When the Elephants Dance

by Tess Uriza Holthe

  ~ carlito’s journey

  WHEN WE LEFT the cellar that last morning, Roman, Pedro, and myself, I was certain it would be the last time that I saw all of you alive. We tried to keep up appearances, but the moment we opened the door to the outside and let in the glare, our faces dropped. I held on to the door and nodded for them to go first. My heart was heavy. I felt this knowing deep in my arms and chest as I shut the door behind me. I let my eyes look back at our house, and I thought of all of you inside. I longed to rush back and embrace you. I wanted to inhale the familiar scent of my wife’s hair one more time; the area below her ears and that certain place near her lips. It made me want to weep. I let my fingers linger on the doorknob before letting go. Looking at our house from the outside was like looking at a great coffin that would soon be lowered to the ground.

  I TOLD MYSELF, Shake this feeling. You should be ashamed. Was it not you who told Alejandro not to worry about his hands? And now look. Shall you be a liar to your eldest son? Move ahead. Walk, feet; look forward, eyes. Your only thought must be to find food.

  We walked in silence, the three of us. I think we were afraid to look up and see the hopelessness reflected in one another’s eyes. We walked past the rotting corpses like bewildered souls let into hell. I could hear the devil laughing in the hot wind that howled in our faces. There on the corner near the old swing that I built for Alejandro and Roderick lay our neighbor Aling Panchang, with Jopie and baby Imelda cradled in her stiff arms. Their flesh was decomposing, melding with one another’s. I could still hear her hoarse voice, the way she used to call hello to our house and enter without knocking. I pictured little Jopie with his favorite blanket trailing on the ground and the way he used to shadow Alejandro and Rod. What will keep that from happening to my family? Why do I fool myself into thinking we will be lucky? These people prayed the same prayers. Why should we be any different? Stop this thinking.

  “Which way, Mang Carlito?” Roman asked. I could see the dread in his eyes.

  “South, Roman, to the warehouse I spoke of and to Manila, where the battle is being fought.”

  As we approached Manila, we stopped and faced one another. The ground was shaking. In the distance were smoke, flashes of light, and the exploding thunder of the big guns. We braced ourselves, each waiting for the other to speak.

  Roman was first. “I know a man who works for the Japanese. He is an old friend of my grandfather’s. They have taken his shop, but he tries to give whatever food he believes they will not miss.”

  “I shall try the Red Cross,” Pedro said. “Perhaps they can spare something. If they still stand.”

  “I will try the warehouse,” I told them. I pulled a small advertisement from my pocket. The Japanese had distributed it weeks ago. I was not even sure if the warehouse was still standing. It said, “Workers needed. Men and boys to carry supplies. Sack of rice in exchange for a day’s work.”

  We looked at one another. Roman attempted to hold out a hand to shake.

  “I shall see you tonight,” I told him. He pressed his lips together and tried to smile. I stood and watched him walk southeast. Pedro was already walking away.

  I went directly for the city. I soon found that the majority of the bridges over the Pasig River had already been destroyed. I braced myself again. Stay strong. I walked toward the sounds of machine-gun fire and antitank machines. People were passing by me, escaping north, their clothing wet from makeshift rafts they had used to cross the river. They carried their children on their backs and in their arms. The babies all looked frail and were barely breathing.

  “Friend,” a man called out to me, “where are you going? Can you not hear the fighting?” He was an old man, though possibly he could have been my age. You know what the hunger has done to our appearance. His clothing was soaked from his crossing. I wondered if he had swum across. In his hand he carried a cane. His right leg had recently been amputated, and his trouser leg was folded over and pinned behind him.

  “I am in search of food,” I explained.

  He frowned at me. “What will you feed when your stomach has been blown away? Can you not see my leg?”

  “Good luck, friend,” I told him.

  “Stupido!” he cried out. “Come back.”

  People bumped shoulders with me. No one else spoke. Some glanced my way, but if they had any more warnings for me, they did not voice them. I thought how different from the festive attitudes we kept three years ago. I would not have been able to move five steps without a fond greeting from a stranger, but now … I shook my head and kept walking. I found an old raft someone had discarded. I found a tree branch and a broken oar beside it. That was all the encouragement I needed. I entered hell on the waters of the Pasig River.

  Three hundred yards away, the west end of the river was engulfed with smoke and the sounds of machine guns and the automatic cannons. The Japanese were busy fending off the Amerikano assault boats. Explosions ripped through their formations, and the boats scattered. I focused my eyes and began to paddle. The waters were choppy from the explosions, and my wooden plank bobbed up and down. I lay on my belly and clung to the edges, rowing with one arm.

  As I was crossing, I looked a hundred yards east of the river and there were Japanese engineers waving to me. They carried rifles, so I did not protest. As I paddled closer to them, I saw there were Filipinos in the water, chest deep. They were lifting heavy pieces of equipment as the Japanese yelled out instructions. It was then I saw that one of the bridges was ripped apart and in the middle of the teetering bridge was scattered supplies and equipment that was falling into the river.

  “Work for food!” a Japanese soldier shouted to me.

  I looked back toward the west end of the river, where the fighting was occurring.

  “Work for food!” the soldier shouted again. Four mean-looking soldiers glared down at me from the shore.

  I nodded and lowered myself into the river. I was surprised to find the water was very low at that point, where farther up it was deep. The sun was blazing and reflecting off the water so that it was difficult to see. The soldier pointed me to a spot, and I fell into place. The equipment was very heavy, and a few times the weight caused my elbows to bow out and the metal containers to hit me in the face. We worked furiously for almost an hour. At first it was hard to concentrate. I was dizzy from hunger. Shells were flying, and I feared that the battle on the other end would soon come our way. But by some miracle the Japanese kept the Amerikanos at bay.

  When we were done we were ushered ashore, and some of the men collapsed onto the land and did not get back up.

  “Hurry. We go. Food in building,” a soldier instructed.

  He was pointing to an old warehouse. The building was made of sheet iron with a red cross painted on the roof. It had once been a Red Cross office. I wondered where the volunteers had gone. We walked as fast as we could. I could feel the soldiers staring at my polio leg. They whispered among themselves. It made me pick up my pace. There was a long line to enter. They were only letting groups of twenty in at one time. Finally they counted twenty of us, and the soldier knocked on the door. When the door opened the twenty of us were let in and then the door was shut again. Inside we stood in another line. The door was shut and locked behind me. I looked at the soldier for an explanation, but he held his rifle and looked straight ahead. The building was hot, but at least it took the sun out of my eyes and I was thankful. While we waited in line a soldier came by and gave each of us a small cup of rice and a package of salt. I swallowed mine whole. I craned to see if they were distributing water, but they were not. Suddenly from the front of the line one of the Filipinos broke away and ran toward the door, but a soldier wrestled him to the ground and dragged him back.

  Our line became worried. We looked at one another and craned our necks to see what was happening. Four soldiers walked to either side of us and escorted us forward. Up ahead I saw that two soldiers stood at the center. With bland faces, they watched us approach. I squinted my e
yes to see what was happening. When I neared the center, a strong odor caused me to stumble. It smelled like a slaughterhouse. I soon realized that the two soldiers stood guard over a large circle, and then I saw to my horror that it was a pit, the kind one would roast a pig over. It was twelve meters long and four meters wide. As I moved closer, a violent shaking took hold of me. I saw that it was deep with heads and decapitated corpses. I held my stomach to keep from vomiting. A few of the men tried to run to the door, but they were bayoneted immediately.

  So this is your time, I said to myself. You knew you could not be this lucky for this long. And for some reason I thought, Better I die than any in my family. Die like a man. Do not let them see your fear. I repeated this to myself even though my legs were trembling. We were ushered forward one by one. I watched as a man was led forward, and when he refused to kneel, a soldier took his sword still in its scabbard and hit the man in the head so that he knelt and almost fell into the pit. Another soldier held on to the swaying man’s hands and leaned away as the soldier spat on the blade of his sword and raised it in a great arc. He brought the sword down with such force that the man’s head rolled across the room and blood spurted from the body. The Filipino had not cried out, nor had he tried to run in fear. I felt my chest swell and my eyes water. He had refused to cry out. If nothing else, we will die with our courage.

  I looked at the other Filipinos beside me. They were quiet, their faces ash colored. My chest constricted at the thought of such an undignified ending. We are to be slaughtered like pigs. I wanted to weep.

  As the next man was brought forward, I told myself again, Be strong. I stood with my legs quaking when I felt someone staring at me intently. I looked to my side, and an older soldier was staring from my polio leg to my face. He repeated this a few times, and I became uneasy.

  The soldier called out to me, “You, come forward.”

  I took a shaky breath and walked to him. I tried my best not to let my foot drag. Perhaps he will let me go because of my leg. Maybe he has decided I will not be a threat to them. How can I help the Amerikanos with this leg? I changed my stride and walked as I normally do. He put his hand on the back of my neck and led me away from the line. I felt a relief wash over me, but at the same time my heart was pounding, screaming to be let out of my chest. He led me out a back door and into an enclosed yard. The fence was woven at the top with barbed wire, and I watched him, waiting for him to pull his gun. He shut the door behind him and kept looking over his shoulder.

  “Undress,” he ordered.

  “What?”

  “Take pants off. Now.”

  I knew the Japanese were fond of taking the wristwatches of the Amerikanos, even their shoes. My pants were tattered and wet from the river, but we were the same size; maybe he would use them later.

  As I began to undo my trousers he walked behind me, and I noticed that he was unbuckling his own pants. That was when I realized what he intended to do. I cannot explain what happened next. I was weary from working, I was dizzy from hunger, but I felt all the indignity at that moment overflow. They have raped our women, they have butchered babies, and now this bastard wished to rape me? He selected me with the injured leg. He thought to take the weakest from the group. What he did not know was that this leg has taught me to fight early on in life. I became a madman. I lunged at him with all the anger and terror and shame of the last few days. I broke his nose with one punch. He dropped his bayonet and I picked it up. I became like a rabid dog. I stabbed him in the face. The feel of the blade as it tore into his skin gave me immense pleasure. I took both his eyes out. I ripped him open from his neck to his waist. I spoke no words. There was only the sound of my heavy breathing and the grunts that came from my belly. All the while my mind was screaming, Run, run!

  He tried to raise a hand to protect himself, and it only angered me more.

  I yanked the scabbard from his waist and pulled out his sword. I raised it high as I had seen the other soldiers do, and I split open his skull. Blood splattered hot and salty against my face. But that was not enough. I raised it again and chopped his head. And still I could not stop. I cut off both his arms. I separated the hands from the arms. I chopped at his severed head, raising the sword again and again until his face could no longer be recognized. When I was through I was drenched with his blood. I staggered over to the barbed wire, and by the grace of the Almighty I managed to climb the fence and escape.

  I lost my mind. I walked for days. I could not cool the rage that burned in me. It was only by some miracle that I saw all of you led into this place. And then a soldier found my hiding place and brought me here. I thought the Lord had deserted me, but He was with me all the time. You have survived, all of you, and I thank God a thousand times. Do not fear. He has brought us together for a reason. He will see us through. Perhaps Domingo will save us yet.

  ~ WHEN MANG CARLITO FINISHES HIS STORY, he is weeping. He looks at his son.

  “Alejandro, did you watch over your mama?” he asks with a weak smile.

  “Yes, Papa,” he answers.

  “I see that you have become head of the household once again.”

  “Carlito,” Aling Louisa weeps, and smiles. “If only they would let me clean your wounds. How badly are you hurt?”

  Mang Carlito raises his hand. “I am fine. Only a flesh wound.”

  “You have been returned to us.” Aling Louisa whispers.

  “It is a sign. There is still hope for us.” Aling Anna smiles.

  “You are like a mouse that survives again and again, old friend.” Mang Selso claps him on the back. Everyone is rejuvenated by the sight of him.

  “You see how everyone is strengthened by his return?” Mang Pedro asks me. “You see what family does for one another? I had a family once that loved me. But I was lured away by other things.” He turns to me and says with great conviction, “Do not make the same mistake.”

  “I hear your words, Mang Ped, but I have a duty, a responsibility, to fight.”

  Tay Fredrico, the old Spaniard, interrupts our discussion. “But if one does not fight, then what becomes of our families? Will there be any left?” His Castilian accent still comes through, though he has not spoken the language in many years.

  We watch Tay Fredrico carefully. Nearly seventy-five years old and still strong in his opinions. This last year of the occupation has taken his strength, but not his spirit. The sounds of warfare seem to have awakened something in him.

  “Domingo, I asked you a question. Show some respect to your elders,” he barks.

  “If there is no one left to fight, there will be no families.” This answer comes easily to my lips, for it is what I truly believe.

  “Bueno, good. We see eye to eye, eh?” He leans back and gives his son, Mang Selso, a disparaging eye, then winks at me conspiratorially. “Let me tell you about the family I had, and the second family I found. And all of you, tell me which one was the more important.”

  ~ portrait of an aristocrat

  WHEN I WAS A YOUNG MAN of eighteen, I was fast creating a name for myself as an artist of Michelangelo’s caliber. I had a great future ahead of me, but I was told by a fortune-teller that I had only one more year to live. There was a curse on our family, on the Jacinto-Basa name.

  It began long ago, in the sixteenth century, when the Philippinas was still ruled by village chieftains. My ancestors descended from their Spanish galleons and took the land from the tribal chiefs. The tribes were not united, so there was no solidarity with which to fight off our superior Spanish hordes. The tribes raged against our Spanish conquistadores. In the battle, eight of the chieftains’ sons were killed, ending their legacy. We claimed the land and divided it into encomiendas, districts, and these districts were distributed among the Jacinto-Basas. The chieftains bowed in prayer on their stolen land, lacerating themselves and swearing vengeance on us as their blood poured onto the earth. Eight of our leading families were then cursed. The curse was this: In each generation one male would not live pas
t his nineteenth birthday. After a total of eight died throughout the years to replace their eight sons, the curse would be lifted.

  My mother forbade us to speak of it, as if by not speaking a word, she would fool the curse somehow. My brother, cousins, and I joked about it often. No one knew for sure who would be the eighth to die. We were after all a big clan, and several of us, including myself, were to turn nineteen the following year. “This may well be your last night. Live hard,” we used to say. That was our motto. It would enrage my mother to hear such talk.

  There were many of us cousins, both Jacintos and Basas. The families were either Peninsulares, Spanish of pure blood born in Spain; Insulares, pure blood born on the island; or mestizos, not even pure blood, but mixed with that of the islanders. My brother, Oscar, and I were the lowest rung, the mixed blood. But even so, our status was much higher than that of the natives. We were the open sky above their dark heads.

  My great-great-uncle had died one summer in Marinduque from a cholera epidemic the day before his nineteenth birthday. His father before him had died from a poisonous snake. Our father had died when he was eighteen, and he had been the youngest boy. Our grandfather had died from a landslide. Before that, a distant ancestor had drowned in a boating accident, one from turberculosis, another was shot in a hunting expedition, all before turning nineteen. The curse also seemed to favor the youngest. So being the youngest of all the Jacinto-Basas, it seemed my manifest destiny to be the next and final candidate to complete the curse.

  My brother, Oscar, would joke, “What do I care? I am the eldest. Maybe it will get cousin Edgar and we will all be happy.” We would laugh. Edgar was very feminine, and it pained my brother when Edgar accompanied us on our outings. You must understand, ours was a very manly group. We could be wetting our pants from fear, but we would never show it. I for one liked Edgar. He would rather go to the grave than spill a secret, and whenever he promised something, it could always be counted on, like rain on a suffocating day. I think secretly Oscar was quite fond of him as well.