THE LEPER SPY
The GIs called her Joey. Hundreds owed their lives to the tiny Filipina woman who was one of the top spies for the Allies during World War II, stashing explosives, tracking Japanese troop movements, and smuggling maps of fortifications across enemy lines for Gen. Douglas MacArthur. As the Battle of Manila raged, young Josefina Guerrero walked through gunfire to bandage wounds and close the eyes of the dead. Her valor earned her the Medal of Freedom, but the thing that made her an effective spy was a disease that was destroying her.
Guerrero suffered from leprosy, which so horrified the Japanese they refused to search her. After the war, army chaplains found her in a nightmarish leper colony and campaigned for the US government to do something it had never done: welcome a foreigner with leprosy. The fight brought her celebrity, which she used on radio and television to speak for other sufferers. However, the notoriety haunted her after the disease was arrested, and she had to find a way to disappear.
Copyright © 2017 by Ben Montgomery
All rights reserved
Published by Chicago Review Press Incorporated
814 North Franklin Street
Chicago, Illinois 60610
ISBN 978-1-61373-430-8
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Montgomery, Ben, author.
Title: The leper spy : the story of an unlikely hero of World War II / Ben Montgomery.
Description: Chicago : CRP, [2016] | Includes index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016002542| ISBN 9781613734308 (cloth : alk. paper) | ISBN 9781613734339 (epub) | ISBN 9781613734322 (kindle)
Subjects: LCSH: Philippines—History—Japanese occupation, 1942–1945—Biography. | World War, 1939-1945—Underground movements—Philippines. | Guerrero, Josefina.
Classification: LCC D802.P5 M66 2016 | DDC 940.54/8673092—dc23 LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2016002542
Interior design: Jonathan Hahn
Map design: Chris Erichsen
Printed in the United States of America
5 4 3 2 1
For my mother, Donna
One life is all we have, and we live it as we believe in living it, and then it’s gone. But to surrender what you are, and live without belief—that’s more terrible than dying—more terrible than dying young.—JOAN OF ARC, in Joan of Lorraine by Maxwell Anderson
Lord, if thou wilt, thou canst make me clean.
—GOSPEL OF MATTHEW
CONTENTS
Introduction: The End
1 Everything Is in Readiness
2 Fools
3 Family
4 Sirens
5 Safeguards
6 Bombs
7 Envelope
8 Boys
9 Hobnailed Boots
10 Bastards
11 Volunteer
12 Leaflets
13 Gone
14 Espionage
15 Speedo
16 Spies
17 Promise
18 Beleaguered
19 Taken
20 Pledge
21 I’m a Leper
22 Vengeance
23 Landings
24 Advance
25 Map
26 Los Baños
27 Dispatched
28 Leper Camp
29 Loose Ends
30 Visits
31 In Sickness
32 Independence
33 Spotlight
34 Discovery
35 Return to the Rock
36 All That Is Changed
37 Medals
38 Friends of Friends
39 Carville
40 Old Fears
41 Crusader
42 Fallen
43 Controversy
44 Fences
45 Walk Alone
46 Praise
47 Bureaucracy
48 Sisters
49 Deportation
50 California
51 Sunset
52 Disappear
53 I Am Still Alive
54 Anonymous
Acknowledgments
Bibliography
INTRODUCTION
The End
Washington, DC
In the last years, when she was living quiet and alone in the bustling capital of a country that had forgotten who she was and what she had done, she never spoke of the war. She kept the stories inside her head. No more bullets bit the dirt at her feet, and the flashbulbs had long since faded. Her few friends around town had no idea that she had once walked unflinching through cross fire half a world away, helping the fallen to their feet and closing the eyelids of the dead. They never knew the diminutive woman did something so daring that a US Army major general pinned a medal to her breast and said she had “more courage than that of a soldier on the field of battle” and that a Jesuit priest called her “one of the greatest heroes of the war.” They would ask where she was from, and she’d tell them she was born inside an airplane high over the Pacific, or in San Francisco. Nothing more. No one even knew her real name.
Her posture was perfect, but she was tiny and easy to miss on the broad boulevards of Washington, DC, the lines of taillights stretching forever past her, the sidewalks a two-way stream of people trying to get somewhere else. She’d dress in a black skirt and plain white blouse and pull on a long coat and slip out of her apartment on New Hampshire Avenue and walk a few blocks in the fading sun to the grand John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts, on the east bank of the Potomac, where she was Joey Leaumax, usher, volunteer. She’d show patrons to their seats with an anonymous smile, then disappear into the shadows to let the music wash over her.
That’s why she was here, the music. She was a plain person, but she liked to say that the plain is always attracted to the beautiful. She never played an instrument, but she was raised on classical, heard it in her sleep, and it conjured images of her childhood, happy and peaceful, before the war, before her affliction, before she had to disappear in order to live. Her secret ambition had always been to visit all the places where she could embrace music: Carnegie Hall, the Metropolitan Opera House, the Hollywood Bowl. She fed her soul on concertos for piano and violin. She loved Chopin, Beethoven, Debussy, Saint-Saëns, Tchaikovsky. Humperdinck’s Hänsel and Gretel. Mendelssohn’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Ravel’s Daphnis et Chloé. Her favorite was Brahms—so soothing, like a journey into a land of magic dreams. She was especially fond of his Symphony no. 1 in C Minor. Of the four movements, she liked the second best of all. She felt like it was pregnant with unspoken yearnings, secret desires, until finally it broke into the third, the allegretto, so alive and intense until it reached the finale and the air exploded with music and excitement, like the sudden appearance of a white-hot sun after a rainstorm.
To find the music, she had to travel halfway around the world, then battle the great bureaucracy of the US government, then ultimately disappear into the roving citizenry. But finally. She would close her eyes and lose herself in the sound and at once see her mother and her daughter, whom she had left behind. Her brown-eyed little girl, a stranger now.
Those times were past and sealed in a box in her mind, and she would let them out to run and play up the crescendo.
She was Joey now. She had a simple apartment overflowing with books and a compact disc player and recent memories of a job as a clerk at the Gold and Silver Institutes, where she typed letters, her eyes straining behind thick glasses. She was always giving her things away, foisting books upon her visitors, who always felt bad because she had so little to give. She walked to Mass every day at St. Stephen Martyr and took the body and blood of Christ into her mouth, a sacred and consistent act, then walked home to be alone.
When her heart finally gave out a little aft
er five o’clock on the morning of June 18, 1996, there was no grieving or gnashing of teeth. She left behind modest home furnishings; some costume jewelry; 850 books; two bags of used foreign stamps; foreign banknotes and traveler’s checks; some vinyl records; many autographed ballet, opera, and theater posters; photos and Playbills; and a simple handwritten will and testament, leaving the little money she had after her debts were settled—about $5,000—to a handful of friends. Those trying to settle her affairs also found a mystery.
They found address books that, quite curiously, contained only the names of friends she had made starting in the 1970s, none from before. In calling these friends to alert them of Joey’s death, no one seemed to know anything about her parents or when or where she was born. Among her possessions, there were no photographs taken prior to the late 1960s and no personal documents with an earlier date. Her passport said her place of birth was Manila, in the Philippine Islands, but none of her friends had ever heard that. She listed her year of birth as 1917, 1927, and 1937 on various documents. Her studio apartment was packed with years of catalogs, newspaper clippings, and correspondence, but there was nothing among her possessions to suggest she had ever been married or had a family. The friends assumed she was born in 1927 and had never married. Her death certificate and obituary would reflect the errors.
At her funeral a man read “Desiderata,” and they buried her ashes in a box in a marble wall inside a chapel at Mount Olivet Cemetery, on the east side of the city. The funeral was well attended, and her obituary ran in the Washington Post beneath one for a money manager and above one for a chef, on June 28, 1996:
JOEY GUERRERO LEAUMAX
KENNEDY CENTER USHER
Joey Guerrero Leaumax, 68, a retired secretary who had worked as an usher at the Kennedy Center for the last 17 years, died of cardiopulmonary arrest June 18 at George Washington University Medical Center.
Ms. Leaumax, who had lived in Washington since 1977, was a secretary in the publications department of the Gold and Silver Institutes in Washington from 1977 until her retirement in 1990.
She was born in Manila and graduated from San Francisco State University. She received a master’s degree in Spanish literature from Middlebury College, then spent four years as a Peace Corps volunteer, teaching English, music, and drawing to children and adults in Niger, Colombia, and El Salvador.
She was a member of St. Stephen-Martyr Catholic Church in Washington.
She leaves no immediate survivors.
A week after the obituary ran, a man called Joey’s friend who had made the funeral arrangements. The man said he had known Joey Leaumax by a different name fifty years ago, in southern Louisiana. He told an astonishing story of a previous chapter of her life, unknown to her friends for the past thirty years.
This, of course, is the end of the story, but it’s the best place to begin.
1
EVERYTHING IS IN READINESS
If you looked down on the cluster of 7,107 Philippine Islands from a Mitsubishi G4M bomber in the 1940s, you might see the profile of a stoop-shouldered old woman with her arms bent and her hands drawn up in prayer. Her face, the largest island, would be Luzon, and at the back of her throat sat Manila, the Pearl of the Orient, a bustling Asian city with a unique and diverse cultural tapestry shaped by the indigenous Tagalog Filipino, more than three hundred years of Spanish rule and, more recently, forty years of American occupation. The capital city was headquarters for American interests in the Orient, and the four decades of occupation had transformed Manila from a sleepy Spanish city into a thriving metropolis. Add to the mix a bunch of Chinese and Japanese migrants and Scottish and German traders who made Manila their home, and the city’s cultural web connected it to three different continents and an international heritage. The only facet of culture that wasn’t diverse was religion. The Spanish Catholic missions and educational system had converted generations upon generations, leaving few who didn’t long for the body and blood of Jesus Christ.
Between the deep blue of Manila Bay and the thick jungle there grew high-rise buildings, apartment complexes, shopping centers, and hotels and beyond those, fish farms and rice paddies and the brown thatched roofs of bamboo houses. The mist that settled low upon the mountains ringing the city gave it an exotic feel. To the southwest, in the mouth of the ship-spackled bay, rose the rock island of Corregidor and a bit to the north stood the knuckled knobs of the Bataan Peninsula, behind which the sun disappeared each day.
On hot nights the teenagers would drag their portable phonographs down to the seawall on the Vito Cruz corner, opposite the Casa Manana, and stomp to the music until sweat soaked their shirts. The street vendors sold sweet halo-halo from their carts, click-clacking down the paved roads, while river gypsies poled their cascos though the choking boat traffic on the Pasig. The bazaars were always packed with customers searching through straw hats and practical clay pottery, and the Escolta, the busiest boulevard, was a constant flurry of activity, the men darting through automobile and carriage traffic in white suits and the women sauntering in the heat. Inside the clubs, bodies pulsed every expression, displaying the blending of cultures: the tango, the flamenco, the waltz, the jive. It was a beautiful life, and though relatively short, the overlay of friendly American influence had left an impression. Most Filipinos felt, in some small way, like they were Americans.
The young commonwealth was on the cusp of independence after four hundred years of foreign rule, and the city was filled with a palpable anxiety. The United States was helping lift the Philippines to its feet, and at the head of that effort was a man who was pacing back and forth on the long sixth-floor balcony of the Manila Hotel, high above Dewey Boulevard.
Douglas MacArthur was born on a military base in Little Rock, Arkansas, the son of a Civil War hero. He learned how to ride and shoot before he learned how to read and write. He had been valedictorian at West Texas Military Academy, where he played quarterback and shortstop, and first in his class at West Point, and first captain, too. He had been the youngest major general in the US Army, the first American army officer ever to become a field marshal, and the first American to be a four-star general twice.
He smoked a corncob pipe, dressed loud, and wore swagger like cologne. His spine was straight as a flagpole. He had served as chief of staff in the War Department under Franklin Delano Roosevelt, but by 1934, near the sunset of his four-year term, developments in the Far East had grown interesting. The Japanese had conquered Manchuria, and Congress passed an act granting commonwealth status to the Philippines, now on its way to full independence, which would come in 1946. The exuberant leader of the Nacionalista Party, Manuel Quezon, was favored to be the new president of the independent Philippines, and he was working to establish a military to protect the islands. He leaned on MacArthur for help.
The general had served in the Philippines before, the first stint starting in 1903, the second in 1922, and the third later that decade. He knew the islands. He loved them. He also knew that politics in Washington were tumultuous. When FDR was adamant about cutting the War Department budget by 51 percent to pull the federal government out of the red, MacArthur stared down the president. “When we lose the next war, and an American boy with an enemy bayonet through his belly and an enemy foot on his dying throat spits out his last curse, I want the name not to be MacArthur, but Roosevelt,” he said, voice trembling. He told the president he was resigning as chief of staff. As he turned to leave, FDR stopped him. “Don’t be foolish, Douglas,” the president said. “You and the budget must get together on this.” Outside, MacArthur vomited on the steps of the White House.
Now he was in Manila. His family occupied the six-room penthouse atop the air-conditioned hotel, where he walked miles on the balcony overlooking the bay, Bataan, and Corregidor, wearing his West Point dressing gown and swinging a cane. He had been appointed field marshal in 1936, during a ceremony at Malacañang Palace, where the commonwealth’s first lady, Aurora Quezon, presented him with a gold
en baton. He had become the highest-paid professional soldier in the world and often referred to himself in the third person. Nonetheless, he inspired awe on the streets of Manila. Filipinos loved MacArthur. He spoke to them with respect and came across as a sort of father figure, a protectorate. They saw him at the theaters, watching The Great Ziegfeld or A Tale of Two Cities, and at social affairs and cocktail parties. It also appealed to the heavily Catholic population that he seemed morally centered and rarely finished a gimlet.
MacArthur, meanwhile, was worried about defending the islands. The first measure Quezon put before his new legislature in 1935 had been a defense bill, but it took two years before the first twenty thousand draftees showed up at training camps, and then it was learned that they spoke eight languages in eighty-seven dialects. And a fifth of them were illiterate.
Nonetheless, MacArthur maintained that the strategically important islands—“the key that unlocks the door to the Pacific,” as he called them—were defensible, even if they had more total coastline than the United States and were just one thousand miles from Nagasaki while they were seven thousand miles from San Francisco. He called for the formation of a Filipino navy that would man torpedo boats, for 250 aircraft, and for an army force of four hundred thousand Filipinos. “We’re going to make it so very expensive for any nation to attack these islands that no nation will try it,” he said. What’s more, he regarded Japanese soldiers and pilots as inferior to red-blooded Americans. He knew the Japanese had been whipped by the Soviets during border clashes in 1938 and ’39 and that they weren’t able to defeat the peasant militias of China after three years of fighting.
But his war plan needed funding, and every indication was that Washington was iffy with support, at best. The War Department failed to allot money so MacArthur could pay his draftees a pittance. The Filipino trainees were issued pith helmets and shoes that fell apart during exercises, and they were armed with ancient Enfield rifles. As the war churned toward fury elsewhere, the War Department began reassessing plans in the Pacific. The Orange Plan, under which the US armed forces had been operating, suddenly felt outdated because it assumed a war between just two world powers. An updated plan drafted in June 1941 proposed abandoning the Philippines to Japan or defending it without additional military support, so the US effort could focus on defeating Italy and Germany.
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