by Liz Tolsma
“Why should I trust you?”
“I’m from the censor’s office. I typed a note from your houseboy, leaving out the censored parts.”
“And you didn’t have the delivery boy share them with me? All the others do.”
“I didn’t think they were important. Now they make sense.”
He came in closer so his lips brushed her neck. She shivered. “What did the note say?”
“ ‘Perhaps another night will be better. Be thankful you are where you are.’ ”
He growled, then released her so suddenly she fell against him. He pushed her away. Ramon hadn’t planned on being on the other side of the wall tonight. “Now’s a fine time for you to deliver that message.”
“You’re escaping, aren’t you?”
“Get out of here.” He turned and tugged the rope over the wall. The knot on the end, however, got caught on the corner of the wall. No matter how hard he pulled, he couldn’t release it. He would need it for the next attempt. He couldn’t leave it there. The Japanese would discover it come morning.
Cheers rose from the group watching the show on the main square. The male attendees would soon return to their nipa huts for the evening while the women would retire to the classrooms in the Main Building or Annex. Too much unwanted attention.
Henry joined him in trying to free the rope. No success.
Then the woman was at their side. “Let me help you. Maybe with three of us, we can get it free.”
But the wall was too high for them to maneuver the knot.
Voices drifted their way. Not cheery English voices returning from the evening’s entertainment. Not the Dutch or Polish voices of some of their fellow internees.
The very distinct, nasal voices of the Japanese.
Rand dared to peek around the shanty to the dirt road. A pair of guards clad in drab olive uniforms sauntered down the muddy road, their machine guns clasped in their hands.
They swept the area with their flashlights, the beams dancing over pretty patches of flowers and mingling with the light from a few of the huts.
Each step brought them closer to Rand and Henry. And the woman. Rand’s dinner threatened to evacuate ship. They had to make a beeline out of here.
Just as he turned to go, the searchlight found its mark.
Right in his eyes.
Chapter Three
Irene sat on the floor of the dark nipa hut, damp and out of breath after her sprint away from the Japanese guards, hugging her knees to her chest. Through the opening, she heard the choppy words of the soldiers as they fell on Mr. Sterling and his friend.
Though the air was heavy and warm, she shivered and couldn’t stop. She clasped her hands tighter and pulled her legs in closer. What was happening to the two men?
Whatever it was, it was her fault. She should have realized right away what the note was about and told Mr. Sterling earlier. Why hadn’t she thought it important? Stupid, stupid.
And now her actions—rather, inactions—would cost two men their lives. She swiped at a stray tear. The Japanese would not spare them. They hadn’t spared the three who escaped early on in their confinement, despite the protests of Mr. Earl Carroll, the head of the internee government, who had pleaded for their lives.
The Japanese commandant refused to budge.
Cupping her hands over her ears, she tried to block out the noise. Still, the sounds of the captors’ blows falling on the men reached her. At least one of them cried out in pain, cursing God, cursing the heavens, cursing the Japanese.
Father, forgive me. Clamping her teeth together, she waited for the blast of a gunshot.
The crowds began to return from the night’s entertainment. “What’s going on there?” one internee asked.
She crawled to the door and opened it a crack. The mass swarmed around Mr. Sterling’s hut. A buzz ran through the audience.
“What’s happening?”
“I can’t see.”
“What did they do?”
“They’re crazy for trying to escape.”
The guards raised their weapons and shouted. The people fell back but didn’t leave. With the onlookers packed shoulder to shoulder, she couldn’t see the men’s fate.
Keeping her trembling arms tucked against her body, she pushed open the flimsy door the rest of the way with her shoulder and stepped down to the dirt lane. Part of her wanted to help in some way or another. She owed it to Mr. Sterling.
Yet she knew any attempt to save them would be in vain. And at the cost of her own life.
She wriggled through the crowd. The Japanese asserted their authority. “Get back. Get back. Go home. Nothing to see.” Again they raised their weapons.
Duly convinced that the guards meant business, the people dispersed. Irene couldn’t turn away. She stayed after the majority of the spectators left.
And she got a good view of the men. Both faces were raw and bloody. Mr. Sterling’s right eye was swollen and his nose crooked. His friend bore similar injuries and staggered when the Japanese lifted him to his feet. Two guards half carried, half dragged Mr. Sterling away.
As they passed her, she shrunk against the corner of the hut next door, praying the shadows would hide her.
She dug her fingernails into the bamboo.
Mr. Sterling passed. He turned his head and stared in her direction.
Right at her.
Into her eyes.
His expression was unreadable.
Fort Santiago. The words alone sent a shiver down Rand’s spine. Never mind the sight of Henry beaten to a pulp, slumped over beside him on the hard wood bench in the back of the truck. The vehicle sped away from Santo Tomas.
He knew where he was going.
He knew what fate awaited him there.
The Japanese weren’t going to end his misery in one swift blow. They would siphon the life from him little by little.
The tires screeched as the truck rounded a corner a little too fast. Rand slid across the bench and banged into the side, his ribs paining him. Henry also moved down the bench.
Why had he even tried to escape? Now he would never see Armando again. And how foolish to clue Henry in on his scheme and ask for his help. He had a wife and a son he had shipped to Australia before the war.
Rand’s temple throbbed and each breath was excruciating. A bullet to the head would be too merciful. That punishment was too easy. Before he would find relief from his agony, the Japanese would pile on more and more. Until he broke.
Then they would execute him.
Those who had witnessed the killing of the first three escapees told of the moans still coming from the men even as their captors piled dirt on their graves.
Rand broke out in a cold sweat. Anything but that. Any torture but that.
With each bump over the pothole-riddled street, blackness tugged at the corners of his brain. Perhaps it would be best to give in to it. Just let go. Inexplicably, the picture of a lovely round face framed by white-blond hair flashed in front of his eyes.
He must be hallucinating.
With another sharp turn, Henry screamed in pain. Rand stumbled toward him, biting his lip. The taste of blood had never left his mouth. Would this ride never be over? Yet Rand didn’t want the ten-minute trip to end.
Because death awaited him.
Henry gave Rand a long glance. His eyes glazed over. He moved his mouth but no sound came out.
Rand held his friend’s hand. “Hang in there. If they take us to the jungle, there might be a way of escape. We can hide in the hills.”
With a groan, Henry shook his head. “All you ever think about?”
“Escape? Yes. I like my freedom too much. My parents were forever chastising me because I would go off on my own and do my own thing. Poor Armando had a devil of a time keeping up with me.”
Armando. Ramon. What if the Japanese caught him too? The cost of this crazy scheme continued to rise.
“I’m sorry. Should have never gotten you involved.”
“Edna and Ch
arlie.”
Henry’s wife and son. “You fight to get back to them. Don’t let them down.”
The truck lurched to a halt. Within moments, Japanese guards opened the doors and pulled out Rand and Henry by their hair. Rand squared his shoulders and held his breath, refusing to give the soldiers satisfaction in the pain they inflicted.
He released the air in his lungs once his feet hit the ancient stones of the old Spanish fort. Thick-walled Santiago had overlooked the Pasig River for four hundred years.
A gun in his back and a stream of what he assumed to be Japanese curses spoiled the view of Manila, the Pearl of the Orient, at night. The soldiers led both men down below, into the deep recesses of the fort, now an enemy stronghold.
A place of torture for those who refused to cooperate with the occupiers.
A dread word among all of the Santo Tomas internees.
A hole almost no one survived to tell about.
The stench of mold and mildew, death and dying, excrement and vomit almost overwhelmed Rand. He breathed through his mouth, able, though, to taste the odors. He swallowed hard.
The guard took Rand to a small room. As he entered the door, he looked back at Henry. Another guard led him farther and farther into the bowels of the dungeon.
Would he ever see his friend again?
The soldier slammed him into a cold metal chair in front of a battered desk. A single lightbulb illuminated the space. Other than that, the room was bare. The only noise came from the pounding of Rand’s heart against his rib cage.
No sooner had the door behind him clanged shut when the door in front of him clattered open. A small but powerful-looking man entered the interrogation room. He wore the Japanese secret police Kempeitai uniform—drab olive, a hat with a red band and shiny black bill, a red-and-yellow collar badge. No white armband with red Japanese lettering. He was an officer. He strode about for a bit, around and around the cell, his gaze never leaving Rand.
Abruptly, he slammed his hand on the desk. “Why were you trying to escape?”
The man’s English was impeccable. “You speak very well. Studied in the States, I presume?”
“Harvard. Class of ’36. Summa cum laude. Who helped you in the attempt, poor as it was?”
The man would get nothing from him. “If my parents had their way, I also would have graduated from Harvard in ’36. USC, class of ’37. Summa cum nothing.” It stung just a bit to know this Oriental man was more intelligent than him.
Eyes narrowed, scowling, the inquisitor leaned in, his heart-shaped face within inches of Rand’s. Trying to catch him off balance. “I need names. All of them. Whoever was involved in this. Whoever knew about this.”
One thing Rand Sterling never did—make the same mistake twice. He kept his mouth shut. Mostly to prevent his dinner from a return engagement. Though he wouldn’t be the first to lose his supper in this place.
“Names.” The officer withdrew a sheet of paper and a pen from the desk and pushed them in Rand’s direction.
He crossed his arms and clenched his fists. It would be easy, so easy, to write names. But to betray those who loved him best … And for what? His execution orders had already been signed.
The soldier slapped him open palmed across the face. Red, blue, and green lights flashed in front of him. Rand now understood the meaning of seeing stars. Then the little vision he had in his right eye was extinguished.
“Why so reluctant, my friend? Don’t you want to save your skin?”
“Nothing I do will save my skin.”
“So impertinent.” The interrogator’s voice grew hard once more. “Write. Or I’ll go back for that pretty little blonde the guards reported running away from the scene.”
Rand shifted on the chair, his surely broken ribs making any movement unbearable. Could he sacrifice her to save Armando? He didn’t know the woman. “No one helped. It was me and me alone.”
“How did you get the rope?”
“It was left by the man who built my hut. I had no way of returning it.”
The soldier’s face grew red. “You. Are. Lying.”
Rand didn’t cower. “I. Am. Not.”
Again, the soldier slammed his hand into the desk. A wonder that he hadn’t broken a bone. “You must write.” From inside the desk, he produced a hammer. “I will give you ten minutes to write. If you do not, I will come and break a finger. Ten more minutes, another finger. You may not have gone to Harvard, but you can see the pattern here.”
Loud and clear.
The prison door rattled shut, the noise echoing down the long, desolate hallway.
Rand tussled his hair. Who to give up? Whose life would be lost along with his? He wrung his hands, one of the few places on his body that didn’t hurt. At least for now.
If he were a praying man, he’d ask God for discernment. He remembered Armando teaching him about wise King Solomon. He needed just a bit of that wisdom.
His thoughts paced back and forth. The woman? Armando? Ramon? Which one? God, which one?
The heavens remained silent. He wasn’t surprised. God didn’t have time to bother with a heretic such as himself.
He stared at the pen on the pitted gray metal desk. If only it would pick itself up and make the choice for him.
Armando had never failed him. Ever. He was always the one to comfort him, the one to cheer him on, the one to help him.
Rand didn’t blame Ramon either. Tonight wasn’t his fault. He’d tried to warn him.
Rand didn’t even know the woman’s name. How could he write it if he didn’t know it? She played no part in the escape except for bringing the message to him a bit too late. Honestly, it was a miracle she had figured out the meaning. Perhaps the Japanese had too. They might have been lying in wait for him.
Maybe he had never stood a chance.
With cold, clammy fingers, he picked up the pen and began to write.
Chapter Four
Irene stood against the side of the nipa hut for a few more minutes, until she knew the guards and Mr. Sterling and his friend were gone. Covering her mouth with her hand, she made a mad dash for the safety and security of the Main Building. Funny that it would be a haven for her now when most of the time it was a prison.
Her muddy bakyas slid on the polished floor, and she held on to the banister so as not to trip as she flew up the stairs. She scampered into room 40, cots shoulder to shoulder covering almost every available inch of floor space. She stepped over and around and picked her way among the sleeping and half asleep to where Anita sat on her bed, her hands clasped in her lap, her back ramrod straight, her unseeing eyes staring straight ahead.
As Irene passed, a smile lit Anita’s pale face. “I didn’t know if you’d be back tonight.”
Irene slipped off her wooden-soled shoes and sat on her cot. “Sheila is sleeping. She seems a bit better.”
“Then what has you all flustered?”
“Who says I’m flustered?”
Irene’s aunt shook her head, her honey-colored curls framing her face. “You may be nineteen, but you can’t fool me even though I can’t see.”
Irene flopped back on her cot. “I made a mistake that is going to cost two people their lives.”
“Sheila? I thought you said she was better.”
“Not her. Two men I don’t know.”
Anita furrowed her brow. “You’re going to have to explain.”
“I didn’t deliver a message I should have. I mean, I delivered it, but not all of it, thinking it wasn’t important.”
“But it was.”
Irene nodded and choked back a few tears.
“Should you have known?”
“I should have guessed.” She rolled over and buried her head in her pillow, hoping to block out the sounds of the soldiers’ fists and boots connecting with Mr. Sterling’s body. All to no avail.
Anita rose and sat on the edge of Irene’s cot, smoothing back her hair. The mother-like touch that Irene had never known from the woman wh
o had given birth to her. “We should pray for them.”
Prayer was always Anita’s answer to any sort of trouble. “Not even prayer will save them. I wouldn’t be surprised if they are already dead.”
“What can it hurt?”
Irene questioned more whether it would help. Still, she closed her eyes and allowed Anita’s soothing words to wash over her. She prayed for the men, for Sheila, and for their Japanese overlords.
Spending the last nine years among missionaries, she knew God commanded them to pray for their enemies. Anita taught the women of the village this over and over. Anita, a gracious teacher, leader, example to the women. All despite being sightless.
But this—this was so hard. Her enemy was not wounded, lying on the side of the road needing assistance. Her enemy was brutal, keeping women and children imprisoned, torturing men without a second thought.
Anita pulled the light blanket over Irene’s shoulder. She grasped the edge of it, hot tears washing down her cheeks.
Would this nightmare ever end?
Rand’s fingers trembled, and he bit his swollen lip as he put the pen to the page.
Franklin Roosevelt
Douglas MacArthur
Dwight Eisenhower
George Washington
Thomas Jefferson
He set the pen on the desk and wiped the sweat from his forehead. For better or worse, it was done.
Goose bumps broke out all over him as the heavy metal door opened and the officer returned. Rand was sure the man could see his chest pulsing. He crossed his trembling arms in front of him.
The interrogator picked up the page and stared at it. Rand held his breath. The man’s eyes widened and his face grew red. He wadded the paper into a ball and threw it across the room. He grabbed the hammer, his knuckles white, pulled Rand’s right hand from against his body, and smashed his thumb.
Pain seared his hand.
He pulled it back, cradling it against his body.
Screams ripped from his throat.
The soldier held the hammer over Rand. “I will not tolerate your little games.” He walked to the door Rand had come through and knocked. A soldier, armed with a machine gun, entered.
“Take this man to a cell. I am finished with him for tonight.”