Remember the Lilies

by Liz Tolsma

  The thought made Rand’s palms sweat.

  “Three days of this, Anita, three days. How much longer is this rain going to last? We’ll all kill each other if it doesn’t let up soon.”

  A squabble over which woman was the better cook broke out at the end of the row of cots in Irene and Anita’s room in the Main Building. A strange thing to be arguing about since they didn’t have much food to go around. The women were short-tempered and suffering from being packed into such close quarters. The odor of sweaty, unwashed bodies was becoming unbearable.

  “Sit down, Irene. Your pacing is giving me a headache.”

  Anita had returned from the hospital a day before the typhoon hit. Irene hated that she had to spend time in such crowded, filthy conditions. The power had gone off, and the drinking water was contaminated. She would suffer a relapse, Irene was sure.

  Not wanting to cause her aunt any further distress, Irene sat on her cot, the deep bruise on her side still causing her some discomfort. “I can’t stop thinking about our hut and how it’s faring. I’m sure it will be destroyed by the end of this, and all that money we put into having it built will have been wasted. Did you know Mr. Sterling offered to buy us some food?”

  “When was this?”

  “When he and I first returned to Santo Tomas. I refused him, not wanting to take advantage of him. I don’t want to be dependent or beholden to anyone. Now I wish I hadn’t. Our rice must be mush.”

  Anita rubbed her pale, wrinkled forehead. “I haven’t known you to be in such a foul mood since you were a child. What has gotten into you?”

  “I want to get out of here. Just be free. No more soldiers. No more captivity and fear.”

  Anita smiled and picked up her Braille Bible, her fingers gliding over the page as she read. Irene pulled her legs under her and tried to shut out the racket that reverberated in the room. She never thought she would long for peace and quiet the way she did.

  She studied her aunt. The woman, who had so little herself, had taken her in and cared for her as tenderly as a mother. For years, Irene had wondered about the mother who gave birth to her. Her father didn’t say much about her. Just that they were better off since she’d run away. He had closed his heart. Irene always wanted to know more. What would have caused her to leave her newborn daughter and husband? Perhaps she hadn’t wanted to. Maybe she had died and no one wanted to tell her.

  “Anita, tell me what you know about my mother.”

  Her aunt turned her head in Irene’s direction, her mouth set in a firm line. “What do you want to know?”

  “Did she die?”

  “Yes. About six years after she left.”

  Irene gasped, and a surprising rush of sadness washed over her. A small part of her had hoped that her mother still lived. That one day they might meet again. Might have a relationship. “Why didn’t you or my father tell me?”

  Anita held up her hands. “What was the point? She had never been a part of your life. You were so young and wouldn’t understand, and then as you got older, there was no reason.”

  “The reason might have been that I wanted to know.”

  “You never asked.”

  “I’m asking now. I need to know. What did she die from?”

  “Irene, really, why are you pushing the subject?” Anita slammed the Bible shut and rubbed her hand over the book’s cover.

  Irene had never seen her aunt so agitated. “I want to know.”

  “You don’t. Her life—and her death—were tragic. But a tragedy of her own making. Leave it at that.”

  Irene twisted the sheet that covered her bed. Her stomach twisted in similar fashion. Why was Anita so closemouthed about this? “I wish you would tell me.”

  “Do you really want to know? Because once I tell you, there is no going back.”

  A jolt of fear ran through Irene. Did she want this information? Would it change her life? Yet she would always wonder and would never be satisfied until she had the answer. The truth. “Yes.”

  Anita took a deep breath and opened and closed her mouth several times before speaking. “She was murdered by the man she was living with. A man who was not her husband.”

  Irene opened her mouth, but no words came out.

  “You’re surprised.”

  Irene nodded, unable to speak. From a few cots down, two women argued about whose can of Spam they would open today.

  “You would have been better off not knowing.”

  “She left my father and me for another man?”

  “Yes. Your father was broken up about it. He loved her without reserve.”

  “But he never let on to me.”

  “He was protecting his heart. And yours.”

  An image flashed through Irene’s mind then, her father bitter and sullen. Nothing ever gave him pleasure—not a trip to the lake, not building a snowman in the yard, not laughing with her. “That’s why he was sad all the time.”

  They sat in silence for a while, as quiet as it could be in a room packed with women. A few of them began singing “Chattanooga Choo Choo,” then danced into the hall. Tessa, a Brit who usually slept near them, brushed her long, flaming-red hair over and over again.

  Irene wrapped the corner of the sheet around her finger until it cut off her circulation. She longed to ask another question but was afraid of the answer. All Anita would tell her was that her father had to go. As a child, Irene had accepted that. Now she wanted more. At last, she opened her mouth and forced the words to march out. “Why did my father leave?”

  “You remember coming to Manila. I suggested it, thinking the change in scenery would lift him from his melancholy. He got a job at a nightclub, starting as a bartender and working his way to a management position. Then, when the club changed hands, he began embezzling money from the new owner. The man caught him. Before the owner could file charges, your father fled to the jungle. I haven’t seen or heard from him since.”

  “He left me, just like my mother.”

  Anita shook her head. “Not just like her. He cared about you. He didn’t want to leave but didn’t have a choice.”

  “No, he had a choice. He chose to leave me when he embezzled.” Which brought up another question. Did Rand know the man her father had stolen from? “What was the club owner’s name?”

  “Your father never told me.”

  Irene’s heart beat fast, and a loud buzzing filled her ears. Rand had told her of a man who embezzled from him. A man he would never forgive. “What was the name of the club?”

  Anita bit her lip. “Goodness, it’s been so many years. The, uh, the, um …”

  Irene crossed her legs underneath her and leaned forward while Anita scrunched her forehead. “I can’t remember. I thought it had something to do with a bird or an animal, but I can’t recall.”

  A bird. Could she mean a butterfly? Irene whispered her next question. “Was it the Monarch?”

  Anita nodded.

  Irene’s mouth went dry.

  Chapter Sixteen

  November 17

  Irene awoke, her heart racing, though she couldn’t remember the dream. That was probably best. The early-morning light cast strange-shaped shadows on the classroom wall. She watched them, seeing the Japanese soldier running after her, grabbing her around the neck.

  She turned away, trembling, shivering all over. She tried to put the images out of her mind, but she couldn’t rid herself of the feel of the man’s rough hands on her skin.

  She flinched when Anita rolled over and rubbed her arm.

  “What’s the matter, Irene?”

  “Just that … nothing. Nothing at all.” She smiled even though her aunt couldn’t see.

  “Another nightmare?”

  “The shadows on the wall frightened me. I see his face everywhere I look.”

  “ ‘Whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely … think on these things.’ ”

  Irene knew the verse, but keeping her mind from those disturbing thoughts was impossib
le. “The storm seems to have subsided. Let me take you to the restroom, and then I’m going to check on the hut.”

  With all of the extra people in from their shanties, the line was longer than usual for the few toilets. Men hauled buckets of water.

  A middle-aged man with a long, pointy nose and close-set eyes whistled, then raised his voice. “We have no water pressure, ladies. Please flush by dumping buckets of water into the bowl. And we need volunteers for mopping duty, especially on the first floor where the water is coming in.”

  Irene shifted her weight from one foot to the other as the line inched forward. Maybe after she returned, she would mop and try to keep her mind from wandering to places it didn’t belong. Like the fact that Rand would hate her the instant he found out she was the daughter of the man who stole from him.

  Her world tilted, and she leaned against the wall for support. The kitchen was closed during the storm and cooking impossible, so she and Anita were limited to a sleeve of crackers they had at the Main Building. She rode out the wave of dizziness.

  She had grown fond of Rand. He had a strange sense of humor and an out-of-place optimism, but he made her laugh. Underneath that suave, upper-crust exterior, she had seen a glimpse of a man with a tender heart. She would hate to lose his friendship. And what that friendship might have become.

  “You’re very quiet this morning.” Anita stood ramrod straight, her posture always perfect. Her mother had insisted her daughter be as elegant as possible, despite their reduced financial circumstances.

  “I’m thinking.”

  “About what?”

  She didn’t want to tell her aunt what was bothering her. Didn’t want to rip off that scab and expose herself in that way—and her growing feelings for Rand. She doubted Anita would approve. “The storm has me concerned. What about our hut? Mercedes and Charles were kind enough to help us build it, but we have no way to repair it. Besides, if I get one can of chili, maybe we can find someone with a stove on the patio to heat it for us.” On each of the Main Building’s two patios, enclosed on four sides, the Japanese allowed the internees to keep stoves and do a little cooking.

  The gray-haired woman behind them, who stood on sticklike legs, shook her head. “Be careful out there, my dear. You never know what you’ll encounter.”

  Anita smiled, a bit triumphant. “See, Irene, you need to listen to common sense. We know the dangers that are out there.”

  She kissed her aunt on the cheek. “What can possibly happen to me?”

  A gust of wind tugged at Rand’s hat as he sloshed through the receding water. He’d had all he could take in the Education Building, men piled on top of men. The reek of dirty bodies and dampness choked him.

  There were still areas of the campus that were flooded. The stench the retreating water left was enough to make his eyes sting. Here and there, people milled about, but most had yet to return to their huts.

  He recognized one young boy sloshing through the water, clinging to his mother’s hand. “Hey, Paulo. Mercedes.”

  Paulo lifted his face. “Mr. Sterling, it sure rained.”

  “Only ducks like that kind of weather.”

  Paulo cracked a broad grin. “Mama and me were checking on the shanty. The water came up awful fast.”

  “I bet you were a good help to your mother.”

  The boy nodded. “When can we play soccer again?”

  “Not until the field dries out.”

  “Never, then.”

  “It will. Then get ready to be pummeled.”

  “No sir, it’s us who’s going to whoop you.”

  Mercedes tugged on her son’s hand. “That is not a polite way to speak to an elder.”

  Rand laughed. “He’s fine. We have fun together.”

  “I’m going to get Mr. Tanaka to play on our side.”

  The Japanese soldier? Irene had told him a bit about her neighbor’s interest in the guard. “You had better get somewhere dry now.”

  Paulo and his mother continued on their way through the muck.

  His heart ached for the children here. They didn’t understand. And for the children who didn’t have fathers or mothers. The nobodies. Those who were orphans, like Sheila King, watched over by the other women. What would happen to them after the war? Where would they go? He would be back in his mansion on Dewey Boulevard, but where would they live?

  He shook off his melancholy and quickened his pace, eager to see what had become of his shanty. He had paid a handsome price for the workman to construct it, and he hoped his money had bought him the highest quality. Before the storm, he and many others had pounded metal stakes into the ground and tied their shanties down.

  Some had ridden the typhoon well. Others had lost roofs and bore other signs of damage.

  He worried more about the food he had stored in the shanty. With this much water, there were no guarantees that everything would survive. He had taken much of his stores to the Education Building with him, but he had been forced to leave some of it behind.

  The sight that greeted him at his front door didn’t make him happy. Though the roof had remained intact, water had poured over the top step and gushed inside. The rug was soaked and muddy. Perhaps he’d be able to dry it out and save it.

  When he looked up, he stopped short. Mr. Covey stood in the middle of the little room, a kilo bag of rice hoisted on his shoulder.

  Rand clenched his fists. “What are you doing here? Where are you going with that?”

  The man’s flaccid face reddened. “Mr. Sterling. I didn’t expect you out in the storm.”

  “Of course you didn’t. I would like answers to my questions. Now.”

  “Don’t get upset. I thought I’d do you a favor since I was checking on my own place. I was merely moving the sack to a higher shelf to keep it out of the water.”

  Rand believed that like he believed his father was Emperor Hirohito. “And now for the real reason you have broken into my place.”

  Mr. Covey set the rice on the table and held up his hands. “Believe me or not, I’m telling the truth.” He stared Rand in the face.

  But Mr. Covey’s brilliant-blue eyes were shifty, and the white scar crisscrossing his cheek stood out in contrast to his red face. His crooked nose lent an even more sinister air to him. Rand felt certain the man wasn’t telling the truth. “I’m here now to check on my hut. It would be best if you leave. Immediately. And from now on, don’t do me any favors.”

  The man nodded and beat a hasty exit.

  Rand surveyed the room. Everything appeared to be in place, just as he had left it. As far as he could tell, Mr. Covey hadn’t pilfered anything.

  A knot hardened in Rand’s stomach. The man was as slippery and as slimy as the mud that covered everything. Why, though, did the man have such an interest in him?

  He secured his little home as much as possible and began the long walk through the mud back to the Education Building.

  Home.

  No, this place wasn’t home. His mansion on Dewey Boulevard was. A grand staircase. Sparkling chandeliers. Heavy draperies.

  He chafed, wanting to go back to those times with all of his heart.

  Look at what had become of him. The war had robbed him of everything. Despite his connections and his work in accounting, handling the money needed to purchase rice and other supplies for the camp, he was another nameless face in this throng of thousands.

  Then he thought of Anita and Irene. They were much worse off than he, yet they never complained. They didn’t speak much about their reduced circumstances and never grumbled. How could they manage to keep such a stiff upper lip in such conditions?

  In his mind, he heard Anita’s prayers. Calming. Soothing.

  He sighed. No use standing in the rain like this, thinking such philosophical thoughts. When they got out of here, he would resume the life he had before. He just wouldn’t take so much for granted.

  What a cliché.

  But what a truth.

  He found himself
in Shantytown, a bit out of his way, but his legs had brought him here while his mind wandered. The huts here showed signs of more damage. More roofs gone. More walls with holes.

  He lowered his head and forged onward, anxious to get back to the dry, if not stuffy, building.

  A scream pierced through the howling of the wind.

  The sound froze him.

  Clenching her toes against the wooden soles of her bakyas, Irene turned toward the table in her shanty. She had to heft this bag of rice, their last precious bag, onto it. As it was, it had been sitting in water for who knew how many days and was probably spoiled.

  A flash of bright green under the table caught her eye. She froze as icy fear settled in her stomach. The creature coiled, shooting out its black forked tongue.

  Irene took a step backward, tripped, and fell onto the muddy floor. She attempted to scramble to her feet, but in the slippery muck, she couldn’t get traction.

  The pit viper slithered in her direction. She covered her mouth to stifle the scream building behind her lips, afraid to startle it. It fixed its glassy orange eyes on her. She imagined the pain she would feel at its bite, the numbness spreading through her body, the paralysis choking the breath from her.

  She withdrew her trembling hand from over her mouth to draw in a little air, and the shriek she had held in burst out. “Help. Help! There’s a snake in here!”

  Not that she expected a rescue effort. Most of her neighbors had yet to return to their huts. “Help me!” The words tore from her throat.

  The pit viper raised its head.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Rand shivered as he stood in the drizzle in the middle of Shantytown. Another scream pierced the heavy air.

  He started in the yell’s direction, the slippery mud making sprinting difficult. More than likely it was an injured stray cat. Perhaps one facing a venomous snake. But the plaintive cry beckoned him. It could be a child. He picked up his pace.

  The sound stopped.

  He ran now, mud splashing his legs. At an intersection, he paused. Which way had the cry come from? He wished it would start again. Should he go left or right?

  Should he bother searching? The cat could have met its end by now. He turned to the left, not certain of the direction. An insistence in his gut spurred him on.