A Pledge of Silence

by Flora J. Solomon

  “Shit! I need a shanty,” Ruth Ann added. “If I don’t get some space to call my own soon, I’m going to go crazy.” She pulled a rag doll out of her tote bag. “I need some help. Some poor little girl’s going to get this monster for Christmas, and it’s going to scare the pants off her.”

  Margie took the half-stitched doll from Ruth Ann and laughed, because it did indeed have an evil leer. “What did you do to her face?”

  “It’s supposed to be a smile, but it came out more like a grimace. I’m hopeless at this kind of stuff. My hands are too big. I should be making trucks for the little boys.”

  Margie snipped a few stitches. “Leave it here. I’ll work on it.”

  “You sure? You’re pretty busy with the Christmas play.”

  “I’m almost finished with that.” She showed Ruth Ann Wade’s costume, a waistcoat and top hat pieced together from various fabrics.

  “Wow! That looks professional.”

  “Hardly, but from the audience it won’t look too bad.” Standing up, she dropped the hat on Gracie’s Christmas napkin. “I wanted to study fashion design at one time. You want some tea?” Without waiting for a reply, she poured two cups. “I heard Adele Ernst is sending over Christmas turkeys and all the trimmings.” Just saying the words made her mouth water.

  Adele—an American nurse and colleague of Miss Edwards—had married a German citizen, and through him she had Axis ally status and freely moved around Manila. Her limousine regularly arrived at Santo Tomas’s gate loaded with baskets of clothing, food, necessities, and niceties for the nurses.

  Ruth Ann lounged back, her long legs outstretched. “Good old Adele. You ever seen her? She wears a hat as big as the Grand Canyon. She carries a black lace parasol, Margie. When’s the last time you’ve seen anybody carrying a parasol? She looks like Mary Poppins.”

  “So she’s eccentric. She has a huge heart.” Margie suppressed a grin and said teasingly, “Did you like the pocketbooks she sent to each of us?”

  “Never carried one,” Ruth Ann said, tapping her foot.

  “If you see her at Christmas, you’ll be nice, won’t you, Ruth Ann?”

  “Of course. I’m always nice.”

  When a fleet of British relief ships arrived in Manila Harbor, a group of internees were dispatched to the docks to load trucks with food, medical supplies, and clothing for the kitchens, clinics, and dormitories of Santo Tomas. Margie saw the trucks lined up for inspection outside the gates. Later that day, each internee received a shoebox-sized personal kit.

  “I’ll trade you my razor for your sewing kit,” Margie offered as she and Wade nibbled on candy bars. As their friendship took root, they often met to share meals and memories of home.

  “Deal. Let’s eat the corned beef today. I bought four duck eggs.”

  Margie’s mouth watered at the thought of corned beef and eggs. “Let’s eat my corned beef and save yours for later.”

  “Okay. I’ll save an egg, then. I know where I can get flour, so we can make pancakes.” He reached for her hand. “I enjoy cooking for you.”

  Not ready to begin another relationship, she avoided his touch by rummaging through her kit. “Soap!” she exclaimed. “Who’d have ever thought I’d get excited about a bar of soap?”

  On Christmas Day, the seventy-five military nurses interned at Santo Tomas gathered on the lawn outside the main building for their holiday dinner. Margie and her friends all sat together at one table. At each place was a poem written by Tildy, a monogrammed napkin from Margie, a small wooden cross whittled by Ruth Ann, a string angel crocheted by Boots, and flowers picked, dried, and bound into nosegays by Gracie. The serving table bent under the weight of several turkeys, sweet potatoes, dressing, cranberries, creamed peas, and fruitcake for dessert.

  Miss Riley rose to speak. “Girls, isn’t it a fine Christmas Day! Here we are surrounded by good friends, about to share a wonderful meal provided by our generous benefactor, Adele Ernst. She sends us her best wishes and knows how grateful we are. Let’s each of us remember her in our prayers of thanks.”

  The women murmured in agreement and applauded.

  “Last Christmas we traveled a dangerous road, dodging Japanese bombs,” Miss Riley continued. “We’ve made it through a year of great peril. Today, we must be thankful for what we have—our lives, our friends, and, as nurses, the privilege of helping those less fortunate than ourselves. Let’s pray for the safety of our men on the battlefield, for our country’s freedom, and for our safe return home.”

  The Japanese allowed visitors through the gates on Christmas Day, 1942. Family, friends, former coworkers, and servants arrived laden with boxes of food and the small sundries of living. Many groups feasted at picnics spread on the lawn. Margie and Wade stood together in the shadows and watched Japanese photographers snap propaganda pictures.

  One Filipino caught Margie’s attention. Although his peasant clothes and large straw hat tied under his chin made him unremarkable, he kept dodging the photographers and glancing toward Wade. She nudged him, saying, “Is that someone you know?”

  “I’ll be damned!” Wade whispered.

  The Filipino cocked his head, then melted away into the crowd.

  “Let’s go,” Wade said, and led Margie back to his shanty. A few minutes later, the strange man slipped through the door.

  “Charles! Didn’t think I’d ever see you again!” Wade embraced his friend and introduced him to Margie as an American-born Filipino, and the best damn photographer at the Ann Arbor Tribune. Charles and Wade had worked together, first in Europe, then the Philippines.

  The photographer looked around the shack. “How you holding up in this stink hole?”

  “Beats the alternative. I see you’re keeping a low profile.”

  “You like these duds? My uncle even found me a cart and ox, man. When I go underground, I go all the way.” He flashed a smile, and Margie noticed a missing front tooth.

  Wade said, “You fit in good enough. What can you tell me?”

  “Probably nothing you don’t already know. I’m assuming you’ve got a radio hidden in one shithouse or another.” He reached in his pocket for cigarettes and the three of them lit up. As the shanty filled with smoke, Charles said, “We ambushed the yellow buggers on Midway—credit to our code breakers—and trapped and sank four Nip carriers and a fuckin’ heavy cruiser.”

  “We heard about that. We had a little celebration.”

  “It gets better. MacArthur’s playing offense, hitting hard on Guadalcanal. We kicked the shit out of their air power, and our guys captured the airfield. Their navy’s another matter, though. The good news is they’re running out of resources. We’re destroying ships and planes faster than they can replace them. Soon as we cripple the navy, we’ll shove their fuckin’ ground forces into the sea. Locals hate the Japs and help all they can. It’s just a matter of time.”

  Margie’s voice filled with hope. “How much time?”

  “Hard to say.” Charles dragged deep on his cigarette, exhaling a long plume of smoke. “Those Nips will fight for their goddamn emperor until every last one of them’s dead. Long live the goddamn emperor. Tell me, bro, how does anyone get that much power?” He took off his hat, revealing a shock of black hair and a wad of cash tucked in the hatband. He handed the cash to Wade. “You know how to use this. Don’t know if I can get back in here, but there’s a vegetable vendor with a birthmark that looks like a bird right here,” he said, pointing to a spot below his right ear.

  “I’ve seen him,” Wade said.

  “You can trust him. When his hatband’s yellow, tell him you’re making soup and ask for okra. There’ll be a message inside. He’ll tell you which guards are approachable.”

  Wade stuffed the money down his pants. “Have you heard from Henry?”

  In one motion, Charles stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. “He recovered from his wounds okay. The last I heard, he was at Cabanatuan. He may not recover from that. Count your lucky stars—this pi
sshole’s a walk in the park compared to what’s up north.”

  “Tell me what I can do,” Wade said.

  “For Henry? Not a goddamn thing. For us? Keep the messages moving. Those wealthy guys at the top are opening their corporate wallets. The prisoners up north are grateful.”

  “I’m not doing much.”

  “It’s enough. The resistance is growing. And we’ve got God on our side. The priests are doing more than saying prayers.”

  “And Mary Poppins?”

  “She’s got a nice operation going, but she’s pushing her luck. Too many girls, you know what I mean?” Charles got up. “Keep your chin up, bro. You too, Margie. Wish I could stay longer, but I have other stops to make. You remember my name?”

  “Kodak.”

  “Good. You need me, you let the okra man know.” He hugged Wade and saluted Margie, then stepped to the door.

  Wade stopped him. “The last dispatch. Did you get it out?”

  “Yeah, man. Just under the wire. Good article. Great pictures of the docs at Sternberg too.”

  Margie’s ears perked up.

  After Charles left, she watched until his shadow disappeared before addressing Wade. “Kodak? The okra man?”

  “I shouldn’t have let you come. You shouldn’t be involved.”

  “I am involved. I have been for a while.” She told him how Helen had been recruited by a doctor from Philippine General to spy on the guards and report the ones likely to accept bribes. “She doesn’t want me to, but I watch the guards too and tell her what I see. That’s all.”

  Wade’s manner became grave. “You shouldn’t! You don’t know . . .”

  “I do know! And it’s my choice. It’s the least I can do. I can’t just turn a blind eye.”

  “But the guards are dangerous. They’re the dregs of the Jap army, Margie. The officers treat them like animals. They have no regard for human life. Do I have to get down on my knees and beg?” He pulled her close into a protective hug.

  Her head against his chest, she could feel the beating of his heart. She said, “Tell me about Mary Poppins. I know someone who fits that description, but I can’t believe she would . . . You’ve seen her outside the gate carrying a parasol or sitting in a limo. How do you know her?”

  He checked for unwanted listeners from the window before they sat down at the table. “She hid me after the Japs entered Manila. She runs a call-girl ring catering to Japanese officers. While I was there, she had just a few Filipino girls. They were gorgeous, flawlessly dressed, multilingual, skilled at wheedling out information, and they hated the Japanese. Adele—Mary Poppins—has runners who pass information to the guerillas on Bataan.”

  Margie felt her jaw drop.

  “She’s shrewd,” Wade went on. “The big bucks the Jap officers fork over for her girls’ company get smuggled into the POW camps. As Kodak said, it’s a nice operation.”

  From outside came the sounds of cheering and children’s excited voices. Margie looked out the window. “Santa’s coming in a truck. Those babies don’t even realize . . .” She turned back to Wade. “That last dispatch of yours from Sternberg. Did you interview Royce Sherman?”

  “Dr. Sherman. Big guy? Texas accent? I remember him. The Japanese were two steps from Manila and he was spreading sunshine.”

  “What did he say?” she prodded, fishing for any tidbit of information.

  “He said he was shipping wounded soldiers out as fast as he could. Most of them were immobile, some unconscious. There was no way he’d get them all out. He didn’t say that, but I knew it. Was he a friend?”

  A friend? She felt the urgency of Royce’s last kiss. “Yes,” she whispered, “a friend.” A lump rose in her throat, and she swallowed it down. “Who’s Henry?”

  “Another correspondent. He got between me and a bullet.”

  She touched his arm. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

  “Maybe someday.” He picked up his guitar and strummed a few minor chords.

  New Year’s Day dawned with the cheerless wail of a distant siren, foreshadowing a sad year of steady decline. Prices soared when extra food became scarce: sugar and other foods the internees craved became unobtainable. Babies cried, young children begged, wily teens risked being caught stealing rice from the kitchens. Their clothing, difficult to repair and impossible to replace, soon wore out. The odds and ends of everyday life—soap, toothbrushes, toilet paper—remained in short supply. Many people hoarded, traded, or stole what little was available.

  Those who stayed busy fared best. Although always lethargic, Margie and Wade encouraged each other to attend classes and concerts, participate in plays and sports, and work in the gardens. They read and discussed books obtained from the internee library. Gracie and Kenneth, a professor of ancient history from Chicago, became a couple. The foursome played endless card games, shared meals, argued the finer points of baseball, and analyzed the plots of movies seen before the war—rating the actors, directors, and special effects. They sang every song any of them had ever learned, from childhood to the present. Wade provided the melodies with his guitar while the others banged and tootled an assortment of improvised instruments.

  Gracie sniffed. She had been angry all afternoon, and the poker hand she held wasn’t mollifying her ire. She threw down her cards, announcing, “I’d rather bow to an ape!”

  “Is that a fold?” Margie asked.

  Gracie scowled. “S’not funny. That dog-breath guard slapped my face because my bow wasn’t up to his standard!”

  Mocking his captors, Kenneth grinned and composed a haiku.

  “The Japanese guard,

  A louse in the bowel of man

  Farts out with a bow.”

  Wade returned,

  “The Japanese bow,

  Sniff as if at a dog’s ass,

  Only wanting more.”

  Margie whispered,

  “Retaliation,

  The craved sugar of freedom

  Must be provided.”

  Retaliation was the intent and was communicated by a wink or a worried look when twenty-three nurses gathered at the top of the main building’s stairwell. Dressed for work, they wore handmade uniforms—wrinkled, tattered, and splattered with old blood. Many carried five-pound coffee cans with braided handles, the latest fashion in totes.

  “All right,” Margie whispered. “One at a time. Shh . . . no giggling.”

  Helen left first, trading a bow with the guard at the door.

  A few minutes later, he and Gracie exchanged an obeisance.

  With Sally, he bowed long and low.

  Soon Boots followed.

  Ruth Ann kept the guard bobbing . . .

  Then Tildy . . .

  And Rosie . . .

  And Louise . . .

  And fourteen others . . .

  And finally Margie.

  Not seeing an end to the line of women coming, the guard walked away.

  Discreetly observing the guards, Margie had noticed most fit into types: the callow young, the dull-witted, and the older men who had been put out to pasture. Quick to detect their weaknesses, the internees assigned them names like Mighty Mouse, the Bully, Nobody’s Home, the Dullard, and Quacker, whose frequent rants sounded like Donald Duck. Slap-Slap relished slapping faces. Beetle Bailey played kindly with the children, scratching tic-tac-toe in the dirt and giving the winner a banana or biscuit. Some guards liked to flirt, so Margie played what she knew was a dangerous game, engaging them in pidgin banter to study their attitudes and learn their habits. She told Helen about the lonely guard who cautiously shared with her a picture of his wife and baby son, thinking the information might be useful to the Filipino doctor at Philippine General.

  Wade warned her, “Don’t engage with the guards, Margie. You and Helen are too visible. If you’re caught spying on them, death won’t be the worst of it.”

  The resourceful residents of Santo Tomas whittled crochet hooks and knitting needles from bamboo. With them, they made their o
wn socks and underwear from twine scrounged from the kitchens and supply docks. Both sexes preferred G-strings, which kept them cool and were easy to make. After curfew, sitting cross-legged on their cots in the evening half-light, the women talked as they stitched.

  “What are you making, Margie? It looks like it’s getting kind of big,” Boots said.

  “It’s socks for Wade. He’s been a good sport making all these crochet hooks.”

  “I think he’s smitten, Margie.”

  Margie sniffed to stem the tears that had lurked beneath the surface all afternoon. Smitten. That’s what Dr. Corolla had said about Royce. Hearing “the boy is smitten” had made her so happy not so long ago. Now she had trouble remembering his face.

  “Did you hear me, Margie? I think Wade has a thing for you.”

  “I don’t know. We’re good friends. He reminds me of home, is all.”

  Tildy called out, “Has anyone worn these socks yet? I wore a pair today, and they killed my feet.”

  “Let me see them,” Margie said.

  Tildy tossed the offending footwear to her.

  “Well, there’s your problem. The twine’s too thick. Unravel the sock and split the twine. They’ll come out softer, and you’ll have two for one.”

  As she tossed the sock back, a piercing scream ripped through the air, making Margie cower on her cot. The tortured shrieks of three captured escapees had tormented the internees all afternoon and now into the night. Dropping her crochet hook and covering her ears, Margie tried to block out the agonized wails. “All this hell,” she said in despair.

  Time wore on and Margie drifted through the days in a mental stupor she found impossible to shake. Listless, she willed herself to get off her cot when she heard a commotion outside. To her horror, she saw a company of guards fanning through Broadway. Before she could react, two burst into her shanty and propelled her out the door where she stood with other internees while the guards searched the shanties for contraband. She heard her cot squeak, then the mattress ripping. Pots banged and dishes rattled, followed by an outburst of creepy giggling. Her mouth went dry, and she couldn’t swallow as she imagined the horrors they would suffer if the guards found Helen’s jerry-rigged cigarettes.