Hunt for the Bamboo Rat

by Graham Salisbury

  Return! Like he said he would.

  Unconsciously, a grin had formed on Zenji’s face. He caught himself and frowned.

  Now the woman stood waiting at the office door.

  Finally, the colonel snapped, “Nani shini kitanda?”

  The woman hadn’t understood.

  Zenji stepped in. “He wants to know what you’re here for.”

  “My husband …”

  She spoke English. And she was nervous.

  Zenji smiled. “Go on. I’ll translate for you.”

  “I want to see my husband. He’s in Muntinlupa Prison … they sent me here to get permission. Please, if you could only …”

  She stopped and looked down.

  “Let me see what I can do. Please, sit.”

  She sat, hands folded.

  Zenji approached the colonel’s desk. “Sir, this woman would like to visit her husband at the prison and needs your permission.”

  Colonel Fujimoto was in charge of the prison. It was one of his many duties, though he rarely visited the place himself. But he alone granted or denied all visitor passes. Zenji had seen every person who’d come in to request a visitation. There weren’t a lot, and the colonel found them an annoyance.

  “I’m too busy. Tell her no. Maybe in a week.”

  Zenji waited. He didn’t want to give her bad news.

  “Sir,” he said. “I can help her. Let me take that weight off your shoulders. You have so much to do.”

  Colonel Fujimoto looked up.

  “I’ll move her along, sir.”

  “Fine. Take care of it.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Colonel Fujimoto got a permission slip out of a drawer and handed it to Zenji. “Bring that back when you’re done and I’ll stamp it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Zenji returned to the woman and leaned close to speak low, in English. “Let’s find a place where we can talk.”

  Her eyes slid past Zenji toward the colonel.

  “Please,” Zenji whispered, motioning to an empty desk away from the colonel’s staff. They sat across from each other. People glanced up, but their eyes moved on.

  “Now”—Zenji pulled out the permission form—“your name.”

  “Isabel Navarro.”

  “Husband?”

  “Esteban Navarro.”

  “Why was he arrested?”

  This question was not on the form. Zenji hoped that maybe he was one of the Filipino guerrillas allied with the U.S.—the guerrillas who made life miserable for the Japanese. If he was, Zenji might be able to establish a contact through him.

  “A mistake. He is innocent.”

  “Innocent of what?”

  She wouldn’t say.

  Zenji glanced back at the colonel, still working at his desk, head down. “Listen. I might be able to help you if I knew why he’s in prison.”

  Mrs. Navarro said nothing.

  “You can trust me,” Zenji whispered.

  She looked at her hands, clasped on the table.

  Tell her, Zenji thought. What do you have to lose? “I’m an American prisoner. Forced to work here. You can trust me.”

  Zenji knew the question behind her narrowed eyes: American? You are Japanese. Do you think I’m stupid?

  He touched her hand. “I give you my word, I’m telling the truth. Why else would I speak English so well? I’m from Hawaii.”

  She was silent.

  “You have nothing to lose by telling me. The colonel already knows why he was arrested, not that he would ever tell me. But I might be able to help you.”

  Finally, she nodded and leaned close.

  She had a lot to say. Zenji was astonished that she was so trusting. What she revealed was dangerous, and courageous. The colonel, it seemed, had no idea what went on in the prison.

  Zenji stopped her in alarm. “Say nothing more. Not here. If they discover who your husband is they’ll hang him. Never tell anyone this again.”

  Mrs. Navarro froze, as if she’d just killed her husband.

  “No, no,” Zenji said, seeing her fear. “Don’t worry. I’m going to help you. I don’t know how, but I’ll figure it out.”

  What he’d learned was stunning.

  Mrs. Navarro’s husband was known as Nicodemo.

  Zenji had heard the staff mention him. Nicodemo was a leader in the Filipino guerrilla movement who had smuggled valuable information to the Americans. The Japanese wanted him dead.

  They had him and didn’t even know it.

  Zenji felt an instant kinship with this man.

  His fingers began to tremble. This news was extremely heavy. She’d told him her husband had been an electrician before the war, and at the prison that skill had made him useful, so he had not been treated poorly.

  Zenji’s mind raced.

  If he could get to the guerrillas, he could get to the Americans, and it might be possible for Nicodemo to smuggle information that could bring MacArthur back to Manila sooner rather than later.

  Zenji stood. “Please wait.”

  He took the permission form to the colonel and placed it on his desk. Without reading it, Fujimoto reached into the drawer, pulled out his official Han stamp, and thumped it down.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The colonel tossed the stamp back into the drawer and closed it. Zenji took the form to Mrs. Navarro.

  “I will escort you out,” he whispered.

  Zenji and Mrs. Navarro stood under a clear blue sky. You’d never know there was a war going on. The streets were jammed with people and cars—just as before Japanese occupation.

  They were lucky in Manila, Zenji thought, remembering the destruction on Corregidor.

  He made sure no one was watching or close enough to hear. They found a bench and sat. “Mrs. Navarro, do you think your husband would talk to me?”

  “Why?”

  “We have a similar purpose,” he said, low.

  That was almost more than he wanted to say.

  She shook her head. “He won’t say a word to you, a Japanese.”

  “American Japanese. I told you, I’m a captive.”

  “How do I know that?”

  “You just have to trust me, Mrs. Navarro.”

  She sat staring at the cars and bicycles going by. After a moment, she said, “I will see what I can do.”

  “I have an idea, a way to get you in to see your husband anytime you want.”

  She looked at him.

  He handed her the stamped permission form. “Next time I’d like to go with you.”

  She glanced around.

  Zenji couldn’t blame her. He’d be suspicious, too. Very suspicious.

  She walked away without looking back.

  In the office, Zenji thought about the pass he’d given Mrs. Navarro. It was just a mimeographed form. He could roll those off all day long. It was the colonel’s Han stamp that was important.

  His plot began to grow.

  A few days later he was alone in Colonel Fujimoto’s office translating a captured American military communiqué. It made little sense. Must be code.

  Even if he understood it he’d never give the colonel its real message. He’d provide a literal translation and let the colonel wrestle with its meaning.

  The colonel was due back shortly.

  Out in the open area only two clerks hunched over their desks, out of Zenji’s view. By now the staff paid little attention to him.

  Carrying the communiqué, Zenji faked a yawn and headed to the mimeograph machine, where a stack of prison permission slips sat on a shelf. He casually slipped some under the communiqué, and returned to his desk.

  Neither clerk looked up.

  He prayed the colonel was not on his way back.

  Ten seconds. That’s all he needed.

  Do it!

  He sprang over to the colonel’s desk, opened the drawer with the Han stamp, and in a moment of jittery exhilaration, stamped eight permission forms, stuffed them down his shirt, replace
d the stamp, and returned to his desk.

  His knees shook. Sweat rolled down his side.

  Focus.

  He gasped, startled when he heard the colonel’s voice. “Give it to me.”

  Zenji looked up.

  “The communiqué. You’ve translated it?”

  “Yes, sir.” He handed it over, sweat soaking the prison passes inside his shirt.

  Mrs. Navarro returned a few weeks later. Zenji jumped up to greet her before anyone else could, not that they would even notice her.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Navarro. How can we help you today?”

  She smiled. “I would like permission to visit my husband again.”

  “Certainly,” Zenji said. “Colonel Fujimoto is a generous man. Let’s fill out another permission form.”

  Mrs. Navarro sat at Zenji’s desk while he filled out the form. He took it to the colonel, who stamped it and waved Zenji away.

  At his desk, Zenji opened his drawer and placed the stamped form on top of the eight Han-stamped ones he’d hidden there. He fought to keep his fingers from shaking as he pushed the forms toward Mrs. Navarro, keeping one for himself just in case he needed it.

  Her breath caught.

  Zenji smiled.

  She quickly folded them and stood.

  As before, Zenji escorted her from the office.

  “May I join you in your visit?” he said low, looking straight ahead.

  “Yes.”

  Zenji stopped and turned to her. “Wait here, Mrs. Navarro. I need to ask permission to escort you.”

  “But—”

  “He will allow it. He’s relieved that I’ve taken on the business of dealing with the prison.”

  Zenji inquired and got another dismissive wave from Colonel Fujimoto.

  He left before the colonel had time to think about the access he’d just given to an American prisoner.

  He’s too good for war, Zenji thought.

  Too trusting.

  Not that the Bamboo Rat was complaining.

  Esteban Navarro would not look at Zenji.

  His wife motioned for them to move away from the guards, who were lounging on folding chairs near the barred entrance. Seven other men sat with visitors at picnic tables scattered around the caged visiting area.

  Lazy guards.

  Good.

  They’d been half-asleep at the prison entry shack, too. Heat and humidity did that to you.

  If Colonel Fujimoto knew how lazy his guards were, he’d double their number, at least.

  They sat at a table.

  Finally, Esteban gave Zenji a look that could peel paint off a house. “I regret allowing this meeting,” he whispered.

  “He just wants to talk to you, Esteban.”

  “Of course he does. They’re always trying to get me to confess to things I have not done. I’m innocent!”

  Zenji knew that bit was for him.

  “Esteban, I told you. He’s American.”

  “She’s right,” Zenji said, low. “From Honolulu. And I know that you are Nicodemo.”

  Navarro’s face turned bright red. Veins thickened in his neck and the knuckles in his fists turned white.

  Mrs. Navarro didn’t flinch.

  Zenji whispered, “If I was one of them would you still be here? I would have taken the glory of turning you in and you’d be in a box under six feet of dirt. We fight on the same side, Mr. Navarro.”

  Navarro glanced toward the lazy guards, then at his wife.

  She nodded, eyes unwavering.

  Navarro crossed his arms and sat back. “If you lie, you will die.”

  “I understand.”

  Zenji checked the guards. Probably think I’m a Japanese official.

  “My wife says you work for Fujimoto,” Navarro said. “Why? If you are who you say you are.”

  “I’m a prisoner. They use me to interpret. But they have gotten lazy, and I have freedoms that I shouldn’t have. I’ve convinced them that I’m a civilian with little interest in the war. They are mildly suspicious, but not vigilant.”

  “He helped me, Esteban,” Mrs. Navarro said. “Look.” She quickly showed him the eight folded permission slips. “He stole Fujimoto’s stamp.”

  She hid the slips again.

  “What do you have to lose by trusting me?” Zenji pleaded. “You’re already in prison. If I was going to turn you in, I would have done it already. What more can they do?”

  “Execute me.”

  “And me, if this plan is discovered.”

  “What plan?”

  Yes, what plan? At first Zenji had only wanted to get information out by way of the guerrillas. But after seeing the careless security, and how the guards treated him as though he was a person of authority, another plan was brewing.

  Zenji leaned close. “You still have men on the outside?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You want to get out?”

  Navarro grunted.

  “I think I can help.”

  Navarro slid his gaze over Zenji’s shoulder at the guards. “Go on.”

  Zenji rubbed his chin. A plan was growing, so audacious it made his stomach flutter. “Can you get me five men? On the outside … Filipinos who look Japanese?”

  “Possibly.”

  “You’re an electrician?”

  “I keep the lights on.”

  “Is it possible for you to shut this place down at night? Cut the power?”

  “Poof,” Esteban said.

  The guards stood. Visiting time was up.

  Zenji whispered, “Can your guys on the outside get some Japanese uniforms? Without blood on them?”

  For the first time, Esteban Navarro smiled.

  Zenji quickly told him his plan.

  It took more than a month to get everything in place.

  With Mrs. Navarro as his guide, Zenji met quietly with five nervous men in a secluded area of a nearby park. Without her, Zenji never would have gotten near these men.

  Each man had a part in Zenji’s plan. He smiled, thinking how easily they could pass for Japanese soldiers.

  “We have only one shot,” Zenji said. “And if we fail it won’t go well for any of us.”

  “We will die to get Nicodemo out,” one man said.

  Esteban’s wife frowned. “No one dies.”

  Zenji nodded. “I’m counting on that, Mrs. Navarro.”

  The most important piece in Zenji’s plan was also the most dangerous to acquire: a red sash, signifying Officer of the Day status.

  He knew where he could find one: in a supply room on the floor above Fujimoto’s office. He prayed that there would be a few of them so that one would not be missed.

  Without the sash the plan wouldn’t work.

  Zenji had been sent to the supply room long ago to obtain unmarked military clothing for himself, which he wore whenever making deliveries outside the building.

  But the stern clerk who manned the supply room was fussy about every item.

  Zenji steeled himself for what he was about to do. If he failed it could be the end of his freedom.

  He left the office as if to head to the restroom, and ran up the stairs.

  The supply-room clerk sat at his gray metal desk, his pencil perfectly aligned with the edge, six inches in. “Yes?”

  “I need a new pair of pants,” Zenji said. “I spilled ink on my only pair. Can’t get the stain out.”

  “Bring them to me.”

  “I can’t. I gave them to a beggar on the street.”

  For a moment the clerk was speechless. “Those pants did not belong to you.”

  Zenji nodded. “I will pay for them.”

  “You certainly will.” The clerk stood. “Size?”

  “Twenty-eight-inch waist, thirty-one-inch length.”

  They passed through a maze of metal shelving to get to the uniforms. Zenji saw the sashes on a shelf. Grab one now!

  But the clerk kept glancing back at him.

  Zenji passed by the sashes.

&nbs
p; The clerk pulled a pair of pants from a stack. Zenji held them to his waist and nodded. “Perfect.”

  The clerk headed back to the front.

  The red sashes leaped out at Zenji as he approached them again. Sweat broke out over his scalp.

  The clerk glanced back. “Come on, come on.”

  The second the clerk turned, Zenji grabbed a sash and stuffed it inside his shirt. His hands were shaking so bad he had to put them in his pockets and carry the pants under his arm.

  The clerk turned back and held out his hand.

  Zenji nearly fainted.

  “Pay me. For the pants you gave away.”

  Zenji fumbled some cash out. “That enough?”

  The clerk gathered it up and put it in his drawer without counting it.

  Zenji was certain that he’d overpaid. He hoped he had. The clerk would probably pocket the extra cash, and a guilty clerk would keep his mouth shut.

  “Go,” the clerk said.

  Back on his floor, Zenji hid in the bathroom until he could stop shaking.

  On the evening his plan was to go down, Zenji lay sweating on his mattress in the dark. Sleep was impossible, not that he’d even considered it.

  Just past midnight he got up and peeked down the hall. Colonel Fujimoto slept on the floor above, and never showed his face before six in the morning.

  But what about Ting?

  Zenji dressed quickly in civilian clothes.

  From under his mattress, he pulled out the neatly folded Japanese uniform he’d stolen from the colonel’s collection. Zenji would have it back in the closet before anyone noticed it was gone.

  He’d also stolen an officer’s insignia and a pin to make the uniform look official. With the red sash, no one would question him.

  He bundled everything under his arm and peeked down the hall.

  Clear.

  Holding his breath, Zenji crept out into the night.

  The five guerrillas were waiting in the bushes in regular Japanese army uniforms. Zenji inspected them for blood and knife holes.

  Clean.

  He quickly changed into his uniform and hid his clothes in the bushes. “The others in place?”

  The men nodded.

  “Let’s go.”

  They headed out.