When the Elephants Dance (2 page)

Papa is sick. His malaria has returned double strong, and his face is the color of dishwater. He sweats in his sleep but shakes beneath the woven blankets. When he talks there is phlegm and a quaking in his voice that is hard to listen to. As eldest son, I have been given the duty of food trader for the day. I go in search of rice, beans, camotes, papaya, pineapple, canned tomatoes, Carnation milk, quinine for the malaria, anything I can find. Even the foul-smelling durian fruit with its spiked shell would be a blessing. Pork would be a miracle. We are all very thin like skeletons.

Since the Japanese chased the Amerikanos away three years ago, a kilo of rice now costs fifty centavos, more than four times the original price. The Japanese have created new money, but it is no good. We call it Mickey Mouse money. We trade for everything these days, work, food, medicine.

I carry my basket of cigarettes to barter with. I worked twelve evenings in Manila to earn these, serving coffee and whiskey to the families on Dewey Boulevard who have been allowed to remain in their mansions and villas. These families were the ones who stood in the streets and waved white flags for the Japanese Imperial Army when they first arrived. I would walk twenty kilometers south each day from our hometown of Santa Maria in Bulacan province to work these houses in Manila. I kept watch as the men smoked and played mah-jongg on the stone-and-marble verandas. Their tables faced Manila Bay, her violet sunsets, and the streets lined with coconut palms.

At the end of each evening, I would go to see the hostess, Doña Alfonsa, her face white like a geisha’s from too much talcum. She sat in her spacious parlor beneath a row of matching ceiling fans. The blades were made of straw and shaped like spades. Each night she lifted opal-ringed fingers and counted three
packs of Lucky Strikes. One for every four hours that I worked. She paid me in cigarettes, and I made certain the cups were always full.

My brother, Roderick, accompanies me in my search for food. He is two years younger, and today is his tenth birthday. We must be careful not to step on the dead, and the Japanese soldiers must be avoided at all costs. The first is Mama’s request, the second, Papa’s order.

“Pay attention.” I grab Roderick by his shirt and point to a man lying facedown.

He frowns. “It is impossible. They are everywhere.”

The stench is terrible in this heat. It rises like steam from a bowl of bad stew. I try to breathe through my mouth. Mrs. Del Rosario has been staring at the sky for three days. Her skin has rotted, and the animals have taken their share. Her robe is thrown open, and her right leg is pointed in a strange direction. I try not to look when we pass. Roderick becomes stuck to his spot. He was a favorite of hers.

“Don’t look. We must go.” I nudge him.

He turns to me. His eyes are angry and red. He looks away.

The blue flies cover the bodies like death veils. They land on our faces, bringing kisses from the dead. We swat them away quickly.

Early this morning, before light, we heard the rumble of tanks and saw many Amerikano soldiers in green uniforms and heavy boots marching in the dark. Papa said that their destination would be the Paco railroad station, an area well guarded by the enemy.

Ever since General MacArthur’s voice was heard on the radio saying that he has returned, all citizens have taken to hiding in their cellars. No one leaves their homes unless it is an emergency. It is best to stay hidden from the Japanese soldiers. Their tempers are short now that the Amerikanos have reappeared. They are quick to slap us on the face or grab a fistful of our hair. Everyone is under the suspicion of being for MacArthur.

There are barricades and checkpoints every two kilometers. At these spots the Japanese stand with bayonets and their special police, the Kempeitai. There are Filipinos who stand with them called Makapilis. It is short for
Makabayang Pilipino
, which means “our fellow countrymen.” The Makapili are Japanese sympathizers. They are pro-Asian and do not want the Amerikanos to come back. The Makapilis help the Kempeitai hunt for guerrillas. Papa calls the Makapili cowards because they hide behind cloth masks. One finger from them and a Filipino can be sentenced to death. They will turn in their countrymen without hesitation. The Japanese have poisoned our minds against one another.

Amerikano bombers fly in a V shape above. We watch their silver underbellies, ripe with strength.

“This way,” I tell my brother.

“V for victory. Go, Joe!” Roderick shouts with fist raised.

“Quiet,” I tell him. We hurry, crouching low to the ground, ready to dive. The ground shakes and the sky rumbles from their passing. My head spins from our quick movements. I steady myself against a tree. Roderick is the same way. We have grown much weaker in the last month from lack of food. There is no food to be found. Any supply trucks are ambushed by the guerrillas. It was better when we had the cow; at least we had milk. Papa worked so hard not to slaughter her, only to have someone steal her when we slept.

“We must not move so fast. Stay close,” I tell Roderick.

“Papa said to stay away from the city,” he protests.

“I know.” I keep moving, and he follows as always.

We walk south toward Manila.

“Papa told us not to go toward the city.” Roderick catches up to me. He pulls my arm in frustration.

“It is okay,” I tell him.

From behind comes the sound of tanks approaching. We stop arguing and jump into a banana grove. Five Amerikano tanks, followed by fifty soldiers on foot. We come out of our hiding place. A few of the soldiers look our way.

“Tommy guns,” I breathe.

“And carbines,” Roderick adds, shooting the trees with imaginary bullets. “But where are the big guns that have been shaking our house?”

“Already in Manila. Come. We will follow behind.”

Roderick stares at me.

My stomach twists from hunger. Already my brow is dripping with sweat from the heat, and the dust is caught in my throat. I take my palm and swipe it across my eyes. “We have to find food. Papa’s sickness is getting worse. Do you want to go back? Why don’t you go back.” I leave him standing with his arms crossed.

He follows. “Why do they not bury her?”

“Who?” I ask, looking at the scattered bodies. It is difficult to see whom the faces once belonged to.

“Mrs. Del Rosario.”

“For what? She is gone.”

“I hope someone buries me,” Roderick says.

I look at my brother. “Do not say that. Make the sign of the cross.” He does
so. His blue shirt is too large. The collar falls over his shoulder, and I can see his skin stretched over the bones.

“Alejandro?” He holds my gaze.

“Yes?”

“Will that happen to us?”

A
FTER SIX HOURS
we have covered twenty kilometers and reach the outer part of Manila. The tanks and soldiers have long ago moved on ahead of us. We stay to the east side of the city. The scattered sounds of rifle fire in the distance greet us. Another kilometer and we pass Nichols Field and Fort McKinley. There is smoke everywhere. Our eyes sting, and we pull our shirt collars over our mouths. There is a barricade before us. A group of Japanese soldiers stand with bayonets.

“I told you.” Roderick grunts and brushes an angry hand through his hair. He kicks the dirt.

My stomach rumbles and twists. I look behind us. “We shall go around. The other way. Past Herran Street.” But even as I say this, the soldiers motion for us to come forward.

We bow low from the waist and walk toward them. I feel the knocking of my heart. We are ten meters from them. There is not even time to hide the basket of cigarettes. I glance quickly at Roderick. His eyes are as big as plums. He grips one hand in the other, cracking his knuckles.

“Let me talk,” I instruct.

“I can speak for myself.”

“They will try to anger you, trick you into saying something. Do not mention that Domingo has been to our house.”

“Why would I do that? I’m not stupid.” Roderick glares at me.

“Roderick,” I say. I look toward the soldiers. My feet refuse to go farther.

“Come, come.” A Japanese soldier waves to us. His palm faces downward, as if he were swatting a fly.

I nudge Roderick forward and he shoves back at me.

“Nem,” the man barks at Roderick.

“Roderick Karangalan,” my brother answers.

“You.” The man points at me.

I stare for a moment at the accusing finger. “Alejandro Karangalan.”

“Where go? You have guerrilla friends?”

I shake my head.

“You deliver something? That. What that?” He motions to our basket. I place the cigarettes on a folding table.

The soldier stabs a pack with his bayonet and opens it. “You send message in here?” He squints at Roderick. “Ha?”

“No,” Roderick answers. His eyes are fixed on the man’s shirt.

“You, where is message?”

“No message,” I answer.

The soldier slaps me on the head. I grit my teeth and stand still. My eyes water, and it angers me. From behind the soldier a Filipino approaches, a Makapili. He does not wear a mask, as the others. He is thin, with long hair that smells of old pomade. He stands before us, folds his arms, and smiles. He pushes the boxes aside, inspecting the different brands that I have collected. The Makapili picks one, opens the package, and places a cigarette in his mouth. I count two ruined boxes.

Roderick lifts his head sharply and stares at the man. I can see the small muscles of his jaw.

“Ikáw,”
the man says to Roderick. You. “Who do you think you are, staring at me like that? Come with me.”

He reaches for Rod, but I put a hand on my brother’s shoulder. “I am the eldest.”

The man snorts and lights a match, watching me. “You know the name Domingo Matapang?”

“No,” I answer.

“He is a guerrilla leader. You know him.” The man nods.

I shake my head. “I do not know that name.”

“He is this tall. Is he not?” The man raises his hand higher than his own head. “What does he look like? Tell me, and I will instruct them to let you go.”

“I do not know this man. How can I tell you what he looks like?”

“He lives north of here, in Bulacan.” The Makapili points downward insistently. “You are from Bulacan.”

“Quiapo,” I lie, holding his gaze.

The Makapili blows a stream of smoke into my eyes. “How could you not know him? Suddenly everyone here is a stranger? No one knows anyone? Where does he hide?” The Makapili blows smoke upward and glances at Roderick, then back to me.

“I do not know this man.” My throat tightens and my voice sounds weak.

“Liar.” He puts his face close to mine. His teeth are yellow. “Liar,” he says again, and slaps me harder than the Japanese did.

I taste blood inside my mouth. It streams down to my shirt. I bring my fingers to my lips and hold my hand there.

“Puta ang iná mo!”
Roderick yells—Your mother is a whore!—and shoves at the man’s stomach with all his might.

“Rod!” I shout.

It is silent. The Makapili tries to smooth his face. In his eyes is a look of furious disbelief. The Japanese study my brother. I stare at the sharp bayonets, unable to breathe. My chest folds inward and I glance quickly at all the faces. A soldier begins to laugh, and the others join him. They throw their heads back and laugh from the belly.

The Makapili moves toward Roderick, who has his fists up. I step forward, but the Japanese soldier puts out a hand and waves us on. “Go.”

Roderick’s tears are streaming. He reaches for the cigarettes, but the Makapili blocks him with a rifle. “I will keep these.”

“Our father is sick. I need the cigarillos to trade for quinine,” I tell him. I memorize the Makapili’s face.

“What? What?” The Japanese slants his head.

“Quinine. I need these to trade. My father is sick,” I repeat, trying to keep the anger from my voice.

“Leave here,” the Japanese tells me. He turns and barks something to one of the soldiers. The soldier returns with a glass container the size of my little finger. “Take medicine. Go. You take.”

I look at them suspiciously. They nudge one another. I give the basket of cigarettes one last look, then urge Roderick away.

They watch as we go. When we are down the road, Rod raises his arm and wipes his eyes. “They do not even know what Domingo looks like.”

“Shh. Do not speak his name, even at this distance.”

“Is that any good, you think?” He nods toward my fist.

“I don’t know,” I answer. I throw the container far into a ditch. It makes no sound as it lands. A hundred flies lift in the shape of a fishing net and settle again.

We hurry back, cutting closer into the heart of the city, ducking from building to building. The sounds of gunfire rattle like a drumbeat. We keep our eyes up for snipers. We are almost at the end of the street when we hear running footsteps, and suddenly my chest is hit by a force. A body has collided with us, and we tumble. My head hits the stone floor, and I feel it swell immediately. Roderick moans nearby, and I call out his name.

“Kuya?”
he says groggily. Big brother?

I look around in confusion. There is a boy crumpled next to us. His face is
dripping with sweat. There is blood on his cheeks, and his neck is covered in red. His shirt is soaked and sticks to his body. I recognize his eyes, and then the face becomes familiar. It is Necessito Aguinaldo, an older classmate.

“Nesto, you have been hit.” I point to where the blood is darkest, near his belly.

He looks down at his shirt in surprise, then shakes violently. “No. Give me your shirt.”

“What?” I ask.

“You have two,” he says, breathing hard.

“He hit his head too hard.” Roderick watches Necessito.

Nesto shakes his head. “Alejandro, give me your shirt. They are coming for me. I am not bleeding. It is not my blood. He has hurt my family for the last time.”

“Who has hurt you?” I ask.

“Give me your shirt.” He tugs at my sleeve.

I am wearing two shirts, one short-sleeved over one with longer sleeves. “Hurry, Alejandro.” He stomps his foot and pulls off his bloody shirt. There are tears in his voice.