by Liz Tolsma
“Irene, I don’t understand. Please tell me.”
“Anita is confused.”
“About what?”
“Everything. She didn’t recognize me this morning.”
“Was this the first time?”
Irene shook her head. If only … if only it had been the first time. “It’s been getting worse for a while.”
“You’re telling me she has advanced beriberi.”
This time Irene nodded.
Ack-ack-ack-ack.
She stiffened.
Rand held her again until she relaxed.
“She’s in a coma.”
“This is what we’re going to do. You go to the washing station and clean up. I’ll replant these flowers.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Let me do this. If they don’t live, at least we know we tried.”
Irene walked the short distance to the troughs, which had been set up as washing stations and laundry facilities. A few women were there washing their clothes, careful not to rub too hard and put holes in the thin fabric. She splashed lukewarm water on her face and up and down her arms and neck. The hot sun dried her in short order.
By the time she returned to the garden, Rand had replanted most of what she had torn out. She didn’t care. It was sweet of him, but it didn’t matter. There was no beauty left in the world.
Rand wiped his hands on his khaki shorts and smiled. “Do you feel better?”
“A little.”
“Good. Let’s go visit Anita. I’ll stay with you.”
He shouldn’t. He was going to marry another woman. He had a family with her.
But right now she needed him. She needed his presence, his strength.
Because she was going to watch her aunt die.
No, God, no. You can’t take her from me too.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Hours upon hours passed as Irene and Rand kept vigil at Anita’s bedside. She hadn’t awakened from her coma. Midafternoon came and along with it Dr. Young.
“I hear that Mrs. Markham has taken a turn for the worse.”
Irene nodded. “This morning.”
He examined Irene’s aunt, then stood back, his stethoscope around his neck. “Beriberi and malnutrition have taken their toll on her body. Even if I had proper medicine to administer, there would be little we could do for her. I can’t tell you how long it will be. It could be a few hours or a few days. I am sorry for your loss. I’m sorry the Japanese did this to her.”
Dr. Young left, and Irene watched him make his way to the hall. She had held out hope that the nurse had been wrong, that Anita was merely sleeping so she could regain her strength.
But the doctor only confirmed Irene’s worst fear. And what she had known to be the truth all along.
Irene couldn’t move, could barely make herself blink. She wanted to collapse but fought to hold herself upright.
Rand rubbed her back. She didn’t want to feel comforted by him, but she did. She was thankful he had found her, thankful he stayed with her.
She couldn’t do this on her own.
“I’ll be right back.” Rand left and returned a short time later with a bowl of lugao for her.
Her stomach lurched. She pushed the bowl away. “I can’t eat. Thank you, but please take it away. I’ll be sick.” Several times over the course of the day she had to run to the restroom. Her stomach rebelled at the thought of even a taste of the revolting gruel.
He held out a spoon. “Just a little. You need to keep up your strength.”
“What does it matter? Don’t you see, we will all end up like Anita sooner or later. So if I don’t want to eat, don’t make me.”
He set the bowl on the floor and sat in silence with her for a while again. Irene watched her aunt’s chest rise and fall, dreading the moment it would stop.
Rand slid his chair closer to hers so they were touching. “I don’t know what to say to you. I’ve never been good with religious words. That was Armando’s department. Tell me what your aunt would say if she was sitting beside you.”
What would Anita say? Words that were soothing, comforting, biblical. Like she had taught the village women. “She would say that death is not something to be afraid of. We will all face it one day, but for those who know the Lord and are prepared for it, it is a day they will anticipate and welcome.”
“Why would that be?”
“To be at home in the body is to be apart from Christ. This earth isn’t our true home. We look for a city with foundations whose builder is God. She told me right before she slipped into the coma how beautiful heaven would be and how she couldn’t wait to get there.”
“It sounds like she was at peace.”
“She was. She is.”
“She was a good woman.”
“It’s true. She is. But do you know what she would say to that?”
Rand shook his head. “Tell me.”
“She would say she was the worst of sinners. Apart from God, she could do nothing righteous. All of her good works, she would say, were as filthy rags.”
“And what kind of bad things did she do? Surely not have a child out of wedlock.”
“There were times when she got angry with me when I didn’t obey her. There were times when she was frustrated. And we don’t know what kind of thoughts ran through her mind. We think wrong things all the time.”
“But doesn’t God count what good she did to her credit?”
“No. He only sees our faith and Christ’s blood covering our sins. Christ’s good works and His death on the cross are the only things that will save us, no matter what good we do in this life.”
“Then why do any good at all? You can be as evil as Hitler and Hirohito and still get into heaven.”
“No. When we are truly saved, we put our old selves to death with our sinful desires. We aren’t perfect in this life, but we strive to honor God by doing what would please Him.”
“It sounds simple. But there are some sins that God can’t forgive.”
“If you are truly repentant, there are no sins He can’t forgive.”
“Even what I’ve done?”
“Even what you’ve done.”
“You preach a good sermon, Miss Reynolds.”
“It’s only what Anita would say. What God would say to you.”
Rand sat forward in his chair. “I remember Armando speaking to me about God. He said many of the same things you did. I would find him in the garden at the end of the day, his Bible open on his lap. When I asked him what he was reading, he would tell me the most wonderful book on earth.
“He told me stories from it, and I learned. To me, they were just that. Stories. Tales. When I got older, I grew bored with them and stopped asking Armando to read to me. But to you and Anita, the Bible is alive. It’s real.”
“It’s a history book. The history of our redemption from sin, of our forgiveness in Christ.”
“It will be hard for you to let go of her.”
“Other than my father, I have no other living relatives. For all intents and purposes, I will be an orphan. I won’t have anyone to talk to, anyone to help me.”
“You could have me.”
“This isn’t the time, Rand. Not now.”
They fell into silence once more, and the shadows stretched across the floor. They had to leave for roll call but came back right afterward. Rand again brought her lugao, and this time she made an effort and ate several bites, her stomach having calmed a little.
Darkness fell, but both of them stayed at the hospital. She leaned her head on Rand’s shoulder, fighting sleep. She wanted to be alert when Anita passed from this life to the next.
Somewhere deep in the night, Anita stirred. Her eyes fluttered open.
“She’s awake, Rand. She’s awake.” Irene fell to her knees beside her aunt. “I’m here, Anita. It’s me, Irene.”
“Irene, my sweet girl. And Rand is here too.”
“Yes, yes, he is.” Irene’s breath ca
me in short gasps. The doctor had been wrong. Anita would recover.
“Rand?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“You take good care of Irene, you hear? You promised me once. Promise me again.”
“I promise.”
Why was Anita saying these things?
“And, Irene?”
“Yes, I’m here.” She clung to her aunt’s hand.
“You be a good girl. Be good to Rand. Love God, and tell others about Him. Forgive. Forgive each other.”
“I will.”
“The Lord has been good to me all these years. He’s calling me home now.”
“No, Anita, you can’t leave me. There is no one else here for me.”
“You have Jesus. He is your help and your shield. He will watch over you far better than I ever could. It is time for me to go home. And what a beautiful home it is.”
Irene had never seen such radiant joy as she saw in Anita’s face at that moment. The sun was not brighter. And peace. The lines that marred Anita’s forehead and mouth softened. She took a deep breath and then no more.
Irene’s throat burned. She swallowed hard. Her vision blurred. She blinked, and the tears began to fall, one after the other, in a cascade she couldn’t control. As she held her aunt’s cooling hand, she sobbed. Sobbed for the infant robbed of a mother. Sobbed for the little girl robbed of a father. Sobbed for a young woman robbed of the aunt who was a better parent to her than those who gave her life.
She could think no more. Wave upon wave of sorrow crashed over her. She was vaguely aware of Rand at her side, his arm across her shoulders, tucking her hair behind her ear. At one point, he handed her a handkerchief, and she wiped her eyes. But it wasn’t large enough to absorb all of her tears.
Exhausted, her crying slowed. Morning broke, and Rand pulled her to her feet. Her legs were stiff and unusually swollen this morning. A round of dizziness sent her crashing into him.
A nurse came by, and he called out to her, “Mrs. Markham has passed away. Irene is in no shape to go to roll call right now. Can we find a bed for her and get her excused?”
The nurse made the arrangements, and Rand carried her to the clean bed they had prepared for her. She didn’t fight him but gave in to his ministrations. For right now, for this moment, she didn’t have to be alone.
After he pulled the sheet to her chin, he kissed her on the forehead. “I know it’s difficult, but try to get some sleep. I’ll be back in a little while.”
She nodded and drifted off in a haze of pain.
Rand wandered from Santa Catalina, so many thoughts whirring through his mind. He went to roll call in a daze. While most of the internees continued from there to the mess hall, he knew his stomach couldn’t handle breakfast this morning.
He thought of the story of redemption that Irene had told him. Was it true? She believed it. Anita believed it. Armando believed it. But did he?
Too much muddled his brain this morning for him to think much on it. Later, he would. Yes, later.
But he couldn’t forget the look of sheer joy on Anita’s face as she slipped from this life. Not pain. Not fear. Joy.
If he lived a million years, he would never forget that moment.
What did it all mean? If only he could know. If she would come back and tell him if what Irene said was true. Never had his clubs given him such radiant joy. In all his life, he had never known such peace as Anita had. Anita Markham. A woman who was blind, suffered from ill health, lived in the jungle.
In the end, she had it all.
In that moment, he wished he did too.
She had never complained. Never grumbled. In fact, she praised God every day.
What would make someone live like that?
The grounds were quiet, most people busy consuming their meager meal. They lived for the two times during the day they got to put nourishment, such as it was, into their bodies. Soon the children would fill the yard, internees would shuffle by on their way to their duties, and old people would sit on the patio to chat.
He strolled in front of the Education Building. A movement caught the corner of his eye, a young man walking, then running across the yard. Rand paused, curious. What was he doing?
The boy, likely no more than nineteen, sprinted now. A Kempeitai ran after him, his rifle in his hands. Rand shielded his eyes from the morning sun.
The boy stumbled and fell. The Kempeitai caught up to him, pulled him from the ground by his hair.
Without saying a word, the soldier dragged the teenager outside of the gate.
Then Rand heard a single gunshot.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Early September 1944
Even if we get the food smuggled in, I don’t see how we are going to store or distribute it.” John Mitchell pounded so hard on Rand’s table he thought it might collapse. “We don’t have a warehouse, and we can’t let the Japanese find out.” The diminutive man pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up on his nose.
Rand stood and ran his hands through his hair, cigar smoke billowing around him. He, John, and Bruce Tarpin—they had been the Three Musketeers before the war—had been at this for over two hours now and were no further than when they began. Rand was almost sorry he brought John into the plan with them. With rampant inflation, their contact could no longer sneak in the large pile of bills as he had been. He didn’t have a case big enough. Food was more useful to them. Since their contact’s office shared a wall with the gymnasium—now a dormitory for the older men—they might be able to get the precious supplies into the camp.
Desperate to save their families, the men had banded together to figure out a solution to the problem of getting food. “No, we don’t have much storage, but we don’t need it. We can only smuggle in so much every day. We’ll take it to the kitchen and use the furniture closet in the gymnasium if we need more room.”
“And how long before some Lucy Loose-Lips blabs to the guards? Does the thought of returning to Fort Santiago appeal to you, Sterling?” John pushed up his glasses again.
“That’s not fair.” Bruce splayed his large hands on the cherry table. “Isn’t the risk worth it to at least save the women and children? For now I’m fine, but that’s not the case with so many others who didn’t start with as much as us.”
Rand thought of Irene. She must be down a good twenty pounds from the time he first met her almost a year ago. She never complained, but he knew she was hungry. “To me, yes, it’s worth the risk. I, more than any of you, know what awaits me if we are caught. But our contact is offering to do this for us at great risk to himself.”
Bruce murmured in agreement.
Rand grasped the back of one of the kitchen chairs. “Listen, Mitchell, if you don’t want to be a part of this scheme, say so. Just promise us you will turn a blind eye to the hole in the wall and to the activity taking place over there.”
John scratched his cheek. “I never said I wouldn’t do it. All I meant was that we need to have a plan, a good, solid approach to this so we don’t jeopardize the operation. If we get caught, no one will benefit. We might even do more harm than good to the camp in that instance.”
Bruce swished the last of his brandy around in his glass. The last bottle of the cache Rand had brought into Santo Tomas with him. The last of his old way of life. This was the best plan he could figure to get the men to see his way of thinking. “Then I say let’s tell our friend we’ll be ready to do this in a week’s time.”
“Wait. I thought I heard a sound outside.” John pushed back his chair.
Bruce snickered. “You’re paranoid. I didn’t hear anything.”
John tipped his head. “I’m sure there was a noise.”
“We have to get back to the issue at hand.” Rand scoped out the men at his table. “Can we be ready in a week?”
John shook his head, his glasses sliding down their perch. “No. We need to figure out rationing and distribution—that is, once we have the storage problem solved.”
Bruce gu
lped the last of his drink and set the glass on the table with a thunk. “How did you ever get ahead in business, Mitchell, if you weren’t willing to take a risk, if you didn’t know how to think on the fly?”
“Risking money is very different from risking your life.”
“You mean risking your father’s money.” Rand slapped the table and laughed, Bruce joining him.
John’s face turned as red as a sunset over Manila Bay. “Hush. Do you want one of the guards to hear us and turn us in before we even get started?”
Rand wished he had a little more brandy to pour for John to calm him down.
“There is nothing wrong with a group of friends getting together for an evening of fun and a cigar or two.” Bruce puffed on his favorite local brand, making Rand’s point.
“There’s that thump again.”
This time Rand heard it. “I’ll check it out.” He motioned for John to stay seated before making his way to the porch and peering through the screen into the darkness. People laughed, a phonograph blared music, and a couple down the way argued. Nothing out of the ordinary for Glamourville this time of the evening.
Rand took a deep breath of the heavy, humid air, a sight better than the smoky atmosphere inside his hut. He never used to mind the drinks and the cigars. Now he found he didn’t care for them.
He didn’t hear any more sounds. John Mitchell always did have a vivid imagination. In the past, he liked to envision that every young lady in Manila had her eye set on him. None of them ever did.
He spun around to return to the conversation, hating to be left out of any of it. A movement to his right caught the corner of his eye. A shadowy figure moved across the path along the wall.
Rand stepped out of the porch and down to the yard. Was it Ramon again? “Who’s there?”
The interloper picked up speed, and Rand kept pace, then overtook the panting man. He grabbed the man’s arms and pinned the flabby body against the flimsy wall. “I thought I told you never to come back here.”
“Mr. Sterling, really, you don’t need to speak in such a harsh tone.”
Frank Covey. Rand would have preferred the eavesdropper to be Ramon. He didn’t believe Ramon would betray them. Covey might. “What are you doing sneaking around my shanty?”