Remember the Lilies

by Liz Tolsma

  Outside she heard footsteps and the sounds of Japanese voices. The guards often conducted random searches at random times, hoping to discover couples together or uncover a hidden radio.

  She stared at the paper on the floor. If they found that she had taken it from the censor’s office and intended on delivering it, she would learn firsthand what Fort Santiago was like.

  The voices grew louder. She bent down. Their tone was insistent, demanding, stopping in front of her shanty. Her fingers closed around the note. As they flung open the door, she stuffed the letter into her brassiere.

  Chapter Nine

  Rand struggled to open his eyes. He pried them to slits. The sights weren’t familiar. He lay in a bed, a real iron bed with a mattress and clean sheets. The pale-blue paint on the footboard was peeling, but it was a bed, though a far sight from Dewey Boulevard. Beside him was a small table with a pitcher of water on it and a glass. He tried to roll over to reach it, but even the smallest movement brought excruciating pain.

  Where was he?

  He forced himself to remember. He recalled the sensation of falling. Screams. The odor of gasoline.

  In the midst of it, he heard a soft voice, calm and peaceful, praying. In the recesses of his mind he heard another voice, deeper, masculine, speaking words so similar.

  For some reason, he longed to hear those words again.

  A quiet whisper of shoes came down the hallway, and Rand turned his head. A Filipina nun, dressed in a white habit, her eyes and skin dark, stopped in the doorway and smiled. “Good morning, Mr. Sterling.”

  “Where am I?”

  She entered the room, almost floating as she moved. “You’re at Hospicio de Santiago. I’m Sister Francis.”

  He remembered. The ambulance driver took the turn too sharply.

  She poured him a glass of water and held it to his lips for him to sip. It was cool and soothed his parched throat.

  “What about Mrs. Markham? How is she?” It was she who prayed.

  “Holding her own. It’s a small miracle neither of you was seriously injured.” Sister Francis put a thermometer under his tongue, wound a blood pressure cuff around his arm, and pumped it up. Satisfied with both readings, she felt his pulse and recorded the information in his chart.

  “Will I live, Sister Francis, or is my demise imminent?”

  She tapped her long finger on the chart, her lips hinting of a smile. “You can’t flirt with me, Mr. Sterling. I’m a nun. And I suppose anyone who survives Fort Santiago can survive just about anything. The doctor will be in to see you shortly.” With that, she floated out of the room.

  He sank back in his pillows and sighed. In an attempt to cheer himself, he tried to remember all of the glittering parties he had attended. The women in their sequined gowns, feathers in their hair, gloves up to their elbows.

  Voices came from the hall, soft female words with a French accent, laced with urgency. “Socho Endo, you must stay in bed. Wandering the halls is no good for you.”

  A reply came in Japanese.

  “Tell Socho Endo that the jungle fever means he must stay still in bed.”

  Another voice in Japanese. More words Rand couldn’t understand.

  “Thank you. Remind him that he is not to get up at all. Help me get him back to his room.”

  And the door next to Rand’s clicked shut.

  A Japanese guard convalesced in the room next to his? Fire burned in Rand’s chest. With his good hand, he gripped the edge of the blanket with all of his might.

  It would take everything he had not to sneak into the man’s room at night and suffocate him.

  Irene bowed to the two Japanese soldiers—something Anita would disapprove of—then came to attention, rooted to the ground in the middle of her shanty. She stood taller than either of those who conducted the search. They slit open the rice sack, the precious grain spilling on the floor. They overturned the table and ripped open the mattress. They tore the picture of her and Anita from its frame on the little shelf and smashed the glass. Her heart smashed along with it.

  She had no idea what they were looking for, and she didn’t dare ask them. Was this a random search, or had they come for something specific? Why had they picked her? The paper stuffed down her dress crinkled with every breath she took.

  They yelled at her, but she didn’t understand them. She remained silent, her hands clasped in front of her to prevent them from shaking. With a last grunt, they spun on their heels and marched out the door.

  Five or more minutes must have passed before Irene was able to relax and take a deep breath. If they had come for something, they left without it, hopefully satisfied that she was innocent of whatever had caused them to force their way in.

  She dropped to her knees and began to salvage whatever rice she could. It wasn’t an easy task. With sweaty fingers, she sewed the rip the best she could, then returned every grain of rice she could pick from the ground. It might be a bit dirty, but it was food.

  Was this what life had come to? Scraping rice off the ground so she didn’t go hungry? Shaking in fear while men with machine guns searched her house? Protecting a man she didn’t even know?

  She waited another full hour until she brought herself to withdraw the crumpled letter and sit on the chair with it.

  You got lucky. Next time Fort Santiago will look like a picnic.

  There was no doubt about this note. No cryptic message or hidden meaning. Someone had it out for Rand.

  And this time she wouldn’t hesitate. She had delayed too long already. She must get the information to Mr. Sterling. But he was at the hospital, out of her reach.

  Unless she got a pass.

  She once again slid the letter into her dress. No use taking a chance that it would fall out of her pocket. She even wondered if she should commit it to memory and burn it so there would be no chance of being found with it.

  But Mr. Sterling might need to see the handwriting, see if he recognized it so he could determine who was working against him. No, she had to keep it and deliver it to him personally.

  And he needed to read it as soon as possible. With her mind made up, she raced out of the hut and back in the direction of the hospital. She flew up the steps and down the hallway until she reached Dr. Young’s office.

  Of course, he wasn’t there.

  One of the nurses followed her. “May I help you, ma’am?”

  “I’m looking for Dr. Young. Is he here?”

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry. He’s gone for the rest of the day. Dr. Hadley is filling in for him. Do you need something?”

  “Nothing Dr. Hadley can help me with.”

  “You’re Irene, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I am.” With her chestnut hair gathered into a knot at the base of her neck, this nurse looked familiar to Irene. She couldn’t remember her name, though.

  “If you need Dr. Young before tomorrow, his hut is in Glamourville. It’s the one beside the big palm tree. You can’t miss it.”

  “Thank you. Thank you so much.” Speaking to him at his shanty might prove to be better. She would be able to talk freely with him about the situation and why she so desperately needed that pass.

  She dashed through the door and down the steps, almost knocking over a vendor with a cage of chickens on the back of his bicycle. She sidestepped a mother with a baby in a carriage and an old man hobbling along on his cane.

  She had to force herself not to run the entire way and draw attention to herself. Running wouldn’t get her out of here any sooner. The process to get a pass may take days or even longer. She didn’t expect quick action.

  Irene did know the shanty the nurse had described, remembering it from her search of Glamourville for Mr. Sterling. The huts here were larger and better built than her own was to withstand the monsoon rains. People of means lived in this place, people who had the money to hire a crew to build the best shelter possible. Like Mr. Sterling. Nothing like her poor hut with holes in the mats.

  A large
palm tree shaded this part of the town, and birds of paradise bloomed in the yard. She stood in front of the home, her heart pounding, and only in part from the exercise. She licked her lips and climbed the three steps to the front door.

  Her father always said, “No time like the present.” He had other opportunities in mind, activities he should never have been involved in, but she’d never get that pass standing on the step. She knocked three times on the bamboo poles that made up the door.

  “Come on in,” the doctor’s cheery voice called from the back. Didn’t he even want to know who it was?

  Still, she did as he requested and entered the hut, bamboo floors covered with a rug, a mahogany table in the center of it all. He wasn’t in here. She passed through the shanty before finding him lounging in a rattan chair on the screened-in porch.

  The living was definitely much better here than in her part of “town.”

  He rose when she entered. “Ah, Miss Reynolds. What brings you by? Not bad news about Mrs. Markham, I hope.”

  “No, nothing like that.” She put her hand to her chest, the paper sticking to her damp skin. “Well, maybe a little.”

  “Would you like a bit of scotch?”

  “What? Oh no. I don’t drink.” Anita had pounded into her head the dangers of the stuff.

  “What can I help you with?”

  “I need a pass to go to the hospital.”

  “I’m doing all I can, Miss Reynolds, just like I said. It will take some time, supposing you get a pass at all.”

  “Circumstances have changed. It’s very important that I get to that hospital as soon as I can.”

  “How so?”

  She knew he’d ask her that question, but she wasn’t sure how to answer. How much should she reveal? His young face appeared trustworthy enough, but you never knew what lurked behind baby-blue eyes. “I have an urgent message I must deliver to Mr. Sterling.”

  “What kind of message?”

  “I’d rather not say. It’s, well, private and sensitive. But of topmost priority.”

  “Not a little love note?”

  Heat rose in her face at the hint of teasing in his voice. “No, not at all. It’s a matter of life and death.”

  Dr. Young clasped his hands behind his neck and leaned back, staring at the thatched roof. “This grows more serious each minute.”

  “Please, Doctor, I’m not exaggerating this situation in order to get out. I work at the censor’s office. When Mr. Sterling attempted to escape, I’m the one who arrived too late with the note telling him to abort the mission. This time I don’t want to fail to get word to him.”

  “Is he planning another escape?”

  She sucked in her breath.

  The doctor waved his hand. “Never mind. I’m sorry. I was having a little bit of fun with you. I can see from your eyes that it is indeed a serious matter. Again, I can’t promise results, but I will do what I can. I’ll press the matter a bit with the board.”

  She released her breath. “That’s all I ask. Thank you.” She sighed and left the doctor’s hut. What was she going to do? How could she get a pass? Fake an illness?

  She dragged her feet through the mud as she made her way back to her own hut, not caring how her bakyas gathered dirt. A couple of nine-or ten-year-old boys ran past her, shouting as they played cowboys and Indians.

  She used to love playing that game with the other children at the mission compound. She always volunteered to be the mother back at camp, cooking over the fire and tending to the babies.

  When she got older, she continued to work with the babies and the little children who lived near their mission. They loved her and needed her. And she needed them.

  As she approached Shantytown, she watched a little girl run to meet a man Irene presumed to be her father. The man picked up the child and swung her around before planting a kiss on her cheek. Hand in hand, they entered a nearby hut.

  Irene’s stomach hurt, and she hugged herself. Oh, to have known a father’s love in that way. To have had a father who cared that much for her.

  She kept her gaze averted as she walked, knowing the way through the university grounds well enough she didn’t even have to look where she was going. Being here for almost two years did that for you.

  And then a pair of black mud-spattered boots appeared in front of her eyes. Before she could stop herself, she ran smack into a Japanese soldier.

  Chapter Ten

  The crickets’ night song blended with the humming in Irene’s head when she whacked into the Japanese guard. She lost her balance. His two muscular arms came around her and steadied her. “You must be more careful.”

  Her heart raced twenty miles a minute. Her mouth went dry. Would he be angry with her? Though Anita wouldn’t like it, she gave a slight bow. “My apologies. I am very sorry. I will be more careful.”

  “I am afraid you are injured.”

  “No, I am fine. Thank you.” This was the first soldier who ever expressed any concern over her well-being. She thought of Mercedes and her experience. Could this be the same guard?

  “Let me walk you to your destination.”

  The paper stuffed in her undergarments scratched her skin. Even if he was the one who had been kind to Mercedes, she didn’t want him around. “No, no, really, that’s not necessary. I will be more careful in the future.” She bowed again. Lord, please make him go away. Let him leave me alone.

  “I will come with you.”

  Any more protesting and he might grow suspicious. “Thank you. My hut is down the street a little way.”

  Much to her surprise, he strolled beside her. Not in front of her to lead her to wherever he wanted to take her. Not behind her to prod her along with his gun.

  “You are surprised by my English.”

  “Yes, come to think of it, I am.” She’d been so startled before, she hadn’t realized he’d been conversing with her in perfect English.

  “University of Washington.” He tipped his cap, and she noticed he was missing a fingertip on his right hand.

  She nodded, not quite sure what to say. The Lord wasn’t heeding her request to snatch him up in a puff of smoke.

  “You were thinking very hard.”

  “Yes, I was. Again, I apologize.”

  “No need. What was on your mind?”

  She couldn’t tell him. He may speak the language very well, but he remained the enemy. She had reminded Mercedes of that fact. What could she tell him? “I was thinking about my aunt.”

  “Is she in the United States?”

  As her mind formulated her response, she realized she might be able to use this encounter to her advantage. Perhaps like Mercedes. “No, at Hospicio de Santiago. She is very ill with typhoid and pneumonia. I’ve asked for a pass to take care of her, but so far, because she is only my aunt and not a close relative, I haven’t had any success. But she has been like a mother to me. She is all I have, and I am all she has.”

  The soldier nodded. “Do you not believe she is getting adequate care?”

  “No, that’s not it. She is lonely without me, and she’ll have a better chance at recovery if someone is with her, someone she knows and loves. I can encourage her to get well.”

  “I see. If it is a pass you want, it is a pass you shall have.”

  She stopped for a moment to process what he said. “You’ll give me one?”

  “Yes. Be ready to leave in the morning. I shall have it delivered to your room later tonight.”

  “Thank you.” She gave him her information, and he left to take care of the matter.

  She stood for a while in the middle of the street. Had he really consented to give her a pass? He must be playing a trick on her. A cruel joke. Getting her hopes up only to dash them to bits like a piece of clay pottery.

  He would make sure she never got that pass.

  Anita would die alone.

  Rand sat in the bed, feather pillows stacked behind him, a bowl of warm chicken broth in a china bowl on a tray in front o
f him. He spooned the soup to his mouth with his left hand, spilling much of it along the way.

  He would never get used to being left-handed. The doctor had performed surgery on his fingers, but they would never work properly again. He should have just amputated them.

  Rand wiped his chin and blankets with a napkin and pushed away the rest of his meal. The sisters did a fine job with the food, but he had no appetite.

  Sister Francis entered a few minutes later. “Don’t you like our lunch, Mr. Sterling?”

  “Don’t give me your soup, but a chicken from the coop, with potatoes and gravy, and I don’t mean maybe.”

  “And I say no, and I don’t mean maybe. Once you begin eating what we put in front of you, perhaps then we can begin to take orders. Is that a fair deal?”

  “My amah wasn’t as strict with me as you are.”

  “It is likely your nanny was dazzled by your charm. I am not.” She cleared away the dishes and left the room, then returned a few minutes later with a wheelchair.

  “What on earth is that for? Am I being released already?” For what it was worth, this hospital was a palace compared to Santo Tomas. He had no desire to leave.

  “Don’t think I haven’t given thought to turning you out myself. No, actually, the doctor feels it is time you got out of this bed and moved around a bit.”

  What if he didn’t cooperate? Would he be allowed to stay here longer? “I’m not sure I’m ready. It still hurts to move even the least little bit.”

  “I’ll help you into the chair. Fresh air will build your appetite, if nothing else. You will never grow strong if you don’t eat.” Sister Francis threw back the cotton sheet covering the lower part of his body. “Let’s get you sitting.”

  The pain wasn’t as bad as it had been in the beginning, and he managed to get his legs over the side of the bed. A tall, lean man entered the room.

  “Ah, Wilson, just in time. I’ll need help getting Mr. Sterling into the chair.”