Four thousand internees carried out their daily business here. Four thousand people brought to the small college campus by the red “chop” of Imperial Japan. Into “confined community”.
They stood in line for food, stood in line to wash hands, another line to wash hair, more lines to get into the bathroom to receive a single sheet of toilet paper doled out to each person in need of it. They reported twice each day for roll call, some of which lasted a grueling two hours. And they were not to be missed upon pain of—
One third of the internees were over the age of sixty. They took the standing in line less well, but better than the ones who were under the age of sixteen. Some four hundred children were imprisoned here, if the information she’d received was correct. And many of them had been here well over a year now.
They were mostly the children of foreign nationals—children of diplomats or bureaucrats from Sweden, Germany, England, America, Australia, or children of businessmen attached to major international companies—children whose parents had found the Philippines to be a satisfying place to live and rear their families. She doubted it felt so satisfactory now.
Some of the singles were military wives separated from husbands who had been caught in that devastating surrender of Bataan. Some were army nurses. Some were mining engineers or rare gem salesmen or oilmen here on assignment from Standard Oil. There were musicians here, and artists. They were an amalgam of society—the good, the not-so-good, the demanding, the compassionate, the arrogant, the meek, the cowardly and the courageous.
And all were here against their wishes.
Santo Tomás Internment Camp
Limited Private Edition - Frederic H. Stevens
© 1946 - page 415
June 22—Iloilo internees arrive after seven-day trip—109 men, women and children experience exhausting journey.
The War Diary of Paul Esmerian
Translated by Robert Colquhoun
18 June 1943
It’s less painful perhaps to go to prison flanked by two policemen in a police van than to turn oneself in alone, in a hired vehicle going at a gentle trot, on a lovely sunny afternoon. A small piece of paper, covered with a tiny red Japanese stamp, bearing characters I don’t even understand, will make of me a prisoner, as surely as would have done men in helmets and jackboots. Twentieth-century bureaucracy has so conditioned us that a small typewritten note is enough to make us hand ourselves over to our enemies.
We drive past the camp railings, covered by woven bamboo laths to prevent internees and passers-by from seeing one another. There’s still time to tell the driver to turn round, still time to ignore the red stamp and try to hide in the countryside, and perhaps join up with the guerrillas. But for a white man, the chances of escaping pursuit by the Japanese or avoiding denunciation by the Filipinos are practically nil. The red stamp is stronger. - Paul Esmerian
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
RESTORED
On the seventh morning in camp Dorothy woke with a start. She’d slept the night undisturbed, a blessing for which she was beyond grateful. She flung the mosquito netting aside, hopped from the bed and peered over the bunk above her head. Bobby’s slumber was deep and peaceful, and his teddy still lay within reach. Carol lay at the other end of the bunk, her head on one arm, Pippa in the other, a half-smile on her face.
Fred had done the impossible and managed to beg borrow or steal—she didn’t actually care which—enough planking to fashion a bunk bed for them. The first week he’d only scrounged enough wood to fashion a single bed, so Dorothy had spent challenging nights sharing the bed with two children. But yesterday he’d found enough to complete the second level and she’d had a blissful night’s sleep...on a plank bed with no mattress. But without four additional little restless legs.
It was a huge gift, because they’d been allotted space for two single beds in a former classroom crowded with the beds of six other women and their ten children. The other women and children slept on iron beds provided early on by the Red Cross. But now there were no more beds, so Fred had scrambled to correct the problem. And his solution was ingenious. He’d made the two beds in a bunk style, leaving one of the spaces free for the children to move about in.
God bless her brilliant husband!
But how had he slept, she wondered? She and the children had been assigned to the Annex for women and children. Fred had been assigned to the gymnasium balcony where the men and older boys slept. He could spend time with them here in the Annex during the day, but at night he had to be at the gym before curfew at nine.
She wasn’t at all surprised that the Japanese did not want more children to be born in camp...more mouths to feed, more crowding in the Annex. But their hopes that they could keep pregnancies from happening merely by separating the men and women at night while still letting them mingle throughout the day was laughable.
Fred’s memoir
Because some internee couples were permitted to live together during the day, some pregnancies resulted. When the Japanese learned of these they sent the fathers to the old walled city prison: Fort Santiago. Because the Catholic Fathers in Santo Tomas Seminary were permitted to remain in their quarters on Campus but outside the walls set up for the Camp, they learned that “fathers” had been imprisoned and went to the Japanese officials to protest. However, the Japanese cleared up the matter by stating that it was not the “Catholic Fathers” but the “pregnant fathers” who had been locked up.
Dorothy gathered her kit and moved through the maze of beds that populated the room to which they’d been assigned. Counting herself, seven mothers and twelve small children made this classroom in the campus Annex building their home. Each bed was creatively draped with its own netting, and underclothes hung drying from some of the rigging. Many of the beds at this time of the morning were still occupied.
The room monitor—herself an internee—was still asleep near the door. Dorothy had taken seriously the woman’s admonition that nothing happened in the room without her knowledge. And absence at roll call was a dire offense. The monitor answered directly to the Camp Committee for every transgression among the women for whom she was responsible.
Her assigned room was no different than all the other classrooms, Dorothy had been told. But some folks—like the Spencers—had built shanties, creating whole neighborhoods of makeshift housing and staking out their own little plots about the campus. Neighborhoods took on clever nicknames: Jungletown, Glamourville, Garden Court, Foggy Bottom, Southwest Territory, and Out Yonder. One found them by navigating ‘streets’ which were little more than footpaths named MacArthur Drive, Papaya Lane, Hollywood Boulevard, Camote Road, and of course, Fifth Avenue.
Whether or not one owned a shanty, all were required to sleep in the assigned buildings and could only occupy the shanties during the day. And no shanty could be enclosed with walls that might hide one from the watchful eye of the Japanese guards. In these open-air neighborhoods, privacy was a relative thing.
The idea of a place of their own was certainly appealing. But to Dorothy it seemed to be something available to the wealthier internees, and she doubted there would ever be a shanty in her future.
The cloying smell of multiple thunder pots scattered about the room made her wish for an open-air shanty. Louise had alerted her to the fact that many folks used covered “toidies” in the night, and now the mingled smells of full thunder pots and unwashed bodies made her wish mightily for ventilation of any kind.
She stepped into the hall and turned right, bound for the bathroom. The hall provided just the ventilation she was looking for, open to the air on one side and covered by a long, low roof. But the sight before her elicited an unguarded groan. She’d forgotten about the lines. She would have to rise earlier tomorrow. A thirty-minute dawdle in the hallway waiting her turn to wash up was simply not going to pass muster. She’d heard about the meager handful of toilets for a community of four thousand internees and reminded herself to be grateful ther
e was even one in her building.
To her surprise, the line moved quickly, and when she discovered the reason for it, Dorothy had to wrestle with her modesty. There was one showerhead, shared by no less than eight women grouped in a tight circle of sorts, some facing modestly away, some still dressed in underclothes, but rotating with their little circle to take a few turns beneath the trickling showerhead.
She’d been granted privacy that first night, perhaps out of courtesy to a new internee, or perhaps because more women availed themselves of the shower in the morning than the evening. She wasn’t to know. But this morning’s rude awakening as to how the camp’s meager water supply was handled seemed cruelly crushing. She doubted she’d ever become accustomed to it. Like the crude sign on the wall reminded her, if you want privacy, close your eyes.
Dorothy dressed carefully, pleased that her white coat looked halfway respectable after having been hung up for the night on the pegs Fred had built into the bunk. She was going to work today. They’d assigned her to the medical staff of the children’s hospital, and she was eager to report.
Santo Tomás Internment Camp
Limited Private Edition - Frederic H. Stevens
© 1946 - page 116
The Children’s Hospital continued at its original location until October, 1944, when it was transferred to the Model Home on the ground floor, Main Building. This move was considered necessary in view of the air raids and expected bombings, and the new quarters were safe and convenient. Drs. Ream Allen and [Dorothy] Chambers were in charge of the hospital at various times, assisted by volunteer nurses.
The washroom line had taken long enough that now she had less than ten minutes before Fred would arrive to look after the children, to get them dressed and take them to breakfast and explore the camp. That was the plan.
She reached for her bag to polish her stethoscope, then remembered that the bag had been confiscated. Pray God they had spare instruments at the hospital.
. . . .
At least they hadn’t taken her white coat. Dorothy flexed her spine and shifted her shoulders, reassured by the coat’s familiar hug. It was barely a five-minute walk from the Annex—her new home for the duration—past the outdoor kitchen and dining shed to the small hospital established for the particular care of interned children. No trees blocked the sun, and Dorothy’s first mental note was to somehow obtain a hat.
The hospital was arranged in one long ward with a small wing on each end. Her quick assessment as she walked to the receiving area estimated twenty beds, more than half of them occupied, but room for a few more, if needed.
The beds were lined up in ranks of ten along two long walls, with plenty of room between for both medical staff and parents to offer their special brand of care. Clever rigs were affixed to the head and foot of each bed, with hooks for medical charts and lashings to hold mosquito netting out of the way during daylight hours. The nets themselves hung from a crosshatch of thin wires that had been strung throughout the entire room, about fifteen inches down from the ceiling. Every sleeping area she’d seen here in camp had these crosshatched wires, and a corner of her mind registered the practicality and ingenuity of it.
But that’s where the similarities ended. No two beds had the same linens, and some had no pillowcases, and one merely had a threadbare sheet thrown over the gray-striped ticking of the mattress. Still, every threadbare sheet was neatly tucked.
Two little girls were out of bed and sat barefoot on the floor playing an almost raucous game of jacks.
Dorothy smiled at them, and caught the eye of the older girl whose turn it was. It threw the child’s coordination off and the rubber ball went flying. Without thinking, Dorothy lunged and caught it before it rolled away down the long expanse of the ward.
With a sheepish grin she restored the ball to its owner. “Oh dear, that was my fault! Does she get a do-over?”
Both girls laughed and simultaneously said yes...and no.
“Which child are you looking for, may I ask?”
Dorothy turned toward the sound of the pleasant voice.
“Me? Oh, I’m not looking for a child...I mean, I’m here to work.”
The woman turned to address her and for the first time noticed Dorothy’s white coat. The look on her face revealed she did not think the white coat was quite appropriate. Her next words revealed why.
“Ah! Wonderful. I thought the new nurse was arriving tomorrow.”
“Well perhaps she is. You see, I—”
“We’ve already cleared breakfast so if you’d just start with temps and vitals we’ll be right on schedule. I’m Noell. Sue Noell. And you’re—?”
“Chambers,” Dorothy replied. “Dorothy Chambers.”
“Goodness me, Chambers, that’s not the name I was given. Although—”
Noell stopped mid sentence, with a screwed up face that made Dorothy laugh.
“Yes, it’s Dr. Chambers, I’m afraid.”
“Oh shoot. Oh heavens to betsy. I am so sorry! I knew there was a new doctor and all they told me was D. Chambers, and I was thinking...well, you know...but mercy me! Welcome!”
“Thank you, Noell. And may I say you seem to have things in fine order here.”
“Well, you may say that now, but you would have shrieked a year ago.” Nurse Noell did a half turn and swept her arm to take in the ward that lay before them. “A year ago this was a monkey cage, and over there were the guinea pigs. Just a roof, no walls. And look at it now!”
“Monkey cage?”
“Animal experiment lab for the university’s medical students, dontcha know. But don’t worry, they cleared it all away. Built this new, thanks to Mr. Verlinden. Donated it all. Nice fella. Now let me give you the nickel tour.”
Nurse Noell walked Dorothy to the far end of the ward, showing her the supply room woefully stocked, the dispensary minimally supplied, the linen cubby, the outpatient clinic, and a small desk and chair that were to be hers, if, according to Noell, she managed to find time to utilize them. It was the kind of whirlwind tour that fed Dorothy the very thing she’d been starving for. It spoke of routine, and beckoned her in such a way that it made her palms fairly itch to grasp hold of it. In less than ten minutes Noell had swept away the ill-fitting mantle of survivor and restored Dorothy to the woman who belonged in the white coat.
The tour ended back at the supply room where Noell had promised to retrieve a stethoscope. Dorothy stood in the hall, taking in the smells that carried messages of healing. Alcohol, merthiolate, sterilized bandages, freshly laundered towels. And thankfully, no smell of monkeys, guinea pigs, or lab experiments.
“Here you go.”
Dorothy turned back toward the supply room and held out her hand for what she thought would be a stethoscope. But instead, Nurse Noell stood there beaming as she brought from behind her back an item that stole Dorothy’s breath.
She reached for the worn leather handle and tried unsuccessfully to keep a tear from spilling.
They’d given her back her medical bag. It was hers, alright. She knew every crack and crease in that dear leather. She’d have known it even if it didn’t have those small gold letters embossed just below the catch.
D. Chambers, M.D.
. . . .
Just before sunset Dorothy stepped out of the Children’s Hospital side door and had to think a moment where exactly she was going. The mall area between the hospital and the Annex which had been fairly quiet this morning was teeming with people scattered along the trampled dirt boulevard. It was an unorganized procession of sorts, moving toward the Main Building and beyond. Some carried a chair or crate or blanket. And most of them wore hats.
With a sigh of resignation she began “excusing” her way through the crowd and made it across the human traffic. She picked up her pace as she entered the Annex hoping the crowd wasn’t headed to some required meeting and she would come up absent.
It had been a grand day, by all accounts. The twelve
little hospitalized patients were doing well, and the fifty or so she and the nursing staff tended in the outpatient cubicle would all be fine in a day or two. Only three had required stitches. Much of what she saw could be attributed to vitamin deficiency, malnutrition, or accidental injury. But one symptom had her concerned.
Several youngsters had presented with stomach ills that seemed unlikely for dysentery, amoebic or otherwise, but presented a similar type of pain. Her questioning hadn’t been able to get to the bottom of the matter, except for one commonality among two of the small boys. They admitted to eating the leaves of a plant they couldn’t describe and didn’t remember where they’d found it.
She mulled over the problem and had to double back when she realized she’d passed the Annex room to which she and the children had been assigned. The moment she entered she heard Bobby’s gleeful laughter and grinned. With renewed energy, she sidestepped her way through the maze of beds until she reached their corner of the room. She was removing her white coat as she rounded the end of the bunkbed and stopped, startled by the little scene.
Carol and Bobby sat tucked as close as they could get beside a slender young woman who sat on Dorothy’s bed talking in an animated voice. Her auburn hair curled prettily around her youthful face. She was telling the children a story.
Dorothy cleared her throat and the girl jumped from the bed, clearly embarrassed to have been caught unawares.
“Mommy!”
The happy greeting was laced with ebullient smiles as Carol and Bobby jumped from the bed.
“Oh! Doctor Chambers! Hello!”
Carol and Bobby threw themselves at Dorothy, an energetic greeting to say the least.
“This is Jeanne, Mommy,” Carol said.
“She’s nice!” Bobby interrupted. “And she’s mine!”
“Hold on a minute, kiddos.” Dorothy dropped a kiss to both their heads and turned what she hoped wasn’t too disapproving an expression toward the young lady. “So you’re Jeanne, then?”
Courage in a White Coat Page 29