“Clara Jacob, Red Cross nurse stationed in Cabanatuan City. Barton, as in Clara Barton. I’m also new to this group. Thank you for inviting me.”
Franca stood. “As you see, our talents are diverse, and our reach is wide. Not only do we work to support our men in the prison camps, but we back a number of saboteurs and disrupters to keep the Japanese off balance. Now, if there are no questions, please welcome Clara.”
Gina clapped louder than anyone for the woman whom she knew to be a good nurse, a rebel, and an adventurer.
Clara stood, straightened her navy pinstriped dress, and cleared her throat. “Thank you for inviting me here today.” Her voice shook slightly. “I work for the Red Cross. Like everything else, the Red Cross is administered by the Japanese. My current assignment is to provide health care to the Filipino civilians in Cabanatuan City and its outskirts. By Japanese rule I’m forbidden to provide aid to Allied soldiers.” She fumbled with her watch. “I’ve never been very good at following rules.”
Her audience chuckled.
After the laughter, Clara seemed to relax, and her voice strengthened. “Thousands of Japanese soldiers are living in Cabanatuan City, and hundreds are billeted inside the prison camp itself. Franca has told me what you are doing at Camp O’Donnell. It’s commendable, but the Cabanatuan camp is a much larger and far more dangerous place. You cannot take the same risks. Those of us wanting to help realize the desperate needs of the men inside, but until recently we’ve found it impenetrable.” She hesitated, looking over the group. “But there’s still hope.”
“Amen,” someone in the audience said.
“Thank you. Yes, there’s still hope. The Geneva Convention requires POWs be paid for their work. Pay averages about twenty centavos a day, about ten cents, depending on the prisoner’s rank. They use the money to purchase cigarettes or food, but it’s not enough; they’re dying of starvation and disease.”
Gina hugged her arms tight around her, trying to block the thoughts she couldn’t deny. Please not Ray. He’s smart. He’s frugal.
“We have found we can pass small amounts of money to the prisoners who are outside the camp on work details. On any given day, about four thousand men work on the farms, cut wood in the forests, rake the airfields, or dig graves in the ever-growing cemetery. My young niece, Trixie, has organized a cadre of women who have food-vendor licenses and are allowed to approach the prisoners outside the gates. The women sell a prisoner fruit or a bag of peanuts for two centavos; then they give him the purchase and five centavos in return. That’s our basic model, and we’d like to expand it, but we don’t have the resources. These women also wear men’s shoes and extra shirts to work and leave them behind for the prisoners to find. It’s dangerous. If either the women or men are caught, they are beaten or worse.”
Mrs. Hahn asked, “Just selling peanuts and fruit outside the gates seems narrow in scope. Are there other avenues we could use too? Where else are the men spending their money?”
“There is a camp canteen, where they can purchase cigarettes and limited food. Provisions such as clothing and blankets are sent in from the Swiss Red Cross, which the prisoners are allowed to buy . . . that’s after the Nips have pilfered the best for themselves. Additionally, civilians set up huts along the roads where the men travel to work. They sell food, drinks, cigarettes, hats, shoes, and whatever. This is one avenue for us. On a larger scale, select prisoners are assigned to purchase rice, beans, and other supplies in bulk for the camp at the marketplace in Cabanatuan City. I see this is where our best opportunity lies. Currently, no stalls are available, but we’ve found a man named Dion who owns three. One of his sons died from typhus at O’Donnell—Dion’s no sympathizer. We haven’t approached him yet, but he’s our best bet. I’ve been inside his stall, and I think he’s already smuggling goods to the prisoners. He uses clothing racks on wheels to create blind spots in his stalls. There are diversions, like porn magazines he keeps in his office, and he opens the curtain to make them visible when he sees the guards coming. Women with babies and children with pets magically appear to divert the guards’ attention.”
Franca raised her hand. “The guards aren’t suspicious?”
“Not that I’ve noticed. They ogle the women and play with the children. I saw a guard leave with a girly magazine shoved down his pants. I suspect that while the guards are distracted, Dion is loading the prisoner’s cart with bags of rice and beans containing contraband.”
“If we get involved, won’t the guards notice if the prisoners are suddenly spending more money?”
“Not if we’re careful. There are nine thousand men in Cabanatuan. They can absorb a lot of money and contraband without it causing a ripple.”
Franca raised her hand again. “Have you learned anything more about Dion . . . as a man?”
“Just that he has a big family and they all work at the stalls. The oldest son owns two other stalls on a side street. He was on the death march and spent time in O’Donnell. He made it home, but his younger brother didn’t.”
Father Morgan stood. “Just as important as resources is the exchange of information. Would Trixie or Dion be willing to send a note to someone inside?”
“We haven’t approached Dion yet, but I’m sure Trixie would, if she knew whom to contact.”
The room came alive:
“I know an American doctor—”
“I have a friend—”
Gina raised her hand. “I think my husband—”
The meeting lasted through the afternoon, and it was decided that Trixie and her cohorts would continue to smuggle small amounts of money to the prisoners in their peanut and fruit purchases with more money provided by the Manila resistance. As soon as an internal contact was found, Trixie would send in a note written by Father Morgan. Additionally, Clara was to explore opening supply huts along the prisoners’ work-detail routes and to contact Dion to see if he would be interested in working with the Manila resistance. A committee was formed to explore ways of transporting larger volumes of goods from Manila to Cabanatuan City without being detected.
Franca clapped her hands to quiet the group. “We’ve made a lot of progress today, and I want to keep the momentum going, but let’s step back for a moment. We know the risks, not just to ourselves but to our families and friends. Remember to keep a tight lip, to use code names in telephone communications, and to destroy anything written. We’ve established a phone chain, and I’ll add the new members to it. We each have two people to call if one of us is picked up by the Kempeitai. The list is redundant, purposely, so no one gets overlooked. Use the code ‘So-and-so is on his or her way to school.’”
Kitty is on her way to school. A chill went up Gina’s spine as the danger felt real and significant.
Franca stood. “We can adjourn. Gina, please stay. Clara would like to speak with you.”
The others left a few at a time so as not to be conspicuous to anyone watching. Clara and Gina huddled together at one end of the table. Clara squeezed Gina’s hand. “It’s good to see you again. How did you end up here?”
“Davy thought I’d be useful in Manila. Pearl Blue supports his guerrillas.”
“A nightclub. How intriguing. I always knew there was something special about you. You have a certain flair. Is Cheryl with you?”
“No, she’s at Davy’s camp with Vivian. She just had a birthday; she’s seven.” As hard as she tried to hold back, Gina teared up.
“You’re missing her.”
Gina lowered her voice. “With all my heart, but it’s more than that. What I’m hearing is scaring me. When I left Davy’s camp, it was a small group, and life was hard, but it was bearable. It about tore me apart to leave her there. It’s far from a picnic here in Manila, but I want my child with me.”
“Do you think Cheryl is in danger?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. The guerrilla unit has grown, and the Jap patrols are always two steps behind them. They move around a lot. Half the stuff I send them gets left
behind. Vivian’s malaria has kicked up again, and there’s no quinine. Food’s always scarce.”
Franca joined them, and the conversation changed. “Clara asked specifically that you be here, Gina. I’m glad you could join us.”
“It’s been eye opening, but I don’t know what you expect from me.”
“I can answer that,” Clara said. “To support the men in Cabanatuan prison camp, we need to establish a supply route from Manila to Cabanatuan City . . . trains, trucks, drivers, storage garages, trusted workers, and so forth. I’d like to get guerrilla support to guard the truck route and storage garages. Also, we need men on the docks at the train station to police our shipments. It’s important that I meet with Davy McGowan, and I haven’t been able to contact him. Franca thought you could help.”
It was a simple request for Gina to handle. “I can send him a message with one of my runners and tell him what you’re doing. It’s up to Davy to respond. Remind him he owes you his life!”
Clara sniffed. “Good thought. I’d like to set up a meeting with him to explain what we’re doing. I’ve been told I can be persuasive.”
Gina had no doubt that Clara was persuasive. “Anything’s possible. I’ll help where I can.” Gina was hesitant to ask her a favor, not wanting Clara to think her request was a tit for tat. “I suspect my husband’s a prisoner at Cabanatuan. Could you help me find out for sure?”
“I can try. We need to find a contact inside the camp first. I have Trixie and Father Morgan working on it. Once that’s established, if all goes well, information will flow in and out. You’ll need an identifier . . . some code he would recognize, like his mother’s name or a favorite song. There are nine thousand men in Cabanatuan and probably a couple dozen Rays.”
Nine thousand men and a couple of dozen named Ray. Gina wondered the odds at finding her Ray.
Chapter 24
JONESY
I follow the teachings of my church, but watching a guard bludgeon a man to death with the butt of his rifle mocks my piety and leaves me questioning.
—Ray Thorpe, Cabanatuan prison camp, October 1942–January 1944
It was show night at Pearl Blue, a more formal night of entertainment. The musicians had arrived, and the dancers were warming up. All day Gina had been moody, it being her fourteenth wedding anniversary, and Ray was still at the mercy of the Japanese.
Upon entering her office, she found what looked like scrap paper slipped under the door, but a tiny dot in the upper left corner identified it as a coded message from Davy. She turned on a lamp, and when the bulb was hot, she held the paper near it and watched Davy’s directive, written in lemon juice, emerge in the heat. Guerrillas reorg. Desperately need radio. Send in pieces with multiple runners. Parts okay.
Gina knew some background relevant to Davy’s requests. The guerrilla bands, scattered throughout the Philippines, were now organized along military districts. Davy, promoted from major to colonel, now had thousands of men under his command, and his need for a radio was greater than ever. Thinking Jonesy might be helpful, she placed a call to him. He didn’t answer his phone. Tearing Davy’s note into small pieces, she burned it in a large ashtray she kept for that purpose.
She checked the one-way mirror to watch arriving customers, mostly Japanese military brass, government officials, and business leaders with their wives or dates for the evening. She was heartened to see a mix of regulars and new faces. Scanning the crowd, she searched for those customers known to be volatile, calculating, or information givers or seekers—anyone who with a point of a finger had the power to pitch her into peril. Satisfied that she knew her audience, she slipped into her simple red silk dress and elegant jewelry and joined Margo and Manny backstage, both clad head to toe in black leotards. “I’m not feeling ready,” Margo confessed.
“You’ll do fine,” Gina whispered. “Think positive.”
The house lights dimmed, the audience quieted, and Julio murmured the welcome and introduction while playing soft arpeggios on the piano. On her cue, Gina entered stage right to the beat of a drum and eager applause. She stood in the spotlight beside the piano, faking a smile and an upbeat attitude, hoping it would raise her spirits.
“Good evening. Welcome to Pearl Blue, my friends. It’s good to see all of you here, new faces and old faces . . .” She stopped and put her hand to her lips. “Um, maybe I should say familiar faces.”
The audience laughed.
Gina laughed and hoped it didn’t sound as fake as it felt. “I have a special program for you this evening. My dancers Margo and Manny have been working very hard on a new routine. You’re the first to see it performed, and we hope you love it. They’ll be dancing to one of my favorite French love songs, ‘Ouvrez Votre Coeur . . . Open Your Heart,’ written by Jean Leroy.”
Julio played the slow introduction in a lilting waltz tempo, and Gina joined in, first humming and then presenting a moving rendition of the song’s haunting lyrics of love and yearning.
“Open your heart to me, and share the passion that lies within . . .”
At the end of the first stanza, she paused while Julio played an interlude. Thoughts of Ray were intruding. A lump had risen in her throat, and she worried she couldn’t get through the rest of the number. She glanced at the stage, hoping that Margo and Manny were poised and ready.
On a cue from Julio, the curtain opened to reveal the shadows of a man and a woman behind a backlit screen with their arms and legs extended in the precise posture of a waltzing couple.
Gina continued the song—“Ouvrez votre cœur et partagez la passion qui se trouve dans . . .”—casting sly glances at Margo and Manny, who were performing a delicate dance of longing, their supple bodies gracefully coming together and breaking apart in sultry configurations, creating sensual shadow images on the screen. Gina detected the rising excitement of the audience, who murmured oohs and aahs at the unexpected eroticism of the dancers’ choreographed movements. She caressed the final phrase—“Je vous aime,” I adore you—in a lover’s hoarse whisper. The backlights dimmed, and the dancers’ silhouettes vanished.
A hushed aura permeated the room, and Gina stood with tears rolling down her face. From the audience, she heard sniffles from women and snuffs and coughs from men who took pride in being stoic. When Margo and Manny came from behind the screen to take their bows, the patrons rose to their feet in a loud standing ovation. A relieved sigh escaped Gina’s lips as the dancers bowed to the fervent applause, but then she quickly left the stage and told Inez to take over.
In her office Gina broke down and sobbed out the wretchedness she had been fighting all day. How much longer would she be able to hide behind a gay facade and entertain an audience she both loathed and feared?
By the time Inez came into her office, Julio had the audience gaily singing Japanese pop music from the 1920s and 1930s. “Are you all right?” she asked.
“I am now. Thanks for taking over.”
“It’s okay. You need to talk?”
“No. It’s over. Today is my fourteenth wedding anniversary. You’d think I was the only one missing my husband.”
“You’re not. Both Arielle and I have had our turn with the boo-hoos, just not on stage while singing love songs. Why didn’t you say something?”
“I thought I could handle it. I guess I was wrong.”
The show over, the dance floor was opened, drinks refreshed, and dim sum served. Gina, having recovered her composure, mingled with the crowd, greeting those she recognized and welcoming those new to Pearl Blue. She stopped at the bar, where Arielle, wearing a flowered sarong and a lei of orchids, was playing rock, paper, scissors with an officer. “Paper covers rock,” she said and laughed as the officer downed his beer and ordered another. Eddie put the beer in front of him and refreshed Arielle’s ginger ale. He signaled for Gina to come behind the bar, where his baseball bat was placed for easy access. He kept a loaded gun in a locked drawer.
“We’re almost out of beer. The shipment’s late aga
in. I’ve told the waiters to push the liquor.”
Pushing the liquor was cost effective; Gina got it almost for free, the owner of Manila’s largest distillery working with the underground, but beer was a popular drink at Pearl Blue. She said, “Call Yee’s and see if you can borrow a keg.”
Just then, Gina heard a flurry of excitement and saw Petra leading an entourage to a favored table. “It’s Baal-hamon, the actor,” Eddie said.
The young man was truly a delight to the eye, loose limbed and with every feature perfectly placed in his sullen, baby-soft face. With him was an older man, impeccably dressed in a well-tailored black suit. Each man escorted two women, one on each arm, beautiful and skimpily dressed showgirls. It wasn’t unusual for Manila’s luminaries to arrive at Pearl Blue in their own flurry of pomp and circumstance. Gina treated them royally, providing every amenity and the particular attentions they craved.
She strolled over. “Welcome to Pearl Blue. What brings you to my little place down here by the docks?”
The older man stood, his chair scraping on the wooden floor, and he weaved on his feet. “Come sit with us, Signora Angelina Aleo. A beautiful name for a beautiful woman.” His voice was as smooth as good chocolate, and he pulled back a chair for her to sit. “I came last Saturday to see your show. Spectacular. Your voice has the fullness of a choir, and the timing of your program is of professional quality. What else can I say?”
Drinks came, and it gave Gina time to evaluate this blast of flattery. She demurred. “You’re much too kind, sir.”
He leaned into her. “Not kind at all. I’m a damn good businessman. When Japan wins the war, I will move my company to Hollywood. You come with me, and I’ll make you a movie star. Your name will be in lights. You’ll be the toast of the town.” He reached into his pocket and handed her a business card that read, Eiji Fugio Productions, Agent to the Stars. Hollywood, California, USA.
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