When the Elephants Dance (25 page)

“Don’t be silly. They want the
dalagas
first. The virgins. Put it on.”

I take the ring from her finger and start to cry for the first time. She pulls me to her and smoothes my hair. I fall asleep to the sound of my stomach moaning.

W
E HAVE NO
windows in this room. It is not the typical hotel room, but a supply closet of some sort. It is dark. The light no longer filters through the bottom of our door. A million cries escape our throats when we hear the heavy sound of boots.

“Oh, God,” we hear women sob from the next rooms. It is the first time we realize that the other rooms are filled with women also.

We are at the end of the third floor. I pray even though I know it is horrible, I pray that there are enough of the other women in the first room to satisfy them. When the door to our room opens, my mouth widens. A torch is brought in and held near our faces. The flame cuts through the dark, slashing at our eyes with its heat and searing our ears with its breath. I see my expression reflected in the terrified faces of the others. The ones with young daughters hold them
tightly in their arms. I wish for a bomb to fall on us, but God does not answer my prayer.

Jocelyn and I hold hands. Five soldiers come in and pull the closest girls to them. Immediately the girls begin to cry. One of the soldiers laughs and puts his arm around the waist of the smallest girl. She looks to be about eleven years old. The girl’s mother stands and tries to grab her daughter back, but the man hits her with the back of his hand. Her arms flail as she falls to the ground. The other girls are dragged out by their hair.

So this is how it will be. They take the Amerikanas first. Then they take a fourth woman who looks to be in her early twenties. They scan the room until their eyes land on me, and I begin to shake.

The soldier points to me. “Up.”

Jocelyn holds up my hand with the ring. “She is married. No longer a
dalaga
.”

The soldier frowns. “You, then.” He grabs Jocelyn by the shoulder.

She gives me one last look. I do not find the words to thank her.

There is screaming coming from different rooms, more desperate than ours. I shut my eyes and hold my fists to my ears. The door opens again and one of the girls is thrown back. She is too tiny, all bones, and the soldiers will have nothing to do with her. A different girl is groped, then selected.

After another hour, we hear new footsteps at the door, and again the rooms are opened. They pass our room. This continues on and on, every hour, as the soldiers are relieved from their posts. It must be very early in the morning when our doors open again. The three girls are thrown back in the room. One is bleeding profusely beneath her skirt.

“Dios ko, Dios ko, anák ko,”
the woman says, weeping. My God, my baby.

“I am hurt.” The young girl walks to her mother and collapses.

“You,
daraga
, come with me.” A soldier points to a younger girl. Both the girl and her mother begin to sob.

“No, oh no,” the mother says over and over. My heart aches for the girl.

“Shut up.” Another woman covers her ears. “They have chosen her, she must go.”

“Come, come. I am tired. I need to sleep.” The soldier speaks perfect English with no accent, so I am surprised by this.

“I will go.” I stand. I do not bother to show him the ring. He looks at me in surprise, and then he nods. “Okay, okay, good. Hurry.”

Think of good things. God, why have you deserted us?

The soldier takes my wrist and leads me down the hallway. We pass other
soldiers, who tug at my skirt. He must be higher ranked than they are, for he shoves their hands away and they move away from him. He takes me to the fourth floor and opens a large suite. My mind spins.
Rake his face
. I look at the vase on the table.
Smash it over his head. And what if he does not die? Then what?

He is watching me think through this. He is young for an officer. He locks the door to the suite and sits to study me. My breathing is coming so fast that I cannot think. I look to the door and to the open window.

The soldier moves toward me. “Be still.” He brushes the hair away from my face, and my skin grows cold.

I am about to be butchered. I look him straight in the eyes. I know I should not do this, but it has always been this way with me. Once I feel fear, I can stand it for only so long before I become angry. He seems taken aback by my glare.

He tilts his head back a little and chuckles. “What will you do? You wish to hit me? I would treat you nice.” He takes the back of his hand and rubs his knuckles against my cheek. It takes great effort not to bite his fingers. I am so tired, and my body will not stop trembling, from fear or anger or exhaustion, I do not know. All I want to do is sleep. We continue to stare at each other.

There is a knock at the door. The soldier grunts an answer in Japanese. His answer is met with silence and then two more quick raps. The soldier curses and strides to the door. I look around for a weapon. When I look to a nearby table, I cannot believe my eyes. There is a desk, and a copper letter opener, dull but pointed at the end. I take it quickly and put it in my front skirt pocket.

There is arguing at the door, and when the soldier steps aside I am mesmerized. I don’t know what to think. A Makapili stands there, wearing a cloth mask with slits for eyes. He gazes at me, and I hate the traitor on sight. He points a finger at me.

“This is the girl. The high commander asked that I keep her aside for him. She was mixed back into the crowd by accident,” the Makapili explains.

“Too late,” the Japanese soldier snaps. “I have already picked her.”

The Makapili shrugs. “I shall tell the commander, then.” He bows to walk away.

“Wait—” The soldier reaches out a hand to stop him. He looks back at me while the Makapili waits at the door. The soldier walks back to me and rubs my back. His hand follows the curve of my back, down past my skirt. He reaches underneath my skirt and rubs my rear.

I grit my teeth, my hand resting on top of the metal letter opener. He sighs and pulls away from me, and we stare at each other again.

“What I would do with you,” he says in English, and grins. “What you would like to do to me.” He laughs and wags a finger at me. “Here—” He pushes
me forward. “Take her. It is probably best. Warn the commander not to turn his back. She has blood in her eyes.”

“Yes, Major,” the Makapili says, and ushers me out of the room.

We walk through the hallway again. It is filled with more soldiers coming in from the fighting. I keep my head bowed and watch them from beneath my veil of hair. I see them in a blur. The hallways seem slanted to my eyes, as if they are on an incline. The dim lighting flickers with the distant explosions. I am lost in the voices of the Japanese soldiers and in their stares. They reach out to touch my arm, my chest; one wraps his fist in my hair and I gasp at the pain. He smells of death and sweat. His breath is foul.

The Makapili puts his hand out, but the soldier shoves it away. “She is reserved for the commander,” the Makapili says firmly.

The soldier takes his hand from my hair and grunts. He says something in Japanese to the others. Their eyes trace the curve of my breasts. I hold my breath. It makes my skin crawl. They glance condescendingly at him. One of them gives a sarcastic snort, not quite a laugh. A chuckle, with the eyes scoffing.

The Makapili leads me upstairs to another room. I feel a sickness in my stomach. I want to scream. He opens the door and I turn to run. He blocks my way and I stare into the slits of his mask. “Why are you doing this?” I despise the sound of my voice, raw and helpless. “You are a Filipino,” I remind him.

“Shh, come.” He grabs my wrist and turns on the light. When he shuts the door I move away from him and look around the room for the commander whose present I have become. The room is cool and empty, with a window thrown open. The curtains flap in the wind, ushering in the scent of gunpowder and ashes from the burning buildings.

There is a large canopied bed, with smooth ivory silk and gossamer nets to keep the mosquitoes away. A jade-colored vase with pink lilies makes my heart turn. On a corner table lies an open cedar box of cigars. I watch as the Makapili unties the mask from behind his neck and begins to pull it off. I picture a devil behind the mask and my first reflex is to flee, but he is too quick, and when his mask comes off I see that it is Feliciano Bautista, Aling Anna’s nephew.

“You!” I shout.

“Shh.” He puts his finger to his mouth and comes to put his arms around me.

“Hayop!”
I scream—Animal!—and slap his face. He scrambles to put his hand on top of my mouth. We wrestle and I fall over a low table and my knee hits the corner of the table painfully. I begin to cry, and he pins me down.

“Isabelle, I will protect you. But you must listen to me. You must stay here. Do you understand?”

I think of all the times I helped him with his homework. The times my father let him come to visit. I think of my family dying somewhere from hunger, from our enemies, my young brother hanging from his thumbs. And this man, this traitor, dares to touch me. I have no care; I pull the letter opener from my skirt. I mean to plunge it in his neck, to gouge an eye. But again he is too fast for me, and he grabs my wrist and slams it on the ground twice until I let go. I curl my fist and strike him hard across the face the way Father taught us, when he would hang a sack of rice and teach us to punch it.

Feliciano falls back, holding his face. I find the letter opener and lunge for him. He leans forward and slaps me. My nose begins to bleed. I scramble free and stand up to fight him.

“Isabelle, forgive me. Please.” He holds his palms in front of me.

I stare at him. “You coward, you traitor. I would rather die.”

“You
will
die. Your family will die, if you do not let me help you.”

My heart twists at the mention of my family. “Do not let the Japanese hurt them, Feliciano. My family has been good to you. We have always welcomed you into our home.”

“I haven’t forgotten. Let me find a way to get you out of here. Will you listen when I think of a plan?”

I nod slowly.

“Stay here. If someone knocks …” He stops, not knowing what to say. “I will be back soon, okay?”

I nod and watch him hurry out of the room. I push my hair away from my face with the back of my hand. So tired. The minute he leaves I rush to the window and look down. I am on the fifth floor. There are no balconies. I would die instantly. My mind begins to play tricks on me. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad to give in to Feliciano. He could protect me. At least I would pick a lesser demon to lie with. Better to lie with a Filipino than the enemy. Even if the Filipino is a traitor.

I hit my forehead with the base of my palm and begin to cry. I avoid the bed and curl myself into a ball.
What are you saying? What are you thinking? You do not know. He could have been the one that pointed a finger at Domingo, at Alejandro. He could be the worst of all of them
.

I
T IS DARK
in the room when I wake. I have no sense of time. When did I last see Domingo? Is it tomorrow already? There is a loud explosion, followed by a second. I don’t know where I am. I crouch low, waiting for the bomb to land. It takes a moment before I realize it is someone kicking at the door. Still I am
not yet myself; I think for just a moment it is the door to our house. But this is not my room. There is a large carpet on the floor. I feel it uneasily with the palm of my hand. My mind stretches.
Think, think
, it says. My heart begins to beat quickly, like the wings of a hummingbird, strong like the rumbling of a volcano. Then the picture forms and I realize where I am.

“Feliciano?” I call out.

Someone is yelling in Japanese, and then in thick English he says, “Open this door. Who has key?” The kicking grows louder, more crazed.

I stand, crouch down, then stand again. I put my hands to my ears, wanting to die. I want my mother. I run to the window and throw it open farther. I will wait for the door to break open, and then I will jump.

Someone is running down the hall. I begin to cry and throw my right leg over the window. But the door is kicked open, and before I have time to think, three soldiers rush toward me and pull me back into the room.

“So this is girl Makapili has saved for me?” A heavy Japanese comes forward. He is dirty and his face is caked with dirt and sweat. I watch with fascination as a pool of sweat forms in the crevice of his upper lip. “Good.” He nods and begins to undress. The other two soldiers do the same. They take off their underclothes, and I catch a glimpse of their private areas and look away. My face burns. One goes to the window and shuts it, checking the lock.

I cannot move. What a fool I was to think Feliciano would help me. He merely said that so I would go willingly to this room without a fight.
Fool for trusting him. Fool for sleeping. Now I will die
. My stomach twists and I pace the small area between us. The other soldier lights a cigar, and soon the room is filled with the heavy sweet aroma. They watch me with disinterest. They talk of conditions at the battlefront and of the orders that are coming from the emperor himself. The leader waves his hand for me to come forward. I stand my ground.

He lights a cigar and repeats the gesture, his face bland with impatience.

This is not happening. I am to study medicine at the University of Santo Tomas. I was accelerated two grades for my intelligence. I catalog all the classes I am to take, all the books I must buy. The soldiers come closer to me. I remember all the friends who will attend, their faces smiling. The commander reaches out and touches my breasts as if he were sampling fruit at the market. My body cringes and my mind shouts,
Improper!
Their hands are all around me, touching. My throat convulses and I fold within myself. My hands are moved away as I try to hold off their advances. Oh God, their laughter, and the smell of their filth. I cover myself with my arms. It only incites their violence. They pry my arms open. I hear a tearing sound. It is my soul. I feel the last of my strength
drain, and I am paralyzed. Their hands are so strong, so thick; their faces blur before me. I hear the tearing of my blouse, my skirt.