When the Elephants Dance (24 page)

I do not like his answer. It is more than I wanted to hear. In fact, I prayed that he would stop in the middle of his explanation. It is what I feared most. I feel pity for Ate Lorna. How can she compete with this woman?

“You did not have to kill that man. You could have let him go.”

“Let him go?” Domingo laughs. “What do you think war is about? Do you think it is just a bunch of grown men playing at leader?” He shrugs. “Possibly this is true, but there is also much struggling with the lower levels. Even, as you witnessed today, within the group. Have you ever played chess, Bella?”

“Yes, but it is not the same,” I insist.

“In some ways it is not. But do you see how one pawn, in order to get further ahead to the other side, must jump or, as they say, eat the other?”

I do not answer. I watch him. I ask myself,
Is this man good or bad? Would he kill me in a certain situation?

“Miguel and I became two pawns facing one another. If I did not jump over him, he would eat me.”

“So your murder of Miguel, it now allows you to follow your plans? It does not matter that you have killed a man? He is now off the board?”

Domingo becomes frustrated with me. He clicks his tongue. “Your heart is so tender still. I could not have him threatening me from behind at all times. Wondering at what moment he would choose to try to rise up against me. There are people who look up to me, who watch me for guidance.”

“So you are a god now.” I am frightened, yet I cannot help my mouth from saying these things. It has always been this way with me. My thinking and my mouth have been the matter of many arguments with my mother.

He is silent for a long moment. Except for his occasional grunts, and the weight I help him support, we say nothing. After a few kilometers he says, “I should not have let you see that, what happened back there.”

“It is too late,” I say with such resentment that Domingo pauses. “You could have told me that I risked my life in order for you to meet with your mistress and then kill a man. You have made me an accomplice to your sin. Ate Lorna will never forgive me.”

“Enough. I will not make excuses for what I did. I would do it again. What did you think? That we were going to a tea party? These men are trained to live through days in the jungle without food, without hope. They fight for a better Philippinas than the one we have at this moment. We’ve been reduced to animals, and so we act as such. Do you have a better answer on how to win this war?” His face is red, the same as my mother’s when we get into these exchanges.

I look at him, his wounds soaking through his thin clothing. The exhaustion that breathes through his whole body. I feel the weight of his responsibilities, the lives he holds in his hands. But I am still angry with him, and about this woman Nina Vargas; I wish to humiliate him for what he has done to his wife.

“Why is it that with all these men at your disposal, you do not try to help the prisoners at Santo Tomas, or Bilibid?”

He studies me, his eyes showing impatience with my flippant tone. “And what would I do with them once they were set free? How would I hide them? There would be hundreds of Filipinos and Amerikanos. There would not be enough weapons to give them. How would I feed them when I can barely feed my own? How would they keep up with us in their weakened states?”

I feel my face redden with embarrassment.

He sighs. “We cannot free the prisoners and then retreat. Do you understand? It must be all or nothing. We cannot approach the situation halfway.”

After several hours, we find a grove of papaya trees and yellow acacias. We try to catch our breath. I think of home and wonder what they are all doing. Domingo’s eyes constantly shift left and right; I feel as if my entire body will unravel at any moment. He seats himself on a rock and unties his pants. I look away quickly, then glance back. He pulls down his pants and inspects the wound on the thigh. The rag is soaked with blood. It smells bad. When Domingo peels away the dressing, the wound oozes a greenish color. He clucks his tongue and shakes his head.

“Miguel’s bite has infected it further. He would take me with him to the grave.”

I
T IS ALMOST
morning when we reach the foot of the mountain. We are again near my hometown of Bulacan. The indigo of night is fading fast, and the moon is farther away. If I close my eyes, I can pretend I am home and that I can return to school.

Domingo has become feverish from the exertion. Soon he is talking in a delirium. I cannot leave him this way. His strength has left him completely. We are not resting more than an hour when we hear footsteps, many of them. When I peek through the bushes, I see women of all ages walking in single file, heading toward Manila. Japanese soldiers walk beside, herding them forward like caribous. They are mostly Filipinas, but there are two Amerikanas. One, with faded yellow hair, falls on the ground. She looks odd with her dark skin and pale hair. The soldiers prod her with bayonets. “Up, up.”

The Amerikanas have been separated and walk behind the Filipinas. I am so stricken that I accidentally put my hand down on Domingo’s leg and he cries out, muttering in his delirium. His eyes are blurred, and he does not recognize me. I put my hand to his mouth. “Quiet,” I tell him. “Sleep.”

“Sleep,” he murmurs.

The soldiers stop to listen. Any moment now they will find our hiding place. I give Domingo one last look and run out into the clearing. The soldiers see me turn around, but they do not know where I have come from. They think only that I was walking and stumbled across them.

“Young girl,
daraga, daraga
.” A Japanese soldier smiles, trying to say the Tagalog word for “young girl,”
dalaga
. He waves at me, flapping his palm downward, to come. I swallow and will myself not to look back to where I have left Domingo. I look around at the trees so that I will remember where he is. I see a thick grouping of ferns. “Near the ferns, and the large
narra
tree,” I repeat as the soldiers shove me forward.

“Come, come. I not hurt you.” The soldier smiles with dead eyes. “We go to nice hotel in Manila, nice place. Give you food and drink. Nice for you,” he says. I look at the women. They stare at the ground. “You are hungry?” he asks as the soldiers surround me slowly.

My body begins to shake terribly. The muscles of my mouth tremble.
Of course I am hungry. Can’t you see the way my skirt hangs from my hips instead of my waist? We are all hungry. Ever since you devils came three years ago and wanted to control the rice production. You controlled it so well that our rice tripled in cost and created a black market
. “Yes.” I nod. “I am very hungry.”

“Good, good.” The soldier smiles.

Two soldiers run past me and look at the spot where I came from. My heart is pumping cold blood through my veins.
Please God
, I pray. They come so close, but they do not find Domingo. I pray that he remains in quiet delirium. There is nothing he can do. The soldiers have guns. We begin to walk again. I am part of the line now. I think back to three years ago. I was a different girl then. And the only reason I needed to be home by dark was that my parents wished it so.

My friends and I have the same interest. I was accelerated two grades because of my good studying, and I was to attend the university before the war broke out. My friend Karing is also to go to medical school. I have known her since we were babies. I have not seen her since last year. Her family was taken away and brought to Santo Tomas prison because her father is an Amerikano and that is where they keep all the Amerikano soldiers and their families.

My best friend Mica’s father was killed, and at times I feel guilty for having all of my family still living. I wish she were here with me now. It used to be that the three of us were inseparable. Now I do not even know if Mica made it home safely the other evening. I told her to go alone. It is my fault. I insisted she was being a baby and could make it home alone. I did not think she could be hurt because she is Japanese.

My eyes burn with tears. We were so close to home, Domingo and I. Now I am walking farther away again, back toward Manila. This is madness. I think of my little brothers, Alejandro and Roderick. I force myself to believe that they made it home. We walk for over an hour, the sky a cloudless blue. The sounds of war explode ahead of us. Another two hours and the sounds of battle swallow us completely. The explosions drop us to our knees. Twenty meters away there is machine-gun fire. Planes fly overhead, and I stare in horror as we walk into the city. Manila is on fire.

H
ALF THE BUILDINGS
have crumbled to the ground. The Japanese soldiers scream for us to get up, but some of the women do not hear, and the soldiers come and pull them up by the hair. The beautiful churches are half standing. We follow the soldiers along the back of the
luneta
. We go to Pilar Street, where a soldier points a dirty finger, to the grand Villamar Hotel. The hotel is at least ten floors high. It is a simple square stone structure. For just a moment the smoke is blown away, and I can see faces peering out the window like specters.

We run as explosions fly overhead. A woman drops to the ground and sobs hysterically. She recognizes her children and her husband dead on the street, killed by a sniper. The soldiers echo her frenzy, and two of them drag her toward the hotel. She is beyond reason, kicking and cursing, clawing at the soldiers. We are surrounded by the dead. Bodies are strewn in the streets, some without arms or legs.

There are babies on the ground, their tiny frames riddled with bayonet points. What crime could they have committed? The sickly stench of rotting fills the air sweet and thick, worse than I have ever imagined. Death is everywhere, and I breathe it in.

The inside of the hotel is like being in a dream, beautiful and opulent with imported rugs, paintings of colonial Spain and our islands. High chandeliers and wooden polished handrails, dulled by the print of many hands, grace the interior. A shock to the senses after the devastation outside. The electric lights that line the hall blink dimly, then brighten as the ground shakes and then stops. We are taken up many flights of stairs, through several corridors, and pushed into a dark room. The door is slammed shut and locked. We listen to the retreating footsteps and the sound of more locks turning.

I let out a breath of air and lean my back against the wall. I hear a muffled thumping against the wall and put my ear to it. The sound is close, as if it were just on the other side. It seems to come from lower; I follow the sound and stare at my knee as it bumps against the wall. I am trembling uncontrollably.

The women begin to whisper, slowly at first. They speak of the woman outside who became hysterical.

“She was taken to another room,” someone whispers.

“Will they feed us, you think?” a woman asks with sarcasm.

My eyes take a moment to adjust to the dark. She is older than me, in her mid-twenties, perhaps. If it were not for the long dirty hair stuck to her face and the hollow of her cheeks from starvation, she would be beautiful, I think. She wears a gold band on her finger. She wears an olive dress, sleeveless, with a straight skirt belted at the waist. It is splattered with dried blood, dirt, and grass stains. She is not wearing shoes, and her feet are badly blistered. Her arms have deep scratches, and I notice a large bruise on her jaw and along her neck.

No one answers her.

“Where were you coming from?” she asks me.

Again no one answers.

“You there. Young girl.”

I look up. “I was on my way home to Bulacan.” Even now I do not disclose the fact that Domingo was with me. I am terrified someone will hear.

“But you were in Paombong when we found you, west of Bulacan. Why were you so far away?”

I shrug. “Where are you from?”

“I am from Nueva Ecija.”

“Even farther,” I answer. Nueva Ecija is north of Bulacan. I hear the edges of my voice. It sounds brittle, callous.

“Yes.” She gives a tired smile. “I was searching for fruit yesterday. I left my baby by herself in her basket. My husband went out to hunt for food two days ago and did not return. The Japanese found me, the same way we came across you today.”

“What is your name?” I ask.

“Jocelyn,” she says. “Jocelyn Kuago, and you?”

“Isabelle Karangalan.”

She chuckles. “Such a name. It suits you.
Karangalan
means ‘honor’ in Tagalog, but you know that, right?”

I nod.

“One of honor. I like that. Why did I not think of such names when we named our daughter? Something strong. Instead I chose Lily.”

“I like Lily,” I say.

“Yes, so do I. I should not say such things. It will not be good for her to hear me say such things.

“Do you know why we are here?” Jocelyn asks.

“Shut up,” one of the women says, and starts to cry. “We are here for food.”

“Believe what you wish, but she needs to know. It has already been done to us, surely you do not think we will still get food?”

“Why are we here?” I look levelly at her. A vein in my neck pulses wildly, and my mouth goes dry.

She nods, as if to say, “Good.” “We are here to serve the soldiers when they relieve themselves from the battlefield. You understand?”

I nod numbly. “And the little ones?” I ask, because there are several little girls with us who look to be between nine and twelve years old.

She nods again, and I look away.

“They are trying to rid Manila of her people. They want to break the only thing we have left, our spirits. I will not let them. No matter what they do to me. Isabelle, do you understand?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Come here.” She pats the floor beside her.

I get up, and I feel the soreness of my joints, the hunger in my belly. It takes such an effort to cross the room. I lean against the same wall and slowly lower myself next to her.

She holds up her left hand and kisses the ring on her finger, then takes it off. “Here, wear this. They will think you are married.”

I frown at her. “I cannot take that. Your husband.”