by Liz Tolsma
With a squeal of the brakes, the truck stopped. He heard the cab door slam shut and Japanese voices.
They had arrived.
He trembled.
His end was near.
Chapter Six
Irene knelt beside Anita’s bed in the hospital, sponging her hot face with cool water. Five days had gone by since Anita had come down with typhoid fever. Each day her aunt became more and more ill.
Every minute she wasn’t working at the censor’s office, she was at her aunt’s side. Irene couldn’t force food into her mouth. And sleep? She would sleep on the floor, but Dr. Hadley refused, forcing her to leave before curfew.
Irene prayed her way through the night, asking the Lord to heal her aunt. He was great enough to do it. Capable of doing it.
But He didn’t.
Had He turned a deaf ear to her?
She thought of the great number of sick and suffering.
Had He turned a deaf ear to them all?
Her knees ached from her position on the polished tile floor. She stood and returned the damp washcloth to the basin of water beside Anita’s bed. Anita had slept the entire two hours Irene had been here today. She wound a curl of hair around her finger. There had to be something else they could do for Anita. Some medicine, some way to make her better. She released the curl and it sprang back into position. Irene missed her aunt’s smile, her warm heart.
Again she went on the hunt for Dr. Hadley. This time she found him consulting with Dr. Young. She stood with her arms crossed, waiting for them to finish their conversation. She had to restrain herself from tapping her foot.
She pounced on Dr. Hadley the minute Dr. Young walked away, grabbing his forearm. “My aunt, Anita Markham, is so much worse this morning. She isn’t waking up, and her fever is as high as ever. What can we do for her? There has to be other medicine. Maybe your diagnosis is wrong.”
As soon as the words flew out of her mouth, she wished she could gather them back. Dr. Hadley’s face grew red. “Do you have any medical training, young lady?”
Irene stared at her bakyas, the leather straps cracked. “Only caring for sick or injured missionaries and villagers.”
“Then I would thank you to leave my job to me.” He walked in the opposite direction of Anita’s room.
Irene’s shoulders slumped even as fire burned her middle. She meandered her way back to Anita’s bedside. Instead of doing her aunt good, she may have done her harm. If the doctor didn’t come soon and examine Anita, Irene was afraid of what her aunt’s condition would be when he did arrive. To her, time had become critical.
Anita continued to sleep while Irene kept her vigil. About an hour after her run-in with Dr. Hadley, Dr. Young came to them. The man matched his name—young, tall, thin, with a shock of sandy-colored hair. “I hear you would like a second opinion on your aunt’s condition.”
Irene fanned her hot face. “I didn’t mean to insult him.”
“You’re concerned about her. I understand. But you also have to understand that we are understaffed here. We do our best to give whatever care we can, but we have just a few doctors for the more than three thousand camp inmates. We’re dealing with a lot of disease here. We need your patience.”
“I apologize.”
“Why don’t you get a cup of coffee while I examine her? Be back here in, say, ten minutes, and I’ll share my thoughts with you then.”
Irene didn’t want to leave. Anita had taken such good care of her when she had no one else. She owed Anita the same.
On the other hand, she didn’t want to risk offending Dr. Young, so she made her way to the kitchen in search of a cup of whatever was passing for coffee today.
A commotion caught her attention. Staff and visitors streamed toward the front door and congregated there. Behind their hands, they whispered words Irene couldn’t make out.
“Can you believe it?”
Her friend Mercedes Knapp’s voice at her elbow startled Irene. “Believe what? What’s going on?”
“Have you not heard? The most exciting news in camp since we arrived.” She tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “Those men who tried to escape and were captured about a week ago, remember them?”
“Yes, yes.” If only she could forget. She wiped her damp hands on her light-brown skirt.
“Well, one of them is back. Alive.”
“Alive?” She must have water in her ear.
“That is what I said. I do not know anything else, but I am going to look when they bring him in. Maybe then we will learn more.” Mercedes muscled her way through the crowd. “Excuse me. Excuse me.”
Irene followed in her wake. Could it be true? At least one of the men had survived? Which one?
The man approached the hospital, laid out on a stretcher borne by two orderlies. He wore no shirt and held his right hand to his sunken chest, his head turned away. His pants were caked with dirt as was every exposed area of skin. Even though she stood several feet away, she smelled a horrible odor.
She squinted as he passed by, hoping his clothes or hair would give away his identity. They didn’t. She slunk behind her friend.
The men passed into the infirmary, and the crowd dispersed. Irene clutched Mercedes’s arm. “Which one of them is he?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. But I will find out.”
Irene tugged on her. “No. Don’t. I mean, don’t bother him. He’s badly injured and doesn’t need to be pestered by gawkers and onlookers.”
Mercedes squinted her already narrow, dark eyes. “You’re behaving very strangly. What are you not telling me?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all. Let’s leave him in peace. By dinner word will be all over camp, and we’ll know for sure then.”
“If that is what you want. Paulo will be done with school, so I have to get back to the shanty. I will tell you his name if I find out.” After a quick hug, Mercedes slipped away.
Anxious to get back to speak to the doctor, Irene hurried to the kitchen for her coffee substitute. The women cooking were abuzz. A thin teenage girl brought her the cup. “Did you see him?”
Irene blew away the steam. “See who?”
“The man they brought in. The one who tried to escape.”
“Yes, I saw him.”
The conversations around them came to a screeching halt. “What did he look like?”
“Skinny, dirty, and smelly.”
“I heard they brought him from Fort Santiago.”
A tremor passed through Irene. She took a sip. “But no one survives that place.”
A plump, matronly woman joined them. “They don’t. That’s what makes this so unbelievable. They shot those other three at the beginning, but not him. Makes one wonder what he did to get himself out of such a pickle. Whichever one it is, he’s plenty rich, from what I hear, so it could be that he bribed his way out.”
“I suppose that’s a possibility.” To her, it didn’t matter how he earned his release, just that he was alive. Perhaps the other one was too. “Thanks for the coffee.”
As she made her way down the hall, back to Anita’s bed, Irene could think of nothing but the shell of a human carried into this building. He may have survived, but at what cost—physically, emotionally, financially?
Dr. Young hung his stethoscope around his neck when she returned. He turned to face her and scrubbed his stubble-studded chin. “I’m hearing signs of pneumonia in her lungs. We don’t have the means to treat her here. I’m going to recommend that she be sent to an outside hospital.”
The room spun around Irene. “It’s that serious?”
“It’s that serious. Let me get to work on getting her a pass.”
“She’ll be there alone. I have to go with her.”
Dr. Young sighed. “I’ll see what I can do. It’s difficult enough getting a pass for a spouse, much less a niece.”
Please, God, grant both of us passes.
She needed Anita, and Anita needed her.
Rand floated on
a bed of air as the orderlies carried his stretcher to the waiting ambulance. The morphine cooled his veins and gave him complete relief from his pain. What blessed relief. He wished they would give him more.
Somehow, in a few short days, Dr. Young had managed this pass to the outside hospital for him. He hadn’t been able to believe it when the good doc brought him the news. The war must be going well for the Japanese. Leniency toward the internees was always a sign of Japanese victories. After Corregidor fell, their captors had eased up on them a good bit. For a while, anyway.
The closing of the doors extinguished most of the light, only a sliver eking through the gap. And Rand saw less of it than a normal person, the sight never having returned to his right eye. The driver slammed the cab door. The gears ground, and the vehicle lurched forward. Rand clutched the edges of the stretcher.
Or tried.
He caught a glimpse of his mangled fingers. Useless. Hopeless. He’d never hold a pen or a cigar or a glass of brandy in his right hand again. He’d never slip it into the soft hand of the newest debutante.
Curse that Kempeitai.
He fisted his left hand and banged it on the stretcher’s metal frame.
Before they had traveled one hundred feet, the brakes squealed and they came to an abrupt halt. His litter slid.
“You have another patient for me?”
Rand didn’t hear the answer to the driver’s question, but a moment later, bright sunshine streamed in and another stretcher was loaded into place. The woman was thin and frail, her skin almost translucent.
“I see I have a companion on this trip.”
She turned her head in the direction of his voice. “I’m Anita Markham.”
“Rand Sterling.”
“You sound funny.”
He felt funny. “Morphine.”
“Are you injured?”
“Just smashed to a pulp. Don’t the bruises give it away?”
“I’m blind.”
He hated himself for having to make her explain. Yet he understood her darkness. “I’m sorry.” Whether for himself or for her, he couldn’t tell.
“You had no way to know.”
She turned away. He enjoyed the light, airy sensation that filled him. The trip may well jar his bones. He wouldn’t care. But even the medication couldn’t help him forget about Armando. Was he still alive? Rand had to get to him. Had to find a way.
The heavy iron gate of Santo Tomas clanged behind them.
It startled him out of his daze. “Freedom. This is what I wanted in the first place.”
“Freedom, you say?” Her voice was thin and raspy, her breathing labored. “Did you try to escape?”
“You heard of my exploits?”
“My niece told me. You survived.”
“I don’t know how. I didn’t cooperate.”
“God’s ways are not our ways.”
That’s why he was better off making his own way.
“I’m surprised the Japanese gave you a pass.”
“You would think that after they tried to kill me, they wouldn’t want me to heal. But they all have their price.”
The ambulance hit a bump and bounced the occupants. “Jiminy Cricket, can’t that driver be a little more careful?”
Mrs. Markham clung to the edge of her litter, her knuckles white. “Please watch your language. The monsoon rains make it difficult to keep the roads in good repair. I’m sure he’s trying his best.”
“Are you always so cheerful?”
“Are you always so grumpy?”
The ambulance careened around a corner. “Do you still think the driver is being careful?”
“He should slow down a bit. Unless you are in urgent need of care?”
“I spent five days in that hole they call Fort Santiago. If I survived that, I will survive this trip.” He could survive anything.
Another sharp corner flung Rand against the side of the vehicle. Mrs. Markham began to pray. “Dear Father, please cause this driver to see the discomfort he is bringing us. May he slow down. Ease Mr. Sterling’s pain. Bring us safely to our destination.”
“You like to pray, don’t you?” He tried his best to keep the mocking tone out of his voice.
“Wouldn’t you agree that we need it?”
“What good does it do?”
The gears shifted again, and the ambulance tilted as it rounded a corner. The brakes squealed. Rand hung on to the stretcher with his left hand, hoping he wouldn’t fall out. Hoping his companion would stay put.
The vehicle continued to tilt. Mrs. Markham cried out.
Next thing he knew, the ambulance was on its side. He slid and, because of his broken fingers, couldn’t hold on. He fell to what was now the floor with a thump.
Mrs. Markham yelped as she crashed beside him.
Rand lay stunned on what had been the side of the ambulance. The eye-watering odor of gasoline filled the air.
Chapter Seven
Mercedes Knapp sat in her tiny shanty kitchen. A small opening gave her a spectacular view of the back of another hut. The sounds of her son, Paulo, playing in the dirt street with the other children drifted in muffled, muted.
He didn’t know, didn’t understand today’s significance.
She placed a candle on the small table. One year. One year since Charles had his heart attack. One year since he died at the age of forty-three. She struck a match and lit the wick.
Things like that happened to old men, not to her husband. Not to such a strong, vital man.
He left her alone with a seven-year-old son to raise. Being Filipina, she could leave Santo Tomas, but she remained with Paulo, an American citizen, a half Filipino Mestizo. As she had stayed with Charles. By choice.
She muddled through life. She loved her boy, worked in the censor’s office, and tried her best to conserve the stores of food Charles had stockpiled for them before … A physical ache tugged at her chest.
The future taunted her. Where she would live? How she would provide for her son? How she would face tomorrow alone?
“Charles, what am I to do? How am I supposed to survive?”
No answer.
The air around her remained silent save for the voices of the children, the flickering of the flame, and the song of the kuliglig—cicada.
A thump against her sawali wall broke the silence. She jumped and held her hand over her racing heart. The shanty shook, and she feared it might fall right over, like the middle pig’s house in the book she read to Paulo.
Footsteps moved around the hut to the back. She stepped away from the opening, hoping whoever prowled outside wouldn’t see her. Might it be a guard looking for a little fun? Or a thief coming to take what few possessions she had?
She glimpsed the back of a head with light, curly hair. A man’s head. A tall man’s head. Had she seen him somewhere before? Mercedes drew in a breath, letting it out little by little so he wouldn’t hear her.
An unusual odor drifted in. A salty smell like that of the Philippine Sea. But you didn’t expect that here. Not in the city, so far from the bay.
Men’s deep voices came from the front of the hut. “Have you seen him?”
“I saw him go down this way.”
“Where is he?”
Ah, the picture grew clearer. These people were looking for the man hiding behind her shanty. But why? What had he done? She took another step backward, her knees knocking together. He might be dangerous.
“We can’t let him get away with it.”
Curiosity drove her to peek out of the window. Charles had scolded her often because of her insatiable need to know. The man stood against the wall, panting. He clutched his hands to his chest. The salty, fishy odor stung her eyes.
Now she remembered. He stayed down the street, alone with five children. Mark was his name. His boys played with Paulo.
“Start looking between the huts. Maybe we can flush him out.”
Mercedes wiped her hands on her skirt and held her breath.
> Mark swiveled his head.
Someone ran down the space between her shanty and her neighbor’s.
The wanted man made a move, but his pursuer caught him and tackled him to the ground. “Hey, Luke, I got him.”
More footsteps and another man arrived.
“Get that fish from him.”
That explained the ocean smells emanating from him.
The three wrestled and fists flew. They shouted and cursed.
“Stop. You there, stop.” A Japanese guard appeared on the scene. Mercedes backed away from the opening.
“No fighting. You stop, or I will take you all away and lock you in the prison.”
She thought of those five children without a father. Of her own fatherless son. Who would help them? Who would take care of them? She had to prevent that guard from hauling them off to custody.
Without thinking, she stepped through the door and to the scene of the commotion, standing between the now-breathless men and the soldier. “Leave this man alone. All of you.” She raked her gaze over the Westerners and the soldier.
The guard stared at her, his dark eyes large. He took one step forward.
“These men have families who depend on them.” She crossed her arms in front of her, hoping his English was good enough for him to understand.
The soldier’s mouth formed a large O.
Mercedes glanced over her shoulder at the internees behind her. “Get out of here. And stop stealing fish.” She glared at Mark before returning her attention to the guard in front of her, hearing the men run away.
The soldier took another step forward. Her stomach fell. What had she done? She had a child too. Without her, Paulo had no one. Dear God, protect me.
“Why did you help them?”
“One man took food that did not belong to him to feed his children. His friends didn’t like that.” She was a bit surprised at his mastery of the English language. He had less of an accent than she did.
“They cannot make noise like that at night. And no fighting.” The guard scowled, but in the depths of his eyes, she read understanding.
“They won’t. I promise. You know what it is like to try to feed your family.”
For a moment, his features hardened, his jaw clenched, the muscles in his face tight. Like he fought himself. Then they relaxed. “They should not dishonor their families.”