers in time to the music. As she calmed down, the voice she had always relied on materialized: full, on pitch, and as smooth as silk. Moving around the stage, she sang to the audience of one as if it were a roomful.
Along the Broken Bay Page 14