Twelve

It was midafternoon of the day Imogene and her family arrived that Jimmy drove into Manila. He was on a mission.

He parked the military vehicle just outside the city limits. Due to the shortage of gasoline, motorized transportation was nearly nonexistent on the streets now, and an official car would have created more attention than he wanted. He didn’t relish the possibility of having to explain to the commandant should he be seen.

The day had started oppressively hot, made worse by the moisture in the air. The humidity this time of year was another thing to hate about the war.

Seeing Imogene was the first ray of happiness he’d felt since leaving home five months ago. And even that was short lived. The look of hurt and betrayal in her eyes when he pretended not to know her crushed his spirit, even in remembering.

Couldn’t she see he had no choice?

He didn’t want to be here any more than she did. From the beginning he’d tried to make his father understand. But no. “Your duty is to the emperor,” his father had said.

Jimmy’s mother had tried to console him. “Don’t be troubled, Jimmu. Believe that God has a purpose for you, even in this. Open your heart and mind, and you will find it.” When he left, she wept.

His father had curled his lip at her weeping.

Jimmy felt a surge of bitterness, remembering the expression of disdain on his father’s face.

He rolled up the car window.

In the past he had taken God for granted, but now He was his solace and hope.

As his mother had urged, he had tried through faith to find the purpose in it all, to find God’s purpose for him. Like David in the Bible, he had sought a revelation. So far it had eluded him.

He got out of the car and shoved the keys into his pocket.

Dodging through the bicycle-riding soldiers who streamed up the boulevard like spawning salmon, he maneuvered around the line waiting to eat at the servicemen’s cafeteria.

Down the block he paused to look in the window of a converted department store, now a gallery exhibiting propaganda photographs and art.

Not what he’d choose to hang on his wall.

Japanese and Nazi flags hung in the windows of the shops that were still occupied. On the empty buildings were tacked placards from the Imperial General Headquarters with “liberation” directives that promised severe punishment if disobeyed.

Liberation. Whom did they think they were kidding?

He threaded his way through vendors selling a variety of merchandise, no doubt looted from warehouses along the pier. Anything from typewriters and canned goods to baby dresses and fine needlepoint. Sold, he noted, for the price of vegetables.

He decided to turn toward Jones Bridge and find a carromata to take him to the university. Since the “liberation,” the citizens had used the little carriages drawn by tiny horses, the Philippines’ original transportation.

Then he heard the screams.

A manned tank blocked the mouth of the bridge. As he drew closer, he saw a young Filipino boy lashed to one of the treads, his leg twisted beneath it. Blood streamed down his battered face, his gaping mouth the source of the screams.

The tank roared forward, reversed, then forward in an ever-lengthening arc. A few more feet and the boy would be completely crushed.

Without thinking, Jimmy ran toward the tank, his shouts lost in the grind and clamor of its gears.

Slowly the turret swiveled toward him.

He stood, grounded to the spot, his arms outstretched and waving as the tank went from reverse into forward.

And stopped.

The hatch door flew open. The commander’s head appeared.

In that instant Jimmy was struck by the sheer lunacy of his act. He was about to defy a superior officer’s authority. In the hierarchy of Japanese sins, that ranked just about at the top.

The boy would be crushed to death, and the retribution to Jimmy could only be imagined.

Before the commander had a chance to speak, Jimmy began shouting in Japanese and pointing behind him. “I’m glad I found you! I have come from San Andres Street. Guerrillas are looting the Escolata!”

Immediately the commander’s head disappeared again. The door to the hatch slammed shut. Within seconds the engine engaged and the machine roared forward, just as Jimmy cut the hapless youth from the churning tread.

Before Jimmy could blink, the boy was dragged from his arms and swallowed into the surging crowd.

Jimmy wasted no time in commandeering a passing carromata. “Adamson University,” he directed the driver.

So he had lied. The lie had saved a life. Two, if he counted his own.

He realized he was still shaking.

The driver turned his head. “You speak English.”

Jimmy nodded.

“I see you. A brave thing you do.”

“Not really, but thank you.” He had acted on instinct. Being brave is knowing the consequences before one acts. He wondered, if he’d had time to think, would he have taken the same risk?

He adjusted in the uncomfortable seat and looked down at the once crisp pleat of his trousers melting in the humid afternoon heat. It would rain soon; he could smell it.

He missed America and everything it stood for. He missed the freedom, the justice, and the bedrock faith in God Almighty. He missed America, but here he was serving her enemy, a country whose values he decried. Either way he felt like a traitor.

At the entrance to Adamson University, Jimmy stepped down from the tiny carriage, instructing the driver to wait. A sentry directed him to the administration offices.

Since the school had been commandeered as a hospital, the records were in disarray, and it took some time to find the address of David Spaneas. Locating Becky’s husband, Imogene’s brother-in-law, was the very least Jimmy could do for her. He prayed he would find David alive, but he had grave doubts. Surely, if David were alive, he would have found a way to contact his wife. But then, in the turmoil of war, who knew?

“Finally.” The pretty Filipina secretary scribbled a number on a sheet of paper. “It’s in a suburb of New Manila. Are you familiar with the area?”

“Somewhat. I’m sure my driver will be able to find it. And thank you.”

“You speak English very well.” The young woman gave him a coy smile. “Have you been to America?”

“I studied there.” In no mood for flirtatious banter, he began inching toward the door. “Thank you very much for your help.”

“Anytime,” she called after him as he hurried down the hall.

Jimmy had no idea what he would find; so much had been destroyed during the bombing.

To his relief the grand Spanish Colonial home at the address he’d been given was undamaged. It was surrounded by manicured lawns and lush tropical gardens. Tiny orchids hung in profusion from planted baskets that were suspended from the branches of the great trees that lined the sweeping drive.

From all outward appearances at least, it appeared the war had not drastically altered the lifestyle of the Spaneas family.

But as he walked up the front stairs and stepped into the shade of the veranda, his heart sank.

On the door hung a black wreath.