A Pledge of Silence (26 page)

Soon after the horrific days of the Japanese’ shelling of Santo Tomas, a hundred relief nurses arrived, and the internee nurses gladly relinquished their duties. They were going home, the first in the camp to be evacuated. As they packed their few possessions into duffels, they chattered about the trip.

“I’m going to kiss the ground, first thing. American ground.”

“If we can get past the Japs. Bombs are still dropping.”

“Uncle Sam got troops in here; he sure as shootin’ can get us out.”

“Praise Uncle Sam!”

Gracie came into the room and jumped up on her bed, waving her arms. “I have an announcement to make. Kenneth and I are getting married.” She did a little dance.

Ruth Ann said, “So, what’s new? We’ve known that for months.”

“We’re getting married tonight! We want you all to come.”

The women surrounded Gracie and began planning a festive event. Boots had made friends with one of the cooks and could get a cake, Ruth Ann knew someone who had a Victrola and records. Tildy offered to lend Gracie her grandmother’s wedding ring.

Margie watched the revelry from the edge of the room. She sat at the window, looking over the camp that for three years had been a perverse sort of home. How many times had she stood here aching to leave, but, now that leaving was a reality, she was scared. No one could ever fathom what she’d seen and done, or comprehend the suffering. Who would believe what a person would eat if they had never faced starvation themselves? Or what a terrified person would do to stay alive for just one more day? Or what a broken person would stoop to? Deep in her thoughts, she didn’t hear Gracie come up behind her.

“Margie.”

She jumped, and for a second she couldn’t imagine why Gracie was there. Coming back to the present, she said, “Congratulations!” and gave her friend a hug.

Gracie bubbled, “You’re my best friend, Margie. Will you stand up for me?”

“Of course, I’d be happy to.” Margie embraced Gracie again.

“The wedding’s at five o’clock in the chapel. I need some help already.” Gracie nodded toward the crowd making plans. “I don’t want a party afterward. Help me get away.”

“You got it,” Margie conspired. “Cut the cake, give them 30 minutes, and I’ll get you out somehow. You only have one night with Kenneth.”

“One splendid, spectacular, glorious, fantastic night.” Gracie’s eyes twinkled.

With her few belongings packed, Margie felt ready to abandon her shanty; she was scheduled to leave Santo Tomas in the morning. The war still raged furiously in and around Manila, making both leaving and staying equally perilous. She and Wade discussed their fears while sitting together on the main building’s front steps.

“I won’t know how to act. I’m sure to do something odd,” she said.

“Just be yourself, and you’ll be okay.”

“But I look like a scarecrow.”

“Margie, don’t. You’re a beautiful woman.”

“Not anymore. I’m bitter and old. I know it shows on my face. I’ll never forget this ugliness.”

“You will. In time. But, my darling, promise you won’t forget me.”

“Never! I promise I never will. You know the truth. No one else will ever believe the truth. How could they? It’s inconceivable.”

They got up to stroll the perimeter of the camp, detouring around tanks and supply trucks, stepping over piles of debris. Smoke from camp stoves sullied the air, and the smell of food cooking set their mouths watering. Restlessly anticipating the coming meal, lines of former internees holding tin plates and cups snaked around the corners of buildings. From outside the gates, the drone of airplanes and the crack of guns never stopped.

Wade said, “It’s still like a powder keg here. If I don’t make it home—”

“Don’t say that!”

“But if I don’t, I have an inheritance from my grandfather. I want you to have it. Would you consider marrying me, Margie?”

They stopped walking, and she chuckled. “People will think I married you for your money.”

“I’m serious. I love you. I want you with me always.”

She didn’t reply right away. It was not an unthinkable proposal. She felt truly fond of this kind man, but not with the sparks of excitement or fires of passion that Royce ignited.

“We can put all this behind us,” he went on. “Start our lives fresh, you and me together. I’ll work at the newspaper, and you can stay home. You’ll never have to work again if you’re my wife.”

She listened. What Wade offered sounded appealing—a carefree and stable life. She could be finished with nursing and put the horrors of war and this prison camp behind her. She would be free to have the babies she had promised her mother. It could be a good life, with a good man.

“We’ll fill the house with babies,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. “Margie, will you marry me?”

“I have no feelings at all right now. I’m empty inside.”

“I’ll help you heal.”

Dear Wade, writer, musician, kind nurturer. He had seen her at her worst, emaciated, neurotic, and full of demons, demons they shared. No one would ever understand or know her the way Wade did, and he wanted her for his wife. Her gaze explored his longing face.

“Yes,” she said slowly. “I will marry you.”

“Yes!” he said and twirled her around. Setting her down, he kissed her. From his pocket, he took out a ring delicately carved from mahogany. He placed it in her hand.

“It’s beautiful. Where did you get this?”

“I made it for you a while ago,” he confessed. “We can have a double wedding with Gracie and Kenneth.”

“Wait. You’re going too fast.”

“I already asked them, and they said it was okay.”

“You already asked them? I don’t know. A wedding today—it’s too soon.”

“Why?”

“I’m not ready.” She walked a little way off.

“There’s nothing to get ready,” he said to her back. “Kenneth reserved the chapel and lined up the preacher. All of our friends will be there. There’s even a party planned for afterwards, like a real wedding. I don’t want you leaving without getting this settled.”

She slid the ring on her finger and held her hand up to admire it. “It is settled. I want to be married in my church at home, with my parents there, and your family, your sister Carol. I want to be married in a wedding dress.”

Wade circled her with his arms. “Knowing you’re right makes me love you all the more.”

She pushed him back, unable to muster even a hint of desire.

“What’s the matter, Margie?”

The matter was that she was bruised and torn from a vicious rape, emotionally dead, and didn’t think she would ever want to be touched in an intimate way again.

“Nothing’s the matter, silly boy. I’m going to save myself for our wedding night. Isn’t that what a good girl’s supposed to do?”

Chapter 17

Manila – San Francisco, February 1945

Jubilation reigned. After 31 months in captivity, euphoric nurses piled into open-bed transports out of Santo Tomas Internment Camp. Well-wishers shouted last hurrahs as the trucks disappeared through the twisted remains of the front gate to rousing cheers and shouted promises of “See you in the States!”

Twin-engine C-47s waited on Dewey Boulevard, Manila’s main thoroughfare. Hearing bombs in the distance and gunfire nearby, the women hastened to board. Over the roar of the engines, the pilot yelled, “Everyone up front! We’re overloaded and need to lighten the tail.” Sniper fire crackled as they taxied down the middle of the road. Holding the brakes while pushing the throttle forward forced the rear of the plane off the ground. They skimmed over the tree-tops; the women cheered the captain’s skill before taking their seats and settling in for the trip.

As the plane gained altitude, Margie gazed earthward, where she could see the full extent of once-beautiful Manila’s devastation. The curvilinear buildings in the business district and the geometric architecture of the theater district—gone. The parks, wide avenues, and palatial homes with tiled roofs and translucent shells for windows—also gone, replaced by piles of gray rubble that stretched for miles in all directions. Columns of black smoke identified areas where battles still raged. Leaning into the window, she saw Japanese artillery on the rooftops of buildings surrounding Santo Tomas, and the reality of the danger that still remained to those left behind burst her euphoric bubble. Shaken, she willed herself back into the safety of numbness.

They flew southeast to Leyte, another Philippine island. From her bird’s-eye perspective, Margie saw an immense harbor crowded with hundreds of U.S. ships. From an airstrip near the shoreline, bombers and fighter planes landed and took off, one after another.

Their C-47 landed smoothly amid the bustle. After disembarking, the nurses underwent evaluations at a nearby army hospital. The doctors recorded every detail of their depleted condition, admitting several of them for inpatient care.

Margie suffered from malnutrition and malaria. Because she had so little muscle tone and no fat left to support her internal organs, her abdomen was tender when palpated, and her bladder control weak. The doctor jotted notes about her achy joints and a few loose teeth. As the physical exam progressed, he noted bruising around her vagina and a tear in the perineum.

“What happened here?” he asked.

Knowing this question was sure to be asked, she had concocted a plausible answer. “I fell during the liberation. The ground was slippery and I lost my footing. I landed hard on a rock. It’s better now. It doesn’t burn any more when I pee.”

The doctor frowned. “The injuries are characteristic of—”

“Nothing like that happened. It was just a fall!”

He didn’t press her further, but made more notes on her chart.

A Captain Riker interviewed her as part of his project to amass data for future war-crime tribunals. Like a flood, stories came spewing out, one incident triggering the memory of another, hundreds of details. What a relief, to finally have the freedom to express her rage at Japanese cruelties and petty sadisms!

The captain nodded frequently, and scribbled furiously. At the end of the hours-long interview, he said, “We’re asking everyone coming out of the prison camps not to talk about any of this. I have a paper for you to sign saying you’ll comply. You know how it is. Stories tend to grow, little things get magnified. It’s best to keep silent. Just go about your life and be a pretty lady again.” He shoved the paper and a pen toward her: She signed her name without a second thought.

After that initial outpouring of fury, Margie began to unwind. Housed in a quiet annex near the beach, she slept in a real bed and soaked in a bathtub, luxuries she had all but forgotten. Offered more food than she could eat in a lifetime, every meal seemed like a banquet. She sunbathed on Leyte’s white-sand beaches and swam in the ocean, letting whitecaps wash over her. The base hosted beer parties, ping-pong tournaments, and poker games; Frank Sinatra songs and Fred Astaire movies played in the bars and theaters. Margie found herself obsessed with any news of home, whether from the radio, magazines, or newspapers. She learned about the rationing of food, shoes, and gasoline; of women supporting families, their children placed in day-care; and other stateside oddities, like copper pennies being stamped out of steel.

She sent a wire to her parents. She loved them, she wrote. She would be home soon. She would phone as soon as she reached San Francisco.

The flight away from the Philippines continued across the Pacific, making a refueling stop on the island of Saipan. Margie brushed the wrinkles from her new uniform and put on her too-big hat. Glancing out the plane’s window, she saw a crowd on the tarmac. She nudged Ruth Ann. “Bigwigs must be flying in.”

As the nurses emerged from the aircraft, the crowd gave a rousing cheer. Puzzled by the fuss, Margie forced a smile and waved shyly. She stood at attention as a band played “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

A reception followed, with tables laden with food and favors. Margie fulfilled a three-year-old dream by eating a hamburger with mustard and onion, slurping down a Coke, and putting away two slices of a chocolate sheet cake emblazoned with the message, “Welcome Home to the Good Old USA.” The few women stationed at this obscure airbase donated their own lotions and cosmetics for gift bags, as a small tribute to the nurses. Rubbing lotion on her painfully dry hands, Margie said, “Much better. Thank you!”

Shortly, though, she started feeling ill from too much rich food, and the friendly commotion wearied her.

Unable to shake her dark mood, she wandered away from the crowd to stroll the fields where parked planes sat silently in long rows. She meandered in and around the aircraft, looking closely at wingspans, tires, and tail fins. Abe sprang to mind, how proud he had been of his shiny new pilot’s wings, and how handsome he looked in his uniform. Now, all she had left of him were the letters tucked away in a pocket of her duffel bag and the pilot’s ring waiting for her at home. Her thoughts went out to his parents, who had lost their only son and a possible passel of redheaded grandchildren, had the war not intervened.

She peeked through an open warehouse door. The thousands, perhaps tens of thousands, of boxes of food and supplies stacked from floor to ceiling amazed her. What she would have given for one of those boxes just ten days ago! Hearing her name called, she spun around.

“Long time, no see,” Evelyn said, striding toward her with outstretched arms.

Margie shook her head in confusion, but she couldn’t mistake those cornflower blue eyes as belonging to anyone other than her old roommate. Crossing her arms protectively across her chest, Margie took a step back. “What are
you
doing here?”

Evelyn stopped short, dropping her arms to her sides. “I’m stationed here. I went back to school and retrained. I’m a flight nurse now.” She touched the gold flight nurses’ wings pinned to her uniform collar.