Blood on the Rising Sun E-Book

Adalia Marquez

• Herausgeber: The War Vault
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Seitenzahl: 508

Beschreibung

Adalia Marquez was a police reporter living in Manila under the Japanese Occupation during World War 2 when her husband was arrested by the Japanese Military Police for aiding the resistance. Following his escape, suspicion falls upon Adalia and she is detained in his place, along with her two children, and imprisoned in Fort Santiago. Facing torture and starvation, Adalia contacts the Filipino underground and agrees to help them from inside the prison in return for much-needed food and medicine. With a talent for manipulating her captors, Adalia is able to evade detection long enough to provide for herself and her children, as well as other detainees in urgent need of sustenance, until the deliverance of V-J Day.

Leseprobe

Blood on the Rising Sun: The Japanese Invasion of the Philippines

Adalia Marquez and Carlos P. Romulo

Published by The War Vault, 2019.

Copyright

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Blood on the Rising Sun: The Japanese Invasion of the Philippines by Adalia Marquez, Carlos P. Romulo. First published in 1957.

Revised edition published 2019 by The War Vault. All rights reserved.

©The War Vault, 2019.

FIRST PRINTING: 2019.

ISBN: 978-0-359-60400-5.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

Further Reading: US Military in WW2: Civilian Heroes

1

IT WAS DECEMBER 7, 1941 in the United States, and December 8 in Manila, when we learned that the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor. On that afternoon, we heard that the planes marked with the “Rising Sun” had given the same treatment to Clark Field in Pampanga Province and to Camp John Hay in Baguio. Our radio stations in Manila broadcast little else but excited stories of these treacherous attacks.

It was so hard for us to believe for we had always considered that these people living to the north of our Philippines were chiefly imitators in the world of engineering and science. How could they dare make such attacks against the forces of the colossal USA?

“Well,” we thought, “even if all these Manila broadcasts are true, it won’t be long until the Americans take care of these sneaky Japanese attackers!”

It was in such a spirit that we started our accustomed household routine on the following day. My husband, Antonio Molina Bautista, was a member of a well-known law firm and Dean in the Graduate School of the College of Law at the University of Manila. Marquesito, just seven, was our eldest son. He got up early with his father, so that he could hop out of the car at the Jesuit “Ateneo de Manila,” where he attended school. Throbbie, my States-born girl, was almost two years old. Her nurse dressed her and, a little later, took her to nursery school. Jackie, only a year old, stayed home with his nurse.

And I was practically a lady of leisure, like any other successful attorney’s wife in Manila. So, on this same morning I remained in bed as long as I wished. I had been a newspaper reporter before my marriage. Acquaintances considered me rather an odd person; a daughter of one of Manila’s oldest families, who ran all over the city, day and night; a police reporter. My husband, however, was broad-minded. Even after the birth of our third child he offered no objections to my continuing the career I loved so wholeheartedly. There were, of course, plenty of servants to take care of the children and the housework. I was a helpless sort of person at the time, but later, in the Japanese prisons, under torture, it was different: I had to survive.

On the 9th of December 1941, Tony had an important case to try. Late in the forenoon I rose and consulted with my cook, Casimiro. I wanted an especially good dinner for that noonday meal. Then I went through my house, rearranging a few chairs and placing fresh flowers in every room. I was just putting on the finishing touches when I heard an auto horn blow one long blast and two short ones. That would be Tony and Marquesito. They shouted for me to hurry downstairs and their shouts were mingled with a great deal of rather mysterious laughter. I picked up Jackie, took little Throbbie by the hand, and we ran down to the front door.

We waited on the porch until Tony and Marquesito had put the car in the garage. As they came back along the driveway, I noticed that my husband’s hands were empty. This was most unusual; he was accustomed to bringing me some little gift each day. I pointed to his hands and pouted to show my disappointment.

He only laughed and led us to the garage, saying, “Just look in the car.”

I saw what looked like enough canned and packaged goods to last our family for a year. “What’s the idea?” I queried. “Where are we going?”

“We are going to eat, my love,” replied Tony, “and our household and our neighbors are also going to eat, as long as we do.”

His tone was quite serious; I knew he meant what he said. But where did he find so much ready cash? Enough to buy out what looked to be a whole grocery stock. Tony must have read the question in my eyes. But his voice held trouble.

“This morning,” he said, “President Quezon[1] declared a debt moratorium. It will hold until this desperate situation is cleared up. So, I won’t have to pay the bank on the three notes that are due this month until the war—yes, Adalia—until the war is over.”

“How much did all this stuff cost?”

“Oh, about eight hundred pesos (four hundred dollars). But the price isn’t the important thing. We’ve got to get all the food into the house and hide it as well as we can. At once.”

We called all our help and with them we tucked the stuff up in the attic, in boxes underneath the house, and in other out-of-the-way places, so that any looters would have to work hard to get much.

Ours was a happy family. We sat down to a wonderful dinner on that afternoon of December 9th, laughing and joking as usual. But we had hardly tasted the first mouthful of food when my eldest son said quietly, “Listen!”

There were planes droning overhead. At first, we didn’t  think much about them. We hoped they were American planes flying up there to assure the Filipinos that Uncle Sam was on the job; that he would soon chase the enemy out over the ocean, and they would never come back. But then the sirens lifted up their mournful voices. We had heard them before, in practice alerts. This time, however, we sensed a different, an insistent note; gripping and nerve-racking. Then the bombs came!

The Japs were attacking Camp Nichols Airfield, a bare three miles from where we sat in our house at Sandejas. Tony caught up little Jackie. The rest of us, family and servants, followed him out into the yard, under the bamboo trees. We had no shelters; we just crouched there and prayed. We scarcely moved lest the enemy should see us and drop one of their calling cards, just for a “joke.”

After what seemed like an eternity, the “all clear” sounded. The two little ones began crying. I fell to trembling. Utter confusion seized our whole neighborhood.

Tony looked at me and said sternly, “Get hold of yourself, Adalia! This is only the beginning. You’ll have to face a lot more than this before it’s over. This is going to be a total war.”

The next day Tony called all the neighbors together and told them that more raids were coming and our Sandejas district of the city couldn’t hope to escape damage.

First, he suggested all the men dig foxholes under their homes. This was a precautionary measure only, until we could build some real bomb-shelters.

As soon as the foxholes were finished the men came to our large yard to help Tony dig the first real air-raid shelter. It was a little more than five feet high, roofed over with three layers of sacks of sand. We put in a small cot for the two younger children. Tony even managed an electric light and, in case the power failed, we had an oil lamp ready. Tony told all the neighbors who had helped to construct the shelter that in case of a heavy raid they should bring their families and climb in with us. But he must have forgotten, momentarily, the size of most Filipino families. In our Sandejas neighborhood the average was about six to a family.

One neighbor, however, boasted thirteen children, the youngest only a month old. There were more than twenty families in our immediate vicinity. The shelter in our yard was just completed when the Japs staged another heavy bombing raid. The neighbors came running to our shelter. They couldn’t all get in, of course. I, myself, had to crawl out under the bamboo trees. Several other women, with babies in their arms, could find no protection at all. After this frightening experience the digging began again, and the men didn’t stop until they had completed four more shelters alongside our house.

Finally, however, the air raids became so heavy and so frequent that Tony took us out into the provinces, away from Manila. He went back into the city to carry on the work of setting up an anti-Japanese underground movement. The situation did not last very long, however. In the last week of December, Tony learned that the United States Army was already moving out and that Manila had been declared an open city, which meant it would no longer be bombed. So, we returned to our home.

The two nurse girls and I took the children into the house and I ran upstairs to my bedroom. There, to my surprise, a barber was working on my husband’s hair. He was just about finished and when he stepped back I hardly recognized Tony. The barber had completely changed his style of haircut.

Tony looked at me and said, “You’re next!”

I got the idea. I sat down and the barber cut off my long hair, close to the head. With a pair of jeans and a boy’s shirt, I would look like a boy. We had heard about the sex atrocities the Japanese had committed in China. My changed appearance would serve a double purpose. Besides being safer, I would be able to work more effectively for the underground in my new getup. So, from that day on, our household was minus one woman.

On December 29th Marquesito, my husband, and I drove to the Intramuros district, Manila’s ancient walled city. We wanted to see Tony’s sister, Perla, who was studying nursing at the San Juan de Dios Hospital. At a distance of about a quarter-mile from the hospital we saw that we could drive no farther; traffic was hopelessly jammed. We left Marquesito in the car with Sebio, the driver, and set out on foot.

We hadn’t gone far when the air-raid siren began singing its dreadful song. There was my seven-year-old son, with nobody but the driver, in an automobile! I started back but Tony pulled me down under the front steps of a nearby house. We could see the targets of the Japanese bombs from where we lay hidden. They were hitting at the boats on the Pasig River and at San Juan de Letran College; so close to where Marquesito was! And we were helpless! We didn’t dare disobey the order which forbade being on the streets during a raid.

After what seemed ages, the “all-clear” sounded. We ran back to the car. Neither our boy nor the driver was in it. Since there were no places to hide, we climbed the old thick walls of Intramuros, and there, quite unconcerned about the whole affair, with his eyes glued to the pages of a Liberty magazine, was our son. I thanked God for His Mercy; then suddenly was aware our driver was lying alongside Marquesito. We helped him to his feet; he was trembling like someone suffering with St. Vitus’ Dance.[2] Sebio swore that the Jap planes had dived directly at him and our boy and from that day on he was useless as a chauffeur. But in the Philippines the servants are “members” of the family, so Tony and I had the added burden of caring for a completely frightened Sebio.

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[3]

2

IN MANILA WE CELEBRATE the New Year for two days; on the last day of December and the first day of January. And, as around the world generally, we prepare a special feast. In our family puchero[4] was the favorite main dish. Tony and I helped our cook, at an open fire in the yard. In addition to the puchero preparations we roasted chickens for lunch, which we ate under the bamboos. Then, as he always did whenever possible, Tony climbed into his hammock and took a long, lazy siesta. When he awoke, I reminded him that he had promised to take us to a show that evening.

“Until the Japanese are out of the Philippines, we’re going to no picture shows,” declared my husband.

Well that was that! So, we all went to bed early on New Year’s Eve, 1941. Tony was taking no chances in the event of a sudden Japanese entrance into Manila. We slept with our clothes on, according to his instructions. We had our jewels and some money tied around our waists. The children had extra blankets folded at the foot of their beds. Food and other necessities were packed in the car, ready for any emergency. It was in this manner that the Bautistas went to bed on New Year’s Eve.

The next thing I remember was a loud banging on our front door. I sat up, wide awake, and looked at the clock beside my bed; it was two o’clock. Tony ran downstairs. There stood Antonio Prats, a Manila businessman, a close friend of ours.

The whole household was wide awake by now and Prats informed us that we must get out at once. He had come with his car to help us “evacuate” to Quezon City, where Prats was now Acting Chief of Police. We drove to the Divine Word Monastery in Quezon City; Prats said that the Superior in charge was a German. He could surely protect us when the Japs marched into Manila. For the Japanese were coming in now; no question about it!

We went into a large hall in the monastery and found it packed with people. I found a small vacant space and spread out our mats and blankets so that our children and servants could continue sleeping. As for me, there would be no more sleep that night.

About four o’clock in the morning, Tony left to get some of his friends who ought also to be in hiding. At daybreak he returned with Dr. Jose B. L. Reyes and family; Claudio Teehankee (Tony’s assistant in the law firm) with his family; along with other Filipino friends—all anti-Japanese. No sooner had they arrived at the monastery than Tony and Dr. Reyes left to assist Judge Roberto Concepción[5] and family and the Lorenzo Tanadas to safety in the Carmelite convent.

At about ten o’clock in the morning, Tony returned to the monastery. He had picked up dozens of loaves of bread and had sneaked back into our Sandejas home and brought a big pot of the puchero, together with a sack of rice which Emerito Ramos had given him. Later on that same day, one of my husband’s law partners, Salvador Araneta, visited us and gave us several cases of canned milk and vegetables. The canned milk especially was a life-saver for the children.

A few moments later, I was called to the telephone; it was a newspaper colleague of mine calling, Amando Dayrit. He told me to forget about my newspaper work and take care of Tony and my family, adding that the Japs would be in Manila the following day. They were resting, even now, he said, in Paranaque.

When I told Tony this piece of news, he and Dr. Reyes left at once. First, they drove to our Sandejas home and emptied our whole supply of whisky and wine down the sink. Then they repeated the process at the Reyes home; no invaders were going to enjoy drinks at our expense! We all slept fitfully that night in the third floor of the monastery. The Japanese were marching into Manila in the morning!

Early on January 3rd most of our Filipino menfolk went into the business district of Manila. There they took up positions where they would be unnoticed, but about noontime they returned to the monastery and brought what we thought was encouraging news. They assured us that the Japanese military personnel was not half so fierce-looking as we had heard. In fact, one of our men declared, the Japanese soldiers looked like “frightened monkeys,” and he thought it was going to be fairly easy to “get around” them. Perhaps we women should not have believed these early reports because they filled us with a spirit of boldness which later brought us many a slapping or beating.

In the middle of the afternoon, while still eagerly discussing the invading enemy, one of the German priests came upstairs. He told us that Japanese officials were going to visit the monastery. They were, however, not going to make any trouble. The Germans were their allies. The priest assured us that if we would remain quiet, they would never go beyond the first floor. So, we set about quieting the giggling girls and crying babies.

The Japs came and the campaign for silence was successful. But babies had to eat and drink, yet mothers and nursemaids were afraid to go downstairs. We had all heard about Japanese atrocities in the case of Chinese women. So, it fell to my lot to do the “dirty work.” Anyway, I looked like a boy and there were several Filipino youngsters employed at the monastery to help with the housework.

I started downstairs to fix some milk for the babies and just at that moment I saw the Jap officials arrive and enter the monastery offices. I gave them only a casual glance and went on with my little chores. We managed to keep everyone quiet, up on the third floor, and in about an hour the officers left. We had passed one crisis successfully.

While the Japs had been talking with the German fathers one of the men on our third floor disappeared. He was Dr. Vincente Lava; I had a hunch why he left so mysteriously and later on I found it was correct. Dr. Lava went out into the province to help set up an underground movement, the Hukbalahap,[6] which was soon to give the Japanese forces plenty of trouble.

Tony had been one of the founders of the Philippine Civil Liberties Union, the first organization of its kind in the Islands. In pre-war days, the “Union” had dedicated itself to the defense of civil liberties throughout the Philippines; to the fostering and continued encouragement of a militant Filipino nationalism; to the struggle for true democracy, economic as well as political; and to fight against Fascism in any and all of its manifestations.

Under Japanese occupation there was no opportunity to fight for civil liberties in any kind of legal manner. During the very first days after their arrival the invaders issued decrees forbidding any sort of meetings without, first, a Japanese permit and, second, Japanese supervision.

Early in January 1942, a group of Civil Liberties Union members met secretly and decided to “go underground.” They chose a new name, but I did not learn this new name until much later, when I was in Fort Santiago Prison.

Among those who attended this first secret meeting, at the risk of their lives and the lives of their families, were Dr. Ramon de Santos, Lorenzo Tanada (now Senator), Dr. Francisco Lava, Dr. Anselmo Claudio, R. Mamino Corpus, Cipriano Cid of the Manila Bulletin, Columnist Amando L. Dayrit, Jesus Roces, Jose B. L. Reyes (now Supreme Court Justice), Jesus Barrera (now Under Secretary of Justice), Rafael R. Roces, Jr., and Antonio M. Bautista, my husband. From now on we shall refer to these men and the others who joined them later as the “group.”

One of their boldest actions was to issue a mimeographed sheet, right under the nose of the enemy, called the “Free Philippines.” This little newspaper openly named Filipinos who collaborated with the invaders and exposed the hypocrisy of Japanese propaganda. The “group” did perhaps its most important work in connection with the various guerrilla bands, after the valiant defense of Corregidor by General Wainwright and his men.

The “group” furnished the guerrillas with information, money, ammunition, guns, and medicines. They refused to be drawn into the sometimes-bitter jurisdictional scraps that arose all too frequently between different guerrilla organizations.

The “group” adhered steadfastly to its stated policy that any and all active anti-Japanese organizations were entitled to the aid and cooperation of the “group.”

“Beat the Jap” was the only slogan important to the “group.”

Consequently, it enjoyed the confidence of all the guerrilla bands with which it came in contact. As a matter of fact, this high-minded group of Filipinos was frequently able to iron out misunderstandings among guerrillas when every other underground agency had failed. This was so because everyone realized that the members of the “group” were not scheming for financial gain or for political preferment or power; they were fighting, in every way they knew, for one purpose; to help drive the Japanese from the Philippines.

To return to what was happening in the Monastery of the Divine Word. After the party of Japanese officials left the premises, we on the third floor scarcely dared look out of the window. No one left the compound. This situation held for two weeks. Then the German fathers began to explain that the Japanese were in Manila to stay, hence those who were hiding there had better go home. Gradually, everyone left except the Reyes family and ours.

We were stubborn. But if we had had any common sense, we would have known such a condition could not last long. One day, the Father Superior came up to talk with us. He said they needed the hall where we were “squatters” and besides, he told us, “the Americans aren’t coming back. You might just as well begin to learn how to live under Japanese rule. Go back home and try to live a normal life.”

He went on to tell us about the Japanese signboards, programs, and newspaper articles, all assuring Filipinos that the Japanese were their friends. We did not believe that they were our friends and we did believe that the Americans would return. However, there was no alternative; we packed up our belongings and went back to Sandejas.

I was almost afraid to enter our home. A neighbor had gotten word to us at the monastery that the enemy had thoroughly ransacked it. Well, it was in pretty bad condition, but not impossibly so. Tony and I, with our loyal servants, dug into the cleaning and within a couple of days our home looked quite presentable again. That done, we faced our next and more serious problem: how to feed the members of our household.

After much discussion, we decided to sell coffee and bread on the street corner, at the end of the trolley line, about half a block from our home. Tony and I rose at four o’clock the next morning. I made coffee and he hiked to the Divisoria Market to buy the bread. Little did I know then that I would learn to look back at our sidewalk “shop” days as a comfortably happy period of living.

As soon as the coffee was made, I started out with a small table on my head and a bench under my arm. These were necessary articles. I left them at the corner and made two more trips for the coffee and other things needed in our outdoor shop. By this time Tony was back with the bread and we started serving customers.

Later on, many such pitiful little business ventures sprang up all over Manila. But ours was the first of its kind in that district. We sold our bread and coffee right in front of St. Scholastica’s College, where the invaders had interned United States Navy personnel under heavy guard.

At this time the Japs had not forbidden Filipinos to talk to the internees. Tony had given me new instructions one morning, so I walked up to the college fence and called out, “Have any of you got some Kools for sale?”

A tall, thin man with greying hair stepped up to the fence and replied (as Tony had told me he would), “Sure, boy! How much can you afford to pay?”

I replied, as Tony had instructed, “Ten pesos.”

The American passed me the cigarettes. I gave him the money. Still following instructions, I walked over to our little sidewalk store and handed the carton of Kools to our good friend Pablo, our volunteer assistant, who, I suppose, also had instructions from Tony. I didn’t know and I didn’t want to know. I had lost all of my reporter’s insatiable curiosity.

This was my first regular assignment in the service of the “group.” I was thrilled while carrying it out but when I returned home, I came down with chills and had to go to bed for about twenty-four hours.

My assignments as courier for the “group” followed one another in rapid succession. Soon Tony changed my varied jobs into one steady task, and it was one which took all my ingenuity. I was directed to buy and sell drugs and medicines. Of course, I was still dressed like a boy. I would walk boldly into a drug store, buy my drugs, put them in the knapsack on my back, and then, under the very eyes of the Japs, carry out my courier duties while I went about selling the articles in my sack.

I had regular customers for medicines and drugs, like the Gaches Hospital, the Manila Sanitarium, and individuals who were continually looking for “hard-to-get” things.

Then, suddenly, trouble! The superintendent of the Gaches Hospital warned me one day that he suspected someone of “squealing” on me. I had sold several tubes of opiate to this institution and, of course, I had no license for such sales. The superintendent had no fear for himself, but he did worry about me; he warned that it would be bad if the Japs caught me selling opiates without a license.

But not one of my customers gave me away and neither did Farmacia Central, who made it possible for me to get such a delicate drug. But Tony decided I should disappear for a while and so I stayed at home for a time and got acquainted with my children once more.

A few mornings after my temporary retirement from courier duty, I overheard Tony talking with Marquesito.

“Son, put this note in your pocket. At the corner of Remedios and Taft Avenue, right in front of the Roces’ house, a man will address you. He will say, ‘Hello, Marquesito, how do you like being out of school?’ You will answer, ‘O.K., sir.’ Then you will hand him this note.”

After the boy left the house I went into Tony’s study. “Isn’t Marquesito much too young to be doing that kind of work?” I asked.

“Not for this sort of thing,” Tony answered quickly. “He has to go to school anyway and takes the same route every morning, passing the Roces’ house.”

Marquesito was being tutored with the Roces children because their regular school, the old Ateneo de Manila, had closed on the day the United States declared war on Japan. Many schools continued in operation under Japanese rule, but the books they used had every reference to America and to our own early Filipino fighters for democracy cut out of them. Not so at the Ateneo, the Jesuit School. As a matter of fact, I learned much later that the Father Superior at the Ateneo, Father Hurley, along with many of the other Jesuits there, did a lot of good underground work in connection with the “group.”

As the Japanese entrenched themselves in Manila, we began to hear much talk about the “birthday celebration” to be held in April. The birthday was that of the Emperor of Japan. By this time, the spring of 1942, quite a few of our Filipino people had begun to associate with the invaders. The Emperor’s birthday celebration gave these Filipinos their first opportunity to climb brazenly on the Japanese bandwagon and cheer loudly for the “Son of Heaven.”

This situation constituted a challenge to the “group.” They accepted it, and that meant I had to go back to work, just as I had become accustomed to a comfortable home atmosphere again. Our servants had recovered from their initial fear of the enemy and our house was running quite smoothly; I had had a few wonderful days doing practically nothing but play with my two little ones, Throbbie and Jackie.

The invaders were now issuing ration cards and this formality was done with typical Japanese red tape, yards and yards of it. Many Filipinos were puzzled by all the papers to be filled out, so I set myself up as a volunteer assistant to such people. The cards were being issued from the Manila City Hall. As a reporter I was well acquainted there and with the help of some clerks, I could cut through a lot of the red tape and secure the ration cards for my “clients” quite rapidly.

While carrying out this work I whispered here, and I whispered there; both at the City Hall and among my “clients.” I spread the rumor that American planes would bomb Manila on the day of the Japanese Emperor’s parade. It certainly stirred up a lot of fear. Then Tony had me help him in a particularly clever piece of propaganda.

I paid a visit to the wife of the Mayor’s secretary. She was a very influential woman, both politically and socially. While we were discussing the Japanese occupation, from a woman’s viewpoint, Tony stopped by to pick me up. He immediately switched the conversation to the subject of the approaching celebration.

“Are you going to attend?” asked Tony.

“Why—uh—I—uh—I may,” she answered.

“Oh, but you can’t possibly do that! You are a good Catholic, aren’t you?” he quickly queried.

“You know I am,” she said firmly.

“Why, then, you dare not even bow to a Japanese sentry for, by so doing, you are recognizing the divinity of the Japanese Emperor. In other words, you are recognizing a god other than our Lord Jesus Christ!”

“Oh, no I can’t do that!” cried the woman.

“Then how much less can you attend a parade in honor of this Japanese ‘god-man’ and bow again in the direction of his Tokyo Palace?”

It worked! The wife of the Mayor’s secretary not only stayed away from the parade herself, but she also took great pains to inform all her large circle of friends and acquaintances that Catholicism and “Nipponism” were wholly incompatible. This type of work was extremely important because the Japanese spent some of their best efforts trying to convince Filipinos that our Christian God and the Japanese Emperor-god could exist, side by side.

I recall distinctly one of the most daring operations carried out in connection with this Emperor’s parade. One of the “group,” Dr. Ramon de Santos, undertook the printing and distribution of a pamphlet. This sheet ridiculed the idea of any claim to “divinity” for the Japanese Emperor. The “copy” was not only logical, it was bitingly sarcastic and must have made every Jap reader squirm.

On the morning of the big parade scores of Filipinos, young and old, distributed this sheet, under the protection and guidance of some of Manila’s most trusted policemen. Most Manilans were just as astounded as the invaders at this bold stroke, delivered on the very day when the Japanese had thousands of uniformed men watching every street in the city. The parade was a failure. Few attended aside from Japanese. But the consequences were grave. The Japs arrested Dr. de Santos and, yes, they threw him into Fort Santiago. They tortured him there. Somehow, he got word out to the “group” in Tagalog: “Nahihirapan na ako,” (I am suffering very much).

Now we all had a double source of worry. First, would the heathens kill de Santos? Second, if not, would they torture him until he “sang;” until he told about the “group” and its circle of assistants? We should have had more faith in de Santos. He was held for months and tortured cruelly, but he never talked—he refused to “sing.” His arrest, however, did not deter the “group” from further action. Tony and Liling Roces (Rafael Roces, Jr.), in particular, went right ahead with their underground work. I knew they were the two most important contact men.

Then came the next shock. The invaders picked up Liling Roces. They took him in three separate times, each for a comparatively short period of questioning. I was progressively getting more nervous; every footstep I heard in the street became that of an approaching Jap, in my imagination. I began to fret and worry. I begged Tony not to go out anymore. I said that, in my nervous condition, if anything happened to him it might mean my death. He looked me straight in the eye.

“I’m ashamed of you, Adalia! I thought you were really brave. You surprise me!”

Of course, I cried and cried. But we ended up by both vowing that we would always place our country’s interests above all else, even if it meant dying to help save our people. Our deaths, if it came to that, would pass on to our children a much more noble heritage than could be attained by collaboration with the Japanese, either tacitly or openly.

Tony summed up the situation, “This is total war. The Allied Democracies need all the manpower they can enlist. Though small in number, we are, nevertheless, a part of that manpower. We must do all we can.”

[7]

3

THE MONTHS PASSED AND all of us did everything we could to keep up the spirits of the people in Manila, meanwhile carrying out our obstructive tactics. Then one day in December of 1942, Tony walked into the house and calmly announced he had just sold our Sandejas home. At first, I thought my heart would break at this second and final leave-taking from the house we had planned and built. I asked Tony if there were no other way out. There wasn’t.

The first active guerrilla band in Luzon was shaping up and they needed money, lots of money, and it could only come from people like us who felt that anything was right if it helped to “lick the Japs.” And we were not the only ones making such sacrifices. A few days later I went, as courier, to Jose B. L. Reyes, who handed me a generous amount of pesos. I was surprised and asked him frankly, “Why so much money?” Half-jokingly, half seriously, he replied, “Why, Adalia, don’t you know I’m financing a revolution?”

Many of the “group” who had worked for the Philippine Government, including Judge Jesus Barrera and Roberto Concepción (now Supreme Court Justice), began turning over their United States Treasury salary warrants. These final warrants had been made out for three months in advance and our loyal people were handing them over to be used in helping establish the Luzon guerrilla bands. Such warrants had been as good as money at any government office of the United States or the Commonwealth Government of the Philippines. But the difficulty was that no such offices were open under Japanese rule. Thus, my new assignment was to convert the warrants into cash.

To do this I had first to find a money-changer. There were plenty of them in Manila at that time, but how they bled us for those warrants! I recall a certain transaction when I cashed a warrant with an especially greedy one who charged me eighty percent commission.

In other words, I received only twenty cents on each dollar of the warrant’s face value. The monies I collected, from whatever sources, I delivered mostly to a very fine man from Florida Blanca in Pampanga Province, a Mr. Bernia. One day I could not find him anywhere. When I returned home, I asked Tony what had happened to Mr. Bernia.

“What?” said Tony. “Why, you don’t even know such a man! Don’t even think of that name, Ada, much less say it aloud! That man is hot!”

The next day I learned that one of the moneychangers I knew had been arrested and questioned and so my cashier activities were quickly curtailed. The three-room house we rented after leaving our Sandejas home was on a modest street called Mercedes. Of course, the quarters were cramped, especially so for the two little ones who missed their large play yard. But everything went along calmly for a while and we were quite happy. But a peaceful state of mind in an occupied country cannot be enjoyed for any length of time.

One day Tony asked me to go across the street and bribe the maid in the household to steal some gasoline for us from the big tank her mistress kept filled all the time. Her mistress had a “friend” in the Japanese Air Corps from whom she received many presents, among them plenty of gasoline for her car. I obtained the gas and gave it to Tony, asking no questions, as usual. A few days later, he told me he had used it to clean rifles; rifles which had been hidden right under my bed, and I knew nothing about them! My first thought was one of relief when he added that he and Liling Roces were to deliver those same rifles to the guerrillas in the mountains. The guns would be out of the house! Then suddenly I realized what would happen if Tony were caught with contraband weapons in his possession. It would mean his life!

One night the box of rifles, along with Tony and Liling Roces, disappeared and the men left no word as to when they would return. The long, long days and nights passed, and I could neither eat nor sleep. About two o’clock of the seventh morning of their absence I heard a slight noise at the back door; I tiptoed out and opened it.

There was my husband, a mud-stained and tired-looking hobo! He darted in and closed the door quickly. He and Liling had waded through swamps and stumbled over miles of rough country to reach their meeting place with the courier, Alejandro R. Roces, from the guerrilla band, who led them up into the hills with the guns.

At daybreak that morning, for safety measures, we burned the clothes Tony had worn on his trip. About the middle of February 1943, Tony came in one evening and announced he had bought a house. What positively fascinated us all was that he had made the transaction with just fifty cents in his pocket! He explained he borrowed cash from his brother for a down payment, then mortgaged the property for the balance.

We moved into our new bungalow home in May, changing our address to No. 9 Third Street, New Manila. The house was comfortable and roomy, the garden spacious. For a while Tony and Pablo, who had helped us with our sidewalk store, gave a great deal of their time to vegetable gardening. They planted enough to feed three families; yes, three Filipino families. I was happy, for apparently Tony was going to “lay low” now.

But again, my happiness was short-lived. The morning of June third, Tony told me to have dinner ready at four o’clock, for five people. He gave everyone in the household money and sent them off to a picture show. At three o’clock the men began arriving, one by one: Col. Narciso Manzano of the U.S. Army,[8] Dr. Jose B. L. Reyes, Liling Roces, Lorenzo Tanada, and Tony. I knew these men very well and was accustomed to laughing and joking with them, but on this afternoon, they were too serious for that.

So, I only appeared when it was necessary to serve them. Meanwhile, Marquesito was flying his kite out in the street, in front of our gate. He was to call out the name “Pablo” as a signal if any stranger went by. This was an easy assignment for there were only three houses on our street, each enclosed by high walls. No stranger could sneak up under such conditions.

The five men talked on and on. Finally, about nine o’clock, they departed. Then Marquesito, tired and hungry, came into the house and he and I had a late dinner together. That was the beginning of the end of any peaceful period I may have hoped for. Visitors began dropping into our home, day and night. Pablo took over the gardening task alone; almost every day Tony was out from seven in the morning until eight in the evening. The courier assignments began, more than ever before, for Marquesito, Pablo and me, and again Tony warned us to keep silent no matter what happened, even at the point of a Jap gun.

I felt sure of Pablo and myself, but what about the boy? After all, he was just a youngster and should have been playing less dangerous games. I asked him one day what he would do if ever he were caught. “Mama, I’d die before I’d squeal on Papa. And anyway, I’d eat whatever paper I was carrying before I’d let a Jap get hold of it.”

Americans will never be able to realize how many hundreds of Filipino boys and girls served the cause of democracy at the risk of their lives. Many a guerrilla, American as well as Filipino, owes his life to their youthful but unflinching courage and heroism.

Then, on the afternoon of August 27, 1943, it happened. A car drew up in front of our home, filled with Japs in civilian clothes. One of them rang the bell at the big iron gate in our wall. Before answering, I dashed to my dresser and took out some underground propaganda papers I had left there, strictly against Tony’s repeated warnings. These I hastily hid under the lavatory pipes in the bathroom, then rushed back and opened the front door.

The men came up the steps and asked if this was the house of Mrs. Tohl. I felt sure they were after Tony and I had to gain time in some way; I still had other things to hide before they came into the house. So, I pointed to Mrs. Tohl’s house, about five hundred yards down the street. No sooner had they left than I picked up a bundle of battle-dressings, Atabrine,[9] and quinine, all packed for delivery to the guerrillas, gathered some more papers, and dashed out to the garage and hid the whole lot among a pile of garden tools.

I returned to the house just as the Japs came back and that time, they didn’t ring the bell. They forced the gate open, walked into the house, and began to look around. Some made themselves at home in our comfortable chairs; others went into the garden and examined the vegetables and plants. I don’t know what they expected to find, but they uprooted more than half the garden.

Back in the living room, they bounced up and down on the upholstered chairs as though they had never seen such things before. Suddenly one of them motioned to me to stand before their seated group. I did so. Then began my first Japanese questioning. As I learned later, it was a comparatively easy one.

First, what was my husband’s rank in his guerrilla band? Second, had I seen him burn the papers testifying to this rank?

Fortunately, Tony had always refused to accept any rank, so my first answers were easy, they were the truth; he had no rank, there were no papers. They changed their line, asking me where Tony was; I replied that he was at his law offices, as far as I knew. There followed an hour of questioning, after which they left. Before leaving, however, they walked into the library but didn’t stay there long. I had placed all the Japanese propaganda books where they would be the first to catch the eye of anyone entering. Two of the men glanced at me, looked knowingly at each other and made a queer sort of cackle. Then they really departed.

I rushed to the telephone; I must tell Tony to run away. But no, the telephone line would be tapped and any call of mine would make things just that much worse. I could do nothing but pray and pray and pray.

That evening Tony’s brother, Deogracias, stopped by and confirmed my worst fears. The Japs had picked up Tony at his office. From my brother-in-law’s description, they were the same men who had called on me. A little later a Chinese friend, Wong Siu Tong, who had helped a great deal in the underground work, came in. He had been at Tony’s office when the Japs walked in; had seen him pushed out of his office, down into their car, and driven away. It was true, no doubt about it, the Japanese had arrested my husband!

That night was the first of many I was to spend without sleep; tossing, worrying, praying, then repeating the process, again and again. But with the morning I knew what I must do, much as I hated the thought of doing it. A woman never knows what she will do until the life of the man she loves is in danger.

By this time, after more than eighteen months of occupation, some of the men and women residents of Manila had begun to “play ball” with the enemy. Whenever an arrest took place, like that of Tony’s, it was customary to seek out one of these collaborators to act as go-between. I knew one such woman well. She was truly beautiful. I shall refer to her only as Linda. Her friend was Colonel Nagahama, Chief of the Japanese Military Police in the Philippines. She really had him “wrapped around her finger.” Linda took me to Nagahama’s house in her car. He greeted us at the door and, smiling at me, said “Hello, Comrade.”

The Colonel stood about five feet, six inches, was heavy set, around forty-five years of age, with close-cropped hair and fine features somewhat obliterated by large spectacles. His voice was cultured and manners quite correct; he did not have to try too hard to appear like a gentleman. He wore a plain khaki uniform and tan sport shirt.

He invited us to sit down; I noticed he had collected some of the best furniture in Manila. His large living room was furnished in excellent taste—at no cost to him, of course. He ordered his servant to bring drinks. He and Linda had whisky and, without a word being said about it, the boy brought me a glass of orange juice. So! He was trying to show me that he knew all about me and my habits.

I never drank alcoholic beverages. Well, I didn’t care what he knew about me if only he would release Tony.

Colonel Nagahama’s English was rather limited, so he called for his interpreter. She was a San Francisco-born Japanese girl, named Elsie. Sitting down beside me she tried to make me feel at ease.

She remarked about how hot it was in the Philippines and how, if it were not for the war, she would prefer to be in San Francisco. Since it did not appear that there was going to be any “rough stuff,” I relaxed somewhat.

Then, through his interpreter, Colonel Nagahama began asking me questions. How was my health? Fine, thank you. How were the children? Very well, thank you. Was the house I now had a comfortable one? Yes, thank you. Did I have enough money to carry me through? Yes, but if I fell short, Tony’s friends would probably help me out.

“Of course,” said the Colonel, “I want you to know that I can be counted on as one of Tony’s friends!”

What a clever way of bringing up the subject of Tony’s friends, the “group.” I was frightened. To hide my fears, I began to sob hysterically and pleaded wildly for the Colonel to release Tony from prison.

“Stop crying, my child,” he said. “My sympathies are wholly with you. I have nothing but pity for you. Now tell me, and I know you can for you are a very clever girl, why do you think we arrested your husband?”

I couldn’t answer that question truthfully for if I did, we would all be incriminated. So now I really cried. This time there was no acting, I was thoroughly frightened. I told the Colonel that Tony had done nothing wrong during the occupation; in fact, he was home a great deal of the time.

Nagahama followed this remark with, “Now, think hard, child; there must be something he has done?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” I said, grasping at a straw, “much to our present regret, my husband did advocate a Philippine boycott of Japanese goods before the war. But he is very sorry about it now.”

“Well, that doesn’t matter. The past is the past. We certainly shall not hold your husband responsible for anything he did before we came. As a matter of fact, he may have been compelled to make that anti-Japanese speech by the Americans.”

Of course, I was grateful for the Colonel’s sympathy, but I wasn’t making any headway in my plea for Tony’s release. I seemed to be doing little else than getting myself more and more deeply involved. Then Nagahama suddenly changed the subject.

“I am going to ask you a question now and you must answer it truthfully.” He looked me straight in the eye. “Do you think the Americans are ever coming back to the Philippines?”

“Not while you are here, sir.”

“That is right,” and he smiled broadly. “The Americans can never come back here. It is a physical impossibility. They are too far away.” Then suddenly he asked, “Why are you wearing men’s clothes?”

For only a second my mind groped helplessly, but somehow, I found words and answered, “It is more economical, sir.”

“I understand. You newspaper people were happy-go-lucky under the Americans and got away with almost anything.”

I made no reply.

Then, very soberly, he continued, “There is one thing I want to make clear to you, young lady. You are a Filipino. You are brown-skinned, and you will always be brown, no matter how much American makeup you apply. We Japanese and you Filipinos are of the same color and it is only right and natural that our two peoples should be brothers. The American is of another color. He will never be your friend. He will always look down on you. I want you to remember this and I want you to explain it to your friends.”

I said nothing, just kept on nodding my head up and down, like an automaton. But I was thinking fast. Yes, I did know a few Americans who had always acted as if they were superior. But on the other hand, I had many American friends.

However, that wasn’t the main issue. Color or no color, the Americans had been trying to teach us how to enjoy a democratic form of government. No matter what Nagahama’s color, he was my enemy!

I stayed about a half hour longer and the Colonel asked no more questions. He had planted his propaganda seed, so he thought. Then I excused myself and hoped Linda would take up my plea where I left off. The Colonel accompanied me to the door and ushered me out in a most courteous manner.

When I returned home, I could almost picture Tony already released.

––––––––

[10]

4

I SLEPT FAIRLY WELL that night and rose early the next morning to go to market. I threw common sense and caution to the winds; I would have a memorable welcome-home feast for my husband. When I returned there were Eve and Nita, nieces of Tony’s bosom friend, whom we had adopted into our home as our own daughters. They had been in the provinces for some time, but as they heard of Tony’s arrest, they put aside all fears and came to be with me. We called them “our girls.” They were excited! The Japs had just telephoned from Fort Santiago that I should be at the Fort the following morning. That could mean but one thing: I could bring Tony home! We were happy.

On September 4, 1943 as I was making preparations to go to the Fort, I recalled the red tape of our own Philippine Commonwealth Government. No doubt the Japs had a lot of it, too. Maybe I couldn’t get Tony out till afternoon. So, I boiled four eggs to take along with me, just in case. Next, I packed some fresh clothes. I knew he would enjoy the change. Then I called a carretela to take me to Fort Santiago. A carretela is a two-wheel, horse-drawn carriage, still seen in Manila, even today.

At seven o’clock I arrived at the Fort and waited in the carretela until nearly eight. Then I got out and walked to the entrance. There before me I saw what I had thought about all night long, the dreaded steps, leading upward, many cold, dark, unfriendly, straight and narrow steps. I closed my fingers tightly and started up. At the top of the stairs, blocking my entrance into the narrow, dim corridor, was a plain table at which sat a Jap busily writing in a book.

He did not look up or appear to notice that I was there, and I was afraid to speak first. So I just stood and prayed. I said the Lord’s Prayer over and over again; then I fell back on my old standby, the Apostles’ Creed. As I repeated it, I counted. I had said it exactly one hundred sixty-nine times when another Japanese came down the hall and up to the table.

He looked at my dirty jeans and shirt rather doubtfully and asked, “Shim Bun Shiya?” I knew that meant something about newspapers; he must be asking me if I was the newspaper reporter. I answered, “Yes.”

Ah, I thought, this is better! The Colonel must have told him to expect a newspaperwoman. How else would he know? And he hadn’t been rough at all.

In fact, he had asked his one question very politely. Ah, yes! I would soon have Tony out of prison! The Jap guide opened a door and motioned for me to enter the room. I did so and he left.

The room was bare except for one table and one chair, placed beneath a dim electric globe hanging from the ceiling. As I looked around cautiously, I judged the room to be about nine by twelve. I stood there for what seemed like a century, but probably it was about an hour.

Then the door opened, and a slim Jap entered. I noted his buck teeth and tiny hands. He wore spectacles and had on white pants and a white shirt. He looked me up and down, then sat at the table, in the chair I had been afraid to touch. Another Jap entered; he wore white, too, but was a little taller and quite a bit stockier in build. His glasses were very thick, and his weak eyes blinked behind them. He smiled at me ever so slightly and said, “So, it is you.”

Suddenly, I recognized both of them. They were among the Japs who had come to our home looking for Tony. They acted a little surprised to see me. Yes, that was it! they were surprised to learn that the woman they had questioned so gruffly was acquainted with their boss, Colonel Nagahama.[11] They were finding out that I knew the “right people.” Now I would surely get Tony out of this hole. My hopes soared.

The smaller of the two, Lieutenant Namiki as I learned later, looked up at me from his chair and began speaking in Japanese. The thick-spectacled one interpreted into English and, of all things, English with a thick Filipino accent!

“What is your name? How old are you? Where do you live? Is your mother alive? Is your father alive? What is your occupation? What is your income?”

As I answered each question there was a long pause while Namiki, the investigator, busied himself writing down what I had said. This long routine of questioning definitely did not look as if it were going to lead to Tony’s release. So, I gathered my courage and interrupted, “Will you please release my husband today?”

At this Lieutenant Namiki rose from his chair and pointed his pencil directly at my face. “What is your husband’s rank?”

“He has none that I know of.”

“What is the name of his guerrilla band?”

“He has no guerrilla band,” quite humbly.

“You want your husband to go home with you, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, then, you have got to tell us the truth. You have not told the truth so far. We are going out to lunch now and give you time to think this matter over.”

As they went out, they left the door open. I began to suspect that my visit to Fort Santiago to get my husband was a trap to imprison me rather than to free him. However, in their absence I decided to look around.

As I started down the hall, I passed another open door. I glanced into the room and my heart almost stopped at what I saw. A man lay there on the floor or, rather, what had been a man, now a living skeleton. Acting on impulse, I took the four hard-boiled eggs from my handbag and laid them on the floor near him. Neither of us spoke but his eyes thanked me more eloquently than any words. I was sure I had never seen him before or, if I had, recognition now was beyond a possibility.

As I returned to the waiting room, I was mightily strengthened in my resolve to fight on against the invaders in whatever way I could. If that poor, starving man could keep on living, after what he had undergone, how could I possibly weaken?

In what seemed about an hour my two questioners returned. Fujiwara, the interpreter, was carrying a sheet of paper. He let me glance at it. It was in Tony’s handwriting! This was the first communication I had had from him since his arrest. The tears welled up. I didn’t want to go home alone now. I wanted to stay in Fort Santiago and share Tony’s sufferings with him. God would surely take care of my children in some way.

Namiki made a long, excited speech in Japanese which Fujiwara didn’t even bother to translate; he just held out the paper to me.

“Here is a letter from your husband. You must remember that you are an Oriental and your husband’s word is law. Now read!”

I read and saw immediately that Tony had written words which had been dictated to him. He himself would never have sent me such a note. I studied the few sentences:

“Mrs. Adalia Bautista,

My dear wife:

If you love our children, you must tell the truth, as I have already CONFESSIONED. Please, for the sake of our HOUSE, you must tell the truth because the Japanese Military POLISE is very magnanimous and they will let you go home after you are telling the truth.

Your husband,

(signed) Antonio Bautista.”