by Liz Tolsma
She shook her head.
“I didn’t see you. I’m sorry.”
She smiled. “I should have been more careful. I apologize.” Then she looked both ways and finished crossing the street. He and Peggy continued on their way, but he couldn’t erase the image of that woman’s fresh, innocent face from his mind. So opposite from the polished Peggy’s. He didn’t think he’d ever forget it.
They had reached the heart of the city when Rand heard the strangest sound behind them. A low, droning humming. At first he thought it might be his car giving him trouble, but no. The sound grew louder. He looked around but saw nothing.
Peggy’s forehead creased. “What is that noise?”
They drove by a newspaper hawker staring at the sky, a copy of the morning paper in his hand, the headline shouting the news about Pearl Harbor.
Cold dread shot through Rand.
No, not here. Not this place.
Not his beloved Manila.
Chapter One
SANTO TOMAS INTERNMENT CAMP, MANILA
October 15, 1943
For almost two years, Rand Sterling had stared at the heavy iron bars that trapped him in this prison. The clanging of the iron gates behind him all that time ago continued to ring in his ears. Just the thought of it dampened his hands.
He glanced at the small piece of paper he clutched in his hands. He didn’t need to read the words he had received a few weeks ago. He had memorized them.
Papa is dying. Please come.
He had asked the release committee for a pass to see Armando. But they refused to go to the Japanese commandant with his request because Armando was only his houseboy.
Only.
The man was more like a father than his own father. Armando had taught him everything. And Rand still had much to learn. He had lost so much to this war, including the Monarch and the Azure. He couldn’t bear to lose Armando too.
He’d begun formulating a plan to escape as soon as he had received the note from Armando’s son, Ramon. To be sure, it was risky. Very Clark Gable–esque. But worth it.
Only a few men had attempted this feat before him, and that was in the first days of their internment. They failed. Their Japanese captors had executed a swift and deadly punishment. Since then, no one had taken the chance at freedom.
All of his plans had fallen into place. And now that darkness had descended, it was almost time to implement them. He had been sending messages back and forth with Ramon via the packet line—secret, coded letters that would pass through the Japanese censors with ease.
The one he received from Ramon today puzzled him. It didn’t make sense. Something had to be missing.
Tonight was terrible. The time was set. The bright lights blinded me.
What wasn’t he understanding?
He turned and wound his way through the large Shantytown the prisoners had constructed on the university grounds, down packed-dirt streets such as Camote Drive and Tiki-tiki Lane. He wiped the sweat from his brow, sure it didn’t come because of the typical hot, humid Manila evening. A few quiet voices floated on the night air, mingling with the music from the variety show set up on the main square. The crowd brought their woven sawali mats and sat on the damp ground, laughed, sang, and forgot their status as civilian POWs for a while.
His heart pounded as he entered his little nipa hut. The sawali mats that made up the walls provided protection from the hot midday sun and a quieter place to sleep than the main dormitory. Here he had a small kitchen in one corner, a living area with a table, a bed complete with mosquito netting, and a porch. He had snagged a prime location in the area known as Glamourville—near the wall along Governor Forbes Street. Perfect for his escape.
He swallowed a few times, willing his small chicken dinner to stay down. What if the Japanese guards changed their patrolling routine tonight? What if he had trouble climbing the high concrete wall? What if …?
“Are you ready?”
Rand just about shot out of his skin at the sound of the voice behind him. “Jeepers, Henry, you scared the bejeebers out of me.”
Rand’s former club manager stood in the hut’s doorway leaning against the bamboo pole, a lopsided grin spread across his boyish face. “What if I had been a guard?”
“If you had been a guard, I’d have jumped a yard and hit my head hard.” Rand tipped his head and grinned.
Henry stood straight. “Not really a time for fun and games. You know how serious this is, right? You’ve heard of Fort Santiago.”
The grinding of his stomach gave him the answer. “I know, I know. Trying to keep my mind off of it. If I’m caught, torture at the fort is the best-case scenario. But I won’t be. The plan is perfect.”
Henry rubbed his stubbly chin. “Anything can go wrong.”
“Only if you nark on me. And so far you’ve kept my indiscretions from the society page.”
“Your secrets are safe with me. You have a whole bunch of them, you know? Though, if they throw me into Santiago with you, I can’t promise I won’t crack under the pressure.”
“Good man.” Rand slapped him on the back. “I knew I could count on you. Just hold on to your end of the rope. Ramon will have the other. Once I’m up and over, just let it go and get out of there. Fast.”
“That part I can handle.”
Rand didn’t doubt it. Between the softball and football teams the organizing committee had put together and his work in the community garden, Henry managed to stay in shape. So had Rand. “Don’t let me down.”
Henry guffawed. “Not on your life.”
That’s what Rand counted on.
“Miss Irene, please stay with me.”
Irene Reynolds leaned over Sheila King’s bed, held the child’s hot hand, and smoothed a strand of black hair from her feverish face. “I won’t go anywhere. I promise.” She understood what it was like to be motherless.
Sheila closed her eyes, and a sad smile crossed her lips. Irene sat on the cool tile floor. After working this afternoon at the censor’s office, then volunteering at the infirmary all evening, she wanted nothing more than to return to the Main Building, curl up on her cot, and sleep for a very long time.
Irene’s young charge moaned in her sleep, the intense pain of malaria disturbing even her slumber.
If only they didn’t have to be in this dreadful, God-forsaken place.
Sheila moaned again and turned in bed. She opened her sea-green eyes. “Miss Irene, I don’t—”
The girl didn’t finish her sentence before she got sick. Then her tears flowed. “I’m sorry. So sorry.”
Irene hushed her. “You couldn’t help it. Just hang on. Let me get the orderly and we’ll clean you up.”
She made her way through the hall. Sheila should have a mother to tend to her. It was the ones like her who drove Irene to spend so much time here. Sheila’s American father had been captured on Bataan, her Filipina mother dead of cancer.
Children she wanted to help.
She didn’t have to go far before she found an orderly, his tall, lean frame hunched over as he washed the floor in one of the doctors’ offices. “Andrew, I could use your help with Sheila.”
He looked up, his green eyes bright even in the pale light. He ran his hand through his shock of bright-red hair. “She’s sick again?”
“I’m afraid so.” Irene’s wooden-soled bakyas clapped against the hard floor as she made her way down the hall to Sheila. The orderly followed, hard on her heels as she set a quick pace.
“You need to slow down, Irene.”
She answered him over her shoulder. “Can’t you keep up?”
“Not that. You are working too hard. You spend so much time here with the children. You’re tired yourself.”
“That’s one way to flatter a woman.”
A blush crept up his skinny neck. “I meant, well, you need to sleep a little. I’m worried you’ll end up sick. Then who’ll sit with you?”
“You’re very sweet.” She entered the ward and
made her way to Sheila’s bedside. “Let’s get her comfortable again.”
They worked in silence as they changed the sheets. Irene sent Andrew off with an armload of dirty linens, then slipped a clean nightgown over Sheila’s head. Within seconds of lying down, the child fell into a more restful sleep.
The room silenced as one by one the patients slumbered. Mothers rose and stretched, yawning a few times before heading outside for a breath of fresh air or to tend to their other children. How awful to have your little one so very, very sick. And so unnecessarily. Not enough mosquito netting. Not enough toilets. Not enough soap and hot water.
Irene had promised Sheila she would stay with her until she fell asleep, but she couldn’t tear herself away from the child tonight. She did want to leave before the nine o’clock curfew so she could return to the Main Building, where the women were crammed into university classrooms never intended to be dormitories. Anita would be waiting for her in room 40 to have devotions and prayer before lights out.
A heavy mantle of fatigue descended on Irene, and she caught her head bobbing more than once. To try to stay awake, she ran over in her head the censored notes she retyped this morning before the Japanese would allow them to be passed to their recipients.
One from today stood out in her mind. At first glance, it appeared to be innocuous.
Tonight was terrible. The time was set. The bright lights blinded me. Perhaps another night will be better. Be thankful you are where you are.
Perhaps another night will be better. Be thankful you are where you are. The words the Japanese censors had stricken sounded like a warning, a caution to stay put. And how could he stay put unless he intended to leave?
Could he be thinking about escaping? Surely he knew the fate that awaited him if he was caught. They all knew what happened to those three who tried to escape in the first months of their captivity.
Beaten.
Shot.
Buried alive.
She stood so suddenly, her knee knocked against Sheila’s bed, almost tipping it over. Irene steadied the cot, kissed the girl’s forehead, and raced down the hall. The orderly flagged her down, but she waved him away. She clattered down the stairs, out of the building, and through Jungletown.
By the time she rounded the Main Building and came to Glamourville, sweat poured down her face and her back. The air clung to her bare arms and legs like a heavy winter coat.
Sharp pains stabbed her side, but she ignored them as she wound her way through the maze of streets, hoping she’d find Mr. Sterling’s shanty. She knew his nipa hut backed to the wall.
Not having occasion to come to this part of the compound often, she got turned around in the dark. She ran up and down the streets.
The note had said tonight. It was tonight.
And if she didn’t find him in time?
She didn’t allow that thought to continue.
Chapter Two
The world around Irene buzzed, and her heart bounced against her chest. A light mist began to fall, mingling with the sweat running down her face. She forced her legs to stop running, her hands on her knees, her neck bent to keep from passing out. She didn’t know where Mr. Sterling’s hut was, only that it was in Glamourville.
Perhaps he had figured out from the remainder of the sender’s note the message he’d been trying to convey. But if he hadn’t and Irene’s detective work was correct, he could be in a great amount of trouble.
No one survived an escape attempt.
No one even tried.
She finger-raked strands of damp hair from her eyes. In the daytime, each shanty had its own personality. At dark, they blurred together, one indistinguishable from the other. She straightened to resume the search, not knowing how she would find him. Her legs protested, but she urged them forward. She had to make sure Mr. Sterling had the complete message.
She knocked on the bamboo and sawali mat door of one of the huts. A surly middle-aged man answered. “What do you want?”
“Do you know where Mr. Sterling’s hut is?”
“Why would I know something like that?” He squinted and scrunched his forehead.
She bit back her caustic reply. “It’s important that I find him.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“Please, if you know, tell me.” She clenched her fists.
“I’ve never heard of the man.” With that, he slammed the door as hard as possible. It lacked the oomph of shutting a wood door, but she understood the meaning behind it. And here she stood, wasting time. She rapped on a few more huts. Some of the residents were either out for the evening or had returned to their dormitories for the night. Others answered with the same reply. No one appeared to know the mysterious Mr. Sterling.
A Japanese patrolman strode in her direction, his trousers ballooning around him, his tall black boots silent on the dirt street. To avoid having to bow, she turned her back on him and moved to the door of the next shanty. He passed without a word, and she released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
On her fourth attempt, she found someone who knew where Mr. Sterling lived. Now she just had to get there in time to stop him from making a huge, life-threatening mistake.
She moved faster and faster, stumbling at last on the hut. The lily blooms in front drooped. No lights shone through the mats. When she peeked in the opening on the side, the one commanded by the Japanese to be kept so privacy between men and women was impossible, she spotted no movement.
But from the corner of her eye, she caught a flurry of activity.
She had found Mr. Sterling.
He had not figured out the rest of the message.
Rand and Henry squatted behind Rand’s nipa hut. Off in the distance, the crowd at Dave Harvey’s variety show laughed. A cat mewed not far from them. The sun had set. The sky was dark.
Every one of Rand’s muscles was poised for action, tense and alert. His lungs allowed him only to draw shallow breaths. His heart thumped in his ears, and he was afraid the noise would drown out the possible approach of Japanese footsteps.
He peered around the bamboo corner of the shanty in time to watch the guard move down the street. His back would be to Rand for several minutes. His chance to escape. His chance at freedom.
With a nod, he motioned for Henry to follow him. Ramon should be in place on the other side of the wall on Governor Forbes Street, ready to take him to Armando. Never in his life had Armando failed him. When Rand’s parents had been too busy with their social life to stay by his side when he had the measles, Armando was there. When he tore his best trousers after Mother told him to stay clean, Armando covered for him.
He vowed not to fail the man. He would take care of him until MacArthur returned and freed them all.
Rand rolled the rope between his hands. If they didn’t sweat too much and if the mist didn’t make his ascent too slippery, he should be able to scale the wall with little trouble. He’d been doing push-ups and pull-ups every day since he had received the note, while Armando clung to life.
He stared up at the monstrous concrete-block structure in front of him. All that stood between him and the outside world. He had to succeed.
If any soldiers appeared in the area outside the wall, Ramon was to whistle like a bird. Armando loved to imitate their calls—bush larks, Pacific swallows, paddyfield pipits. Rand remembered lessons from Armando on how to identify different birds. The same lessons Armando taught his own son. Who knew how handy they would be?
The wall jutted into the sky. With a little concentration and a whole lot of luck, he could do this. Couldn’t he?
He squared his shoulders. Yes, seeing Armando one more time was worth the effort. Worth the risk.
Henry slapped him on the back. Rand’s breath caught in his throat. Henry slapped him again.
Rand grasped the thick hemp rope and flung it over the wall, hoping he’d gotten enough on the other side for Ramon to take hold. Hoping that Henry would be able to hang on so he c
ould scamper over.
Henry grasped the rope and gave it a tug, then shook his head. Rand shrugged. What was the problem? His buddy pulled the rope. Slack. Hadn’t Ramon been able to grab it?
Rand listened for the birdsong. Nothing. Absolute silence, save for the distant laughter of the crowd at Dave Harvey’s variety show.
The guard would return within a few minutes. Rand would have to move fast if he expected to be over and out of here by the guard’s return. Another tug of the rope. More slack. Still no sign of Ramon.
Rand pivoted, sure he heard footsteps. A woman appeared at the side of the hut, leaning in the opening, calling for him in a low voice laden with fear. He recognized the Jean Harlow white-blond hair and the curve of the hips.
The one he’d nearly run over two years ago.
What a knockout. But why was she here?
He didn’t want to acknowledge her presence, but she drew attention to his activity. Even in the darkness, he felt Henry’s scowl. Rand motioned for his friend to stay still. Perhaps when she realized he wasn’t in the hut, she would leave.
Of course she didn’t. She walked around the outside of his humble abode. When she discovered what he and Henry were up to, would she turn them in?
He couldn’t chance it. So far tonight, nothing had gone according to plan. As soon as she rounded the corner, he sprang on her from behind, crushing her in the crook of his left arm, clamping his right hand over her mouth. A single scream and they would all be dead.
She wriggled and fought, landing a few good kicks on his shin with the hard wooden sole of her bakya. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out in pain but held her fast. He leaned in to whisper in her ear. “If you promise not to make a sound, I’ll uncover your mouth. Do you understand?”
She trembled under his hold but nodded.
He withdrew his hand only a little bit, ready to clamp down on her if she didn’t keep her part of the bargain, maintaining a tight grip on her. “What do you want?”
“To deliver a message.”