After the sentencing, she was taken to a room and ordered to sign several documents that she scanned but failed to grasp their meaning. In this topsy-turvy world, what did it matter anyway? Her immediate thought was to get outside the cold gray walls to breathe fresh air and to see the sun again. The sun! Stoic, she scribbled her name, Signora Angelina Aleo, on whatever the guards placed on the table in front of her. It wasn’t her real name anyway, and that fact gave her a bit of pleasure.
Chapter 32
GINA AND THE GUERRILLAS
I sense a void within myself and fear a complete mental breakdown. My captors execute their insane. I worry this will be my fate.
—Ray Thorpe, Fukuoka #17, Japan, February 1944–September 1945
Wearing the same tattered clothes she’d arrived in and her hair in a wild tangle, Gina walked into sunlight so painful to her eyes that she covered them with her hand and peeked between her fingers. She took a long breath of fresh air scented with gardenia. A guard placed her in the back seat of a car and slid in beside her. Praise be, she thought as they passed through the massive pillars and arched exit of Fort Santiago, it’s really happening.
The car passed the Manila Hotel, pristine in the sunlight, and crossed over the Jones Bridge, the Pasig River running underneath, its shore lined with bancas and cascos, the gypsies’ flat-bottomed dinghies. Nothing appeared to have changed in the months she’d been jailed. The car turned north toward the women’s correctional institute. Gina tilted her head back and closed her eyes, woozy from the motion. Her lip throbbed from a recent slap by a guard.
She didn’t know how long she dozed. She was in a half dream of what might lie ahead, twelve years incarcerated in a women’s prison. Meager meals, Captain Sato had told her, working during the day, and her own bed at night, no physical abuse. It didn’t sound so bad if she didn’t let Cheryl and Ray cross her mind, that pain too raw to touch. She slapped at a louse that was crawling into her ear, a souvenir from Hirohito’s hell house.
She heard the guard beside her snoring and felt the car slow, then stop. She opened her eyes and saw the muzzle of a gun pointed toward the back seat. She screamed and dove for the floor just as the gun fired and the world around her exploded in a spray of red. Huddled in a ball and shivering, she heard another bang and felt strong hands dragging her body from the car. A disembodied voice yelled, “Run!”
“No! No! No!” She fought and screeched like a terrified animal, but her abductor was male and strong, and he shoved her into the back seat of another car and slammed the door. The driver revved the motor, and the car fishtailed down the road. She banged on the window with both of her fists.
A man sitting beside her said, “It’s all right, Gina. You’re with friends now.”
She recognized the voice. Marcus? In disbelief, she turned and reached out to touch him. It really was her friend from the mountains. Her mind reeling, she stuttered, “Wha, what—?”
“You were just rescued.”
She didn’t understand, and she didn’t feel rescued. Her heart was about to bounce out of her chest, and she was heaving for breath.
He handed her a wet towel and tumbler of whiskey. She wiped off her face and hands and gulped the whiskey, feeling the burn all the way down. In a minute she took a full breath and started to cry.
Marcus said, “I’ll tell you more later. For now, just know that you’re safe. Can you hear me? You’re safe. By the time the Japs realize you’re gone, we’ll be in the hills.”
Marcus wrapped her in a blanket. She saw tears in his eyes. She rode a long while with her head on his shoulder and his arm holding her snug against him. Was this an oxygen-deprived dream?
“Where are we?” she asked sometime later. All she could see were trees, so many trees—was this really happening? The wheels of the car crunched on a rocky road. Two men sat in front, and she was with Marcus in the back.
“We’re in the foothills of the Zambales Mountains. We have another three hours to drive; then we’ll stop for the night. Drink some water. Try eating some of this mango.”
She did as she was told. The water went down easily, and the mango tasted sweet on her tongue. “Did I sleep?”
“If you could call it that. You’re pretty jumpy. Do you need to stop?”
She had no liquid in her. “No. Thank you. Can you tell me what happened?”
“We bribed a guard. We knew when you were released and where they were taking you. My men held up traffic on both ends of the road while we got you out. We knew by the time the Japs realized you and their car were missing, we’d be in the hills.”
“You killed the guard sitting next to me.” Remembering the sound of the gunshot sent cold shivers through her. She held her arms tight to her chest.
“Yes, and the driver. The Japs’ car was taken to a shop, where it will be chopped into parts and repurposed by guerrillas. We work fast, and we don’t leave a trail. We’ll be stopping for the night at a coffee plantation owned by Cecelia Torres and continue the trip in the morning. We’ll get to Davy’s camp tomorrow evening.”
“Is Cheryl there?”
“Yes. She’s fine, Gina. You’ll be surprised when you see her.”
Strangely numb, she didn’t feel the joy she expected to feel when told she’d be reunited with her daughter. “Did you tell her I’m coming?”
“No. There’re too many unknowns. She has adjusted well. Best to keep it that way.”
Marcus’s message carried a dark undertone. This trip could still go awry.
Though it was warm, she stayed wrapped in the blanket for the security of it. She watched the scenery go by, the trees . . . short and tall, scrubby or reaching up to the blue sky, pale-yellow foliage to the darkest green blue, lacy or thick leaved. Why had she never noticed the variety? A farm with its hills and furrows, bushy plants all in a row, a nipa hut, a pond, a child riding a carabao. The ordinariness of it soothed Gina’s soul.
She took a cleansing breath and let the sweetness of the air fill her with hope of a finer life. Her thoughts went to her daughter, and a smile came to her lips. What would she say to her besides I love you? How would they ever make up the lost years?
“Tell me about Cheryl,” she said to Marcus.
He crossed his arms. “Well, she’s about half a head taller than you remember, and she’s skinny as a rail, but she’s healthy. Edna holds school classes for all the kids in the camp—the number varies, five or six. Cheryl is reading well and is exceptional in math.”
“Like Ray,” Gina said. “She doesn’t get that from me.”
“What she does get from you is talent. She’s always organizing skits and plays for the kids to do. She’s lively and has a fun sense of humor.” He was quiet for a moment, as if contemplating. “If you’ve ever wondered, you made the right choice, leaving Cheryl with Vivian. Life hasn’t been easy, but she’s been part of a family. When Viv was sick, Maggie and Edna stepped in, so there was continuity.”
Gina had wondered a thousand times if she’d made the right choice. “I thought about her every day. Viv was good about writing, and she had Cheryl write to me. I watched her grow up through her letters.” Gina chuckled at her memories. “She was always expressive—even as a tiny baby she’d wiggle and coo, so bright eyed. As a toddler she was a scamp . . . she kept me running, let me tell you. I may have my hands full with her.” She was so ready, she told herself, but then why did she feel so detached?
The roads became narrower and steeper. Soon they arrived at a cabin surrounded by terraced fields of coffee plants. The door of the cabin opened, and a gray-haired woman wearing men’s pants and a work shirt appeared.
“Please come in.” Cecelia waved them forward.
When Gina stepped out of the car, her knees buckled, and she landed in the dirt.
Amid a flurry, Marcus picked her up and carried her into the cabin and laid her on a couch. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I wish I could make this trip easier for you.”
Cecelia handed Gina a gl
ass of water to drink and a wet cloth to wipe off her face and hands.
Feeling foolish, Gina drank the water. “Please don’t fuss. I’m a little weak, but I’m okay . . . really,” she said, though she ached and itched from head to toe.
Cecelia turned to Marcus. “How is Theo doing?”
“Okay,” he said, and Gina noticed the slight nod of his head toward her, making her question what was going on with Theo.
After Cecelia adjusted the heat under the pot of beef stew cooking on the charcoal stove, she returned with a glass of milk and a biscuit for Gina. “My dear, you need . . .” She sighed. “You need so much. Would you like to rest, or would you like to shower or eat?”
Gina was hungry, but she felt an urgency to wash away the grime and stench of four months in prison. She felt a louse on the back of her neck, and she slapped at it. “I’ll shower first. I’m afraid I don’t have any clothes.”
“That’s not a problem. I have clothes for you. The shower’s outside. I put a stool in there so you can sit.” She handed Gina a towel, a bottle of shampoo, and a bar of medicinal-smelling soap. “I make this myself. It will rid your body of lice and fleas. Don’t get it in your eyes. Take this too.” She added a toothbrush and cup of warm water. “It’s salt water. If you can’t brush, just swish. It will help your gums heal.”
Inside the bamboo stall, Gina kicked off her shoes, peeled off her dress stiff with grime and dried blood, stepped out of her underpants, and unhooked her brassiere. Before tossing the bra on the pile of throwaways, she opened the seam and extracted the half-heart locket dangling on a gold chain. She and her daughter would be reunited tomorrow, and the thought both thrilled and terrified her.
The water, warmed by the sun, gushed from the rain barrel over Gina’s head and shoulders and dripped off her nose, chin, and elbows. She washed her hair first with the medicinal soap and then the shampoo, it bubbling into a wonderful froth. Starting with her face, she lathered every inch of her body, getting inside and behind her ears, under her chin, under her arms, between her fingers and toes, and to her privates, where the soap stung inflamed tissue. After rinsing, she lathered from top to toe again, then towel dried. It was the first time she’d seen her body in a while. Her skin hung loosely on bone and was lizardlike in texture and awfully scarred, scabby, and bug bitten. A few open sores oozed a yellow fluid. She’d have to stay covered not to scare Cheryl. She wrapped herself in the towel and went inside.
“You’re safe. I chased the men away,” Cecelia said. “There are clean clothes for you on the bed.” Cecelia glanced at her and groaned. “Ooh, my dear child. What did they do to you?” She wiped tears from her eyes and then rummaged through a cupboard for ointments and lotions.
In the bedroom, she said, “Drop the towel. I want to see every inch of you.” She dabbed the ointment on the open sores that dotted Gina’s body. “Animals,” she mumbled. “Anything hurt on your privates, honey? Don’t be shy.”
Gina felt a blush rise to her face. “It hurts when I pee.”
“You can use this ointment there too.” She handed Gina the pot. “Drink lots of cranberry juice. As much as you can. They’re in season. I’ll make the juice and send it with you.” She rubbed lotion on Gina’s mottled skin from her forehead to the tips of her toes, then pointed to a towel for her to wrap in. Putting a drop of oil on the palms of her hands, she ran them through Gina’s hair from the roots to the tips, massaging her scalp. “I’ll cut your hair later, if you like.” Gina thought she’d found heaven. “One last thing; then I’ll get you fed.” She clipped Gina’s toenails and fingernails.
Tears of gratitude came to Gina’s eyes. She dressed in cotton underwear and scrubs; fastened on the locket, liking that it sat over her heart; and left the room feeling less the animal that had arrived and more the woman she was.
Five sat around Cecelia’s table: Gina, Marcus, Cecelia, and the two guerrillas who had accompanied them. At the charcoal stove Cecelia ladled out bowls of beef stew from a simmering pot. She sliced homemade bread, scooped butter from a tub, and put them both on a plate. Marcus filled glasses with fresh mountain water.
The wonderful sights and smells made Gina’s stomach growl in anticipation of a real meal. The guerrillas finished first and excused themselves to finish preparing for tomorrow’s trip up the mountain.
Gina ate slowly, her teeth loose and some painfully infected. When sated, she had an overpowering desire to sleep, but leaning on her elbows, she stayed at the table. “Can you tell me what happened the night I was arrested?”
“I know some,” Marcus said. “I talked to Chan. He’s been watching for you too. He told me his daughter, Biyu, heard the shot that killed Ling and saw you being dragged away by the Jap guard. She contacted Inez, who started a . . . a . . . ?”
“A phone chain. Each of us had two people to call.”
“That’s it. Both Biyu and Chan were arrested but released. None of your employees showed up for work. I can’t tell you if they were found and questioned. I just don’t know.”
Gina winced and prayed not.
Marcus continued. “The Kempeitai searched Pearl Blue and kept it under surveillance for a while. It’s still empty as far as I know.”
“I left a note for Julio, my bandleader. Do you know if he found it?”
“I don’t.”
Gina had expended her last ounce of energy, but she inquired, “Inez and Arielle?”
“They disappeared into the city, Gina. It’s the best I can tell you.”
Marcus had prepared a cot for her with quilts and a pillow. As tired as she felt, she couldn’t settle down. She peered out the window. “Are you sure no Nips followed us?”
“I’m sure. A squad of Davy’s men have been with us every step of the way. We have another long day tomorrow. Get some sleep.”
“First tell me what’s going on with Theo.”
Marcus and Cecelia exchanged a glance.
Gina frowned. “You’ve got to tell me.”
Marcus glanced at Cecelia and back. “Vivian died three weeks ago. It was malaria. She suffered from it off and on for a long time. The whole camp is taking it hard. You’re needed up there. It’s good you’re coming.”
Gina’s eyes rapidly blinked. Not Vivian . . . her best friend, her confidante, her link to an older, kinder world. She waited for emotions to sweep over her, but she felt no sorrow; she shed no tears.
Marcus looked on. “I’m sorry, Gina. Are you all right?”
She didn’t answer him. She lay down on the cot and turned her face to the wall. Had the Japanese beaten all normal emotions out of her? Or had she built a wall so thick nothing could penetrate it, even the death of her dearest friend? Had she lost a most basic human emotion, her capacity to grieve?
In the morning Cecelia’s son arrived with an oxcart lined with a kapok mattress and filled with munitions and food for the camp. Marcus helped Gina climb aboard, where she could either sit or lie down. “This chariot can’t handle steep cliffs. I hired Negritos to carry the munitions and you up the cliffs when we get that far. We should be at the camp before nightfall.”
She had no intention of being carried into the camp, and she made good her aim that evening, asking the Negrito ferrying her piggyback to please put her down. She squared her shoulders. “Thank you. I’ll walk from here.” She took a step and wobbled. “Marcus, I may need your arm.”
Gina walked to the guerrilla camp with Marcus’s support. Upon turning a bend, she said, “Stop here.” She thought she knew what to expect from Vivian’s letters, but what she was seeing and smelling was rawer. The camp was situated under a thick canopy of trees, and the area was damp and dark, and foul odors emanated from the latrine and graveyard. Small huts and lean-tos, put together from bamboo, scrap metal, canvas, or even packing boxes, gave the camp the look of the dirtiest slum. Her shoulders dropped in a slump, and she weaved on her feet. She would never have left her daughter to live in this horrible place, far meaner than the nipa-hut camp of two yea
rs ago.
She watched Cheryl from afar, playing hopscotch with Leah. Her black hair was pulled into a ponytail, and she moved as gracefully as a colt . . . or a dancer. Gina observed the scene with incredible pride at how her baby had grown into a beautiful child.
“Your foot touched the line, Leah. You’re out.”
“No, it didn’t. You need glasses, Cheryl.”
Gina couldn’t help but chuckle. Some things never changed . . . except the voices, older, more assured. She couldn’t contain herself any longer, and she nudged Marcus forward.
Cheryl turned and looked her way, then turned back and resumed her game.
Gina’s bubble burst. Her daughter didn’t know her as this woman years older in mind and body. Gripping Marcus’s arm for stability, she felt an ache in her throat.
Marcus patted her arm. “She didn’t see you. You’re in the shadows.”
Gina shook her head. “It’s been too long. I’m too changed. She doesn’t remember me.”
“That’s not true. She has a box full of every letter and card you sent to her. She won’t let anyone touch them. Come on.” He led her to where the girls were playing. They stopped a few steps away.
Gina hesitated, afraid Cheryl might not recognize her voice. “Cheryl? Sweetheart?”
Cheryl whirled around, and her eyes widened. “Mama!” she cried and ran into Gina’s arms, a wisp of a girl as light as a feather, and Gina squeezed her as tight as she dared against herself.
Cheryl pulled back, and her eyes searched Gina’s face. “Is it really you? You’re not a dream this time?”
Gina knelt down and smiled through her tears. “It’s really me. I’m not a dream, and I’m not going away again.”
Cheryl looked around. “Is Daddy here too?”
With her hand, Gina brushed Cheryl’s dark hair off her forehead, feeling its little-girl softness, and then caressed her cheek. How much she wanted to say yes, her daddy was here, and they’d all be together forever and ever. “No, not yet. As soon as this war’s over, we’re going to find him. I have no doubt.”
Along the Broken Bay Page 31