When the Elephants Dance

by Tess Uriza Holthe

  “Why would I do that? I’m not stupid.” Roderick glares at me.

  “Roderick,” I say. I look toward the soldiers. My feet refuse to go farther.

  “Come, come.” A Japanese soldier waves to us. His palm faces downward, as if he were swatting a fly.

  I nudge Roderick forward and he shoves back at me.

  “Nem,” the man barks at Roderick.

  “Roderick Karangalan,” my brother answers.

  “You.” The man points at me.

  I stare for a moment at the accusing finger. “Alejandro Karangalan.”

  “Where go? You have guerrilla friends?”

  I shake my head.

  “You deliver something? That. What that?” He motions to our basket. I place the cigarettes on a folding table.

  The soldier stabs a pack with his bayonet and opens it. “You send message in here?” He squints at Roderick. “Ha?”

  “No,” Roderick answers. His eyes are fixed on the man’s shirt.

  “You, where is message?”

  “No message,” I answer.

  The soldier slaps me on the head. I grit my teeth and stand still. My eyes water, and it angers me. From behind the soldier a Filipino approaches, a Makapili. He does not wear a mask, as the others. He is thin, with long hair that smells of old pomade. He stands before us, folds his arms, and smiles. He pushes the boxes aside, inspecting the different brands that I have collected. The Makapili picks one, opens the package, and places a cigarette in his mouth. I count two ruined boxes.

  Roderick lifts his head sharply and stares at the man. I can see the small muscles of his jaw.

  “Ikáw,” the man says to Roderick. You. “Who do you think you are, staring at me like that? Come with me.”

  He reaches for Rod, but I put a hand on my brother’s shoulder. “I am the eldest.”

  The man snorts and lights a match, watching me. “You know the name Domingo Matapang?”

  “No,” I answer.

  “He is a guerrilla leader. You know him.” The man nods.

  I shake my head. “I do not know that name.”

  “He is this tall. Is he not?” The man raises his hand higher than his own head. “What does he look like? Tell me, and I will instruct them to let you go.”

  “I do not know this man. How can I tell you what he looks like?”

  “He lives north of here, in Bulacan.” The Makapili points downward insistently. “You are from Bulacan.”

  “Quiapo,” I lie, holding his gaze.

  The Makapili blows a stream of smoke into my eyes. “How could you not know him? Suddenly everyone here is a stranger? No one knows anyone? Where does he hide?” The Makapili blows smoke upward and glances at Roderick, then back to me.

  “I do not know this man.” My throat tightens and my voice sounds weak.

  “Liar.” He puts his face close to mine. His teeth are yellow. “Liar,” he says again, and slaps me harder than the Japanese did.

  I taste blood inside my mouth. It streams down to my shirt. I bring my fingers to my lips and hold my hand there.

  “Puta ang iná mo!” Roderick yells—Your mother is a whore!—and shoves at the man’s stomach with all his might.

  “Rod!” I shout.

  It is silent. The Makapili tries to smooth his face. In his eyes is a look of furious disbelief. The Japanese study my brother. I stare at the sharp bayonets, unable to breathe. My chest folds inward and I glance quickly at all the faces. A soldier begins to laugh, and the others join him. They throw their heads back and laugh from the belly.

  The Makapili moves toward Roderick, who has his fists up. I step forward, but the Japanese soldier puts out a hand and waves us on. “Go.”

  Roderick’s tears are streaming. He reaches for the cigarettes, but the Makapili blocks him with a rifle. “I will keep these.”

  “Our father is sick. I need the cigarillos to trade for quinine,” I tell him. I memorize the Makapili’s face.

  “What? What?” The Japanese slants his head.

  “Quinine. I need these to trade. My father is sick,” I repeat, trying to keep the anger from my voice.

  “Leave here,” the Japanese tells me. He turns and barks something to one of the soldiers. The soldier returns with a glass container the size of my little finger. “Take medicine. Go. You take.”

  I look at them suspiciously. They nudge one another. I give the basket of cigarettes one last look, then urge Roderick away.

  They watch as we go. When we are down the road, Rod raises his arm and wipes his eyes. “They do not even know what Domingo looks like.”

  “Shh. Do not speak his name, even at this distance.”

  “Is that any good, you think?” He nods toward my fist.

  “I don’t know,” I answer. I throw the container far into a ditch. It makes no sound as it lands. A hundred flies lift in the shape of a fishing net and settle again.

  We hurry back, cutting closer into the heart of the city, ducking from building to building. The sounds of gunfire rattle like a drumbeat. We keep our eyes up for snipers. We are almost at the end of the street when we hear running footsteps, and suddenly my chest is hit by a force. A body has collided with us, and we tumble. My head hits the stone floor, and I feel it swell immediately. Roderick moans nearby, and I call out his name.

  “Kuya?” he says groggily. Big brother?

  I look around in confusion. There is a boy crumpled next to us. His face is dripping with sweat. There is blood on his cheeks, and his neck is covered in red. His shirt is soaked and sticks to his body. I recognize his eyes, and then the face becomes familiar. It is Necessito Aguinaldo, an older classmate.

  “Nesto, you have been hit.” I point to where the blood is darkest, near his belly.

  He looks down at his shirt in surprise, then shakes violently. “No. Give me your shirt.”

  “What?” I ask.

  “You have two,” he says, breathing hard.

  “He hit his head too hard.” Roderick watches Necessito.

  Nesto shakes his head. “Alejandro, give me your shirt. They are coming for me. I am not bleeding. It is not my blood. He has hurt my family for the last time.”

  “Who has hurt you?” I ask.

  “Give me your shirt.” He tugs at my sleeve.

  I am wearing two shirts, one short-sleeved over one with longer sleeves. “Hurry, Alejandro.” He stomps his foot and pulls off his bloody shirt. There are tears in his voice.

  I give him a shirt, and he pulls it quickly over his head. He looks around fearfully. His eyes fill with tears.

  “Here they come. Here they come. Oh, my God! Run!” Nesto shouts. The sound of many feet pound the cobblestone. Nesto turns and runs in the opposite direction.

  We watch him flee. My body shakes for him. He does not get far. There is another barricade at the end of the street. The Japanese soldiers hold up their hands, gesturing for him to halt.

  I urge my brother away. “There is nothing more we can do.” I watch as Nesto walks toward them. He drags his feet. Run. Run, my mind calls out to him. Nesto becomes like an old dog, obedient and timid. He nods at something that the soldiers have said and bows his head.

  “What will they do?” Roderick asks.

  “Let us not wait to find out. We must tell his mother.”

  “You know where to find her?”

  He is right. I would not know where to look. All the houses now belong to the Japanese.

  We turn to go, but more soldiers approach. They come in groups of three and four, pressing near, with angry faces, pushing other captives forward. Filipino men and boys are herded into a circle. A soldier motions for my brother and me to join.

  I shake my head. “We have done nothing. We are on our way home.”

  “No speak. Join others.” The soldier points.

  Roderick looks at me. I gesture with my chin. We move into their circle.

  A soldier announces in a loud voice, “Say who has committed crime, and all can go.”

&nbs
p; Roderick stares at my shirt with horror.

  “What?” I follow his gaze, and the breath is stolen from my chest. My hands and the edges of my shirt are stained with blood from my contact with Nesto. My body begins to tremble. I stuff my hands into my pockets and press myself close to the others.

  We are gathered and then separated into three large trucks used to transport the farm animals. These trucks, like most of the houses, have been commandeered from the citizens. Each bed carries ten people standing. There are tall wooden boards on each side and a short gate at the rear. Nesto is placed in a different one from ours. When our convoy starts, everyone speaks. I spit on my hands to clean the blood from my body. Roderick spits directly on my neck and rubs as hard as he can. We are like pigs headed for the market.

  “What is it? What is happening?” someone demands.

  “A murder, one of their officers,” a voice answers without emotion. “As always, they are looking for someone to blame. Hundreds of us dying at their hands. One of theirs is slain …” The voice laughs bitterly. “And suddenly it is murder.”

  I know that voice. I squint my eyes at the sound of it. Roderick cranes his neck. I curl my lip in warning, and he stares immediately at the ground. The wagon finds a hole and plunges to the left. We fly to one side, pressed against one another like canned fish. I look in the direction of the voice and catch a glimpse of Domingo Matapang.

  I have not seen him since he left our house four days ago. His wife, Ate Lorna, stayed behind with us. She has not been able to sleep. She calls out for him in her dreams at night. Domingo looks at me. There are purple rings under his eyes. He lifts his chin in greeting. The wagon rights itself, and his face disappears in the sea of filthy clothes and frightened faces. The wagon reeks of sweat and unwashed bodies. Already the day has warmed considerably. Roderick bares his teeth and crosses his eyes. His nose is pressed directly into a man’s armpit. I laugh so hard from fear that my teeth chatter.

  We are driven farther south to Fort McKinley, to the rear of the barracks where there is a field surrounded by trees. The heat is suffocating and the sky threatens rain. Gray cottonball clouds press together against the blue. The sounds of shelling explode like distant thunder. The gates of the wagons are thrown open, and the soldiers wait at the end with rifles. They pull us down roughly. We look around in confusion.

  They place Domingo directly to my right, but he does not acknowledge me. We are made to stand side by side in three rows. There are fewer than thirty of us. Nesto is shoved in front of me. He glances at me, and in that short meeting his eyes are pleading. I look to see if Roderick has noticed Nesto. I look to my left, then forward to the other two rows. I count the bodies lined next to me. My heart begins to dance. I do not see my brother.

  “Stop that,” Domingo says from the corner of his mouth.

  I take a deep breath and force myself to look straight ahead.

  He speaks softly, so softly that I almost do not hear it. His voice rides like a feather caught in the wind. “Say nothing.”

  My mind races. When did I lose sight of Roderick? When did we last speak? Was he in the truck that last moment before we stopped? Is he in those groupings of trees? Did a soldier pull him away? Was he taken to one of the concrete buildings? What will I tell Father? Maybe he has escaped. Think. Think. Maybe he is dead.

  The first two lines have been separated. I watch as they walk Nesto’s row away. He follows with head bowed.

  At the far end of the field is a thick wooden fence. It stands twelve feet tall, with each cylindrical post at least eight inches in diameter and ending in spear-shaped points. There are two heavy beams that cross horizontally near the top and at the bottom. The first captive is led to the fence. His eyes are large. I feel his terror. I cannot catch my breath.

  “Please, sir. I did nothing wrong. What have I done?” His eyes swell with tears.

  “Silence.”

  They make the captive stand with his back to the fence. They take his arms and spread them wide. Each soldier holds a length of rusted wire that they wrap around the captive’s thumbs. We watch, curious of what comes next. The soldiers stand on tiptoes and tie the other end of the wires to the top beam, forcing the captive to stand on his toes as well. He shouts in pain, and the legs of his trousers leak. The soldiers jump away in anger. They stare at him with disgust. They take the next man and do the same. I feel a weight on my chest.

  Are we to be set on fire? A firing squad? I will not cry. My breathing comes fast, though I try to slow it. They lead Domingo to the fence, and I am left to stand alone. My legs grow weak. I feel dizzy, and the sky becomes the ground.

  The soldiers approach. I hold my chin up, though my head is shaking. A soldier points to the blood on my shirt. Soon there are six soldiers gathered around me.

  One of the soldiers speaks good English. He is called Tanaka.

  “Where did you get blood?” Tanaka asks.

  “I was hit,” I answer. “At the checkpoint.”

  “You were not hit,” he responds, watching my eyes. He calls out in Japanese and a soldier runs forward, carrying a great samurai sword in a beautiful gold-and-emerald scabbard. There are two attachments on the scabbard for carrying and a small length of leather tied on the handle. He pulls the blade from its sheath, and the sound rings in my ears and hums in my chest. I stare at the sword with fearful admiration. It has a wide curve with written carvings and a fiery dragon on the blade and a golden hilt. Tanaka holds the butt of the sword to me. I look up at him.

  “Take it,” he orders, watching me carefully.

  I take the large handle with both hands. It is too heavy. The blade immediately drops to the dirt. The soldiers shout at me for my clumsiness.

  “Show me how you killed my comrade.”

  “Wh-what?” I stammer. My stomach cramps at his words.

  “Show me how you sliced neck!” Tanaka shouts in my ear.

  I drop the sword and hold my belly.

  “There is two of you. Where is other?”

  I shake my head.

  “Send for Yoshido,” Tanaka instructs.

  A soldier approaches and they make way for him. It is the soldier from the checkpoint, the one who stabbed our cigarettes with his blade. He looks at me with boredom. He grabs my face with one hand and turns it from side to side. He studies the blood on my shirt. He squints his eyes.

  “I hit him. He not give where of Domingo, the guerrilla,” Yoshido explains.

  Tanaka is not convinced. He looks at me in a suspicious way.

  “Tie him,” he orders. He watches as I am strung with the wires. There are sharp edges in various parts; they slice through my skin and make me gasp, then scream. I feel the spit rise in my throat. A rifle is shoved into my belly and the air closes up. When I catch my breath, the bile surges up my throat and I vomit. It is left to dry on my chin and chest. I am so ashamed. I cannot stop my tears.

  They have tied us so that we stand on the tips of our toes. I am too short, so they have placed wooden logs under my feet. My toes scramble to find balance on the logs. If I stand still, the wires do not cut deeper. I struggle to find a comfortable position, but there is none. The Japanese stand back to inspect their work.

  I can feel my heart beat in my thumbs. I try not to move. Please, God, set us free. My body shakes.

  The soldiers retreat into the shade of the trees to watch us. They sit with their backs to the trunks, legs spread open, bent at the knees. I do not understand why they still wear the long boots in this heat. They pass a container of water among them and wipe their mouths on their sleeves. I try not to look, but I cannot help watching the container as it is passed from hand to hand.

  It is the dry season for the Philippines. Each time I swallow, my throat feels as if I am swallowing one of the pointed sticks Papa threads the chicken meat with. The leather necklace of the Virgin Mary Mama has tied around my neck is broken and dangling. The small cloth picture of the Virgin, with its felt green edges, is stuck to my skin from swe
at. My body moves, though I try to keep still. It is difficult to breathe.

  After an hour I moan, “Let me down.” My rubber slippers have fallen off and lie on the ground. I take a deep breath and push on the tips of my toes to take the weight off my shoulders and arms. I do this until my legs shake beneath me and I see small stars dance around my eyes. The movement causes the logs beneath me to fall away and I lose my balance. I jerk painfully, and the wires slice through my skin. I hang only by my thumbs. The pain is so blinding, I cannot shout at first.

  “My hands. Please. It hurts,” I call out, but my tongue is thick and swollen. It crowds and pushes against my teeth. They watch me with stone faces. Soon, all that can be heard is my blubbering. Finally, a soldier bends and replaces the logs beneath my feet. I cry for a long time.

  Tanaka studies us. He walks with chin raised. “A great tragedy was committed today. My comrade, Lieutenant Colonel Ono Higoshi, was stabbed by his own sword. I do not believe that all here committed crime. Two, maybe three of you.” He holds up two fingers and eyes me strongly. “Your choice. Die honorably, accept guilt, or all suffer and die with you.” He looks at me again.

  The other captives begin to crane their necks at me. Die honorably.

  Tanaka waits with his hands on his hips. He moves his weight from one foot to the other. He shakes his head. “Bring other boy.”

  I struggle to see whom they bring. They drag Nesto forward. He is wearing my shirt, and though there is no blood on it, his hands and neck are red.

  Tanaka has been watching me. “One man could kill with the sword. Or maybe two boys, ha?” His eyes are sharp. “Do you accept responsibility, or let others die?”

  I remain quiet.

  Tanaka shakes his head in anger and points to Nesto. “Put this one next to him. Maybe they talk, accept guilt.”

  Nesto is silent when they raise him beside me. He wears a look of defeat.

  “Boy,” a captive calls to me. “Boy.” His voice is insistent, angry.

  I look over at him.

  “I have a wife. I have a daughter. Please, accept your actions. Take the blame for what you have done. Perhaps they will be lenient with you.”

  I turn away from him. Nesto hangs with his head bowed. I pity him and I hate him for not speaking.