The committee handled all manner of complaints and helped facilitate all kinds of camp events. But the event that most dampened the spirit of the schoolhouse camp was its first funeral.
Fred’s memoir
A local merchant who ran a lighter (flat-bottomed barge) service between ship and shore had hidden much of his machinery when the American forces withdrew. The Japanese were determined to find it, and took him from Camp for interrogation. He was brought back shortly thereafter, but apparently had been beaten severely.
He took to his bed and whereas before he had been a strong spirited individual, he seemed to have lost it. His only remark was, “They didn’t get anything from me.”
Shortly thereafter he died of internal injuries from the beatings.
I learned more years later after the War, when local Filipinos who witnessed the interrogation said the soldier pressed him until he struck the Japanese officer. Then they tied him up and beat him, as the Filipinos said, like they’d never seen an animal beaten.
We were permitted to hold a funeral service and buried him near Camp.
Not long after the funeral the usual routine was broken by unexpected visitors to the camp. It was the middle of the afternoon on a Thursday. The camp was quiet, moving slowly after the midday siesta. Two men in white business suits stopped for a moment to speak with the commandant. A few moments later the commandant nodded and pointed. The two men turned to see where the man pointed and began moving that direction.
Dorothy clamped her teeth together and couldn’t stop her heart from lurching wildly in her chest.
The commandant’s finger unmistakably pointed to Fred.
The two approached Fred and introduced themselves, and Fred led them to seats at the makeshift dining table in the camp “commons”. Dorothy joined Fred and nodded politely at the Filipino who wore the clerical collar of a priest and who identified his companion as a Japanese clergyman. They sat in disbelief as the priest disclosed to them that he had been sent in behalf of the missionaries who were hiding in the hills. They sought Fred’s opinion as to whether or not they should come in. The Japanese chaplain wished to help because he had known Howard Covell at the Berkeley Baptist Divinity School before the War.
The clergyman knew things about Howard that Fred felt could only have been known if they had truly been acquaintances. But Dorothy wasn’t so sure. The questions the second man plied were making her suspicious.
“Why did they come together?” she whispered to Fred. “If this Filipino knows our people at Hopevale, why couldn’t the Japanese fellow have just asked him about Howard instead of taking time to find us? Why did they come here? To ask us questions they could have answered themselves? It doesn’t feel right.”
Fred’s knee began to jitter up and down as it did when he was working out a problem. He looked at her, then at the two men, and knew they dared not say anything that might disclose the location of the missionary party of nineteen that had fled to the hills.
If he said anything at all that might unintentionally give them a clue where to find Hopevale, he might walk his friends right into a trap.
But what if the missionary group truly wanted to come in? What if they sought internment? What if they needed internment? Could he deny them?
“So all five of them are still together?”
It was a trick question, and Fred watched the faces of the two men.
“Yes, yes, they’ve stayed together. All five.”
Fred’s heart sank.
“We would certainly have room for them,” he said, hoping to look agreeable.
There was little to go on but instinct. If he gave them no information would he be denying his friends safe harbor? That would be on his head for the rest of his life if he were the reason they were denied sanctuary.
But would it be safe harbor? Or a Japanese death trap for them?
Fred’s memoir
All we could say to the two was that we had seen the missionaries before the invasion of Panay by the Japanese forces and knew only that they planned to go into the Hills. One or two were sure they were “marked by the Japanese before the War” and would have no chance if caught.
As it developed, they were caught between American-Filipino guerillas led by Colonel Peralta, and the Japanese forces. If they helped the one, they would be considered “bandits” by the other and killed.
The trick question settled it. Either the Filipino clergyman was loath to provide the Japanese chaplain with more information than necessary, or he truly didn’t know there were nineteen in the missionary group, not five.
Fred stood to shake hands with the two clergymen. “Please do give our most sincere greeting to them when you see them.”
Dorothy handed the Filipino a small packet she had quickly prepared. “Would you be so kind as to give this to Rachel when you see her?”
The Filipino priest smiled, “I’m sure Rachel will be most grateful for your gift, Dr. Chambers.”
Dorothy smiled and stepped back.
There were eight women among the Hopevale missionary group of nineteen. And not one of them was named Rachel.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
BITTY-BITS
Summer was taking its toll. Dorothy’s skin was parched and red, thanks in part to the broken-down, ratty hat she wore most days. It did little or no good fending off the sun’s hot rays. Carol and Bobby were brown like little Filipinos. Energy levels were visibly lower than they had been five months earlier, if you knew what to look for. A man’s stride might be shorter. A woman’s knitting needles might click less vigorously. So when Alice Waters came running across camp one afternoon, Dorothy dropped what she was doing and hurried to close the distance.
“Dorothy! Come quickly!”
Alice turned and snatched up Dorothy’s hand.
“Do I need my medical bag?” Dorothy asked, already a bit breathless as they hurried toward the gate.
“No! It’s her! It’s Rosa! She’s come to see you!”
Dorothy stopped, stunned. “Our Rosa?”
“Yes!” Alice’s face broke into a smile Dorothy hadn’t seen for some weeks. “Our Rosa!
It was nearly four o’clock and the gates would be closing. They ran harder, hearts pounding, breaths sounding ragged in their chests. But as they rounded the last building the sound was drowned out by the heavy padlock clanging into place on the gate’s chain.
On the far side of the gate a Japanese guard stood facing them, his gun at ease but his face set. And beyond him at a safe distance they could see the lovely slim figure of the children’s amah, Dorothy’s friend Rosa Caimosa. Her familiar brown eyes showed no fear.
“Rosa!”
“Doctuh Kinney! I have supplies for you!”
“Rosa, it’s really not safe for you to come here. But how wonderful it is to see you! Is your family well?”
“We have gone north and I could not get a cart to bring me here until now. But I have come! I have sewing needles. And thread. And custard apples and a chicken!” She paused, then added, “I know how you love chicken. Especially chicken legs!”
Rosa started to walk forward but the guard, who had turned at the sound of her voice, held his rifle out warning her to stop.
Immediately Rosa hunkered in the dirt and tore the brown paper and string from her package. She held the paper and string up for the guard to see, then crushed them into a ball and lobbed it over the gate for Dorothy to catch.
The guard was clearly uncertain what to do, and to Dorothy’s great joy she could see he was going to do nothing.
Next came the cleaned and plucked chicken, re-wrapped in a soft cloth once Rosa had shown it to the guard. Dorothy thrust the paper-and-string ball at Alice just in time to catch the chicken.
One by one Rosa tossed the things from her package over the fence for Dorothy to catch, and by the time they had it all only one egg had been sacrificed to the hard-packed dirt.
Dorothy and Ali
ce had been squealing their thank yous with each item that cleared the top of the gate and now they stood hugging the treasure with tears in their eyes.
“God bless you, Rosa! God bless you!”
The guard was forcing Rosa back onto the road, back the way she’d come, but she paused and pulled the lovely broad-brimmed hat from her head.
“I come tomorrow,” she called. “Early! I come early!”
Dorothy couldn’t contain her joy. To lay eyes on the dear girl was wonderful. But to receive her bountiful gifts was almost more than Dorothy could handle without dissolving in tears.
And then with a wave of her hand, Rosa launched her pretty hat into the air. It sailed toward the gate, nearly too low to clear it. But in the last moment it skidded across the uppermost bar of the gate and landed at Dorothy’s feet.
Dorothy scooped it up and held it to her heart and stood waving until they could no longer see the girl. Only once Rosa was truly out of sight did a tear slip down Dorothy’s cheek. She hadn’t been able to get the one thing she needed more than anything.
A hug.
Maybe tomorrow, she thought. Maybe tomorrow.
. . . .
Rosa did not appear the next morning and Dorothy was stricken with an immense sadness. She had been so intent upon getting that hug. And she needed to let Rosa know that she’d found the hidden surprise.
After stowing Rosa’s precious gifts in her bunk area, Dorothy had set about preparing the chicken. First she cut it into quarters, with one quarter going to Alice and Henry Waters. She removed the skin from the meat of two of the quarters, cut the meat away from the bone, and sliced it into strips to fry in coconut oil. It would make a savory hardtack that would last several weeks. The skin was fried separately to make something similar to pork crackling. The fourth quarter would be that night’s dinner along with a crunchy round chunk of custard apple for dessert.
Custard apples were a far cry from the sweet, juicy, red apples of home. They were tart. Almost bitter. But most satisfactory in a pie.
It wasn’t until she was preparing to boil the bones of the skinned portion that the thought had struck her. As she was about to toss a leg bone into the boiling water, the memory of Rosa’s comment stayed her hand.
I know how you love chicken. Especially chicken legs.
It was an awfully strange thing to say because Rosa knew Dorothy didn’t care for the dark meat of a drumstick. So why...?
Dorothy rotated the bone in her greasy fingers, then turned it end for end. She had to bring it close to even see that something was hidden there, but with a slight wiggle the nubby end of the drumstick bone came away. Too easily. And there, rolled up in the hollowed-out bone was a worn and tattered 50-peso bill.
. . . .
By August 1942 there were nearly a hundred internees at the school compound. Most of the cooking was done by men now, in a cooking shed near the dining room. The women prepared much of the fixings, and the men did the heavy work. They carried wood for the fire, kept it stoked, and heaved around the heavier pots. The cooking vessels of choice were 5-gallon Standard Oil tins.
There weren’t many ways to cook rice, mongo beans and pinakas (dried fish). At first the men had tried to do some creative things, but spices were hard to come by. Now the only surprise in the daily fare was whether or not there would actually be fish in the soup.
Those who didn’t cook took their turns at washing up after dinner, and of late, the camp had become surprisingly quiet during cleanup. Early on, banter was common, but now, after months on a pretty skimpy diet, effort went more to the task of cleaning up than any attempt at being sociable.
One October evening six months into captivity, Dorothy finished drying the family’s tin plates and stowed them beneath the sandbox bed. She never left their plates for the kitchen crew, but kept four plates in her own area. She doubted really hot water ever touched the plates the men washed.
Her sterilizing jars were still too hot to touch, but she carried them carefully by the crude bark handles she’d attached to each jar’s wire hanger and lined them up at the foot of the bed. The handles were smooth now, softened by steam and molded to fit her hand.
The jars stood in a row, like little soldiers, reaffirming to Dorothy that she was maintaining a good sense of orderliness.
But there were only four.
There was a good bit of envy in camp over those jars, and experience had taught her not to leave them untended. Dorothy looked about her area, then knelt to look under the bed. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the fifth glass jar tucked in with their belongings.
But it looked odd, not empty, as she would expect, and not filled with clear boiled drinking water, either. She pulled it toward her, lifted the lid and sniffed.
Soapy water?
“Mommy, don’t dwop it!”
Carol Joy rushed to Dorothy’s side and held her little hands below the jar to catch it if Dorothy happened to lose her grip.
“Sweetie, what is this?”
“I made soapy-soap for you.”
Dorothy grimaced. “But sweetie, we have to be very, very careful with the soap. We need to make it last.”
“I know,” her daughter said with a look of disappointment that her mother would think she didn’t know such an important fact of life. “Not our soap. I made it from bitty bits.”
“Bitty bits?”
“Mm-hm! Like these ones.” Carol pulled a small cloth packet from her pocket and carefully opened it. In her palm lay a tiny collection of soap slivers, the remnants of bars of soap that had been used until the sliver was too small even to be held.
“Carol Joy, where did you get these?”
Carol smiled, delighted that she’d surprised her mother. “At the bathtub,” she beamed.
“You mean, the bathing well?”
“Yes! You know, Mommy, when it’s really hot and evvybody sleeps?” Dorothy nodded. “I go to the bathtub and it’s all dry, alla round. And I save ,em. I save the little bitty-bits. Just like this!” She held the cloth up for Dorothy to look closer.
“And den—!” With a triumphant look she pulled the glass jar toward her and unlatched the lid. “I put ,em in...I shake-a shake-a shake! An’ look, Mommy! Soapy-soap!”
Dorothy was aghast. It was so clever, so resourceful of her little daughter to preserve the soap bits and repurpose them into her liquid soap. But there were a hundred people in camp, many with questionable hygiene or obvious symptoms of bacterial diseases. She knew it, because she helped to treat them.
She started to tell her daughter that they couldn’t under any circumstances use soap other people had used. It just wasn’t safe.
But what if it was?
What if she provided Carol with a jar of boiling water in which to drop her bitty-bits? Would that be enough to kill anything that might be lurking in them?
She oohed and ahhed over Carol’s soapy-soap as she wrestled with the dilemma. It should be safe enough. And Carol seemed so thrilled that she had done something helpful for her mommy that Dorothy simply couldn’t squash her enterprising little heart.
“I’ll tell you what, sweetie. This is a really, really wonderful thing you’re doing for me. So I’m going to let you use my tweezers next time. Would you like that?”
“Yay, Mommy! Yes! Yes!”
“But you should probably use them just like a doctor would, don’t you think?”
Carol became very serious and nodded her agreement.
“So next time you’re going to collect bitty-bits I want you to come get me and we’ll go together. You can use the tweezers, and the game will be to try and collect them without ever touching them yourself. Want to do that?”
Vigorous nodding.
“Then we’ll bring the bitty-bits back here, and we’ll boil some water in two jars. One will be yours to put your bitty-bits in, and then when it’s all cooled down, you can shake it up.”
“But what about the
other jar, Mommy?”
“The other jar? Well, that’s the jar we’ll use to disinfect the tweezers. Every time. Just like doctors do. Right?”
“Right!”
Carol clapped for joy and ran off to tell her daddy-boy about the new plan.
And Dorothy stowed the jar of soapy-soap. She’d have to get rid of this batch. It was most likely swimming with little villains ready to take her family unawares. So it had to go. Then she’d boil the bottle. Twice, maybe.
So Carol Joy could have her soapy-soap.
Letter to the Ministers and Missionaries Board
From Kenneth Stapp
September 9, 1988
In the late 1940’s, while a student at the University of Colorado, I had the privilege of becoming acquainted with Dr. Fred Chambers and his wife. One Thanksgiving, the Chambers had invited several of us students over for dinner. Their girl, about nine or ten at the time, came in to ask if she could have some scraps of soap. Permission was granted. Soon she returned, shaking a glass jar which contained a bubbly soap solution. After she had gone into another room, Mrs. Chambers said that when they were in camp, the tiny girl thought that she could help the family by making the tiny pieces of soap grow in this fashion to augment the meager soap supply. The parents were willing to sacrifice some of the precious soap to allow their daughter to have a sense of contributing to the family’s welfare, when they had so little to spare.
At no time in our acquaintance did I sense that the family was resentful because of their wartime experience or harbored the thought that with their background, some prominent place of labor was their due. They were grateful to God for His watchcare and desirous to serve humbly wherever they felt led. Faith was not announced by visible trappings nor proclaimed by pious words but rather evidenced by an unpretentious life characterized by adherence to principle and the willingness to give of self in love.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
THE PURPLE SHOES
Christmas 1942
It could never be said that the internees became complacent, but after many months in confinement, most had a sense that food supplies would continue at the rate they’d been experiencing. It wasn’t a lot, but it sustained them at a level where they could do the work necessary to maintain the camp. In short, though vestiges of malnutrition were evident in many of the internees, at that time no one in the camp suffered symptoms of actual starvation.
Courage in a White Coat Page 26