“It’s all right,” Tildy said through a mouthful of food. “I can’t always be a mooch. I broke down and took out a loan like you said.”
The chaplain had introduced Miss Kermit to American businessmen, residents of Santo Tomas but still powerful, their corporations secretly backing no-interest loans to internees through their Chinese and Swiss bank affiliations. Margie explained to Tildy that her government checks deposited in the States were safe and would continue to accumulate interest even though she borrowed against it.
Tildy swallowed her mouthful before saying, “You should go into business, Margie. You understand all that stuff.”
“I helped my dad keep the books for the farm. He taught me all about debits, credits, loans, and interest payments. You’ll be all right. Borrow what you need to live and don’t worry about it.”
Gracie said, “There’s a vendor selling hand-carved combs. It’d be a nice gift for Boots, don’t you think? You know how she is about her hair. I’ll pick it up.”
“I’ll come too,” Margie said. “I need cold cream and soap from the camp store.”
Ruth Ann ate her last bit of pineapple and pushed the bowl aside. “I’m doing laundry later. Anyone want to join me?”
Helen said, “I will. I get off work first so I’ll get in line, but I need a favor, Ruth Ann.” She lowered her voice. “Um, I had a visitor. When we lay our clothes on the grass to dry, would you help me . . . um, hide . . . you know.”
“Christ, Helen. Nothing’s private here. When are you going to get over it?”
Margie looked at her watch. “Hup to, girls.”
They scraped up the last bits of breakfast, then put the bowls in their totes before dispersing to various hospital wards and clinics for their daily four hours of duty.
Margie worked on a medical ward where she treated the internees’ tropical rashes, festering bug bites, painful boils, and fungal diseases. Inadequate toilet and hand-washing facilities made dysentery a perpetual problem. Some of her patients had no awareness of the link between dirt and disease; others, accustomed to servants, had no intention of cleaning up after themselves, much less anyone else.
The Sanitation Committee launched a campaign on the importance of cleanliness, conducting mandatory classes and posting monitors in the washrooms to enforce hand-washing rules. It organized fly-swatting details and fly-killing contests, engaging even the children in the activity to control the ubiquitous blue flies that spread disease.
Margie rummaged through a cupboard, looking for something to treat a rash. She found bicarbonate of soda and added water to make a paste. They had precious few medications to treat tropical maladies. Physicians and pharmacists with access to Red Cross supplies scrounged to provide what they could. Chemists concocted teas and ointments from local herbs, barks, and flowers that helped relieve symptoms with varying degrees of effectiveness.
This morning, dozens of unlabeled boxes were stacked on the floor. “What’s all this?” she asked Tildy.
“Vaccines for cholera, typhoid, and diphtheria. Compliments of the Japs.”
“There are no labels. It could be anything.”
Tildy sadly shook her head. “The Japanese I knew when I was a kid weren’t like this, Margie. They were my friends and I trusted them. Now . . .” She shrugged. “Guess ours is not to reason why—”
Ours is but to do or die, Margie thought, finishing the line in her head.
Helen entered the room doubled over in pain and her body dripping cold sweat.
Tildy helped her onto a gurney. “You don’t look so good, honey.” She beckoned a doctor over, and when he palpated the lower-right quadrant of Helen’s abdomen, she screamed in pain.
“It’s acute appendicitis. I’m going to order an ambulance to take you to Philippine General. If the doctors there confirm my diagnosis, you may need surgery.”
Hours later, Margie heard the news. Helen had an appendectomy, and she was resting comfortably. She stayed at Philippine General for five days.
After Helen returned to Santo Tomas, Margie noticed she took long walks more often, bought useless trinkets from vendors, and hung around the package line, where guards inspected everything going into and out of the camp. Curious about Helen’s comings and goings, Margie asked her about it. Helen denied her actions were unusual, saying she needed the exercise to regain her strength after the surgery.
“But, why are you wasting your money on those trinkets?”
“I’ll spend my money any way I want. It’s no concern of yours.”
Margie’s curiosity grew when she saw Helen throwing the trinkets in the trash.
Margie volunteered to work in the large gardens that supplied the camp’s two kitchens. On her hands and knees among the rows of fruits and vegetables, she transported herself to another world. She held long conversations with her mother and father, confiding her fears, asking advice, and listening for their sage guidance. She told them how dearly she loved them, how sorely she missed them, and how desperately she yearned to come home. She dreamed of Royce, feeling his caress on her cheek, the brush of his lips. She heard him say, You’ve touched me more deeply than I ever dreamed possible. Rivers of tears dripped off her chin, salting the soil.
Helen often joined her in the garden. As they dug and nurtured young plants to maturity, they talked. Margie told Helen about growing up in a small Michigan town, her dreams of designing clothes, her years at Grand Arbor Hospital, and the crazy things she and Evelyn had done. She told stories about Abe, now flying missions out of Australia. At first, she couldn’t talk about Royce, her throat constricting whenever she said his name. Later, she babbled incessantly, describing his relaxed manner, his confident way of speaking, his skill as a surgeon, his kindness to everyone, and his tender love for her.
Helen shared her stories and dreams too, about her English mother, her American father, and her brother, Ian, who was somewhere in North Africa the last she’d heard. She had a large extended family in England and hoped to return there when the war ended. “You’ll come and visit me, won’t you, Margie? You’ll love my cousin Mabel. She’s a real stitch.”
Months passed before Helen confided about her capture at Camp John Hay. “It all happened so fast,” she said. “The Japanese started bombing right out of the clear blue sky. Nobody knew what was going on. We were told to evacuate, and me and Hattie—you met Hattie, the other nurse—”
“I remember Hattie.”
“Me and Hattie and Dr. Robb left with the cavalry, the only military unit up there. We heard that guerrillas in the mountains would hide us. We got only a short way before the Japanese came along with their tanks and killed all the cavalry guys. Tanks against horses.” Helen shook her head sadly. “We holed up like scared rabbits, sleeping in old sawmills. The Nips were everywhere, and after four days, one found us.” Helen squatted down and tugged hard at some weeds. The pitch of her voice rose. “Hattie tried to run, and he shot her! He shot her in the back! Then, he stood me up against a tree and aimed his gun at my head. I saw evil in his eyes, and I felt it all around me.” She sank back into the dirt, hiding her face, sobbing into her soil-covered hands.
Margie embraced her friend, patting her back. “I am so sorry,” she whispered.
“Only my faith in the dear Lord saved me.” Helen sniffed and dried her tears on the hem of her skirt. “They stuffed all us prisoners into one room in an old barracks. I got sent here. I don’t know what happened to Dr. Robb.”
Through the Executive Committee, the citizens of Santo Tomas formed education, religion, recreation, and entertainment subcommittees to organize activities. College professors and teachers established a school for the children, grades one through twelve, and classes for adults in languages, math, art, music, and history up to the turn of the twentieth century. Astronomy was a popular course—internees lying on their backs, gazing upward, following the movements of heavenly bodies and dreaming of faraway places. The Japanese forbade geography classes and confiscated all maps.<
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Chaplains held religious services and offered scripture classes. Sports teams sprouted up, along with choirs, an orchestra, and a drama club. Vaudeville shows, sing-alongs, and plays were presented at the Little Theater Under the Stars, an open-air stage built by the internees.
Margie offered to make costumes for the drama club. While watching auditions one afternoon, she saw a man she thought she knew. His strong jaw, distinctive profile, gangly build, and Midwestern accent all came together to form a familiar image. After the session ended, she approached him. “Excuse me, do I know you?”
Brown eyes blinked from behind thick glasses. “Isn’t that supposed to be my line?”
She blushed. “No. I’m serious. You look familiar.”
“Wade Porter,” he said, offering his hand.
Even his name rang a bell. “Hi. Margie Bauer. Where are you from?”
“I’m a man of the world.”
“What does that mean?”
“I travel around a lot. I’m a journalist. Best I could do to be part of the action. Bad eyes, fallen arches.” He pointed first to his face, then his feet. “Originally, I’m from a little burg in Michigan. Little River. You wouldn’t know of it.”
“Are you kidding? I’m from Little River!” She jumped for joy, clapping her hands. “Oh my gosh! I don’t believe it! How did you end up here?”
He leaned against the wall and folded his arms. “By lingering too long in Manila. It’s the way of a journalist—the story and the glory. I wanted to witness the Japanese coming. It turned into quite a parade.”
They spent the next hour roaming the compound, exploring their common roots. Wade had grown up on a farm less than three miles from Margie’s house. He was eight years her senior and their paths hadn’t crossed in any significant way, though he knew the farm where she lived, the stores where she shopped, and the teachers she’d had in school.
“When’s the last time you were home?” she asked.
“About four years ago. Not much there for me anymore. Mom died the year I graduated from high school, and Dad remarried. It’s not the same. I have a sister, Carol Hanson. She’s five years older than me.”
“Carol Hanson? I remember her. She worked in the library and helped me find reference material for my school reports. She was always nice.”
“That’s Carol. She married Greg Hanson and has a little girl, Julia.” Wade grinned, and Margie noticed a scar on his lip and a chipped front tooth. “I have a shack in Broadway. Would you like to see it?”
Broadway was a shanty neighborhood on the far edge of the campus, next to the stone and barbed-wire fence. Wade’s place fronted a path aptly named Back Alley. A palm-leaf roof topped the eight-by-eight hut, and woven reeds made the walls. To the right of the door sat a charcoal stove. Before entering, Wade waved to his neighbor just steps away. “Yo, Tim,” he said. “My shift.” He explained to Margie, “We guard each other’s shanties.”
Margie ducked under the thatched awning. Inside housed a cot, a bamboo table holding a typewriter, two bamboo chairs, and shelves stocked with dishes, toilet paper, books, and other items. The floor was split bamboo.
“Welcome to my humble home,” he said as he propped open a window and pulled out a chair. He took two metal cups off a shelf and filled them with tea from a jar on the floor.
Margie glanced around, envious of the elbow room, the privacy, and his little stash of belongings. “Where’d you get the furniture?”
“A guy over the way makes it. I gave him a couple of guitar lessons.” Wade retrieved the instrument from the corner. He strummed the strings and adjusted the tuning before launching into a spirited version of “Frankie and Johnny,” slapping the guitar and stomping his foot for rhythm.
She clapped. “Bravo! You’re very good.”
He nodded, strummed a few minor chords, and began a song she didn’t recognize:
“I’m a rambling man for many years
On my own learned to face my fears
Thoughts of home fill my heart with tears
And I yearn to hear kith and kin news
Got these soul-depressing, longing-to-go-home-again blues.”
He sang in a soulful voice, the music drawing Margie in. When he finished, she remained transfixed. “Did you write that?”
“No, I wish. It’s a Pearly Carl song. He’s a bluesman from Mississippi. I heard about him when I studied at Wayne University. Then I got a chance to see him when I traveled through the South.” He put the guitar aside. “I played that song in the bars around Ann Arbor and Detroit, never realizing someday I’d be living it.”
Intrigued by this revelation, Margie asked, “You play professionally?”
“Just say it’s my alter ego.”
She picked up the camp weekly newsletter, the Internews, off the table. “Of course. Wade Porter. That’s where I’ve seen your name. You’re the editor.”
“Yup. That’s the morning edition.”
Margie glanced through the announcements:
Rationing of milk continues. It is estimated that supplies will last approximately three months at the current rate of consumption. Outside sources for milk are scarce.
Construction of the new stage is complete, and, after a one-month hiatus, the Entertainment Committee will present the third internee floor show on Thursday at 6:00 p.m. The program includes Jerry and Phyllis Newcomb, acrobatic dance; Nick Brownell and Art Handy, guitar duet; and Frank Capella, magician.
A blanket challenge to play any baseball team has been issued by Room 42. Those accepting the challenge can sign up with Jerry Monroe in Room 42.
The semifinal round in the bridge tournament will begin Monday with sixteen teams of the original 116 competing.
Father Dennis Murphy will hear confessions beginning at 7:00 a.m. Sunday, near the outdoor altar.
For sale: All types of woodwork, boxes, tables, shelves. Your design or ours. Wooden shoes available.
From the Executive Committee: A radio message asking the American Red Cross for help in securing permission to release internees’ names and addresses to a source in Washington, DC, has been delivered to Japanese authorities by the Philippine Red Cross . . .
Margie wondered if her parents knew where she was. Did they even know if she was alive? She pondered the cruelty of their praying and hopeful watching—their fear of the day that would bring bad news. “Do you think it will happen? Do you think the Japanese will release our names?”
Wade refreshed her tea. “I wouldn’t count on it. We’re nothing but a nuisance to them.”
CHAPTER 14
Santo Tomas, February 1943–December 1944
Margie had been a captive of the Japanese for seven months and an internee at Santo Tomas for five. She hadn’t seen her parents in over two years. As Japanese strength in the Philippines intensified, hope of immediate release vanished. She and Helen pooled their money and bought a bamboo shack, a daytime retreat. It was near Wade’s shack and under the shade of a cypress tree. Two cots and a table and chairs crowded the inside. Outside, vegetables grew in a minuscule garden. When they moved in, the little hut felt as big as a palace.
Coming home unexpectedly one afternoon, Margie found Helen writing messages on tiny pieces of paper. Cigarettes were sliced open and tobacco sat in a little pile on the table. Helen jumped when she came in and hurriedly swept the cigarettes and papers into a bag.
Margie said, “I’m sorry. Did I frighten you? What’s all this?”
“It’s none of your business, Margie. I don’t ask you about every little thing you do. Just because we live together doesn’t mean I can’t have some privacy.”
Helen’s venom made Margie suspicious. “If you’re hiding something, it’s not a little thing, and I have a right to know.”
“I don’t want to put you in danger.”
“Helen, if you’re doing something you shouldn’t, I am in danger. Isn’t it better I know what it is?”
Helen hesitated. “I hadn’t thought of it t
hat way.” She brushed tobacco off the table. “When I was in the hospital, a Filipino doctor asked if I would send him information from inside Santo Tomas. He’s part of the underground who fight the Japanese in any way they can. There are hundreds of them in Manila and thousands of them hiding in the mountains. He wants any information I can get him about the guards: how many officers there are, how many guards they have, what kind of weapons they carry, and what their habits are. He’s especially interested in the package line. He said a lot of contraband comes through it, and he needs to know which guards can be bribed.”
“How would you know that?”
“I keep my eyes open when I’m walking. I watch for the ones that are bullied or seem weak; then I look for some way to identify them. That was the hard part at first. But then I noticed a lot of them had scars, or birthmarks, or missing teeth. One had only half an ear. I send the doctor what information I can, Margie, but I don’t know if he gets it, or what he does with it. It’s all pretty patchy.”
Margie pointed to the bag of paper and cigarettes. “Is that what this is all about?”
“Yes. I write what I find on tiny bits of paper and hide it inside a cigarette. I’ve gotten good at it. You can’t tell my cigarettes aren’t anything but . . . cigarettes. I leave the pack in a vendor’s stall. There’s no way for the Japs to trace it back to me. That’s all I do.”
“That’s all? You could be shot, or worse.”
“I’ll take that chance. At least I’m doing something useful. I was almost shot once for doing absolutely nothing at all.”
Sitting cross-legged on her cot, Margie stitched a monogram on a napkin. It was a Christmas gift for Gracie. She heard a rustle outside and quickly hid the napkin under her butt, hoping she had secured the needle.
“Knock, knock,” Ruth Ann called, ducking through the doorway. She glanced around the small space. “Aren’t you a Lucky Lou!” She admired the curtains Margie made for the window, the picture Helen drew and tacked to the wall, and the shelves Wade hung to store supplies.
A Pledge of Silence Page 15
