Ten

Jimmy absently straightened the forms on his desk. As the commandant’s interpreter, he automatically repeated his usual sentence, warning the new American internees that the commandant understood English.

He glanced up.

It was as if a fist had hit him in the chest.

It wasn’t possible. Imogene here at Santo Tomás?

He couldn’t believe it. He expected she would be interned in Dumaguete or Bacolod on Negros, not here, in Manila.

Panic gripped him. Dear God, don’t let her react. It would not be safe if the commandant suspected anything between them.

His beloved Imogene. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her. How thin she looked, her golden skin scorched painfully by the sun, her shoulders stooped. Still, she was beautiful. His heart was sick. He wanted to go to her, draw her into his arms, comfort her, kiss away the sadness he saw in her face.

Next to her stood a haggard-looking older man and a pregnant, dark-haired young woman. They must be her sister and her father.

The commandant leaned forward, elbows on his desk. His eyes narrowed as he assessed Imogene with lingering satisfaction. He moistened his lips.

Jimmy broke the pencil in half that he was holding. A white rage nearly blinded him. He had an almost uncontrollable urge to jump up and grab the man by the throat.

How dare he desecrate this precious, virginal woman with such obvious intent.

Lay one hand on her, and I’ll rip your heart out.

The commandant looked at him curiously.

Did his emotions show that much? For all their sakes he’d better get himself under control. He returned a tight smile. “We will begin then. Please take a seat.”

❧

Imogene dropped into one of the chairs in front of the commandant’s desk and lowered her gaze.

Not Jimmy. Not in a Japanese uniform. It couldn’t be Jimmy sitting beside the commandant.

“Please state your name for the record.” But that voice. His voice.

She lifted her eyes again.

No shadow of response. No blink of his eye or twitch of his lips gave any sign of recognition.

She felt light-headed, weak. The room seemed to spin around her. She clenched her hands in her lap, her nails biting into her palms.

Breathe. In. Out. In. Out. Focus. Concentrate.

Far away her father’s voice, gently demanding, “Imogene, are you all right?”

“Yes. Yes, Daddy, I’m all right.”

“We will continue then,” Jimmy said, his voice flat as he droned on. How much money did they bring with them? When was Mr. Pennington the provincial governor of Negros? Where on the island was his plantation? Did he know of any other Americans that might still be in hiding—

Do you honestly think he would tell you?

Imogene sat in stiff silence.

Her eyes stung; her throat was dry. But she would not give in. Not a quiver of her lip or a tremble in her voice. She would never let him know he had just broken her heart. Never!

She had conjured a man of strength and integrity, a Christian man of conscience, of values. She had dreamed him up. For surely this cold, unfeeling Japanese soldier was not, could never be, a man she would love.

Six months it had been since she had seen him. Six months that seemed like yesterday, his face so intimately remembered. Six months that seemed a lifetime past.

He was one of them now. One of the brutal race that pillaged and tortured and raped. He wore their uniform. Oh, dear God.

“Do you have any valuables to declare?”

So you can steal them?

“No,” her father said.

Becky shook her head.

“I have this.” Imogene ripped at the pendant she’d taken such care to conceal beneath her blouse. Ripped with such force, the strand from which it hung broke, and pearls shot like shimmering white bullets about the room.

There was a moment of stunned silence.

Her father slipped to his knees, helping Becky scoop up the scattered beads.

It was degrading. She couldn’t let them. “I’ll do it,” Imogene muttered.

❧

Jimmy watched mesmerized as the pearls split and scattered.

Follow the bouncing bead. But no music played in the background; no words were written beneath. The stunned silence was broken only by the clacking of the pearls dancing on the gleaming floor.

All this time she’s been wearing the pendant.

“An envelope,” the commandant said.

Like an automaton Jimmy obeyed, pulling an envelope from the desk, his eyes never leaving Imogene as she crouched on the floor gathering up the costly beads.

She rose and walked to the desk. Without meeting his gaze, she allowed the pearls to slide through her fingers and then the pendant.

Desolation and contempt fell over him, for himself, for his countrymen who would stand by and allow such sadness, such suffering as he saw on the faces of his beloved Imogene and her family.

He had tried to remove himself mentally, going through the motions without getting involved. He had tried not to look at the faces filled with fear, at the bodies bowed with the weight of their hopelessness and grief. But he couldn’t help himself. He looked and was filled with compassion.

He’d found himself of little use as the buffer between them and the commandant, a crude, brutal man. If Jimmy even suggested the least charity, the commandant’s reprimand was to take it out on the poor souls in front of them. For their sakes Jimmy soon learned to temper his compassion. He hated this war. He felt no loyalty to his country. He felt only shame.

“Mikimoto pearl?” the commandant asked.

“The commandant wishes to know the value,” Jimmy said.

❧

Imogene lifted her head and stared directly into Jimmy’s eyes. She kept her gaze cold and dispassionate, matching his. “None. They are no longer of any value to me.”

“But they belong to you,” Jimmy said quietly, extending the envelope.

“Keep them.” She turned, and with all the dignity her weary body could muster, she walked back to her chair.

Becky leaned forward, a frown troubling her brow. “Imo, why?” she whispered.

Imogene shook her head sharply.

Jimmy put down the envelope. He cleared his throat, picked up a sheet of paper from his desk, and began reading. “You will abide by the following rules. You will bow when you enter a room and when you leave it. You will bow whenever you encounter a Japanese soldier.” He glanced up. “It is a serious offense not to acknowledge the emperor’s representatives.”

He continued. “You will attend roll call in the morning and at night and any other time deemed necessary. You will be provided two meals a day. And finally”—he put down the sheet—“any attempt to escape is”—his voice lowered—“punishable by death.”

No surprise. It was war after all. But to hear the words, so callous, coming from the lips of the man she’d once loved—thought she loved. A soft moan escaped.

The commandant glanced at her. Jimmy’s face remained impassive as he stared down at the sheet. After a moment he said, “The commandant wishes to know if you have any questions.”

Imogene’s father shifted in his chair. “There is one. My daughter Rebecca is married to David Spaneas. Have you detained him? He’s a professor at Adamson University.”

Jimmy riffled through a raft of papers on his desk. After a moment he looked up and shook his head. “No.”

“Would it be possible—”

The commandant slammed his fist on the desk.

“The commandant wishes me to tell you he regrets there is nothing we can do.” Jimmy paused. “If you have no more questions—” He rang a bell on his desk, and the soldier who had ushered them into the room reappeared.

The three stood.

Before they had taken a step, the commandant barked, “You bow!”

Stiffly they complied, retreated to the door, and bowed again.

Never let it be said that they disrespected the emperor.

It was as if they were stepping from one nightmare into another. Outside Imogene looked around at the once beautiful campus of Santo Tomás University crowded with milling groups of internees, mostly American, some Filipinos, Spanish, Chinese. All shabbily dressed. There was something surreal and sinister in the school’s present incarnation.

Her father squeezed her hand. “It will be all right, Imogene. Don’t worry.”

She looked over at Becky and saw the tears coursing down her sister’s cheeks. She felt ashamed. Here she’d been focusing on her own torment when it was nothing compared to Becky’s.

Miss Goldie hurried over and did what Imogene should have done—gathered Becky into her arms. The three stood together, her father, his hand resting on Miss Goldie’s shoulder, Miss Goldie comforting Becky.

Looking at them, Imogene felt like an outsider, bereft and alone and guilty for not thinking first of those who loved and needed her.