When the Elephants Dance (40 page)

The sun bludgeons us with its heat, and the dust from the road infiltrates the eyes, the mouth, the nose. Tay Fredrico, the old Spaniard, begins to sway before me. He is nearly seventy-five years old. His legs bow out, but he catches himself. By force of will he walks a few meters. I keep my eyes on his frail form. The soldiers watch him closely. When he stops and brings a hand to his chest, I take his arm and place it around my neck. His added weight takes the breath from me. The soldiers watch, unsure if they will allow this. They take drinks from their cantinas. Roman moves to help us, but I warn him away with my eyes. We walk on through the night, when we reach the outer section of Manila. It is dawn when we cross one of the few remaining bridges over the Pasig River.

We have entered hell. The smell of decaying bodies in the tropical heat suffocates us. The others weep at the sight. Our city is unrecognizable. The
Amerikanos have set up the heavy artillery. They crouch among the decapitated trees and the rubble of ancient Spanish churches. There are snipers in every tower. The concussion of the explosions threatens to bleed the ears and bring us to our knees. We are paralyzed by the sound. Another shrill whistle, and Mang Selso shoves his wife aside so that he can take cover. We dive forward. A loud explosion encompasses the area, and the ground shakes and shudders in contractions. Hard pieces of rock and earth are thrown about, scratching our faces and arms, landing on our heads. The rattle of rifle fire brings us to attention.

“Up, stand up!” the Japanese soldiers scream, kicking the people.

No sooner do we stand than tier upon tier of the Amerikano bombers and the older P-40 fighters strafe the ground. The
thud, thud
of the bullets as they cut through the Japanese and stray civilians causes the people to scream and flee. They are chased down by the soldiers and brought back.

Several Japanese Zeros rise over Manila Bay, and a dogfight ensues. The planes dive and swoop like metal birds. The Zeros are superior planes to the Amerikano P-40s. They are light and fast climbers. They dance the P-40s into confusion. The Zeros turn easily, appearing at the Amerikanos’ tails with guns fixed. The P-40s are good only for climbing to higher altitudes, choosing their shots, and then hurrying out. But the Zeros are distracted. They rush to protect their machine-gun emplacements and their antiaircraft guns as the Amerikanos climb away from them. A Zero is hit and the pilot dives without a parachute. His plane unravels behind him in a trail of smoke. The people look around for cover, thinking that the plane is heading for them. It always appears this way. But the plane falls farther out and explodes into shards of metal.

Then come the newer P-38 fighters, escorting Amerikano B-24 liberation bombers with the Western stars on their sides and their bellies ripe; they let drop five hundred pounds with each bomb, and the Japanese evacuate their pillboxes, the low-roofed emplacements they have created to house their antitank guns. A Zero pilot retaliates by sacrificing his own life as he heads for the Amerikano howitzers lined across the way. The explosions are horrendous. Our beautiful city has fallen.

“Go, Joe!” Roderick shouts, cheering on the Amerikanos. Alejandro tries to quiet his brother, but it is too late. The Japanese commander’s face twists, and he backhands Roderick. The boy falls to the ground, and before they can kick him, Aling Louisa grabs her son and spanks him harshly. The commander is satisfied for the moment.

It is as I have predicted. The Japanese admiral Iwabuchi has disobeyed the Japanese commander Yamashita’s declaration of an open city. It is no surprise.
They ignored it when MacArthur announced an open city three years ago. They will follow their suicide resistance against the Amerikanos. Downtown Manila is smoldering. Three-fourths of the factories have been devastated; the entire business district is destroyed. Iwabuchi would rather demolish the buildings than let them fall to the enemy. The problem is that they consider all Filipinos enemies now along with the Amerikanos.

What remains of the long narrow streets is perfect for rifle fire. Amerikano soldiers take advantage of this and set up tripod machine guns to welcome the enemy. The most dreadful is the sight of babies on the roadside, green and stiff, clumped together like hardened
pili
nuts. Their tiny bodies have been ravaged by the animals. The city floor is pockmarked from the battle, and the remaining trees wear bullet-riddled leaves.

More booms, like an ongoing earthquake, take the balance from our legs, and we crouch with our arms over our heads. The women and men scream, echoing similar voices in the distance. Then eerily it quiets, with only the smell of the smoke and the sounds of the unceasing rifle fire. We get up slowly and look around. Mang Selso, the coward, is the only one left crouching beside a tree. His wife will not look at him.

Aling Louisa approaches. “Selso, get up. It has passed,” she says to him, coaxing, the way she would to one of her children.

“Women to one side,” a soldier orders.

I step forward and offer Selso my hand.

He takes it, blinking up at me, bewildered, and stammers, “It w-was so loud. So loud.”

We hurry down Taft Avenue, and the post office with its Roman columns is a stone skeleton. We veer right onto Padre Burgos, and there is the legislative building, crippled and leaning precariously to its left. Intramuros is to our right; the walled city is a house of fallen cards, leveled to the ground, smooth like a chess board. We turn left as we pass the palatial Manila Hotel, with General MacArthur’s arched penthouse windows, still standing for now. The red-and-white poolside umbrellas lie on their sides. I wonder what the Mac will think when he sees that the Hapons have taken possession of his rooms and his family library. We pass through the old
luneta
onto Dewey Boulevard.
Karatellas
and horses are toppled to their sides in a scattered mess of wheels and hooves.

Bodies lie on the streets, throats slashed, limbs missing, decapitated, though some are alive and crying out in a delirium. A corpse lies facedown, his hands tied behind his back. I watch Aling Louisa, her eyes searching in horror for her husband, Mang Carlito. My heart twists in pain for her and for our people.

“Alejandro, Roderick, do not look. Look straight.” Aling Louisa puts a hand in front of their eyes.

A soldier pushes her away. “Women not walk with men.” He urges Alejandro over to us, and Alejandro stumbles, his eyes in shock. There is too much to see and hear. The sight of the crumbled villas, the sounds of the tanks as they crush the ground, with the high whine of metal churning against metal and sniper fire, sporadic and deadly amid the thick cloud of smoke, consumes us all at once.

We are ushered with many shouts toward the Ermita district, to the Villamar Hotel, which to my amazement is still standing. At the sight of the hotel, Isabelle’s face contorts. Aling Louisa embraces her. “Be strong, Isabelle. We will survive this.” Isabelle nods, but Aling Louisa is not satisfied. “Tell me.”

“We will survive this,” Isabelle says, and I see a resolve form in her face.

We run pass the steps of the General Hospital and are hurried through the rubble into a nearby warehouse. Inside, the stench of sweat, feces, and dysentery assaults us. Hundreds of Filipinos are milling about with hungry looks on their faces. Old men and women lie on the concrete floor without mats or blankets. Their feeble bones press against the ground. The mosquitoes feast on the soft wrinkles of their skin, but they are too weak to fan the creatures away. I think of the malaria and dengue diseases the insects carry.

We find a spot in the corner and try to collapse to the ground, but the people do not make room; we sit with a leg shoved against theirs until they slowly give space.

“They have brought us here to die,” Aling Anna declares.

I am surprised at the number of Japanese soldiers. “There are only fifteen, maybe twenty at best. There are over a hundred of us. We could overtake them,” I tell Roman.

He is skeptical. “I am game, but the others … I do not know.”

Mang Pedro looks to the soldiers. “Now is not the time. I do not need my visions to tell you that.”

Mang Selso shakes his head sadly. “Do you see how much I weigh? I can barely lift my little finger. What will we use for weapons? How will we block their bullets, by putting the women before us? Some of us wish to live.”

“I will take my family and whoever wishes to come.”

Lorna carries our baby in her arms. She looks at me sadly.
“Pagod na ako,”
she says. “I am tired, Domingo. I will not put the children in more danger. Where will we run? To your caves? If they find us, they will chop our heads. My family stays here.”

“I will follow you, Domingo.” Alejandro stands, swaying. It is the first he has spoken since his rescue. I am unsure if he is delirious. I motion for him to sit down.

I want to pull my hair in frustration at their surrender. I cannot believe what they are saying. “I tell you all, if you cannot overcome your fear of these
demonios
, we are defeated.”

“We are already defeated,” Mang Selso answers, his eyes downcast.

Aling Louisa looks at me. “Domingo, we are too weak.”

My heart sinks at her words. Am I the only one willing to fight? I see for the first time their faces as a whole, their exhausted look of surrender. So tired, they are willing to die here or, worse, pretend they will not. My son lies asleep, his head against his mother. I saved him from one prison only to bring him to a larger one. I should have hid him in a cave. I should have stolen them all away from that cellar. We stayed there too long. There were so many hideaways I could have taken them to. If only I could have believed for one second they would follow. But instead it has taken this for us to leave the house as a group. We will die here. I must find a way out.

The room has a series of chalkboards. On one of the boards, there are the words
MacArthur is coming
. I am surprised to find no one has erased it until I see the mark of several bullet holes against the wall and a large splattering of dried blood.

The commander who accompanied us goes up to a small Japanese man walking the perimeter of the room and holding a notepad. The commander points to our group, then specifically to me. They drag Feliciano out of the main room as Isabelle sobs hysterically.

“Separate them,” the man with the notepad instructs.

The soldier bows and points a finger to me and the rest of the men. He indicates we are supposed to sit with the other men across the room.

I can feel Lorna watching, willing me to look at her as I walk across the room.

The commander is called away by another officer. The matter seems urgent, for he glances at us, barks a few orders at his soldiers, and then runs off to follow the other officer.

A man beside me snickers. “Not enough, their time has come. They do not have enough men to watch over us and to fight the Amerikanos. The Joes are giving them hell.”

Someone comes to sit beside me. It is Lorna, and I look at her as if she’s gone mad. “What are you doing? Go back. Have you lost your senses?”

“Yes,” she says with great desperation. “I do not care whether I live or die.
I know you search for an opportunity to escape. You must choose now. Choose this family that needs you or that jungle life that you treasure so much.”

“Lorna, please go back to your side,” Mang Selso says softly. “You put us in danger.” This gives Lorna pause, for Mang Selso is never one to ask. It is more common for him to complain or give orders.

“Domingo, I am your wife. Look at your children. You have not even acknowledged your son.”

“This is not the time,” I tell her.

“When, then? If we survive this? When will I see you? In hell?”

“Stop it,” I tell her.

“I will not have you go back to those people.” She grabs my arm, and I pry her fingers from me. “Let them lead themselves. Your family needs you, yet your love is with them. Which is more important, Domingo? We are the obligation.”

“You embarrass us. Go back to your side,” I tell her.

“I embarrass you? Damn you. You took me from a good life, and I followed you into this inferno, and you decide I am no longer the prize.”

“Lorna.”

“I tell you this, Domingo Matapang. Leave this family and you will not come back. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” I answer.

She returns to the women and crumples to tears. Aling Louisa holds her as she cries. Isabelle eyes me with quiet accusation.

Tay Fredrico, Mang Selso’s father, frowns. “A bad match. She is not for you,” the old Spaniard announces.

Mang Pedro looks at me. “Domingo, she is right.”

“There are other things to consider,” I tell him.

“Domingo,” Mang Pedro repeats, “do not forget what it is you fight for.”

I look at him sadly. “How can I forget? I am the only one fighting.”

He is not easily daunted. “When there is no more family, what else is there? Heed my words. Leave this obsession to be a guerrilla. It will only end in death. It is vanity that calls to you. Do you truly believe you can lead a hundred men to go against the Japanese, when the Amerikanos with all their power could not defend us three years ago? Lay this stubbornness to rest. It will only bring you death. Your place is here, with your wife and children. What else is there?”

What else? I ask myself. I feel his words deeply. I am torn between wanting to stay and needing to go. Or is it the opposite? I look at my son with his head cradled in his mother’s lap, while our daughter slumbers in her arms.

Yes, what else? I think of Nina Vargas. Nina with her pistol hanging from her hip. I think of my men eager to fight, waiting for directions, yet here, it
seems as if the people would rather lie down and die. They have lost their will to fight, so I must do it for them. How I wish I could protect them all. Don’t they know that their refusal to fight means that more will die?

Alejandro reaches out for his brother and places his arm around Roderick’s shoulder. Roman studies the people around us.