by Liz Tolsma
“They are trying to give their children food.”
Paulo picked this moment to run to her, clinging to her leg. She ran her fingers through his riot of curly, dark hair.
“That is your son?”
She nodded.
Something akin to a smile lit his face before disappearing behind the hard soldier mask. “I will not arrest them. Not this time.”
“Thank you, Mr… .”
“Tanaka. Hiroshi Tanaka.” He stuck out his right hand to shake hers. He was missing the tip of a finger.
“I will talk to them. Make sure they do not disturb the peace again.”
He bowed to her before turning away.
Mercedes stood in place for a few minutes, Paulo still at her side. She bit her lip. All in all, a strange encounter. First Mark and the men, and then the soldier who had been almost friendly.
He should have taken all four of them into custody. The Japanese maintained strict control over the prisoners. But the guard didn’t. In fact, he smiled when he saw Paulo. None of his other countrymen had done such a thing.
What was his story?
She heard Charles’s whisper in her ear as clearly as if he stood beside her. One of these days your curiosity will get you in trouble.
Gasoline fumes choked Rand. Warmth trickled down his arm. He must have cut himself when the ambulance flipped over. Funny, but he didn’t feel pain—not from his arm or hand or any other part of his body. Mrs. Markham’s screams abated, but she continued to moan. With weak, trembling arms, he pushed himself up and crawled in her direction.
The floor was uneven. His left palm landed on a sharp piece of glass. He felt pressure but nothing else. At last he reached her. He sat down and squeezed her shoulder. “Are you okay?”
She drew a few ragged breaths. “I’m fine.” Her cough made him believe differently. She was a very sick woman who needed help fast. How would they ever get out of here?
Within moments, voices speaking the Tagalog language—a mix of Filipino, Spanish, and English—surrounded them. He heard them tugging at the door. He patted her hand to reassure himself as much as her. “They will have us out of here soon. We can’t be that far from the hospital.”
There was more shouting. He understood the words, “Can’t get it opened.”
Jammed. The door must be jammed. The smell of petrol intensified. Any moment they might be blown from here to kingdom come.
“Dear Lord, get us out of here. Protect us and deliver us.”
He tuned out Mrs. Markham’s prayer. God wasn’t going to reach down and pull them from the ambulance. They needed help from the men on the outside. The smell of fuel and the rubbing of metal against metal as they attempted to open the door made his heart flip. Any little spark …
“Why aren’t they coming?” Mrs. Markham’s voice sounded weak and tired. She coughed and coughed.
“We’ll be out of here as soon as they get the door opened. And that will be anytime now. Hang in there.”
“I’m cold.” His companion moaned.
Shock, most likely, combined with her raging fever. With every last bit of strength he possessed, he moved away from her, careful of the broken glass from IV bottles littering the interior. He collapsed on the floor. If he could get to the doors, he could help push against them. He scooted forward.
The crowd shouted all around. The noise made his head pound like dabakan—Filipino drums. Now his hand, his arm, his body ached despite the dose of morphine. He began to shiver as well. Would they never be rescued?
Then a different banging began. Loud. Insistent. Purposeful. “Hello? How are y’all in there?” A deep, definitely American voice.
Mrs. Markham remained silent. Rand mustered his strength. “There are two of us. Please, we need help. I can push from the inside.”
“Hang on. We’re working to get to y’all. The door is stuck, so we might have to find another way. But y’all stay with me. We’re right near the hospital, so when we get y’all out, y’all will get taken care of.”
Why was this healthy-sounding American not in Santo Tomas? He couldn’t be a hospital patient, could he? No, his voice was strong. Trying to think about the possibilities increased the pain behind Rand’s eye.
“There’s gas in here.” The odor had not diminished.
No answer.
“Did you hear me?” He was so weary, speaking was an effort. If only the American could hear him. A wave of chills racked his body.
Still nothing. His heart kicked against his ribs.
A few minutes passed before the now-triumphant voice returned. “Okay. We think we have a way out. I found us a saw.”
“Gas!” Rand shouted with all he had. Metal against metal would be deadly. They couldn’t saw. “Stop!”
“What’s wrong there?”
“Fumes. Gasoline. The vehicle is filled with them. You’ll blow us up.”
The saw clattered to the ground. “Back to the drawing board, then. But don’t y’all fret.” The man’s voice became muffled, as if he’d turned his head away.
More time passed. The Tagalog chatter faded. The world grew hazy. Sleep pulled Rand down.
A banging on the side of the ambulance roused him to consciousness. He pounded on the side, now floor, of the vehicle. “Get us out of here. Get us out of here.”
“We’ll have y’all out in no time, mister. I think we can open the door without making sparks.”
The corners of Mrs. Markham’s mouth curled upward. Her cheeks burned red. A coughing fit overtook her. Rand crawled back to her and helped her sit, pounding her on her back. If only he had water for her. Heat radiated from her body.
She needed treatment. Now.
More noise from outside, scraping, clattering. The odor of gasoline hadn’t receded. Couldn’t they be careful?
Then light flooded the compartment. The clean scent of fresh air filled his nostrils. A man crawled toward Rand, and strong arms came around him.
“How’re y’all doing there, sir?” That sweet tea-flavored drawl again.
“Take her first.” He pointed to Mrs. Markham. “She’s very ill.”
The man with the strawberry-blond hair went to the woman’s side and lifted her tiny body with ease. She coughed once more, deep, wracking, wrenching coughs. Would she ever catch her breath?
Perhaps she would die just this close to the hospital.
She turned her head in his direction as she passed. “Wait.”
The man carrying her paused.
“Are you here, Mr. Sterling?”
He nodded, then remembered she couldn’t see. “Yes.”
“My niece. Forgive her. Promise me.”
Why on earth would he need to forgive a woman he never met?
But he couldn’t deny Mrs. Markham her dying wish. “I promise.”
“Don’t forget.”
Chapter Eight
Irene paced in front of Dr. Young, her hands swinging, her bakyas clacking on the polished hospital floors. “I don’t see why they won’t issue me a pass to be with my aunt. She needs me. They’ve let others go to take care of sick relatives. Why not me?”
“That’s where the problem comes in. You’re only a niece.”
Irene stopped so suddenly her momentum carried her into Dr. Young’s chest. He grabbed her by the upper arms to steady her. Heat rose in her face, and she took a quick two steps backward. “Only a niece? I’m not only a niece. I’m the closest thing she has to a daughter.”
Dr. Young held up his hands. “I understand. I’ve pleaded your case with the committee. Right now it’s out of our control.”
“So that’s it? She’s to be left there, helpless, afraid, with no one to look after her?”
“The staff at Hospicio de Santiago in Makati is excellent. She should have no reason to be afraid because there are plenty of people there to take care of her. In no time she’ll be stronger and will be able to return. You can be with her for her convalescence here.”
Irene balled her fist
s. The answer didn’t suit her. “Who makes up these rules?”
“The release committee decides which cases to bring before the Japanese officials. It’s not an easy process. Be thankful we were able to get your aunt out.”
Irene rubbed her forehead. “I know. I am. But don’t you see? I want to be with her. In the opposite situation, she wouldn’t leave me alone.”
Dr. Young patted her shoulder. “Trust me, I do understand. These are trying times. Nothing is easy. Nothing is the way it should be.”
“No need to tell me that.” The hospital pass slipped through her fingers, her heart sinking with it. “I’ll have to wait here until she’s well enough to return.”
He nodded. “I’ll keep working on that pass. And if there is any change in her condition, I’ll let you know as soon as I have word.”
As it appeared that would be the only consolation she would get today, she turned away and headed down the hall. Her chest burned, though. Only wild animals should be caged like this. What harm was it to the Japanese if she left the campus? She was no spy.
Well, perhaps in a way she was. She looked at her watch with its small, square face and black-braided cotton band and gasped when she read the time. Eleven o’clock. She needed to hurry to the censor’s office. By the time she got there, she would be late.
After a couple of dry days, the seasonal rains had started again. She sloshed through yet more mud puddles as she crossed the yard. Her bare legs were stained with dirt, and she’d have to wash her dress the first chance she got.
She slid into the swiveling chair at her metal desk at five minutes past the hour. Around her, women at similar desks clacked away at their typewriters. Mercedes tore her attention from her work and gave Irene a smile, which she returned.
Already a stack of notes had piled up, awaiting her attention. She sifted through them, none very interesting. They sent words of love from Filipino spouses on the outside. A few times she had to black out complaints about Japanese treatment of the island natives. There were business updates from outside partners. With great reluctance, she marked out reports of declining sales and Japanese restrictions. She made note of those, to pass on the word of the true state of affairs to the owners of those businesses.
The letters from children to their fathers brought a bit of sunshine into her dismal day. The childish scribble, the poor spelling, the darling little pictures.
She imagined the day she opened Byaya Children’s Center, the yard filled with little ones playing, shouting, singing. She could see their happy faces, joyful to have a place to call home.
“Good morning. Or should I say afternoon?”
Irene looked up to see Mercedes standing beside her. “I’ve been trying to get a pass to go with Anita to the hospital.”
Mercedes shook her head, her short, dark curls springing with the motion. “No luck?”
Irene scrunched her mouth. “No. I don’t have a chance because I’m only a niece. Imagine that, only a niece.”
“The committee studies the facts. They don’t understand the relationship you two have.”
“Don’t they have hearts?”
“Is it not most important that Anita got out to get the help she needs? And Mr. Sterling?”
Mercedes had this way of zeroing in on the heart of the matter. No beating around the bush. It’s one of the things Irene loved about her. “You’re right, as usual. At least Anita has a chance of recovery there. Here …” She refused to think of the possibility. “Mr. Sterling?” The rich one. The handsome one.
“Yes, the man who tried to escape and who survived Fort Santiago. He went in the ambulance with Anita. I told you I would find out.”
“You’re incorrigible, Mercedes.”
“Maybe so. Wait, though. I have to tell you about the most unusual encounter I had the other day.”
Some of Mercedes’s curiosity must be rubbing off on Irene. “What?”
“I don’t know how to even say it.” Mercedes pulled a chair beside Irene and sat. “My neighbor stole a fish, and a Japanese guard came to break up the fight that ensued. He intrigues me.”
“The neighbor?”
“No, the soldier.”
“Don’t think about it. You’ll only find trouble.”
“You sound like Charles.”
“He was a wise man. I miss those days when Anita and I would come visit you in Manila. You both were great supporters of our mission.”
Mercedes swallowed hard, then brightened. “You know, at first the soldier was so hard, but then he saw Paulo and he softened. Like a heart of flesh beat inside of him. He even told me his name.”
Irene leaned forward and whispered, “You would do best to forget the incident. And the soldier. He is the enemy, locking us in here and not giving us enough to eat. Keep that in mind.”
“And we are his enemy. I’m not a monster. I don’t believe he is either.”
“It’s a dangerous game. Think of Paulo.”
“I do. I will. It’s always about him.” Mercedes rose and returned to her desk. “Thanks for listening.”
Lord, keep her from getting involved in a situation she’ll regret.
Irene returned her attention to her work, picking up one of the last notes she had to sift through today. It was addressed to Mr. Rand Sterling. Her hands shook, and the dampness from her fingers marked the page.
She unfolded the note. Small, round letters covered a single line. Her brain interpreted the words her eyes scanned. Unlike the first cryptic note, this one left little to the imagination.
You got lucky. Next time Fort Santiago will look like a picnic.
She squinted at the print, trying to recall if the handwriting was the same as the one in the first letter. Unfortunately, so many notes came through this office every day she no longer remembered.
Had Mr. Sterling been betrayed?
She swiveled in her chair. The office was almost empty, many of those who worked here having left to get lunch. Only buxom Roxanne remained, her head bent over her typewriter, the keys clacking and the bell ringing. She didn’t look up even to slide over the carriage.
Irene wiped her hands on her dark-blue cotton dress. Her fingers trembled and blood whooshed in her ears as she picked up the note.
The office door opened. A Japanese guard clad in olive drab, feet shod in shiny black boots, strode in. Irene held her breath, along with the note in her hand. The soldier moved to the chief censor’s desk and began sorting through papers, his back turned to her. Closing her mind to all of the torment that would be unleashed on her if anyone discovered what she was doing, she slid the message into her pocket. It felt like it burned her thigh.
He turned around just as she removed her hand from her pocket. “Good afternoon.” He exited the room. Irene let out her breath and took in another deep one.
She swallowed hard, straightened her papers on her desk, stood, and walked out of the room as if she didn’t have a care in the world. She even waved to Roxanne on her way out.
Although she wanted nothing more than to race across the university grounds to the relative security of her little nipa hut, she steadied herself and strolled along. She stopped and used a few precious pesos to purchase a mango and a roll of toilet paper, much like she would do on any given day. She had to lock her knees while she stood there. She had to remind herself every now and again to breathe before she fainted.
She smiled at the boys playing baseball in the school yard and at a toddler jumping in a puddle, his mother a step too far behind him. Irene’s laughter at his antics sounded forced, even to her own ears.
She turned down Shantytown’s main street, then down a few other roads until she came to the little hut where she and Anita spent their free time during the day. The primitive dwelling bore signs of neglect. Weeds grew up between her flowers, and a mouse had chewed a hole through one of the sawali mats that made up the walls. She would need to get that replaced.
She climbed the two steps into the relative darkness
of the shelter. A few moments passed before her eyes grew accustomed to the dim interior. She hadn’t been here since Anita took sick. Without her aunt’s laughter and her stories, the place was hollow and empty. Irene’s throat burned. How was Anita doing? Was she improving? Or …
She must banish that thought. Her mother and father had both left her. Just up and walked out on her. She took a deep breath and steadied herself. Anita was all she had left. She couldn’t leave too.
Irene moved to the small sink and counter at the far end of the single room to check on their meager food supplies. The rice sack was full of grain and a few bugs and weevils too. Some internees had decorated their shanties with a few luxuries—rugs, clocks, small tables from home. Irene and Anita had been in Manila for the Christmas holiday, spending time with Mercedes and Charles, when the Americans gave up the city and the Japanese entered, rounding up all Westerners. They had no access to their few belongings, no one on the outside to help them. The Knapps had little enough themselves.
Their hut boasted a scarred, wobbly table that Mercedes had given them, a bed made of lashed-together bamboo poles that provided a place to lay during siesta time, and an old wooden rocking chair from Mercedes’s mother, with a bright rag rug–style cushion on the seat.
Irene lowered herself to the chair, running her hands over the well-worn armrests. The woman had rocked thirteen babies to sleep here.
But rest was the furthest thing from Irene’s mind. She sat for a while, hoping the note would vanish, that her discovery was nothing more than a bad dream. She picked up her pace, the chair rocking to and fro at a rate that wouldn’t lull any child to slumber. Then she stood so suddenly that the chair continued to move without her.
She peered out the uncovered window meant to keep men and women from using the privacy of the hut to be intimate with each other. In the heat of the day, the area remained quiet. Most had fled inside for their usual siesta.
She returned to the chair, picking at the blue fabric-covered buttons on the bodice of her dress. She tugged at the end of the matching belt. Taking a deep breath, she reached into her pocket. Her fingertips brushed the edge of the page. She withdrew it, shaking so much that the paper fluttered to the floor.