The soldiers stop to listen. Any moment now they will find our hiding place. I give Domingo one last look and run out into the clearing. The soldiers see me turn around, but they do not know where I have come from. They think only that I was walking and stumbled across them.
“Young girl, daraga, daraga.” A Japanese soldier smiles, trying to say the Tagalog word for “young girl,” dalaga. He waves at me, flapping his palm downward, to come. I swallow and will myself not to look back to where I have left Domingo. I look around at the trees so that I will remember where he is. I see a thick grouping of ferns. “Near the ferns, and the large narra tree,” I repeat as the soldiers shove me forward.
“Come, come. I not hurt you.” The soldier smiles with dead eyes. “We go to nice hotel in Manila, nice place. Give you food and drink. Nice for you,” he says. I look at the women. They stare at the ground. “You are hungry?” he asks as the soldiers surround me slowly.
My body begins to shake terribly. The muscles of my mouth tremble. Of course I am hungry. Can’t you see the way my skirt hangs from my hips instead of my waist? We are all hungry. Ever since you devils came three years ago and wanted to control the rice production. You controlled it so well that our rice tripled in cost and created a black market. “Yes.” I nod. “I am very hungry.”
“Good, good.” The soldier smiles.
Two soldiers run past me and look at the spot where I came from. My heart is pumping cold blood through my veins. Please God, I pray. They come so close, but they do not find Domingo. I pray that he remains in quiet delirium. There is nothing he can do. The soldiers have guns. We begin to walk again. I am part of the line now. I think back to three years ago. I was a different girl then. And the only reason I needed to be home by dark was that my parents wished it so.
My friends and I have the same interest. I was accelerated two grades because of my good studying, and I was to attend the university before the war broke out. My friend Karing is also to go to medical school. I have known her since we were babies. I have not seen her since last year. Her family was taken away and brought to Santo Tomas prison because her father is an Amerikano and that is where they keep all the Amerikano soldiers and their families.
My best friend Mica’s father was killed, and at times I feel guilty for having all of my family still living. I wish she were here with me now. It used to be that the three of us were inseparable. Now I do not even know if Mica made it home safely the other evening. I told her to go alone. It is my fault. I insisted she was being a baby and could make it home alone. I did not think she could be hurt because she is Japanese.
My eyes burn with tears. We were so close to home, Domingo and I. Now I am walking farther away again, back toward Manila. This is madness. I think of my little brothers, Alejandro and Roderick. I force myself to believe that they made it home. We walk for over an hour, the sky a cloudless blue. The sounds of war explode ahead of us. Another two hours and the sounds of battle swallow us completely. The explosions drop us to our knees. Twenty meters away there is machine-gun fire. Planes fly overhead, and I stare in horror as we walk into the city. Manila is on fire.
HALF THE BUILDINGS have crumbled to the ground. The Japanese soldiers scream for us to get up, but some of the women do not hear, and the soldiers come and pull them up by the hair. The beautiful churches are half standing. We follow the soldiers along the back of the luneta. We go to Pilar Street, where a soldier points a dirty finger, to the grand Villamar Hotel. The hotel is at least ten floors high. It is a simple square stone structure. For just a moment the smoke is blown away, and I can see faces peering out the window like specters.
We run as explosions fly overhead. A woman drops to the ground and sobs hysterically. She recognizes her children and her husband dead on the street, killed by a sniper. The soldiers echo her frenzy, and two of them drag her toward the hotel. She is beyond reason, kicking and cursing, clawing at the soldiers. We are surrounded by the dead. Bodies are strewn in the streets, some without arms or legs.
There are babies on the ground, their tiny frames riddled with bayonet points. What crime could they have committed? The sickly stench of rotting fills the air sweet and thick, worse than I have ever imagined. Death is everywhere, and I breathe it in.
The inside of the hotel is like being in a dream, beautiful and opulent with imported rugs, paintings of colonial Spain and our islands. High chandeliers and wooden polished handrails, dulled by the print of many hands, grace the interior. A shock to the senses after the devastation outside. The electric lights that line the hall blink dimly, then brighten as the ground shakes and then stops. We are taken up many flights of stairs, through several corridors, and pushed into a dark room. The door is slammed shut and locked. We listen to the retreating footsteps and the sound of more locks turning.
I let out a breath of air and lean my back against the wall. I hear a muffled thumping against the wall and put my ear to it. The sound is close, as if it were just on the other side. It seems to come from lower; I follow the sound and stare at my knee as it bumps against the wall. I am trembling uncontrollably.
The women begin to whisper, slowly at first. They speak of the woman outside who became hysterical.
“She was taken to another room,” someone whispers.
“Will they feed us, you think?” a woman asks with sarcasm.
My eyes take a moment to adjust to the dark. She is older than me, in her mid-twenties, perhaps. If it were not for the long dirty hair stuck to her face and the hollow of her cheeks from starvation, she would be beautiful, I think. She wears a gold band on her finger. She wears an olive dress, sleeveless, with a straight skirt belted at the waist. It is splattered with dried blood, dirt, and grass stains. She is not wearing shoes, and her feet are badly blistered. Her arms have deep scratches, and I notice a large bruise on her jaw and along her neck.
No one answers her.
“Where were you coming from?” she asks me.
Again no one answers.
“You there. Young girl.”
I look up. “I was on my way home to Bulacan.” Even now I do not disclose the fact that Domingo was with me. I am terrified someone will hear.
“But you were in Paombong when we found you, west of Bulacan. Why were you so far away?”
I shrug. “Where are you from?”
“I am from Nueva Ecija.”
“Even farther,” I answer. Nueva Ecija is north of Bulacan. I hear the edges of my voice. It sounds brittle, callous.
“Yes.” She gives a tired smile. “I was searching for fruit yesterday. I left my baby by herself in her basket. My husband went out to hunt for food two days ago and did not return. The Japanese found me, the same way we came across you today.”
“What is your name?” I ask.
“Jocelyn,” she says. “Jocelyn Kuago, and you?”
“Isabelle Karangalan.”
She chuckles. “Such a name. It suits you. Karangalan means ‘honor’ in Tagalog, but you know that, right?”
I nod.
“One of honor. I like that. Why did I not think of such names when we named our daughter? Something strong. Instead I chose Lily.”
“I like Lily,” I say.
“Yes, so do I. I should not say such things. It will not be good for her to hear me say such things.
“Do you know why we are here?” Jocelyn asks.
“Shut up,” one of the women says, and starts to cry. “We are here for food.”
“Believe what you wish, but she needs to know. It has already been done to us, surely you do not think we will still get food?”
“Why are we here?” I look levelly at her. A vein in my neck pulses wildly, and my mouth goes dry.
She nods, as if to say, “Good.” “We are here to serve the soldiers when they relieve themselves from the battlefield. You understand?”
I nod numbly. “And the little ones?” I ask, because there are several little girls with us who look to be between nine and twelve years old.<
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She nods again, and I look away.
“They are trying to rid Manila of her people. They want to break the only thing we have left, our spirits. I will not let them. No matter what they do to me. Isabelle, do you understand?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Come here.” She pats the floor beside her.
I get up, and I feel the soreness of my joints, the hunger in my belly. It takes such an effort to cross the room. I lean against the same wall and slowly lower myself next to her.
She holds up her left hand and kisses the ring on her finger, then takes it off. “Here, wear this. They will think you are married.”
I frown at her. “I cannot take that. Your husband.”
“Don’t be silly. They want the dalagas first. The virgins. Put it on.”
I take the ring from her finger and start to cry for the first time. She pulls me to her and smoothes my hair. I fall asleep to the sound of my stomach moaning.
WE HAVE NO windows in this room. It is not the typical hotel room, but a supply closet of some sort. It is dark. The light no longer filters through the bottom of our door. A million cries escape our throats when we hear the heavy sound of boots.
“Oh, God,” we hear women sob from the next rooms. It is the first time we realize that the other rooms are filled with women also.
We are at the end of the third floor. I pray even though I know it is horrible, I pray that there are enough of the other women in the first room to satisfy them. When the door to our room opens, my mouth widens. A torch is brought in and held near our faces. The flame cuts through the dark, slashing at our eyes with its heat and searing our ears with its breath. I see my expression reflected in the terrified faces of the others. The ones with young daughters hold them tightly in their arms. I wish for a bomb to fall on us, but God does not answer my prayer.
Jocelyn and I hold hands. Five soldiers come in and pull the closest girls to them. Immediately the girls begin to cry. One of the soldiers laughs and puts his arm around the waist of the smallest girl. She looks to be about eleven years old. The girl’s mother stands and tries to grab her daughter back, but the man hits her with the back of his hand. Her arms flail as she falls to the ground. The other girls are dragged out by their hair.
So this is how it will be. They take the Amerikanas first. Then they take a fourth woman who looks to be in her early twenties. They scan the room until their eyes land on me, and I begin to shake.
The soldier points to me. “Up.”
Jocelyn holds up my hand with the ring. “She is married. No longer a dalaga.”
The soldier frowns. “You, then.” He grabs Jocelyn by the shoulder.
She gives me one last look. I do not find the words to thank her.
There is screaming coming from different rooms, more desperate than ours. I shut my eyes and hold my fists to my ears. The door opens again and one of the girls is thrown back. She is too tiny, all bones, and the soldiers will have nothing to do with her. A different girl is groped, then selected.
After another hour, we hear new footsteps at the door, and again the rooms are opened. They pass our room. This continues on and on, every hour, as the soldiers are relieved from their posts. It must be very early in the morning when our doors open again. The three girls are thrown back in the room. One is bleeding profusely beneath her skirt.
“Dios ko, Dios ko, anák ko,” the woman says, weeping. My God, my baby.
“I am hurt.” The young girl walks to her mother and collapses.
“You, daraga, come with me.” A soldier points to a younger girl. Both the girl and her mother begin to sob.
“No, oh no,” the mother says over and over. My heart aches for the girl.
“Shut up.” Another woman covers her ears. “They have chosen her, she must go.”
“Come, come. I am tired. I need to sleep.” The soldier speaks perfect English with no accent, so I am surprised by this.
“I will go.” I stand. I do not bother to show him the ring. He looks at me in surprise, and then he nods. “Okay, okay, good. Hurry.”
Think of good things. God, why have you deserted us?
The soldier takes my wrist and leads me down the hallway. We pass other soldiers, who tug at my skirt. He must be higher ranked than they are, for he shoves their hands away and they move away from him. He takes me to the fourth floor and opens a large suite. My mind spins. Rake his face. I look at the vase on the table. Smash it over his head. And what if he does not die? Then what?
He is watching me think through this. He is young for an officer. He locks the door to the suite and sits to study me. My breathing is coming so fast that I cannot think. I look to the door and to the open window.
The soldier moves toward me. “Be still.” He brushes the hair away from my face, and my skin grows cold.
I am about to be butchered. I look him straight in the eyes. I know I should not do this, but it has always been this way with me. Once I feel fear, I can stand it for only so long before I become angry. He seems taken aback by my glare.
He tilts his head back a little and chuckles. “What will you do? You wish to hit me? I would treat you nice.” He takes the back of his hand and rubs his knuckles against my cheek. It takes great effort not to bite his fingers. I am so tired, and my body will not stop trembling, from fear or anger or exhaustion, I do not know. All I want to do is sleep. We continue to stare at each other.
There is a knock at the door. The soldier grunts an answer in Japanese. His answer is met with silence and then two more quick raps. The soldier curses and strides to the door. I look around for a weapon. When I look to a nearby table, I cannot believe my eyes. There is a desk, and a copper letter opener, dull but pointed at the end. I take it quickly and put it in my front skirt pocket.
There is arguing at the door, and when the soldier steps aside I am mesmerized. I don’t know what to think. A Makapili stands there, wearing a cloth mask with slits for eyes. He gazes at me, and I hate the traitor on sight. He points a finger at me.
“This is the girl. The high commander asked that I keep her aside for him. She was mixed back into the crowd by accident,” the Makapili explains.
“Too late,” the Japanese soldier snaps. “I have already picked her.”
The Makapili shrugs. “I shall tell the commander, then.” He bows to walk away.
“Wait—” The soldier reaches out a hand to stop him. He looks back at me while the Makapili waits at the door. The soldier walks back to me and rubs my back. His hand follows the curve of my back, down past my skirt. He reaches underneath my skirt and rubs my rear.
I grit my teeth, my hand resting on top of the metal letter opener. He sighs and pulls away from me, and we stare at each other again.
“What I would do with you,” he says in English, and grins. “What you would like to do to me.” He laughs and wags a finger at me. “Here—” He pushes me forward. “Take her. It is probably best. Warn the commander not to turn his back. She has blood in her eyes.”
“Yes, Major,” the Makapili says, and ushers me out of the room.
We walk through the hallway again. It is filled with more soldiers coming in from the fighting. I keep my head bowed and watch them from beneath my veil of hair. I see them in a blur. The hallways seem slanted to my eyes, as if they are on an incline. The dim lighting flickers with the distant explosions. I am lost in the voices of the Japanese soldiers and in their stares. They reach out to touch my arm, my chest; one wraps his fist in my hair and I gasp at the pain. He smells of death and sweat. His breath is foul.
The Makapili puts his hand out, but the soldier shoves it away. “She is reserved for the commander,” the Makapili says firmly.
The soldier takes his hand from my hair and grunts. He says something in Japanese to the others. Their eyes trace the curve of my breasts. I hold my breath. It makes my skin crawl. They glance condescendingly at him. One of them gives a sarcastic snort, not quite a laugh. A chuckle, with the eyes scoffing.
The Makapili leads me upstairs to another room. I feel a sickness in my stomach. I want to scream. He opens the door and I turn to run. He blocks my way and I stare into the slits of his mask. “Why are you doing this?” I despise the sound of my voice, raw and helpless. “You are a Filipino,” I remind him.
“Shh, come.” He grabs my wrist and turns on the light. When he shuts the door I move away from him and look around the room for the commander whose present I have become. The room is cool and empty, with a window thrown open. The curtains flap in the wind, ushering in the scent of gunpowder and ashes from the burning buildings.
There is a large canopied bed, with smooth ivory silk and gossamer nets to keep the mosquitoes away. A jade-colored vase with pink lilies makes my heart turn. On a corner table lies an open cedar box of cigars. I watch as the Makapili unties the mask from behind his neck and begins to pull it off. I picture a devil behind the mask and my first reflex is to flee, but he is too quick, and when his mask comes off I see that it is Feliciano Bautista, Aling Anna’s nephew.
“You!” I shout.
“Shh.” He puts his finger to his mouth and comes to put his arms around me.
“Hayop!” I scream—Animal!—and slap his face. He scrambles to put his hand on top of my mouth. We wrestle and I fall over a low table and my knee hits the corner of the table painfully. I begin to cry, and he pins me down.
“Isabelle, I will protect you. But you must listen to me. You must stay here. Do you understand?”
I think of all the times I helped him with his homework. The times my father let him come to visit. I think of my family dying somewhere from hunger, from our enemies, my young brother hanging from his thumbs. And this man, this traitor, dares to touch me. I have no care; I pull the letter opener from my skirt. I mean to plunge it in his neck, to gouge an eye. But again he is too fast for me, and he grabs my wrist and slams it on the ground twice until I let go. I curl my fist and strike him hard across the face the way Father taught us, when he would hang a sack of rice and teach us to punch it.
Feliciano falls back, holding his face. I find the letter opener and lunge for him. He leans forward and slaps me. My nose begins to bleed. I scramble free and stand up to fight him.
When the Elephants Dance Page 19