One Sunday afternoon as I sat in a bar, the radio suddenly blared into my consciousness:
JAPAN BOMBS PEARL HARBOR!
My first thought was for my brother Macario. I ran to his hotel, past the people in the lobby, and up to his room. Joe Tauro was there, listening attentively to my brother’s portable radio.
“It has come, Carlos!” he shouted.
Macario came out of the bathroom and stood behind Joe. I stood facing them, our thoughts running back to the Philippines. Suddenly Joe slumped to the floor and burst into tears, beating the chair with his fists. My brother lifted him to his feet and motioned to me to follow them. We went out of the hotel and walked aimlessly in the streets. Somewhere on Broadway Street we came upon José, who had just arrived from Monterey with his son.
“The end has come, Carl,” he said sorrowfully.
I could not say anything: it was impossible to think now. I took his son’s hand and walked on with them, thinking of the time when I was a little boy and Macario had come home from Lingayen for a visit. I had been José’s son’s age then, and the day had been like this one; I had walked comfortably between my father and Macario toward our house. I looked at the boy with sadness.
I thought, “Will another war wreck your life? Will you be another lost person on the earth?”
Silently we walked to Joe’s apartment, on Sunset Boulevard, where he lived alone. Joe went into the kitchen and came out with a quart bottle of bourbon. He and my brother did not drink, but the time had come for them to try it. José drank a whole glass: soon he started shouting drunkenly and kicking at his wooden leg. Joe jumped to his feet and ripped off the wall a portrait of our national hero and began slashing it savagely with a knife.
My brother was sitting stupidly on the couch. He was trying to drink like José. Why were we confused by the war? Was there nothing we could do? I realized that we had been but little boys when we had left the Philippines, and what childhood memories we cherished were enhanced by the frustration and bitterness of our life in America.
I felt deeply sad that my brother Luciano was dead. He was a good soldier: he could have fought in defense of his country. But where was my brother Leon? He should know about war because he had fought in Europe. I had not heard from him since he had left our village. My father was also a soldier—but he, too, was dead. And my mother! What would happen to her and my two sisters? Suddenly I felt an acute remorse. Why hadn’t I written to them when there was plenty of time?
I drank and remembered other years. When evening came more friends dropped in at Joe’s apartment, and we talked excitedly, remembered childhood names, got drunk, and shouted angry words at each other without provocation. The war rekindled our loneliness with a queer poignancy.
I left first, wanting fresh air. They followed me, falling on the hedges along the dark passageway and rolling down the cement pavement. Macario and José were holding each other, singing the Internationale and weeping like two children. Around the next block, on Temple Street, a Mexican night club was in full swing. I followed my companions down the dark stairway and we spread out in the cocktail room.
A semi-nude girl entertainer was singing White Christmas, but she stopped suddenly and crumpled to the floor. Another entertainer appeared from somewhere, straightened up the microphone and began dancing, peeling off her scanty garments one after the other until she leaped into the middle of the dance floor completely nude. The drunken men screamed, throwing coins, hats and shoes at her. Then a man extricated himself from the crowd and, staggering toward her, grabbed her in his arms and swung her about in drunken ecstasy.
I saw it too late. Three men sprang from their tables and jumped on the man holding the entertainer. There was an uproar, men pushing chairs and tables, women running and screaming. I grabbed José and pulled him beneath the table. I saw my brother struggling toward the stairway. He ducked under a table and crept slowly to the door. I saw him climbing up the cement steps like a baby too weak to use his legs. He was swallowed by the darkness in the street.
I heard sirens screaming, coming toward the place; then, when I was about to run to the door, I saw a special police patrol rush into the bar. The disorder was stopped immediately. Tables and chairs were smashed. But the bottles were untouched. The manager came forward and explained to the peace officers that he would not press charges against anyone.
I left, beckoning to José to follow me to the restaurant across the street. My brother Amado, who had disappeared a year before, was sitting at a table with Conrado Torres. I did not know that Conrado was in town either, because he had returned to Seattle when Mary had left our apartment.
“The delegates arrived today,” José said to me.
“What delegates?” I asked.
“Don’t you remember our conversation in Monterey?” José said.
I sat on a stool, remembering. Then it came to me: I had suggested to José a conference of labor and social leaders in Los Angeles. Inspired by my educational experiment among the agricultural workers, I had considered the possibility of co-ordinating our work and of creating a flexible educational system for Filipino laborers in California.
“Where are the others, Conrado?” I asked.
“They are all damned,” he said.
Amado reached for his necktie. “Don’t talk like that in front of a gentleman!” he shouted, shaking Conrado vigorously.
“Who is a gentleman in this stinking whorehouse?” Conrado asked, slapping away Amado’s hand.
They punched each other in the face. They got up and pulled themselves into a narrow corner. The men moved away. Conrado grabbed my brother around the neck, but Amado wound his leg around Conrado, and they crashed to the floor. Suddenly two girls came in and sat at a table. Conrado and Amado looked up tentatively, stopped punching each other, jumped to their feet and joined the girls.
“Beer!” Conrado shouted.
“You are cute,” one of the girls said.
My brother started laughing with the other girl. I was angry. I hated all of them, and I despised their weaknesses. I could not understand what was happening to them. Was the war breaking them? I wanted to run away from them. I looked at José sadly and left the restaurant.
“Please, God, make me strong,” I said to myself.
But the confusion that created havoc in the lives of my friends lasted only a few days. We rushed to the recruiting offices when they were opened, and volunteered for service. We were refused, since we were classified as aliens in the National Selective Service Act. Our fight to become naturalized American citizens some years before, which had been opposed by the officials of the Philippine government in Washington, now became important and significant. I felt a personal bitterness toward a past Philippine Commissioner to the United States, whose arrogance when I had presented the subject of citizenship to him revealed his incompetence and opportunism, for he later readily collaborated with the Japanese enemy during the occupation.
When Binalonan was crushed by a special tank detachment that rushed from Tayug toward Manila, I went to the nearest recruiting office. As I stood in line waiting for my turn, I thought of a one-legged American Revolutionary patriot of whom I had read. But Filipinos were not being accepted. I ran to José’s room and told him to contact the remnants of the delegates.
The meeting was successful; a resolution was sent to Washington asking for the inclusion of Filipinos in the armed forces of the United States. Copies of the resolutions were sent to all Filipino organizations for endorsement; members of the delegation returned to their communities and campaigned. For once we were all working together; even those who had opposed our fight for citizenship were now wholeheartedly co-operating.
I was waiting for this very moment; it was a signal of triumph. But it took a war and a great calamity in our country to bring us together. President Roosevelt signed a special proclamation giving Filipinos the right to join the armed forces of the United States. Filipino regiments were formed in the United States; similar units were also formed in Hawaii.