When the Elephants Dance (39 page)

I thought we could bridge our social differences with care for each other, but it has not been enough. Still, I feel so protective toward her. The thought of letting go of this family pains me beyond words. I have failed again. I can no longer stand this pulling of my heart in every direction. One would think it would be an easy task with the passion Nina and I share. But they are separate things. Related, yes, but still separate. The pain of losing Lorna after all we have been through will still be tremendous. I value what little time we have left together. I touch her cheek with the backs of my knuckles. She smiles at me tenderly. There are unshed tears in her eyes. I know she can feel something gaining momentum, some oppressive wind hovering over us. Strange revelation, that the war is what keeps us together. I let Lorna strip me of my shirt. I can manage only a grunt or nod in answer to her questions. I close my eyes and my mind drifts to Nina. I pray that she is safe.

A
N HOUR PASSES
, maybe two; how long have I slept? I wake to see terror on Mang Selso’s face. “Someone is walking upstairs,” he whispers.

I reach for my rifle as the heavy clumping of feet moves above our heads. We sit tensely; the sound is just at the cellar door now. I stand.

“Roman,” I whisper, remembering his pistol.

“I am ready,” comes his answer.

The cellar door is thrown open and something slides down the ladder with a loud landing, followed by moaning.

“Where is the lantern?” Aling Louisa hisses.

A match is struck and the room fills with a golden glow. Feliciano lies in a crumpled heap on the ground. He is bleeding from the shoulder. His skin is an ash tone, he has lost much blood. Isabelle lets out a shout, and his aunt, Aling Anna, hurries to help him. They assist him to a corner and lay him down. Isabelle rushes to make a pillow for his head from her sweater. She tears an extra shirt to make bandages. Feliciano reaches out as she does this and takes her hand. Isabelle begins to cry. She throws her arms around him and sobs.

Mang Selso protests, “Put him upstairs in the house. The Japanese may follow him here. He will give them our names. We cannot have a sympathizer with us.”

“This man has proven his worth ten times over you,” I tell him.

Mang Selso is in a frenzy of fear. “The both of you should not be here. You must take Feliciano and go.”

“Enough, Selso,” Aling Louisa tells him calmly. “This is my house. Domingo and Feliciano will stay. They risked their lives to save my son. Everyone is welcome here. If you do not wish to be in their presence, then you should leave.”

“Yes, they have earned their place,” Aling Anna says. The others nod in agreement and step forward to help Feliciano with offerings of water or clean rags.

“Louisa …” Mang Selso tries a quieter tactic. “Louisa, I had to remain to protect the children, and who would care for my father?”

At his words, Tay Fredrico, the old Spaniard, chuckles. “My son, the coward.” He shakes his head at Mang Selso.

Mang Selso’s attention snaps to his father; he is instantly hurt by the stinging words.

“You came from my second wife. She was not very brave, bless her soul. If you had come from Divina, my first wife, what fierceness you would have had running through your veins. If my first son had lived, he would have been more like me. But he died prematurely, along with his mother. I wait now, only to join her in heaven.”

Mang Selso’s eyes are red. “How you weep over your lost son. He has become a hero in your mind. Always you give him praise, but none to me, the only son who looks after you.”

“And why should I give you praise? Because you look after your aging father? All children should do so. You wish me to give you praise for wanting to turn out one of our own?” The old Spaniard points at me. “This man is the only one who fights for our cause, yet you would throw him out to save yourself.”

A loud thumping above us interrupts their words. The latch is pulled open and Japanese soldiers peer down, bayonet first. “No one move, we throw grenade in. Show yourselves!”

We stand and hurry to the opening with our hands raised above our heads. There are many of them; I can hear their boots stomping above us. The soldiers come down the ladder, and I have the urge to pull the ladder down and make them fall. The first soldier jumps down the last few steps and his boots kick dirt into our food. He looks at us with no expression on his face, no soul in his eyes. He sees the radios and walks quickly up to the bigger one. “American sympathizers!” he announces to the rest of his men.

“No, no!” Aling Louisa shouts, grabbing his arm in panic. The soldier puts a bayonet to her throat, and Roderick embraces her. Isabelle begins to scream. My eyes fix on the gentle figure of Aling Louisa while Isabelle grabs fists full of her hair to keep from screaming.

“No!” I shout. I run forward to protect her, but a rifle is brought down on my head and I struggle to rise from my knees.

“It is mine.” Roman steps forward. “I am a journalist for the
Manila Herald,”
he explains, and pulls from his pocket an ID card stating that he is a journalist. He holds it as if it is some talisman that will save us all, but it is only a piece of paper.

“Everyone, on knees,” the soldier says.

My terror is great now that the danger includes my loved ones. I want to weep at my carelessness. There is a reason I warn my men not to visit their homes, to not endanger their families. And now, now I have brought the danger to mine. I grow dizzy at the sight of the bayonets so close to Aling Louisa, to Lorna and the children.

Roman moves forward. “Do not hurt them. It is my radio.”

I do not dare look at Feliciano, but they recognize him immediately.

“Feliciano Bautista—” A soldier points. “You have been playing both sides.”

“No,” Isabelle moans. The soldier puts a bayonet to his chest, and Feliciano says nothing. He stares at the soldier with anger. Another soldier stops the man from running the blade through. They speak in short sentences, and then Feliciano is pulled forward and shoved toward the ladder. Two soldiers escort him. We are herded outside.

“Domingo Matapang.” The young Japanese commander eyes me with derision. “The fearless guerrilla leader.” He walks quietly; his rubber shoes are split in the cloven design. His English is exceptional. “The rat that has been causing so much trouble. We shall have a special ceremony for you.” He smiles to his comrades, and they grin.

I remain silent. The others blink under the glare of the gray sky. The clouds press overhead, filtering through a blinding white. They press hands over their brows like awnings to shade them from the intensity. I feel naked in the face of the weapons that surround us. Always I have fought far from the location of my family. Now, here I feel as if my bare feet sit tenuously beneath a suspended heel. I would lay my body down for any one of them, even Selso, but there is not enough of me to bargain with.

Alejandro leans with lifeless eyes on his mother’s waist, while his right arm hangs tethered around his brother, Roderick, who supports him on the other side. I can see the desperation in Roderick’s face. I can almost hear his thoughts.
Think of a plan
, his expression says. He looks to me, but I shake my head slightly.
Do nothing rash
, I say with my eyes. Roderick bows his head. Yet I continue his thinking.
What can be done? Is there any way? Could I escape and
return with help? Would they punish them if I left? I cannot leave my son again
. Aling Louisa embraces her children to her. Isabelle stands beside her mother. Her body shakes visibly, while her gaze is fixed on Feliciano with great concern. She sees him held captive between two soldiers, their hands gripping him tightly under his arms. They have pried him with questions and bloodied his face, yet he wisely stares at the floor, refusing to acknowledge anyone for the soldiers’ benefit.

Feliciano has proven himself a braver man than me. I could never admit my mistakes publicly. Yet here is this boy, without any guidance, willing to change sides, willing to weep for his errors, willing to love someone though she may hate him for eternity. My wife, Lorna, rocks our baby in her arms while our son, Taba, clings to her skirts. Does she think of her family, safe in the country? Does she regret waiting stubbornly for me so near to the city? I pity her. Her matted hair, her raised chin. So far from the life she could have had.

The soldier brings my thoughts back to the present. “No words from the one who has been delivering these?” He pulls a fistful of paper from his pockets and throws them at my face. The propaganda I have been circulating.

“Do you recognize these?” The commander picks one from the ground and reads it. The paper is dark with blood. “MacArthur’s time will come. Be prepared.”

I stare at him blankly.

“You shall take back your words.” He shoves the paper in my mouth. I taste the dirt from the ground and the blood from the paper. He continues until I am choking.

“Ah, finally a sound from the great Domingo, the Filipino hero. But I see you are injured.” He points to the wound on my shoulder and hammers it with the butt of his rifle. I drop to my knees with a muttered curse.

The Japanese looks at me with a tight smile. “Yes, we will have a grand reception for the hero.” He swings his split-toed shoes back and into my stomach, furiously, until he is foaming at the mouth. My breath becomes lodged in my throat. Then he spits and walks away.

“Harboring a guerrilla is a crime!” he shouts, and pulls Aling Louisa down by her hair.

I cannot find my breath. I stay on hands and knees until I can get up slowly, but I do not dare to look at Lorna or our son. Few know that I have a family. Lorna knows not to embrace me. They separate us, the men from the women. The children to the front, so that no one dares to run. Yukino is dragged by her hair. Her daughter, Mica, is pulled from Isabelle, who cries out as her friend is
taken away. The Japanese commander slaps Yukino and screams out in Japanese at Mica. Mica tries her best to answer, but she is more fluent in Tagalog than her natural language of Japanese. The commander repeats his question, and Mica begins to shake. Tears roll down her heart-shaped face.

“Disgusting. A Japanese who does not recognize her own language. How could you let this happen to your own daughter?” he asks Yukino. “She is a disgrace to the emperor.”

Yukino answers plainly. “She was born here. I saw no reason to teach her Japanese when she would be surrounded daily by Filipinos. I thought it best that she learn Tagalog first, and be able to communicate with her classmates. We planned to live our lives here. It was a practical decision.”

“It was a stupid decision. You wish to be Filipino? Then you will be treated as one.”

A gray-haired soldier walks up to the commander. He talks in a low voice, and the commander stares at him incredulously, then slowly begins to laugh.

“My uncle, a lower-ranked officer, dares to challenge me. He asks that I show you some kindness. You see what this damned island has done to us? It has made him soft. Very well, Uncle, take care of your new toys.” The commander gestures with a dismissing wave to Yukino and Mica. The uncle walks to Yukino. He helps her to stand, and then he helps Mica. The commander watches from his post at the front and shakes his head with disgust and amusement. To me he says, “Get in line, guerrilla. To the front. You have the place of honor.” He laughs and the others join him.

As we wait, two of the soldiers light torches and Aling Louisa’s house is set on fire. She screams, and the women hold her back. Isabelle and the children try to pull away. Something breaks within me when they do this. Uncontrollable rage fills me, and I break free and lunge to stop them. I manage to pull one of the torches from the entrance. I am hit again and again as I try to pull the torches from spreading fire.

“Carlito!” Aling Louisa cries for her absent husband. “Please. Do not burn our house. He will think us dead! Domingo! Make them stop.”

“Please …” Aling Anna pushes a bayonet away, and it is brought back with pressure on her belly. But still I hear her plead, “Please, spare the house. It is all we have.”

Roman tries to tackle a soldier, and he is rewarded with a blow to his nose. Still he fights. It is as if the house is our last hope, the last proof of our existence. I refuse to be pulled away. It is only with more kicks and the use of the rifle like a hammer against my shoulder that I relinquish my fight to stop the
fire. Mang Pedro and the others step forward timidly, and bayonets are pressed against them to force them away. New torches are lit and thrown on the house. There is no hope now. We have become homeless. The others weep silently. This house that has kept us all from the enemy takes quickly to the flames. The windows shatter and the flames reach the interior. The wooden beams creak as they fall from the rooftops. I imagine the entire house crumbling into the cellar. The sound of the fire is like a strong wind blowing hot against our faces. Roderick and Alejandro stare mechanically at the house. What happens to people who have no homes? I ask myself.
They die
, the wind seems to whisper.

Finally, we are forced back into the line by the commander and ordered to march. Our eyes cling sadly to the burning structure that once protected us. We head southeast, back to Manila. The hunger pains are constant and painful. We pick up other Filipinos along the way. It is the same drill: the people are ushered out and bullied, and their houses are set on fire. The faces of the people are identical, blank, hopeless. It is a strange sight, children who do not utter one word. It is as if a great spell has been cast and the souls of our people have been sucked away. I want to shake the children and urge them forward.
Run, find your voices again. Do whatever it takes, but do not give up
. I search in vain with every step for a way to flee, but every plan ends with,
They would punish the others
. I must wait, bide my time. There will be an opportunity. I need only keep my eyes open.

Back to Manila. A caravan of walking skeletons. After an hour some of the women begin to fall. The men keep walking. When someone does not get up, the soldiers prod them with the points of their blades. Those without kin are not helped by the others. Those who fall are stabbed. They do not cry out, and no one speaks. It has become dog eat dog.