Remember the Lilies

by Liz Tolsma

  The guard pulled Rand to his feet, stuck the barrel of the gun in his back, and led him out of the room. They continued through the dark, dank hallway and down a flight of stairs. Every step, every little motion, every little jar brought excruciating pain.

  His guard opened a heavy, solid steel door and shoved Rand inside. With a clink, the door shut behind him, the key grating in the lock.

  Through a haze of pain, Rand noticed the cell was tiny, a few feet by a few feet. The walls and floor were stone. Two inches of water flooded the room. There were no furnishings—no bed, no sink, no toilet. The eye-watering odor in the place led him to believe that all of the cells were like this. Above him, maybe thirty or forty feet straight up, was an opening covered with an iron grate.

  He sat in the water in a corner, still holding his wrist, shivering from the cold and wet and shock—the only things keeping him from passing out. Tears of pain mingled with the light rain that fell.

  Two years ago this time, he had been waltzing with one of Manila’s fine, eligible bachelorettes, puffing on cigars with his friends Bruce and John, eating the finest foods his cook prepared. He never had to lift a hand to care for the garden. He never had to wash or mend his own clothes. He never had to do any menial task. He was at the pinnacle of success.

  If only he could turn back the clock, go back to that life, not take anything for granted. Or anyone. Like Armando.

  He saw nothing through his right eye. With his left eye, he gazed at his injured hand, the thumb mangled.

  If the Japanese kept breaking his bones, he would be good for nothing.

  All through the night, a steady, heavy rain fell. The Pasig River, already swollen from the usual seasonal tropical storms, overflowed its banks. Water poured into Rand’s cell. He sat in it, now up to his knees. He shivered, unable to stop the tremors. A few times during the night he nodded off. True, deep sleep remained elusive.

  He drifted asleep, reality mixing with his subconscious.

  Armando ran toward him, his hands outstretched, his smile bright. Then arms grabbed him. Rand could only see the arms, not the body of the man who caught Armando. He screamed, pleading with Rand to save him. But Rand’s swollen hands were tied together, each finger bent in a different direction.

  “I can’t reach you. Armando, come here. Please don’t take him.”

  But the door slammed and he disappeared.

  Rand woke with a jerk of his head. Armando’s face, the terror in his eyes, haunted Rand.

  At long last, gray light filtered into the cell. The dim morning revealed blood and moss and mold on the stone walls. The water around him was filthy.

  His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. When would they bring food and water? Did they feed their prisoners?

  Even though he was surrounded by water, he knew one sip of it would bring on dysentery or typhoid or a host of other diseases. His body ached and his hand throbbed. Around him, men groaned and screamed. Obscenities filled the air.

  Rand stood and stretched. He stifled a cry when his ribs protested the movement. He wanted to get out of here whatever way possible. Escape wasn’t an option. Release was his only chance, however slim. Perhaps he could persuade the Western-educated jailer to let him go. Appeal to his connection with Americans.

  If all else failed, death would be a way out. But the Japanese didn’t go for a quick, easy, painless demise for their prisoners. No, they would make sure he would have to endure endless torture before death would claim him.

  But if it claimed him, it would be a release.

  He didn’t want to live like this.

  Reduced to nothing.

  A guard came and handed him a bowl of thin gruel. Nothing to drink. Perhaps he would die of thirst in a matter of days. End the torture early. He downed the soup.

  The rain continued, heavier than ever. Above him, the wind howled. He thought about the mud at Santo Tomas and the flimsy little huts. He imagined himself lounging on his leather sofa at his home on Dewey Boulevard, a brandy in one hand, bright red, green, and blue Persian rugs accenting the cool marble floors. Armando would shutter the windows against the storm. Rand never worried about the weather. His house was well built, and he was safe and secure there.

  The water level in his cell rose at an alarming rate. Even now as he stood, it came to his waist. Despite the stifling heat and humidity, the water was cool.

  Drowning might be another path to freedom. Much faster than torture.

  The guard came to his cell after a while and led him to the same interrogation room he’d been in last night, sat him in the chair with a rough push, then slammed the door shut behind him.

  The same soldier who had broken his thumb entered the room, his uniform clean and pressed, a brown belt around his waist, high black boots polished. “I trust your accommodations are satisfactory.”

  Rand didn’t move, didn’t say a word.

  “Ah, you are giving me the silent treatment now. Very well. It is perhaps for the best. You can get right to work on the list of names I requested last night.” He leaned in, his face mere inches from Rand’s, his breath hot. “You think you are very clever, Mr. Sterling. Let me give you some advice. Do not play games with me. I am in charge here. If you follow my directives, things will go well for you. If you insist on frustrating me, there will be consequences. How is your hand feeling this morning?”

  A torrent of words dammed up behind Rand’s lips. He clamped them shut, refusing to let the man have his satisfaction.

  The inquisitor withdrew another sheet of paper from the desk drawer and pushed it and a pen in Rand’s direction. “I realize you may not be able to write very well, but give it a try. I will return shortly to check on your progress. I suggest that you comply with my demand.”

  With a clang of the door, Rand was again alone in the room. At least this one wasn’t flooded. His cold, wrinkled toes were grateful.

  He refused to even entertain the thought of divulging the names of those who helped him. They already had Henry. Had they broken his fingers? Or had he spilled Ramon’s name and mentioned the woman?

  He hoped his friend would have the strength to resist.

  Perhaps this was an exercise in futility. Perhaps they already possessed the information they needed.

  He stood and paced the room. It was about three feet longer and wider than his cell. With his left hand, he rubbed his aching forehead.

  The man warned him not to be such a smart aleck today. Too bad. He figured he’d use movie star names. Carole Lombard. Cary Grant. Greta Garbo. Tomorrow, perhaps he would move on to cartoon characters.

  He owed Armando that.

  As the door opened once more, he stared at his hand.

  Which finger would his captor break today?

  Chapter Five

  Irene woke from her fitful sleep as light began to filter through the large windows. A few other women sat on their cots, combing the tangles from their hair. She wanted to be at the head of the line to use the restroom, so she threw aside the blanket and rose.

  As she started to tiptoe to her destination down the hall, Anita called for her.

  Irene stopped. “What do you need? Are you ready to get up?” Irene would have to help her through the maze of cots. They were shifted almost daily, as one woman had a tiff with her friend and moved to another part of the room or as a resident came or went. Anita couldn’t manage to navigate it alone.

  “No. I don’t feel well.”

  Irene kneeled beside her aunt, feeling her forehead with the back of her hand. Hot. “What’s wrong?”

  “My stomach hurts. Very much. My head too.”

  “Let me help you up. Once you’re dressed, I’ll take you to Santa Catalina to see the doctor.”

  “But roll call will begin soon.”

  “Don’t worry about that. Bertha will count you and me and all will be fine. She’s a good room monitor that way.”

  “And your breakfast?”

  “Stop worrying about me. I’ll ge
t something at the hospital or buy some fruit from the vendor once we have you settled.”

  Anita leaned on Irene and shuffled her way to the washroom. When the other women heard that Anita wasn’t well, they stepped aside and let her use the facilities first.

  The walk to the hospital wasn’t far, but as they made their way there, the rain began to fall faster and the wind blew with such ferocity they were almost knocked off of their feet.

  “I should have tended to you myself in the room. You shouldn’t be out in the storm.” But Irene worried about her aunt. She hadn’t protested actually going to see the doctor—only about missing roll call and breakfast.

  Anita slogged forward, putting more and more of her weight on Irene with each step. She didn’t know how long she’d be able to support her aunt. A few more steps and Anita’s knees gave way. It was all Irene could do to hold Anita out of the mud.

  Two young men passed by on their way to the kitchen.

  “Help us. Please help me. I need to get her to Santa Catalina.”

  They walked over. One was tall and thin with wavy hair. The other was shorter and squatter. “You’re headed to the hospital?”

  Irene nodded. “Can you help me carry her? She’s too weak to walk.”

  The wavy-haired one grabbed Anita under her armpits while the other held up her legs. They made quick progress to their destination.

  A nurse in her brown collared Army uniform scurried over, a creased cap on her head. “Irene, are you here to see Sheila? She’s been asking for you all morning.”

  She nodded in Anita’s direction. “That visit will have to wait until later, Marge. My aunt is ill. She’s running a fever and has stomach pains.”

  Marge frowned. “That’s too bad. Boys, why don’t you bring her to this seat, and I’ll take it from there.”

  Irene thanked the young men and went to Anita’s side. “What can I get you?”

  Before she had a chance to answer, Marge returned with a thermometer and a stethoscope. She took Anita’s pulse and marked her vitals in a chart. “Your fever is quite high. We’d better have Dr. Hadley take a look at you.”

  Anita’s face grew paler, her cheeks brighter red. “Can I lie down, please?”

  Marge nodded. “Sure, sweetheart. Can you stand or shall I get an orderly?”

  “I’ll manage if you and Irene help me.”

  It took a few minutes, but Anita shuffled to the bed and lay down with a grateful sigh. She flashed a small smile in Irene’s direction. “Quit worrying.”

  Anita knew her too well. “I’m not.”

  “Sure. And I’m the Queen of England.”

  Irene fussed with the blanket. “Is that better, Your Royal Highness?”

  “Yes. My next command is for you to sit down.”

  Irene obeyed. She sat and waited, and waited and sat. About the time breakfast would be ending, more patients entered to see either the doctor or a nurse. Irene crossed and uncrossed her legs. Still no Dr. Hadley. She didn’t even see Marge or any of the other nurses.

  Coughs and sneezes and even a moan or two drowned out the ticking of the round wall clock. “Let me get you a drink.”

  Anita nodded as her eyes drifted shut.

  Happy for an excuse to get out of the hard, straight-backed chair, Irene went in search of a glass of water. And Dr. Hadley. On her way to the faucet, she stopped by Sheila’s room. “How are you doing this morning, sunshine?”

  Sheila’s round face shone. “I’m better. Nurse Hughes told me I might even get to leave the hospital soon, when I’m stronger.”

  “That’s wonderful.” Irene squeezed Sheila’s shoulder.

  “But I’ll miss you.”

  “We’ll see each other around. Listen, I’ll be back later, but right now I’m here with my sick aunt, and I have to get her a glass of water and find the doctor.”

  Sheila nodded. “I promise not to go anywhere.”

  “You do that, sweetie.”

  Irene got a cup of water from the hospital kitchen. Still no sign of the doctor. No one she asked seemed to know where he was.

  She put her head down, mumbling to herself about his absence when people needed him when she ran into a solid chest.

  Sneaking a peek up, heat rose in her neck when she met Dr. Hadley’s dark eyes. “Miss Reynolds. So nice to bump into you. I hear you’ve been on a manhunt for me.”

  She nodded. “My aunt is here.” She led him to Anita.

  He listened to her heart, looked down her throat, read the nurse’s notes, asked her for her health history, nodded, and cleared his voice. “Typhoid fever, I’m afraid.”

  Irene’s hands became clammy.

  “Poor living conditions, especially now in the rainy season.” He patted Anita’s hand. “We’ll keep you here, take good care of you, and have you back on your feet in no time.”

  Tingles traveled up and down Irene’s arm. She appreciated the doctor’s encouraging words, but she knew drugs were in short supply. Another complication was that she and Anita didn’t have much money to purchase medicines. And typhoid fever could be—and often was—very serious.

  She lifted Anita’s head to give her a drink of water. “There. What else can I do for you?”

  “Go to work.”

  Irene took a step back. “Don’t you want me to stay with you?”

  “Right now I want to sleep.”

  Anita’s hint wasn’t subtle. She didn’t want to be fussed over. “I’ll be back when I’m finished. I promised Sheila I’d see her later.”

  “Come after lunch. When you’ve had something to eat.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” She ducked out of the room.

  As she hurried to the administration offices, she couldn’t help but fret about Anita’s illness. Since scarlet fever robbed her of her sight about fifteen years ago, her health had been fragile.

  Fighting off disease in this cesspool was no easy feat.

  Unending, unendurable days passed for Rand as he rotted away in the cell. The filthy water receded a little before another typhoon hit and the river overflowed its banks again. The mosquitoes swarmed his face, and he no longer had the strength to swat them away. Malaria became a very real possibility.

  The only blessing was that his Japanese interrogator didn’t send for him again. He had broken the pointer finger on his right hand when he’d seen the list of movie star names and his middle finger when Rand had turned in a page full of baseball players’ names. By now he expected his entire hand to be broken.

  Why did Mr. Harvard-summa-cum-laude leave him alone?

  Rand stared up at the sun streaming through the grate at the top of the cell. The heat from it never quite permeated the thick stone walls. He’d love to feel the sun on his face once more, speed along Dewey Boulevard. He missed it.

  In those days, he was somebody.

  Right now he simply wanted to be nobody.

  Each day, as his death approached, he welcomed it more and more. The beauty of its release brought him to tears.

  He was glad his parents had been in the States on business when the war broke out. He didn’t want them to see him like this. His mother forever chided him if his clothes were stained, or if he had a hair out of place, or if he had dirt under his fingernails. They would turn their heads in disgust at their son.

  The unappetizing gruel was delivered again. No point in eating it. Rand’s nauseous stomach wouldn’t allow him to suck nutrition from it even if he wanted to. He sat in the wet corner waiting to die.

  Then a key scratched in the lock. A bolt of fear shot through him. With a groan, the door opened. The guard lifted him to his feet and dragged him out.

  Perhaps this would be the end. They realized they would get nothing out of him. Time to do away with him.

  In that moment, a spark flamed to life in his soul. He wasn’t ready to die. Not yet. He wanted to be out of this dungeon, but he didn’t want to die. He was only twenty-nine. There was so much of life still in front of him. So much living left to do.<
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  He wanted to hike the Taal volcano. He wanted to swim in the Philippine Sea, feel the sand between his toes. He wanted to dance until the sun rose.

  The soldier led him down the hall, the ever-present machine gun in Rand’s back. Several times he had to reach out and steady himself as he rode a wave of dizziness.

  Was Henry in any of these cells? Was he still alive?

  His stomach rolled over.

  They passed the room where he’d been interrogated before. Perhaps he would have a new inquisitor. Perhaps they were leading him to his execution.

  He trembled. Wasn’t this what he wanted?

  Not anymore.

  His foot caught on an uneven stone in the floor. He tripped and fell, pain racing up his arm when he broke his fall with his right hand. The soldier lifted him to his feet and continued prodding him toward his certain fate.

  The dungeon was eerily silent. No moans of pain or screams of anguish. Were they clearing out the place? Getting rid of all of the residents to make room for more?

  He couldn’t stand it. He turned to the guard behind him. “Where are we going? Where are you taking me?”

  The soldier answered with a jab of his gun in Rand’s back.

  They came to a large door. Rand wrinkled his forehead, tried to remember. This was Fort Santiago’s entrance. He was sure of it.

  The guard hollered at the soldier stationed at the door, and the portal swung open.

  Bright light stung Rand’s eyes. He gulped fresh air. Wherever they were taking him, he was grateful for these few moments outdoors.

  A truck sat idling outside of the prison, its back doors flung open. With the prodding of the gun, Rand climbed into the truck, protecting his hand. The driver locked him in and revved the engine. Were they on their way to the cemetery, where he would dig his own grave?

  It took Rand’s single-seeing eye a few moments to adjust to the darkness again. He hoped to meet Henry here, but no other passengers occupied the space.

  He fell against the side of the truck as they rounded a corner, sucking in his breath at the pain in his chest and hand. They zigzagged through the streets. Because the truck had no windows, he had no idea where they were.