Along the Broken Bay

by Flora J. Solomon

  An answer came a few days later when she heard a tap, tap, tap as a priest, stripped down to a G-string and working from the outside, emptied the benjo. As deftly as a magician, he plucked a note from under his skimpy garment and dropped it into the bucket. Gina whispered, “Thank you, Father,” to the ghost of a priest, and when sure no guards were watching, she plucked out the note and wiped the slime on her dress.

  Sitting with her knees up to block the guard’s view, she read Jonesy’s cryptic note: Butterfly is in mountains. Your staff scattered. PB closed. US planes spotted, warships approaching. Keep your spirits up, lovely lady.

  Gina perceived hope in his message: her friends were alive, though in hiding, and the American army and navy were coming to the rescue. She blocked out the negative thoughts her mind tried to dwell on and allowed her spirits an uptick.

  There were no other notes from Jonesy, and not long after she witnessed his broken body being dragged out, and he didn’t return. She guessed his fate and mourned the gutsy reporter who’d given his life in service to spreading truth and hope. She wondered if he had a family and wished she’d gotten to know him better.

  She discussed her wretchedness with Ray, the two-way conversations so realistic it was as if he were sitting beside her.

  “I’ve seen too much cruelty. I’m losing my will to fight. I’m afraid my body is dying anyway, and my mother is watching over me. Would not a sweet death be my ultimate comfort?”

  You’re treading dangerous waters, Gina.

  “I’m drained dry. I have nothing left to give to you but your freedom from me to live your life and raise our daughter.”

  My dearest, don’t lose hope. Find refuge from your emptiness in my unending love. Let it fill you. Let it maintain you during these lowest of low times.

  Gina saw Ray’s shimmery image, vital and tender. While holding Cheryl in one arm, he was beckoning to her with the other. Cheryl was laughing and wildly waving—in anticipation, Gina wondered, of the family’s reunion? Gina’s hand went to the locket, her lips lifted into a smile, and she allowed herself to retreat into her inner self, the only place where life’s riches were still within her grasp.

  The day Gina was taken back to the women’s cell, Lolita was taken away and didn’t return. Soon after, the Huk guerrilla and the businesswoman disappeared. The rumor was that they had been executed, and it was not lost on Gina that all three had been accused of working with the guerrillas. In constant pain and hunger, she feared her days were numbered, and in weak moments she mourned for her motherless child and sent all of her love to Ray.

  Other women replaced those lost, and each one brought information, one revealing that MacArthur had the guerrillas united and well supplied, and they were ready to move beyond their hit-and-run strategy and fight the Japanese directly . . . old news, Gina knew, and she feared the woman a plant.

  Deep in her own thoughts, Gina hardly noticed a new woman was being shoved into the cell. When they glanced at each other, their eyes locked, and both quickly looked away.

  The nuns handed the woman a cool cloth to hold on her injuries and then pumped her for the latest news, but she said she had nothing to tell them. She sat alone in a corner with her eyes closed.

  After dark, Gina lay down beside her. “Hello, Belle,” she whispered to the woman, Mrs. Hahn, who had forged so many of her documents.

  “Kitty, thank goodness it’s you. No one knew if you were alive.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “I don’t know. They’ve been keeping me awake day and night. No meals to speak of. Today a guard rammed my head into a wall. Now my eyes won’t focus.”

  Gina had seen it before, some guards partial to hitting prisoners’ heads.

  It took Belle a moment to swallow. “There are things you must know. I’m weak, and I don’t know how long I can last, so just listen. The Japs are onto our network. They captured a supply truck going to Cabanatuan. They brought the driver here.”

  Gina had to listen closely to catch Belle’s words.

  “Slapstick and Levi were killed. Franca, Jonesy, and Armin Gable have disappeared. I don’t know if they were arrested or are in hiding. Father Morgan was arrested again. My husband, Mr. Hahn, was shot.” Her voice broke. “He was a good man, a good man. I’m . . .” She sniffed. “I’m likely to face more questioning. Oh, Kitty, I’m so scared.”

  Gina held her, and they quietly cried together. It was all she could do; there were no words to comfort life’s worst horrors and deepest sorrows.

  Belle curled fetal and mumbled, “Something doesn’t feel right in my head.”

  Gina felt Belle’s body relax as she drifted into sleep, glad she was getting a short respite from the anguish of a cruel day; however, Belle, the artist, the forger, the provider of a hidden room when one needed a safe harbor, didn’t wake up in the morning.

  Gina watched the guards cart Belle’s body away, just one more to be burned in a pile, the acrid smell of it permeating all of Manila. Who was left in the resistance to support the men living like rats in Cabanatuan? Where was Davy McGowan? Was Cheryl still with Vivian? Were they in the mountains or on a submarine headed to a place unknown? What was holding up MacArthur’s return? And always, where was Ray?

  Chapter 31

  RELEASE

  To find refuge from my empty existence, I escape into my past. My mind plays with the trifling things from my childhood, and I find solace there.

  —Ray Thorpe, Fukuoka #17, Japan, February 1944–September 1945

  Gina had been a prisoner in Fort Santiago for four months when the nuns, whom she thought of as friends more than cellmates, were executed for possessing an illegal radio. She missed their fluttery ways and their whispered conversations. In another world . . . how many times had the thought come to her lately? Another world. A sane world. A loving world.

  Her grilling resumed. She sat in a straight-backed chair in a small, dreary room with her knees together and hands folded, trying to look unconcerned, but the setting itself caused disquiet, now that she knew the evil power of her inquisitors. The officer today was new to her, and she wondered of his disposition. He introduced himself as Captain Sato and took his time shuffling through the ever-growing folder of papers before handing her a letter.

  Hey, Sparrow,

  Did you hear about the magic tractor? It went up the road and turned into a field.

  Ha-ha!

  Last count in the Philippine Sea: Nips, 3,000 dead, to Allies, 100 dead.

  Hold on to your hat. Victory bells are in your future.

  Kitty

  Gina’s heart hammered, and she felt a blush rising from her neck to her hair roots. So what Belle had told her about the network being compromised was true, but how deeply?

  Captain Sato sat on the edge of the desk, wearing slacks and an open-collared shirt, looking more like a schoolteacher than an interrogator. His voice was modulated, and he came right to the point. “Signora, we have reason to believe you’re Kitty.”

  She handed the letter back, her palms feeling moist. “It’s not mine. I don’t know anyone named Sparrow or Kitty.”

  “So you deny you wrote it?”

  “What if I do?”

  He shrugged a shoulder. “It’s of no consequence to me . . . or you. We’ll bring Sparrow back. We have many ways to get to the truth.”

  Gina envisioned the blond kid in the dungeon beaten to a pulp at her witness. Was Sparrow to be another kid sacrificed? This one in her stead? Captain Sato let silence linger between them, as if giving her time to think on it.

  “I’d hate to see that happen,” he finally said. “He seemed like a nice young man. He talked about his wife and two-year-old son.”

  Gina folded her arms to conceal a shiver. What if she did confess to being Kitty? The issue was only a letter to a lonely kid, hardly a violation of significance, and it might shift the questioning away from her involvement with the guerrillas, a weightier crime. “Don’t bring him back. I won’t den
y it. I’m sometimes known as Kitty.”

  The captain stood. “Good. Now that we’ve got that established, we can move on. Tell me, who is Sparrow?”

  Gina’s hand flew to her lips when she realized how thoroughly she had been manipulated. “I don’t know.” You scum, she added in her mind.

  Captain Sato let the silence stretch between them again as he shuffled through her folder. “Miss Kitty, you’ve got some explaining to do. Shall we get started? Who is Sparrow?”

  Gina felt she had no choice but to play along, but she’d parse her words. “I don’t know. I wrote letters to ‘Dear Prisoner.’ He answered. Several prisoners did. They’re all lonesome and hungry. I can’t give you their names. They all used a code.”

  “I see. You, and maybe a few of your friends, wrote to the prisoners out of compassion.”

  “No, I worked alone.”

  “Okay. If it were me, I’d have recruited a few friends, but let’s let that go for now. How did the letters get delivered?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Of course you do. You wrote a letter. What did you do with it?”

  Gina felt as if on a slippery slope, and she didn’t know how to stop sliding. “I put them in a pouch on my back porch, and a kid picked them up and left others.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. I never saw him.”

  “Do you know how the letters got inside the prison camp?”

  “No.”

  Captain Sato lit a cigarette and offered her one, which she hungrily accepted. “Miss Kitty, what you’ve described is a sophisticated operation. Getting mail inside a prison camp takes cunning and cooperation. Who are you working with?”

  Gina knew a net was closing around her, and she had to buy time to think. “Sir. I know you’ve got me in a compromised position. I will cooperate with you to the extent that I can.” She felt her toes wiggling inside her shoes.

  A sergeant came into the room and whispered to the captain, who frowned and then returned his attention to Gina. “I’ll give you one chance to prove yourself.” He searched through a folder and handed her a piece of paper. “Fill in the blanks.” He left the room.

  The sergeant stayed behind, looking like he wanted a nap. Gina moved to a chair in the corner, not having a clue how she was going to “cooperate,” and hoped she hadn’t gotten herself into a worse situation. As she studied the paper, she saw it was a list of code names. Next to her name, Kitty, someone had written Signora Aleo. So the captain had known all along. She scanned the list for Stargazer, Davy, and Flash, Miguel, two names that would link her to the guerrillas, her certain demise. Neither was there, and she exhaled a sigh of relief.

  This list in her hand seemed to be an advantage, but how to use it was a puzzle. She studied it closer and saw, from what she had learned from Belle and Jonesy, she could sort the people into groups by circumstance: those unknown to her and those who were free, in hiding, missing, captured, or gone from this physical world. She began to plan her deception.

  When Captain Sato returned, Gina restated that her knowledge was limited, but she’d help where she could. She handed the captain the list. “I know this person; her code name is Levi. Her real name is Jean Caffey. She’s independently wealthy. A widow or divorcee, maybe. She asked me to include money in specific letters. I didn’t see any reason not to. I was already sending a little bit myself. She had me address them to someone called Twilight.”

  “Do you have an address?”

  “No, I never saw her. We never shared personal information. She sent the money with a Filipino maid named Maria.” Gina pointed to another name, Clark. “This is Luhan Jonesy. He’s a reporter with the Tribune, I think. He likes to hang out with the Japanese officers at Pearl Blue. He is always looking for a story.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “A little taller than me. Filipino. He always carries a notebook and camera.”

  For the next weeks, new names were added to the list, and Gina pretended to cooperate with Captain Sato and the other interrogators, giving information in bits and pieces about those she knew were dead or in hiding and making up stories she knew couldn’t be traced and fake code names like Twilight. She wondered how much they believed. But they let her talk and talk.

  “Robert Sulet was my accountant. Once when I was in his office on Canal Street, someone came in asking for Slapstick. It might have been him. Maybe not. His office was destroyed in the bombing.”

  One interrogator grinned a lot. “A pleasure to meet you, Signora Angelina Aleo. I spent many delightful Saturday nights at Pearl Blue. It was always crowded. You must have made a lot of money.” He left the implication hanging.

  Gina recognized him by the star-shaped mole on his face. “Yes, sir, I did. But over the rent and utilities, I spent a lot on salaries, costumes, interior repairs, and alcohol. You Japanese are a rowdy and thirsty bunch. Pearl Blue was barely breaking even.” Knowing the cost of many entries in her account books, like the alcohol she got nearly for free, were greatly inflated, she offered the proof. “The books were in my office. I expect you have them.”

  Other code names never appeared, and Gina believed the Japanese had not yet broken the supply chain from Manila to Cabanatuan. It was possible Clara, Dr. Lopez, and Dion were somehow still smuggling money and drugs into the prison camp. It was excruciating not knowing. Gina sent a prayer their way.

  Captain Sato conducted today’s interrogation. Of all the officers, he was the most reasonable, not given to fits of temper and angry slaps. He handed her a new list of code names, and she saw Bashful—Armin Gable—was on it, but there were no others she recognized.

  She waggled the paper. “The list is changing. The underground is changing. I can’t help you sitting in a cell.” She watched his face for a change of expression . . . a downturned mouth or a squint of his eyes. “I’m an entertainer. I can get a job at a club and keep my eyes and ears open. I’d report back anything I heard.” She knew the request was a long shot, dangerous even, if he considered her to be conniving.

  “Why would you want to do that, Signora?”

  “Because I see the future, and I want to be a part of it.” She wondered if that sounded as false to him as she knew it to be. Japan’s future in the Philippines would be short lived when General MacArthur returned.

  “It’s not my decision, but I’ll pass your proposal along and put in a good word for you.”

  However, weeks dragged on with more of the same dither and dance. She spent days in her cell without a break from the boredom and then hours with the interrogators, some subtle but formidable like Captain Sato and others physically brutal. She gave up only enough information to keep herself alive. She had seen other prisoners after they were no longer useful disappear from their cells and never return, and she was beginning to have bad feelings about it.

  Captain Sato broke the news. “A date has been set for your trial, Miss Kitty. I put in your record that you’d been cooperating. We broke up a resistance ring due to your help.”

  Gina held back a gasp. She didn’t think she had given the investigators anything useful. Quite the opposite. She’d led them into many blind alleys. “Do you know the charge?” There were only two: a spy or an abettor—death or life.

  “No.” His forehead wrinkled. “We’ll both have to wait and see.”

  Back in her cell, Gina’s thoughts went to the nuns, Lolita, and the two women guerrillas, all executed by hanging or firing squad. Her hand went to her throat, which was so tight it hurt to swallow, though she didn’t fear death. She’d already been to the edge from the beatings she’d taken and starvation she’d suffered. Wouldn’t a quick death be easier than one calculated to draw out the agony?

  More disconcerting . . . she’d be forced to leave life before her mission was done. She had a child. Her chin dropped to her chest, and she mourned the time she’d never have to watch Cheryl grow into the beautiful woman she was destined to be.

  Gina wrapped herself in
a blanket, lay down, and turned her face to the wall. She whispered, “Ray . . .”

  The courtroom pulsed with fear as downtrodden prisoners shuffled in to stand one by one in front of the stern-looking judge who sealed their fate: freedom, imprisonment, or execution by hanging or firing squad. With each minute that passed, Gina’s breathing became more restricted. When the prisoner before her was sentenced to death by firing squad, Gina’s knees buckled. The man behind her caught her before she hit the floor. No one else stirred.

  Her name called, she stood before the judge, feeling dizzy and her insides turning to water. She focused her wavering vision on the flag-draped photograph of Emperor Hirohito over the judge’s head. She wanted to scream, Stop! I have a child who needs me. I beg for the court’s mercy. The petition went unsaid.

  In both Japanese and English, she was charged with aiding and abetting the enemy. The judge looked over the top of his glasses. “What is your plea?”

  “Guilty,” she croaked, relieved she wasn’t to be charged as a spy. She stole a glance at Captain Sato, whose head slightly nodded.

  The judge returned his gaze to the paper in front of him and pronounced, “The punishment for aiding and abetting the enemy is life in prison.”

  Gina’s knees gave again, and the guard held her up, her full weight leaning on his arm around her waist. No, no, no, formed in her head. I have a child.

  The judge, oblivious to Gina’s rag doll composure, continued speaking. “Because of the mercy of His Imperial Highness, the emperor of Japan, and a recommendation of leniency, your sentence has been commuted to twelve years’ confinement at hard labor. You will be incarcerated at the Correctional Institute for Women in Mandaluyong. If you try to escape, your time will be doubled, and you’ll be taken to Japan to finish your sentence.”

  Tears of relief came unbidden . . . her life to live, however hard. Twelve years . . . an interlude, not a lifetime. An interlude . . . her mind whirled in a confusion of emotions. Cheryl would be twenty years old before she could hold her in her arms again. Not a lenient sentence at all, but a heavy punishment.