A Pledge of Silence

by Flora J. Solomon

  Margie retrieved a stocking from the dresser, checked the color against Evelyn’s ruined one, and handed it to her.

  Evelyn scrunched it from thigh to toe into a donut shape. “When we get home, he wants to specialize in pediatric surgery. He loves kids.” With her heel on the edge of the chair, she reached for her toes, the formal dress difficult to work around. “He sends his mother flowers every month. I bet you didn’t know that.”

  Margie didn’t, but the revelation didn’t change her low opinion of the man. She inhaled deeply on the cigarette and said through blown-out smoke, “We’re all living in a fantasy world here. It’s not the best time to make a big decision. Are you sure?”

  “I’ve never been more sure.” Evelyn stopped struggling with the stocking. “Look, Margie, I know you don’t like him. I can tell. But you don’t know him like I do. He can be arrogant, and sometimes he says things that sound mean. He doesn’t always relate well to other people. It’s because he’s a perfectionist. He doesn’t tolerate stupidity or anything sloppy, especially when it comes to his patients. I think that’s a good trait. More of the doctors should be like him.” She slipped the stocking over her foot. “Underneath, he’s soft and sweet. He’s a romantic. He writes me love poems.”

  Margie observed Evelyn’s beaming face. She couldn’t tell her about the rumors making the rounds, so she faked a big smile. “Then I’m happy for you! Congratulations!”

  Evelyn slid the stocking up her leg, clipped it to the garters dangling from her panties, and then smoothed her dress. “Max is different from other men. He’s a little mysterious.”

  Margie’s brow wrinkled with concern. Mysterious . . . or dangerous?

  They entered the Manila Hotel through an atrium of waterfalls and tropical greenery lit by hundreds of twinkling lights. The pavilion teemed with men in formal dress and women dripping in diamonds. Roving waiters offered appetizers and drinks, and an orchestra played holiday songs. Margie and Royce wove through the room to a patio that overlooked the harbor. The moon had risen, and the sky winked with stars—a storybook setting.

  They sipped French champagne, and Margie tapped her foot to “Jingle Bells” while watching sailboats slowly drifting by, their masts and riggings decorated for Christmas with garlands blinking red and green. Nearby a group conversed in booming voices.

  “The Filipinos jump at their own shadows,” a loudmouth said. “Take my cook. I’m waiting for breakfast, and he’s nowhere around. When he shows up, he says”—the loudmouth slipped into a falsetto—“‘Ah, sir. The streets are haunted at night. An evil spirit followed me home and flew in my window. I begged a friend to share my bed to protect my soul.’”

  The group laughed at the performance.

  A woman in red said, “I like the locals. They’re friendly. They tell a good story.”

  The loudmouth lit a cigar. “Bullshit! He wanted a screw at my expense. God help us if our lives are ever in their hands. To them, every shadow’s a ghost and every slanty-eye’s a spy. Hell, half the Japs in the Osaka Bazaar are FBI.”

  “Then half the Japs in the Osaka Bazaar are spies,” a mustached man quipped.

  “You better believe it. Spies are everywhere.” He lowered his voice. “I know for a fact there’s a mole on the air-raid alarm staff.”

  The woman in red said, “My friend saw planes over Camp John Hay. The Japanese are parachuting in. They poisoned the water at Baguio, you know. My friend’s cousin got so sick she went to the hospital.”

  The mustached man said, “Our guys found a horse slaughtered in the woods. They think the Japs are eating the meat.”

  “Can’t be too careful. They’ll slit your throat for no reason at all.”

  “Or for a meal. They’re cannibals, you know. Human liver’s a delicacy.”

  Royce steered Margie away from that bunch, but she could still hear the boozy drivel and tried to shut her ears to it, not wanting it to ruin the beautiful setting.

  The mustached man said, “I heard they’re building bomb shelters in Tokyo.”

  The loudmouth blustered, “Those bucktoothed monkeys will need their bomb shelters if they keep messing with us. I say, bring them on! Let them attack us! We’ll wipe ’em out in a week. Let ’em come and see what they’ll get.”

  The sound of a gong announced dinner. The partiers feasted on crab soup, mixed-greens salad, prime rib with thyme au jus, whipped potatoes, creamed peas, soft rolls with butter, chocolate truffles, coffee, and cigarettes. Wineglasses brimmed with fine Cabernet. After consuming all the food partygoers thought they could possibly hold, the waiters brought out cheese blintzes with raspberries.

  As the orchestra turned up the volume and livened the beat, overstuffed people flocked to the dance floor. The bar stayed open, ensuring further imbibing, and the lights in the room dimmed. Margie and Royce box-stepped around the crowded floor, bumping others’ shoulders and backsides. After a drunken dancer elbowed her, Royce led her to the less-crowded patio. He inspected her arm.

  “It’s nothing,” she said, dismissing the bump and taking in the beauty of the scenery. A soft breeze stirred the heavily scented flowering trees, and moonlight shimmered on the bay. Music drifted from inside, the singer crooning a dreamy tune.

  Royce took her in his arms, and they swayed to the slow music. He gazed at her face and hummed along softly. “You’re truly beautiful. I must have dreamed you up.” His lips brushed her cheek before finding hers. Enjoying his spicy scent, she found pleasure in the rhythm of the music ebbing and flowing, and she wished she could live in this moment forever. She nestled into him, laying her head against his chest to listen to the steady beat of his heart. She felt like she was floating.

  The music swelled, and Royce twirled her around and dipped her back. She laughed as her hair swept the floor. Then drawing her close, he looked into her eyes. “You’ve touched me more deeply than I ever dreamed possible.” Time and place blurred as they shared passionate kisses under the winking stars in the soft, scented breeze. He whispered, “I love you. I love us.”

  Margie melted in his arms, and her thoughts drifted to love-spangled years and chubby babies shared with this sexy hunk of Texas charm.

  The music stopped, and the spell broke.

  Breathless, they rejoined Max and Evelyn at their linen-draped table. A photographer aimed his camera at them. “Wonderful! Big smiles.” Royce draped his arm over Margie’s shoulder, and she leaned into him. The foursome raised their champagne flutes in a toast to the camera. The flash popped, recording the magic moment in time.

  “Come dance with me, Margie,” Max said. “It’s the Lindy hop.”

  She grabbed Royce’s hand under the table. “Um, thanks, but I don’t know the steps.”

  “I’ll show you. Come on,” he insisted, tugging at her arm. She followed him onto the dance floor, biting her lower lip in distress.

  When he turned to her, however, she smiled brightly. “When did you start dancing?”

  “I was ten. I broke my ankle when my sister pushed me out of a tree. The doctor said I’d walk with a limp. My mother didn’t want a gimp for a son, so she signed me up for ballet lessons. I was the only boy in a sea of tutus.”

  “What did your father say about that?”

  Max shrugged and tapped his foot in rhythm. “It’s eight beats; follow me.” Holding her firmly, his precise movements in sync with the music, he led Margie through the steps. She found his smooth, solid style easy to follow. When he released her right hand, spinning her out and reeling her in, she danced as if she had been doing it all her life. She laughed, marveling at her newfound ability.

  The Lindy hop ended, and Margie turned to leave, but Max grasped her arm. “One more,” he insisted. “It’s a fox-trot.” She held herself stiffly as he propelled her around the floor, expertly avoiding collisions with others. While maneuvering a step, his hand stroked her breast.

  She stepped away, remembering the brush of his hand on her backside her first day in Manila. Tight-lippe
d, she said, “Evelyn looks beautiful tonight, don’t you think?”

  “She’s pretty enough, but I’ve a taste for redheads.” With a thrust and a spin, he dipped her back until she was unbalanced and at his mercy. As she struggled to regain her footing, he licked the base of her throat.

  She stifled a cry, and then she heard Royce’s voice. “You’ve had Margie long enough, Max.”

  She buried her face in Royce’s shirt and muttered, “That guy’s a pervert. He gives me the creeps.”

  Royce held her closer. “If he’s bothering you, we won’t do this anymore. See Evelyn when you can, but no more double dates.”

  “That’s fine with me,” she said, but wondered what she would tell Evelyn.

  The festivities continued late into the night. Though rumors of espionage and sabotage swirled around, Margie felt safe. A portly captain assured her Japan wouldn’t strike the Philippines. The island was heavily fortified, he said, and more airfields were under construction. More troops, more bombers and fighter planes, and a flotilla of PT boats were scheduled to arrive soon. Additionally, the Filipino army continued to train intensively.

  General MacArthur, upbeat and looking a little flushed, circulated through the crowd, proclaiming everything was coming along splendidly.

  Only a few people knew the White House had issued a classified dispatch to commanders in the Pacific: CONSIDER THIS DISPATCH A WAR WARNING . . .

  The brass in Manila disregarded the dispatch. More important things called to them, like the evening’s festivities—the women, the food, and the booze.

  While Royce took part in a discussion with his colleagues and Evelyn chatted with her navy friends, Margie went out to the patio for a view of the bay. Carrying her shoes, she tiptoed through the sand to the water’s edge. In a reverie, she walked along the beachfront, following the pale light of the moon. The jungle soon encroached on the shore, and the lights of the pavilion disappeared behind a thick cover of vegetation. Coconut trees loomed eerily, and giant mangrove roots reached out like talons.

  A voice from the dark said, “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

  She whirled around to see Max staggering toward her. He was rumpled and drinking from a long-necked bottle. She said, “I was just going back.” She took a step, but he blocked her way. Fear prickled at the base of her neck. “Get out of my way, Max. Royce is waiting for me.”

  He hiccupped and burped. “Don’t flatter yourself. He’s talking surgery. He doesn’t even know you’re gone.”

  Beyond Max, she saw only the deserted beach. She darted sideways, but he grabbed her arm in a grip she knew would leave bruises. Twisting in his hold, she yelled, “Stop it! You’re hurting me.”

  “Oh, come on. Where’s that big smile you gave me while we were dancing?”

  “You’re sick! Let go of me!”

  Responding swiftly, he yanked her closer.

  She smelled his sour breath as his whiskered chin scraped the side of her face. “Let go of me,” she hollered, pushing with her arms and jabbing at him with her knees and elbows.

  He growled, “So the bitch likes it rough,” and grabbed her breast in a viselike grip.

  The pain made her whimper, and Max moaned. He searched for her mouth with his slobbering tongue, but she whipped her head from side to side.

  He clamped down on her ear with his teeth.

  In agony, she froze.

  He kissed her ear and the base of her throat and started peeling back the top of her dress.

  She inhaled sharply and flailed with the hand still holding her shoes, aiming for his face, her adrenaline surging. She swung hard, and the spike heel found its target.

  Max staggered and fell backward, letting Margie go. He covered his face with his hand and cursed in Italian.

  Margie ran through the sand toward the lights of the hotel. Shivering, she huddled in a stall in the ladies’ room, counting to one hundred, and then to one thousand, while trying to catch her breath and calm herself. She knew the truth for sure now. She would tell Evelyn everything and it would be good riddance to Mr. Mysterious. Evelyn would be devastated, and Margie cried harder at the thought of hurting her friend. When she felt able, she fixed her face, ear, hair, and dress as best she could with trembling hands and damp towels.

  That night, she slept fitfully, rumors of invasion mingling with vivid dreams of Helen at Camp John Hay surrounded by Japs slitting throats and eating ears. She bolted upright, her heart pounding and her stomach pitching. She threw up on the floor by the bed.

  CHAPTER 9

  Manila, December 8, 1941

  Margie skimmed the headlines in the morning newspaper: Germany and Russia continued to battle over Moscow; President Roosevelt had appealed to the emperor of Japan for peace. Putting the paper aside, she went to the buffet for breakfast. The war seemed far away. She had other things on her mind.

  She had avoided Evelyn since the night of the dance and dreaded their next meeting. She rehearsed the likely conversation a hundred times in her mind, never once finding a happy ending. Max wore an eye patch, telling everyone he’d walked into a low-hanging tree branch. Serves him right, she thought as she touched her ear, still tender from his bite.

  Outside the window, she saw Tildy, long-legged and panting, running across the lawn. With a small head and slicked-back hair, she resembled Olive Oyl, Popeye’s lanky girlfriend. She burst through the side door, screaming, “The Japs are bombing Pearl Harbor!”

  The women sat like statues, stunned. Gracie, doll-faced and chubby, looked out at the sky, but there was nothing to see, not even a wisp of clouds. “Do you think they’ll come here?” She chewed on the tip of her thumbnail.

  Margie heard whimpering, and she turned to see Karen weeping into a napkin. She rubbed Karen’s back and leaned over to hug her. “We’ll be okay.”

  Eyes glistening with tears, Karen shook her head. “My fiancé is at Pearl. He’s on the Arizona.”

  Margie had friends in Honolulu, and she feared for their safety too. Wanting to believe the best scenario, she said, “He’ll be all right. Honolulu’s a fortress.”

  Three night-shift nurses arrived for breakfast and a smoke before they retired. Usually a subdued group, this morning they were edgy and talkative, telling what little they knew. The bombing had started at 2:00 a.m. Manila time. The naval station at Pearl Harbor was a disaster—fires raging and untold casualties. Sobbing, Karen fled the room. A siren wailed. Outside, people ran about in confusion. Desperate to see Royce, Margie left her breakfast uneaten and hurried to the hospital.

  The corridors buzzed with unusual activity. The charge nurse answered incessantly ringing telephones. Bedridden patients jangled call bells, imploring doctors and nurses for information. Knots of ambulatory patients in gowns and slippers congregated in tight groups, conferring in hushed voices. Margie zigzagged her way through hallways jammed with anxious people, linen carts, and aides trying to deliver breakfast trays. She stepped through the surgical unit’s double doors where it was quieter. She saw Royce standing at a sink, scrubbing from fingertips to elbows with a stiff, soapy brush.

  She needed his hug, but checked her impulse. “Hey,” she said, mimicking the Texas greeting he often used. “Trouble’s brewing.”

  Royce spoke, his voice tight and muffled by his surgical mask. “What’ve you heard?”

  “Just what the night nurses said. Pearl Harbor’s in flames. You think the Japanese will bomb Manila?”

  Worried blue eyes peered over the mask. “Let’s pray not. Sure hope the air corps is ready.” He rinsed his hands and arms under running water and turned the tap off with his elbow. “I’ll be done here in a couple hours. Where are you going to be?”

  “Room two. Hernia. Should I cancel our tee time?”

  “Not yet. Business as usual until we hear otherwise.” With arms held up and away from his body, he gave her a wink before backing into the surgery.

  Margie rolled her gas machine into Room 2, readied an instrument tray with h
er anesthesia supplies, and then found a stool to sit on. A corpsman wheeled in the patient and transferred him to the surgical table. A nurse draped him with layers of sterile sheets. Groggy from the sedative given earlier, the patient grinned when he saw Margie. “Sweetheart, I’m feeling good,” he slurred.

  Margie lowered the gas mask. “Bye, bye, baby. You’re off to dreamland.”

  “Tell the doc to make this quick. Nips are—”

  He lost consciousness before he finished his sentence. The surgeon started the routine surgical procedure, and for the next sixty minutes Margie tried to clear her mind of what was going on outside and focus on her patient.

  By the time Margie left the hospital, the beauty of her surroundings—the blue sky, the manicured lawns, and the gardens abundant with exotic flowers—could not mask the nervous energy of a tense population. People stampeded stores to stock up on food and supplies. At the post office and every bank, crowds spilled out the doors and lines wound down the streets.

  Margie’s plans for an afternoon golf date changed when Miss Clio Kermit called a mandatory meeting for all nurses. The kind and knowledgeable director—a short, boxy woman with salt-and-pepper hair and dark brown eyes—had earned the affection of her staff and the respect of the doctors. Margie edged her way into the room of restless women and found a chair next to Karen.

  She squeezed Karen’s arm. “Are you okay?”

  Karen nodded, but her red-rimmed eyes and tightly held body told a different story.

  “Girls!” Miss Kermit yelled out over the chatter. “Girls, quiet down. I have some important things to say.”

  The room quieted as they gave her their attention.

  “The Japanese are bombing military installations in northern Luzon. Camp John Hay, Fort Stotsenburg, and Clark Air Base are reporting casualties.”

  The room hummed with agitation. Margie feared for Helen stationed at Camp John Hay. She leaned forward, straining to hear more.