He said, “They’re not safe.”
“Take me to Yumi. Toshiwara stayed with her last night. We’ll see what she knows.”
Kenji left the window. He held the curtain aside for Carmen to step into the hall. She slowed, letting him walk in front.
They passed the landing. Papa sat at the desk, marking in a ledger. On the board behind him, the wooden tags for Yumi and Songu had been turned to their blank sides. The old man kept his eyes down.
Kenji rapped on Yumi’s doorframe before leading Carmen under the curtain. The Korean girl’s room was stuffed with pillows, a cane rocking chair, a silk lampshade, drapes for her window, even books. Yumi sat cross-legged on a cushion against the wall. She wore her emerald haori. Carmen smelled the musk from between the tiny girl’s legs. Yumi had not yet cleaned herself.
A plum bruise discolored one cheek.
“Who did this?” Carmen asked, rushing to the girl. She motioned Kenji closer. Yumi blinked and brought her gaze to Carmen, as if in that moment she noticed the two in the room with her.
Kenji asked in Japanese. Yumi replied, her manner flat, distant. Kenji translated.
“Someone. All of them. She doesn’t recall.”
Yumi smiled. The ruined cheek hurt, she dabbed it with fingertips. She spoke more. Kenji folded to the floor beside her. Carmen kept to her feet, uncomfortable and growing frightened. Kenji interpreted.
“This morning, Toshiwara said he’s going to take her away, now that the Americans are on Luzon. He said he will send for her soon, in a matter of days.” Kenji paused for the girl to continue. “She knows you won’t leave the camp, so she didn’t ask if you could come. She hopes you’re not angry.”
“No.”
The girl spoke more.
“She told many soldiers today that she would live. They hit her for saying this. She was glad to be struck, it meant she was right. She will live, they will die fighting the Americans, and they knew it.”
Carmen backed a short step away from Yumi. “Is this what you wanted to tell me?”
Yumi rattled her head, a strand of dark hair caught on her lip. She addressed Kenji. The tall boy interpreted.
“She says she’s afraid to talk about it in front of me. I’m a Japanese soldier.”
“Tell her you’re a friend.”
Kenji spoke to Yumi. When he was done, the girl considered him for a long moment before reaching for his hand. She pressed the back of it to her purpled cheek.
Carmen asked, “What did you say?”
Kenji waited until Yumi released him. The tiny girl beamed at Carmen.
“I told her I know you work with the guerrillas. And that I love you.”
Truth was prohibited to Carmen. All day long, with the short minutes between soldiers, she’d searched for Tal. She did not see him or Remy, not even at the afternoon roll call. They were gone, they’d left her. Yumi had Toshiwara to protect her. Carmen and Tal had each other, they’d dreamed of that even before they’d spoken. But until she saw Tal again, Kenji would have to be her guardian. She had no choice.
With quiet shame for the deceit, she laid a hand on Kenji’s shoulder.
She asked Yumi, “What is going to happen? Why is Toshiwara taking you away?”
Kenji stood when she was done with her reply. The dying light darkened Yumi’s other cheek and her bare legs.
“Toshiwara has received orders,” Kenji said.
“For what?”
“To kill every internee in the camp.”
Massacre, Carmen thought. Finally it comes to Los Baños.
She did not shudder, because death, too, would be an end to this.
“Kenji-sama, go. Find out whatever you can. Then come tell me.”
“I’d like to stay a little longer. Can I sit with you in your room?”
“I have to get in touch with the guerrillas. Please.”
Carmen smoothed a hand over Yumi’s head, wishing away the demons there. She followed Kenji out of her room. On the landing, Papa did not acknowledge either of them. Kenji turned for the stairs. She headed down her hall.
In her room, Carmen dumped the crimson water out the window. She set the basin upside down in the hall. Returning to her window, she sought Tal in the last streaks of dusk. One by one, lanterns lit the somber camp, in the guard towers, at the gates, along the fence. In the boy’s barracks, she imagined his empty bunk. She looked far to the west, past Makiling, into the black jungle. He was with the guerrillas, he had to be. He’d taken Remy with him, out of the path of the killing.
She could go, too. Kenji would take her out of the camp. Why stay?
Because the boy would come back.
~ * ~
Chapter Thirty-one
R
EMY JERKED awake at the crack of a rifle shot. The side of his neck sizzled. He clapped a hand over the burning spot and thrust himself off the floor of the banca.
Eduardo, the smallest of the guerrillas, stood in the bow, rifle raised. Remy cast about madly for sight of a Japanese patrol on the vast bay. His heart pounded. Had they been spotted?
The morning horizon rippled in the wind. The bay lay empty of enemies. A hot, spent cartridge tumbled off his chest, ringing when it bounced on the wooden deck floor. This had landed on his neck, scalding him.
Remy’s gut eased, prickles of adrenaline faded in his limbs. The boy in the bow lowered the rifle. Remy threw the warm brass at his back.
“Eduardo, what the hell!”
The boy ignored him, pointing ahead. Young Bayani, the leader, shoved the tiller to steer the boat where Eduardo indicated. The boy leaned out to scoop up a dead duck.
In thirty minutes, the bird was plucked and grilled on a charcoal brazier in the stern. Bayani smeared melted fat on Remy’s throat to treat the burn. The four guerrillas and Remy tore the meat with their hands and ate well. The sails billowed ahead of a steady stern breeze while the banca plowed northwest. Miles off, a Japanese patrol boat appeared but kept its distance and Remy did not have to slink into the stinking fish hold. Far behind, another banca plied the same winds.
They made landfall at noon. Bayani guided the boat into the rocky shallows of a vacant shore. They tied a bow line to a tree and abandoned the banca. The guerrillas scrambled up a bank wooded with wild banyans and palms, using their bolos to chop through the scrub. The boys were tough, as hard in purpose as they were in the soles of their feet.
Remy traveled in the middle of the four. The pair in front traded places with the two in back as they wore down from blazing the trail. Remy made more of a stir walking than the Filipino did hacking at branches and leaves. Bayani put fingers beside his black eyes and pulled to slant his sockets, an impression of a Japanese face. They were not out of enemy territory yet.
The jungle did not relent. Remy hardly caught sight of the sky behind the dense green canopy. Entering a thick copse, a jade snake fell on him, startled by their passing or in an ambush attempt. Remy jumped, shouting, and shook it off. He suffered muted laughter from the boys when Eduardo let the snake wrap itself around his own skinny arm.
They continued into the bush. Remy, padding more vigilantly now, thought about the tenth game of solitaire he played, the one he would have lost had he not interfered. The rifle shot in the boat, the snake dropped on his shoulder—these were just his lousy luck taunting him. He wondered when it would assert itself fully.
After another hour of carving through the forest, Remy sweat through his clothes. The Filipinos cut into cane stalks to sip the liquid inside. Remy’s strength began to wane, he considered asking for a rest. Tal, he thought, would still be going strong right now. But he’d be here, in the enemy’s jungle instead of safe with the guerrillas at Nanhaya. Even though Bayani had done a good job dodging danger, they weren’t out of it. Tal had made it clear in many ways, he was eager to swap with Remy, become the master and the man. That was fine, but no father sends his son into peril when he can go himself.
At the rear, the two Filipinos whistled. R
emy froze. The pair of guerrillas in front stopped swinging their long knives.
Behind them on the trail, the rustle of footsteps, of someone following, instantly quit.
Before Remy could take a stride into the bush, the four guerrillas disappeared. He moved as silently as he could off the path, found a fat trunk, and crouched. He tried to hold his breath to hear better what was coming, to sense where Bayani and the others were, but could not. He had no weapon. Stupid, he thought. Maybe fatal. The path and the jungle kept silent. Here it comes, Remy thought, the tenth game.
“Hi ya, pal.”
Remy erupted at the voice beside his ear, flailing blindly in a crazed effort to fight it off. He collapsed to his backside, kicking, scrambling backward until he saw a rumpled U.S. Army uniform and a steel pot helmet on a hulking soldier squatting in the weeds.
“Don’t have a heart attack,” the soldier said.
Remy clapped a hand over his breast as if he might do exactly that. His heart hammered at his rib cage.
“Son of a bitch,” he wheezed. “Where the hell’d you come from?”
“I started out a couple hours behind you. Bayani and his boys are good.” The soldier, a lieutenant, shrugged to imply he was better.
The man stood to his full height. He was short and barrel-chested, with powerful wrists and heavy black brows, in need of a shave. His skin bore a carroty color. He reached to give Remy a lift off the ground.
Remy let the hand hover, still angry from the fright.
“What’s your name?”
“Kraft.”
“Why’re you orange, Kraft?”
“Atabrine. They give it to us to keep malaria off. Turns your skin. C’mon, get up.”
Remy was hoisted to his feet. He had the lieutenant beaten by two inches but figured he weighed just over half.
Kraft led him back to the trail. Bayani and the others waited there, bolos sheathed. Kraft shook hands, clapping the Filipinos on the shoulder. He dug into his pack for Hershey bars.
“American chocolate,” said Bayani. “Thank you.”
“Whoa,” said Remy. “You speak English?”
“Of course.”
“This whole time. Why didn’t you?”
“It kept you quiet.”
Kraft cocked his head. Bayani, candy in hand, turned his bolo again to the uncut bush, pushing onward.
“We’re not far from our lines,” said Kraft. “Half a mile.”
“I’m not sure I could make it much farther. What’s your unit, Lieutenant?”
“Eleventh Airborne Recon Platoon.”
“Sneak.”
“Absolutely. Can I ask you a question?”
“Go easy. My heart’s still in my throat.”
“Sorry about that.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Okay. I’m not. Let a guy have some fun. Anyway, I’m surprised to see you here. I was told your boy would be on this trip.”
“He knows the camp, but I made a father’s decision and took his place.”
“I bet the kid’s pissed.”
“You’d win that bet. Where you comin’ from?”
“Los Baños. Checking out the area around the camp, getting the lay of the land.”
Remy marveled at the thought of this bulky soldier creeping around the fence invisibly, skulking in the ravine and creek.
“What do you think?”
“I think getting everybody out is going to be tough. A lot has to go right. I got a question to ask you.”
“All right.”
“You have any idea how long the camp’s got?”
“No way to tell. Hours, days. You saw the pit?”
“Yeah. I don’t like it.”
“You gotta figure the guards are gonna use it at some point. The Japs haven t released one prisoner in the Philippines. Los Baños isn’t gonna be the first.”
“Then let’s get ‘em out.”
Soon, Bayani quit hewing at the green veil in his way. He lowered the bolo to step into the clear. Remy, Kraft, and the guerrillas emerged onto the shoulder of a paved road. For the first time since entering the jungle, Remy noticed the drumbeat of bursts from Manila, miles north.
They walked along the roadway. The tarmac surface had been badly chewed by tracked vehicles. Craters of charred dirt pocked the road and surrounding fields. Every structure had suffered damage, even farm buildings and sawali huts lay in ruin. The fighting here had been intense and blackening. The sorry landscape was deserted.
A jeep with a white star on its hood proved they were beyond Japanese lines. The vehicle weaved over the poor roadway. Kraft moved to the center of the road to commandeer it.
“Climb on, fellas.”
Remy and the four guerrillas crowded into the back of the jeep. Remy removed his fedora to wipe his brow. The driver gaped.
“You an American?”
Remy nodded, exhausted.
“Damn, buddy,” the driver said. “How’d you get so skinny?”
Kraft sauntered around to the driver’s side. “Move over,” he told the private, “and shut up.”
~ * ~
The jeep stopped in front of the villa. Bayani and his guerrillas piled out of the back. Remy drew his first full breath after the bouncy three-mile ride. Bayani wished Remy luck and handed over Bascom’s map. He got refused by Kraft for more chocolate, then led his boys away to ferret out a meal from the hundreds of American soldiers going every direction.
Remy had forgotten what well-fed men looked like. Bronzed from the atabrine, every one of the Americans touted a full face, flush chest, and solid legs that carried them under backpacks, weapons, furniture, even sheaves of paper that were hurried up or down the steps of the Spanish mansion.
He climbed out of the jeep feeling shrimpy and old. The soldiers were in their teens and twenties; even the burly Kraft couldn’t have been past thirty. Remy couldn’t match the energy around him, couldn’t begin to remember what it felt like to move with such muscle and verve. He felt the urge to explain himself to Kraft or any of the soldiers eyeing him, that he’d been cooped up in a camp for three years, and that’s why he wasn’t in uniform. Remy had given his young father to the first war, and he’d watched his son beaten, so he’d paid something, he’d anted up in this game.
Kraft put a hand in the middle of Remy’s back.
“You okay, Tuck?”
“Yeah, yeah. Just tired.”
“Sure you are. C’mon, a little farther to go.”
Kraft led the way into the villa. The interior was as opulent as MacArthur’s suite at the Hotel Manila. Marble floors, wrought-iron rails, wood paneling, ornate chandeliers—this house had probably remained intact because the Japanese had done what the U.S. Army was doing now, installed a headquarters here. Remy followed the lieutenant down a tiled hall, past men working radios, rooms where young officers at desks received and sent messengers, and men smoking, poring over maps pinned to walls.
“Kraft.”
“Yeah.”
“Get me a cigarette.”
The lieutenant stopped a captain in the hallway. He got a smoke for Remy. The captain lit it from his Zippo.
“Gimme a minute.” Remy moved to the wall, out of the way.
He leaned as soldiers bustled past. He was safe, fifteen miles from Los Baños, surrounded by an army. Remy had to absorb this, had to let go of his hunger and fear. The cigarette on his tongue was delicious. He let it make him happy for a few seconds until he ground it under his sandal. Like Kraft said, there was farther to go.
“Hey, Kraft. You know Romeo, the guerrilla?”
“He’s PQOG. We got a signalman with him.”
“My son’s there. Get a message to him that I made it. Can you do that?”
“First thing.”
“Now.”
“Sure. C’mon, let’s get you in front of Major Willcox.”
Remy followed Kraft to what was once the formal dining room of the villa. Ceiling fans rotated over a wide, polished
table covered with papers and maps. French doors opened onto a veranda and the neglected remnants of a garden overgrown by pigweed, sawali, and volunteer trees. A lithe young officer with thinning hair leaned over the table, palms flat on a large map. Like Kraft, his skin held the baked hue from the atabrine.
Broken Jewel - [World War II 05] Page 30