When the Elephants Dance (4 page)

We face northeast, toward the long snake that is the Pasig River. Farther north is Lingayen Gulf, where the American troops landed after Leyte last month, just as General MacArthur promised. First there was scattered fighting, but in the last week the battle has grown like a hurricane. To the west is Nielson Field, and farther west is the blue stretch of Manila Bay, the old
luneta
, and the cobbled streets of Intramuros. The old Spanish city, where Roderick and I used to play.

Tanaka swings the samurai sword. He cuts the air,
whoosh
, the sound of the wind being sliced. The silver of the blade is thick and sharp. He walks to one end and points the blade at the throat of the first captive, the one who insisted I confess. Tanaka pulls away, then turns and pretends to chop at the man’s stomach.

“Aggh!” the man shouts in fear.

Tanaka roars, “Stop that. Your people have no pride. No sense of
ah-noh
. You bow before everyone. First Spaniards, then Americans, now the Japanese.”

The captive begins to cry again. My father would never cry. He would be strong like Domingo.

“Stop it.” Tanaka slaps the Filipino.

The Filipino sobs. “Please, please, sir.”

“What is the name of your guerrilla leader? Answer and you will be pardoned.”

We hold our breath. I do not dare look at Domingo.

“I repeat. Give name of guerrilla lee-dah.” Tanaka brings the point of his sword to the man’s neck. He presses until he breaks the skin and a thin red stream appears.

“Domingo Matapang,” the man chokes.

“Good. You are learning, little dog. The name, I already know. Where does he hide?”

I look away. I cannot bear to watch. I wait, grinding my teeth. There is no answer, and my eyes are pulled again toward the weeping man. Perhaps he is more afraid of Domingo.

“I do not know. Please, sir,” the Filipino begs.

Tanaka nods; he lifts the man’s chin with the point of his sword. “I believe you.”

Relief crosses the man’s face.

“But you disgust me.” Tanaka spins around and,
swoosh
, the heavy blade cuts through the air, downward in a terrible arc. It slashes into the man’s neck, and his head falls forward. There is a gurgling sound, then only the silence.

I shout. I shout as loud as I can. The sight makes us crazy. We pull and shake at our ties. I cut my fingers from pulling on the dirty wires.

“Be still,” Domingo warns me. “You will cut deeper into your thumbs.”

I take a breath and my whole chest shudders.

Tanaka is walking back and forth with his hands behind him. He stops in front of me, and I feel sick in my stomach. I shake so strongly that my teeth click together. One glare from him and I wet my pants. I am so ashamed.

I force myself to study Tanaka’s uniform. I stare at the medals on his jacket. He does not wear the knee-high leather boots with his trousers stuffed inside. He is wearing rubber split-toed shoes. His pants are too short, and they show his socks, which have fallen around his ankles. He walks with his feet pointing outward, as if each wishes to go its own way. “Do you speak now?” he asks me with a false smile.

T
HE
J
APANESE HAVE
been here for three years. They were happy at first, and I thought it was to be a long celebration. They made it appear that way. We were told to make Nippon flags when they arrived, to put outside of our houses to welcome them. My brother, Roderick, and I made a flag to display at our home. Papa said that it would keep our house safe. Some of the children were given white armbands that said “Collaborator.” Roderick told Mama that he wanted a special band.

“Better to wear the red band,” Mama muttered to herself, “than be labeled a traitor to your own people.” The red bands are for enemies of the Japanese. An Amerikano would wear a red band. The Amerikano families that have been left behind wear these bands if they are out on “leave” from the prisons, like when an Amerikano woman is let out from Santo Tomas prison to visit with friends. Some guerrilla fighters wear the red bands out of defiance, Mama says.

When MacArthur first returned, we heard his voice on the radio. We were all amazed and thought it was a trick or a joke. Everyone knows the Japanese are the only ones allowed to speak on the radio. But it was MacArthur, and I
remember exactly what he said, because Roderick and I repeated it over and over. He said, “People of the Philippines, I have returned. By the grace of Almighty God, our forces stand again on Philippine soil. Rally to me.”

We were so surprised, even though papers had been appearing that said such things as “The Americans are coming.” Children too young to talk were given chocolate bars wrapped in paper that said, “I have returned.”

A
HIGHER-RANKING OFFICER
approaches in dress uniform. He has more medals than Tanaka. His hair is gray and very white near the ears. He stands straight and appears taller than Tanaka, but he is not. The soldiers get up from under the shade and stand to attention. They line up before him and bow.

The commander studies me, then Nesto.

“How old?” the Japanese commander asks in thick English. When the Japanese first invaded our islands, they threw out all our Amerikano textbooks and insisted we use only our national language, Tagalog, to keep our Asian-ness and stamp out the Western imperialist influence. Yet the commander himself has not learned to speak our language and instead relies on English to communicate with us.

I look around in fear.
What am I supposed to tell him?
Domingo and the others look straight ahead.
Am I not supposed to speak at all?
I feel the spit rise in my throat.

“How old?” the commander repeats, much louder.

“Labing-tatlo,”
I croak. “Thirteen.”

“Name,” he says. Only, I hear “Nem.”

I squint my eyes, trying to understand his words.

“Nem! Nem!”

“Alejandro Karangalan,” I gasp. I cannot catch my breath. He says something to Tanaka, and Tanaka comes forward.

Tanaka takes out his sword and brings it to my chin. “We make bargain. Tell where is Domingo Matapang, guerrilla leader. I let you go. No murder happen. I say you not kill comrade.”

“I did not kill anyone. And I do not know this Domingo you speak of.”

“How you not kill? Blood on hands.” He slaps my raised hands with the flat side of his sword. “Blood on shirt.” He pulls my shirt up to my eyes. It causes me to swing forward, and I feel a hundred blades slice at my thumbs. “But not your blood.” He stabs a finger at me. “Now, now is your blood.” He lifts his sword. I shut my eyes and scream.

At the same time, Domingo shouts, “Leave him alone!”

All eyes turn to Domingo. There has been talk about Domingo in our town of Bulacan. People say that it is he who has been passing around papers that say, “Down with the Japanese. The MacArthur will return soon.” Domingo is rumored to be a guerrilla commander, but I know for certain that he is. I have carried messages for him as far west as the Sierra Madres, without telling Papa.

The Japanese commander walks to Domingo. “Silence!” he shouts. Another soldier pokes Domingo harshly in the stomach with a shiny black walking stick. Domingo spits at the soldier, then raises one leg and kicks the commander. The commander topples to the ground like rotten wood. He falls on his side, blinking, with his arm still held up to protect himself.

There is much shouting. The captives call out, “Apologize, you fool.”

“Cut him down,” the commander roars as he struggles to get up. His soldiers run to help him, but he pushes them away.

They take Domingo down and walk him toward the woods. He holds his head high, though his feet stumble before him.

A soldier prods him with a rifle as they march. Domingo grabs the man’s arm. The two struggle quietly until another soldier clutches Domingo and they pull him forward. Domingo continues to fight. I hear his voice, harsh and guttural:
“Isinu sumpaín kitá
.” I curse you.

The three of them clash, like one body. They are horrible to look upon, like a fish out of water, its body twisting and turning, wrestling for air. I begin to pull and strain. I want to run and push them away from him. My neck and face grow hot with anger. I watch until the trees swallow them.

We are silent now. The faces change. Nesto’s eyes are red. One shot echoes through the trees. After a few minutes the soldiers return without Domingo. I swallow the air as if I am drowning. Tears burn my eyes. The commander nods with satisfaction. He wipes the dust from his face.

“You are ready to speak?” Tanaka asks, pressing me with his stale breath.

I look in the direction of where they took Domingo. I cannot take my eyes from those trees. I feel a laugh come out of my mouth. It is a frightful laugh, a hopeless one.
Tell them, save yourself!
my mind screams.
Do not tell them anything:
I remember Domingo’s words. And all the while, I cannot stop the laughter.

“Stop that.” Tanaka presses his sword to my neck.

Tears leak from the corners of my eyes. I am confused. I do not remember the question.
Or have I already answered it? Do they ask about Domingo the guerrilla, or Nesto the murderer?
My face stings from the loud smacking of
Tanaka’s open palm.
Should I tell them? What would be the harm in it? Why am I still keeping it a secret?

Tanaka slaps me with his left hand.
Pack
, then with his right,
pack, pack
. I am so frightened, I cannot control my laughter. I can hear myself shouting, calling for my mother. I am a disgrace.

Tanaka studies Nesto for a long time. Nesto stares back without expression.

Tanaka looks at me and smiles as if he is going to tell a funny story. “Tell me who kill Lieutenant Colonel Higoshi, and you shall be exonerated.”

“I do not know,” I answer.

The inside of my mouth is cut and swollen. I taste the blood even before I realize Tanaka has hit me with his fist. He stands back.

“Who is murderer? Last chance.”

“I have told you,” I sob.

“Stupid.” Tanaka’s eyes bulge. His entire face is bright pink. I think for a moment his face will explode. He hits me in the stomach, and I grit my teeth. I feel my anger grow like a fire in my chest. I spit blood.

“Tell him, Alejandro. Tell him who did it.” Nesto’s voice is sad.

Tanaka’s eyes brighten. “You see? You see?” He looks to his commander.

“I do not know who killed Higoshi,” I answer, feeling very tired. I feel the weight of my face. My eyes wish to close. I fight to keep them open. Tanaka raises his sword.

Nesto begins to shout. “I did it. I killed Higoshi. I killed that whore’s son. I killed him. I did it. Me. Necessito Aguinaldo. Necessito Aguinaldo!” Nesto is unstoppable. He yanks at his ties, and I flinch. His thumbs drip dark blood, thick, like the sap from the trees. “Alejandro had nothing to do with it. I tumbled on him. We fell.” Nesto’s voice loses its fire. “We fell. It was an accident,” he whispers.

Tanaka leans back and folds his arms. He looks at his commander. The commander claps him on the back in congratulation. Two soldiers come to take Nesto down.

“No, don’t hurt him. Stop it. Please, Nesto!” I shout. Nesto walks limply beside them in the same direction they took Domingo. He looks so frail. The shirt I have given him is one size too big. He used to weigh much more than me.

The commander strolls in front of me. I cannot catch my breath.

“Untie him.” He points at me.

I taste my tears, salty, as they roll over my shaking mouth and mix with the sweat. I look at the other captives, daring them to speak.
The soldiers will take me deep into the forest
. They cut the wires and place me on the ground. My legs
do not hold my weight. I fall forward on hands and knees, trying to blink the stars away.
Quick, think clearly
. The soldiers lift my arms and stand me slowly.

The commander points a callused finger at me. “This one has honor. He not like rest. He rather die than give his friend. This is rare in their country.” The commander takes a step and pushes me. I stumble backward. “Go—” He points. My eyes follow the direction of his fingers, then back at the other captives. They shout all at once, as in the cockfights. I do not try to hear. I look at the commander. He nods again. “Go.”

I look at the prisoners one last time, then run toward home.

I
T IS DARK
now, with just the top quarter of a moon. There are clouds around the moon, and it stares down like a watchful eye. I trip through the trees, dizzy and sobbing like a girl. When I see a shadow crouched at the edge of the woods, my heart stops. I realize it is only my brother, Roderick. He stands, and I run and hit him in the head with my palm.

“Saán ka galing?”
I ask hoarsely. Where have you been? I thought he had died.

“Tumakbó akó,”
he answers, rubbing his head sorely. I ran.

I grab his wrist, and we hurry north toward home. A loud siren cuts through the stillness of the night like a wailing dragon. This signals the beginning of curfew, and we run even faster. We dive into the Pasig and swim until we feel like drowning. When we reach the other shore, we break into a run again. After several hours we stop to rest at the edge of Bulacan. Our village seems strange to me. The candles are blown out in every house. The blackout curtains are drawn in each window. We rush past the cemetery, where we used to play hide-and-seek. The forest is charred in many places from the big guns. Gone are the echoing taunts of the mynah birds. There are no spider monkeys swinging on branches, not one monitor lizard running into the brushes, only bats squealing and taking flight at the sound of our footsteps.

The red-and-white banners that our village made to welcome the Japanese three years ago hang tattered and faded. They snap in the night like snake tongues. When we near our home, we see Japanese guards walking. I thrust out a hand and motion for Roderick to stop. We wait until their voices grow dim. I grab Roderick’s wrist and we cross the last bit to our house. A few feet ahead of us I see a small form lying still. I run and kneel beside it.