When the Elephants Dance Read online

  Copyright © 2002 by Tess Uriza Holthe.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published by Crown Publishers, New York, New York.

  Member of the Crown Publishing Group.

  Random House, Inc. New York, Toronto, London, Sydney, Auckland

  www.randomhouse.com

  CROWN is a trademark and the Crown colophon is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc.

  Map © 2002 by Mark Stein Studios

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

  eISBN: 978-0-676-80673-1

  v3.1

  ~ FOR MY HUSBAND, JASON

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I WOULD LIKE TO THANK:

  My lola, Pelicula Fulgencio, and my parents, Salvador and Gloria Uriza, for filling my life with their love of stories. My best friend and husband, Jason Holthe, for his tough criticism and never-ending encouragement. The Uriza, Holthe, and Sirate families for their love and raucous laughter. My nephews and nieces: Paul and Bernadette Sirate, Anthony Mandap, and Gene, Sarina, Roman, Karl, and Chelsea Uriza for keeping me smiling. Nellie and Earl for keeping me on my toes.

  My wonderful and wise agent and friend, Mary Ann Naples. Thank you for believing in this book and sending it down that yellow brick road. My editor, the talented Kristin Kiser, for helping me to give Domingo a heart and leading me through Oz. The Maui Writers Conference for allowing me to meet these two exceptional women in paradise. To everyone at Crown, Chip Gibson, Steve Ross, Andrew Martin, Katherine Beitner, Claudia Gabel, Lauren Dong, Jennifer O’Connor, Trisha Howell, Leta Evanthes, and the entire group, thank you for welcoming me into your family and embracing this book. The Book Passage of Corte Madera, for providing me with good coffee, great books, fine authors to meet, and a safe place to dream.

  Robert Lapham, author of Lapham’s Raiders, University Press of Kentucky, where I found and was inspired by the quote “When the elephants dance it is unsafe for the chickens.” My dear friends and fellow writers Ellie Wood, John Fetto, Katrina Davidson, Desda Zuckerman, and Julie Tayco. Your friendship has been a blessing. Linda Watanabe McFerrin for your exercise A Myth in the Family. Christine Hom for encouraging me to “keep reaching.” Fellow writer Don Christians of KWMR 90.5 West Marin for trusting your radio program with my stories. The following friends who did not change the subject when I told them I was writing a book: Kristi Taylor, Rosalva Depillo, Paula Kravitz, Michelle Marks, Claudia Ruggles, Susan Cubinar, and Paul and Sandy Schaumleffel. God, for always lighting my way.

  My parents, Salvador and Gloria Uriza, in 1951.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  EVER SINCE I CAN REMEMBER, my father and lola (grandmother), who were both Filipino, entertained my family with tales of the supernatural, stories of ghosts and witches, always told with delicious darkness and magic. My brothers and sisters and I would sit, riveted, holding our breath. Their storytelling would cast a spell on me each time. I relished every word.

  In addition to these tales, they spoke of their firsthand experiences during the Japanese invasion of their homeland, the Philippines, during World War II. These stories were told with the grave respect and pride that comes only from having survived such a tremendous experience. It is not surprising that many years later I have written a novel that interweaves both the devastation of the war and the kind of mythological tales I was told.

  Both of my parents and their families experienced so much during the war. My mother Gloria was only eight years old. Though her family was further out in the Visayan countryside and not near the heavy fighting, they were not immune to the war. Her father, my lolo (grandfather), was serving in the United States Navy on the U.S. Blackhawk in the nearby Mariana Islands. His ship was sunk by Japanese aircraft during the Battle of Midway. He survived by holding onto pieces of the ship.

  My father was thirteen years old when he and a group of other civilians were caught by the Japanese while chopping wood in an undesignated area, near the American army base in Luzon, Philippines, known as Fort McKinley. Their group was led into one of the nearby buildings and tortured. The opening scene of my novel is fictional, but based on his experience. My father’s family lived in Paco near the center of the American-Japanese battle for Manila. He remembers running for shelter carrying one of his sisters on his back as explosion after explosion ripped by them. “I shall never forget that time,” he used to say to us. Thirty-four years later, neither have I.

  Researching this time period for the backdrop of my novel was like opening a treasure trove of memories. The images and voices of the people in the accounts and personal interviews that I have read paralleled many of the stories I heard growing up. At times I felt like I was not alone in the room, that my lolo and lola were nearby, their spirits urging me on to write about our people. Growing up I longed to find the kind of fictional stories of the Philippines that I was told by my father and lola, but the shelves in the libraries held only travel guides. This book is my humble contribution to the empty shelf that I always longed to fill.

  Many readers may wonder at the Spanish surnames given throughout my book. Few may know that the Philippine Islands were a Spanish colony for three hundred years. In fact, the archipelago of 7,107 islands was named after the Spanish king Philip II. In 1510 the Portuguese explorer Ferdinand Magellan was granted an expedition by the Spanish king Charles V, and in 1521 he “discovered” the Philippine Islands, though in fact Chinese, Japanese, Indian, and Arab traders had been visiting and trading with the islands long before Magellan arrived.

  Following is a brief historical note on the Philippine struggle for independence:

  In February 1898, the U.S. Congress declared war against Spain. In the ensuing battle the United States defeated Spain. Spain then ceded the Philippines, after three hundred years of Spanish rule, to the United States under the Treaty of Paris.

  Public schools were opened with American, Spanish, and Filipino teachers. The Spanish language was kept as a means of communication, but the Spanish legal system was exchanged for the American system. American troops were then installed on the islands and a military government was established by the United States. But the Filipinos had had enough—they wanted to rule themselves. What followed from 1899 to 1902 was the Philippine-American War for Philippine Independence. The war ended with the defeat of the Philippines, but the nationalist movement continued to receive popular support.

  Before the Philippines could gain independence from the United States, World War II broke out in the Pacific theater. Pearl Harbor was attacked by Japan on December 7, 1941. The following morning the Philippines were bombed by Japanese warplanes. The Allied troops, led by General Douglas MacArthur, a resident of the islands and military advisor to the Philippines, retreated to the Bataan Peninsula and the fortified island of Corregidor. Before his departure, MacArthur declared Manila an open city to spare it from Japanese bombings. The Japanese did not respect this edict and continued to bomb the city.

  What followed for 70,000 American and Filipino troops was the horrible Bataan Death March. The troops, brutally treated by the Japanese, were forced to march from the Bataan Peninsula to Camp O’Donnell in Tarlac where they were interned in P.O.W. camps. The Japanese continued to bomb the islands. Ill-prepared for such an attack, General Jonathan Wainwright, MacArthur’s successor, surrendered Corregidor on May 6, 1942. General Douglas MacArthur had retreated to Australia, where he would later help to organize a guerrilla island force in the Philippines via radio communications. T
he Philippine people were left to fend for themselves against the Japanese Imperial Army. The Japanese came under the guise of “Asia for the Asians” and with propaganda for stamping out Western imperialism. American schoolbooks were destroyed and schools later shut down. Any American troops and their families who had been left behind were interned as prisoners of war.

  Houses were commandeered by the Imperial Army. Food became dangerously scarce and the civilians starved. The barter system came into play as people foraged for food to save their families. Families hid in cellars to avoid any suspicion of being guerrilla fighters and later to survive the battles and the bombings. For the next three years both Filipino and American guerrilla groups would start to form in the jungles, in the Zambales Mountains, and on the islands of Luzon and Mindanao, waiting for General Douglas MacArthur to keep his famous promise, “I shall return.” In October 1944 MacArthur did return and battled through to Manila with four Allied divisions. Finally, in 1945 the Japanese commanding officer general Tomoyuki Yamashita surrendered the Philippines to MacArthur.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Author’s Note

  Map

  Part 1 - Alejandro Karangalan

  Part 2 - Isabelle Karangalan

  Part 3 - Domingo Matapang

  Part 4 - Alejandro Karangalan

  About the Author

  part 1

  A L E J A N D R O

  K A R A N G A L A N

  FEBRUARY 1945

  ~ PAPA EXPLAINS THE WAR LIKE THIS: “When the elephants dance, the chickens must be careful.” The great beasts, as they circle one another, shaking the trees and trumpeting loudly, are the Amerikanos and the Japanese as they fight. And our Philippine Islands? We are the small chickens. I think of baby chicks I can hold in the palm of my hand, flapping wings that are not yet grown, and I am frightened.

  Papa is sick. His malaria has returned double strong, and his face is the color of dishwater. He sweats in his sleep but shakes beneath the woven blankets. When he talks there is phlegm and a quaking in his voice that is hard to listen to. As eldest son, I have been given the duty of food trader for the day. I go in search of rice, beans, camotes, papaya, pineapple, canned tomatoes, Carnation milk, quinine for the malaria, anything I can find. Even the foul-smelling durian fruit with its spiked shell would be a blessing. Pork would be a miracle. We are all very thin like skeletons.

  Since the Japanese chased the Amerikanos away three years ago, a kilo of rice now costs fifty centavos, more than four times the original price. The Japanese have created new money, but it is no good. We call it Mickey Mouse money. We trade for everything these days, work, food, medicine.

  I carry my basket of cigarettes to barter with. I worked twelve evenings in Manila to earn these, serving coffee and whiskey to the families on Dewey Boulevard who have been allowed to remain in their mansions and villas. These families were the ones who stood in the streets and waved white flags for the Japanese Imperial Army when they first arrived. I would walk twenty kilometers south each day from our hometown of Santa Maria in Bulacan province to work these houses in Manila. I kept watch as the men smoked and played mah-jongg on the stone-and-marble verandas. Their tables faced Manila Bay, her violet sunsets, and the streets lined with coconut palms.

  At the end of each evening, I would go to see the hostess, Doña Alfonsa, her face white like a geisha’s from too much talcum. She sat in her spacious parlor beneath a row of matching ceiling fans. The blades were made of straw and shaped like spades. Each night she lifted opal-ringed fingers and counted three packs of Lucky Strikes. One for every four hours that I worked. She paid me in cigarettes, and I made certain the cups were always full.

  My brother, Roderick, accompanies me in my search for food. He is two years younger, and today is his tenth birthday. We must be careful not to step on the dead, and the Japanese soldiers must be avoided at all costs. The first is Mama’s request, the second, Papa’s order.

  “Pay attention.” I grab Roderick by his shirt and point to a man lying facedown.

  He frowns. “It is impossible. They are everywhere.”

  The stench is terrible in this heat. It rises like steam from a bowl of bad stew. I try to breathe through my mouth. Mrs. Del Rosario has been staring at the sky for three days. Her skin has rotted, and the animals have taken their share. Her robe is thrown open, and her right leg is pointed in a strange direction. I try not to look when we pass. Roderick becomes stuck to his spot. He was a favorite of hers.

  “Don’t look. We must go.” I nudge him.

  He turns to me. His eyes are angry and red. He looks away.

  The blue flies cover the bodies like death veils. They land on our faces, bringing kisses from the dead. We swat them away quickly.

  Early this morning, before light, we heard the rumble of tanks and saw many Amerikano soldiers in green uniforms and heavy boots marching in the dark. Papa said that their destination would be the Paco railroad station, an area well guarded by the enemy.

  Ever since General MacArthur’s voice was heard on the radio saying that he has returned, all citizens have taken to hiding in their cellars. No one leaves their homes unless it is an emergency. It is best to stay hidden from the Japanese soldiers. Their tempers are short now that the Amerikanos have reappeared. They are quick to slap us on the face or grab a fistful of our hair. Everyone is under the suspicion of being for MacArthur.

  There are barricades and checkpoints every two kilometers. At these spots the Japanese stand with bayonets and their special police, the Kempeitai. There are Filipinos who stand with them called Makapilis. It is short for Makabayang Pilipino, which means “our fellow countrymen.” The Makapili are Japanese sympathizers. They are pro-Asian and do not want the Amerikanos to come back. The Makapilis help the Kempeitai hunt for guerrillas. Papa calls the Makapili cowards because they hide behind cloth masks. One finger from them and a Filipino can be sentenced to death. They will turn in their countrymen without hesitation. The Japanese have poisoned our minds against one another.

  Amerikano bombers fly in a V shape above. We watch their silver underbellies, ripe with strength.

  “This way,” I tell my brother.

  “V for victory. Go, Joe!” Roderick shouts with fist raised.

  “Quiet,” I tell him. We hurry, crouching low to the ground, ready to dive. The ground shakes and the sky rumbles from their passing. My head spins from our quick movements. I steady myself against a tree. Roderick is the same way. We have grown much weaker in the last month from lack of food. There is no food to be found. Any supply trucks are ambushed by the guerrillas. It was better when we had the cow; at least we had milk. Papa worked so hard not to slaughter her, only to have someone steal her when we slept.

  “We must not move so fast. Stay close,” I tell Roderick.

  “Papa said to stay away from the city,” he protests.

  “I know.” I keep moving, and he follows as always.

  We walk south toward Manila.

  “Papa told us not to go toward the city.” Roderick catches up to me. He pulls my arm in frustration.

  “It is okay,” I tell him.

  From behind comes the sound of tanks approaching. We stop arguing and jump into a banana grove. Five Amerikano tanks, followed by fifty soldiers on foot. We come out of our hiding place. A few of the soldiers look our way.

  “Tommy guns,” I breathe.

  “And carbines,” Roderick adds, shooting the trees with imaginary bullets. “But where are the big guns that have been shaking our house?”

  “Already in Manila. Come. We will follow behind.”

  Roderick stares at me.

  My stomach twists from hunger. Already my brow is dripping with sweat from the heat, and the dust is caught in my throat. I take my palm and swipe it across my eyes. “We have to find food. Papa’s sickness is getting worse. Do you want to go bac
k? Why don’t you go back.” I leave him standing with his arms crossed.

  He follows. “Why do they not bury her?”

  “Who?” I ask, looking at the scattered bodies. It is difficult to see whom the faces once belonged to.

  “Mrs. Del Rosario.”

  “For what? She is gone.”

  “I hope someone buries me,” Roderick says.

  I look at my brother. “Do not say that. Make the sign of the cross.” He does so. His blue shirt is too large. The collar falls over his shoulder, and I can see his skin stretched over the bones.

  “Alejandro?” He holds my gaze.

  “Yes?”

  “Will that happen to us?”

  AFTER SIX HOURS we have covered twenty kilometers and reach the outer part of Manila. The tanks and soldiers have long ago moved on ahead of us. We stay to the east side of the city. The scattered sounds of rifle fire in the distance greet us. Another kilometer and we pass Nichols Field and Fort McKinley. There is smoke everywhere. Our eyes sting, and we pull our shirt collars over our mouths. There is a barricade before us. A group of Japanese soldiers stand with bayonets.

  “I told you.” Roderick grunts and brushes an angry hand through his hair. He kicks the dirt.

  My stomach rumbles and twists. I look behind us. “We shall go around. The other way. Past Herran Street.” But even as I say this, the soldiers motion for us to come forward.

  We bow low from the waist and walk toward them. I feel the knocking of my heart. We are ten meters from them. There is not even time to hide the basket of cigarettes. I glance quickly at Roderick. His eyes are as big as plums. He grips one hand in the other, cracking his knuckles.

  “Let me talk,” I instruct.

  “I can speak for myself.”

  “They will try to anger you, trick you into saying something. Do not mention that Domingo has been to our house.”