Even though his father had been imprisoned, his family had remained relatively insulated from the worst that the Japanese had to offer. From time to time, an officer and a couple of soldiers appeared at their door, politely asking the names of all who lived there, including their two servants. Roddy hadn’t felt much fear or anger toward the Japanese, but really just boyish curiosity, being more interested in the rifles that the soldiers carried and the pistol on the officer’s hip. Any boy found weapons fascinating. The Japanese had been polite rather than threatening. The Japanese soldiers had never given them any trouble after his mother provided that information, made courteous apologies, and quickly left.
But times hadn’t always been easy, and they had steadily gotten worse. They were sometimes allowed to visit their father at the university compound, and Roddy recalled how his father had asked his mother what had become of her diamond stud earrings.
“My earrings?” she’d said vaguely, touching her bare ears as if in surprise, when they all knew very well that she never went anywhere without them.
“The ones I bought for you in Brisbane before the war,” he’d said, looking at her with sad eyes, as if he had already guessed the truth.
Tearfully, his mother had admitted that she had traded them for a two-pound can of dried milk. Roddy hadn’t had any idea that the food he and his brothers were eating had been so dearly bought. Years later, Roddy would wonder what else his mother had given up to provide for and shelter her family. One by one, their family heirlooms and the pretty objects his mother had collected had quietly disappeared.
More than once, his mother had pointed out that they were lucky because they still had at least some money. Anyone with money in American banks — the Philippines was a US territory, after all — had no access to their saving because the banks had been closed, their assets possibly gone forever. However, their family connections had meant that his father had ended up keeping their money in a Filipino bank managed by one of his mother’s distant relatives. There just hadn’t been much of it, considering that his father had been unable to conduct any business after the Japanese arrived.
Despite the fact that his mother did what she could to insulate her children from the realities of war, the threat of the Japanese was always there, and sometimes Roddy had tempted fate. There was nothing playful about the Japanese, and their patience with gaijin children went only so far.
He recalled seeing a truckload of American and Australian POWs stopping in his neighborhood on its way through the city. This in itself was unusual, but it was a hint that Allied forces must be slowly closing in on Manila, if there were now new prisoners being taken or old ones being moved out of the way of advancing forces.
One of Roddy’s pretty young neighbors had passed by, a Filipino girl in her late teens or early twenties, and one of the Australians had tipped his hat to her in a gallant gesture. The Japanese had responded by using a rifle butt to knock him unconscious. Roddy and his friends did their best not to react, because the Japanese guards were watching them and would have beaten them if they showed any sympathy for the poor prisoner.
Another time, he and his friends had been playing spy by lingering outside the local Japanese headquarters and keeping track of how many vehicles came and went, writing down the numbers in a little notebook. The information didn’t have any point or use. The boys were just playing at being spies, but if they’d been caught gathering that information, the Japanese surely would have killed them without mercy.
One of the stranger things that the Japanese had done was to seize every toy pistol that they could find. Playing cowboys and Indians was a favorite game, and a toy six-shooter was a boy’s prized possession. It turned out that the toy guns had also become popular with Filipino guerrillas and even thugs, who used them against unsuspecting Japanese soldiers who couldn’t tell the difference between a toy gun and the real thing. Owning a toy gun became a very serious crime.
Roddy had come to realize that there was nobody prouder than a Japanese soldier, men who considered themselves superior to any of the civilians. They had been pumped up by their own propaganda. They certainly didn’t look superior to Roddy, especially compared to his tall father. The Japanese were short, often bowlegged, and many wore thick eyeglasses. But they were the ones with the guns, which was all that it took to make them superior.
In the distance, he heard a Japanese shout, which made his mind snap back to the present. He had better pay attention if he wanted to help his father and not get caught.
Working around toward the rear of the legislative building, he found himself in a kind of alley at the back of the structure. The alley was now choked with debris, including chunks of stone and broken tree limbs, from the various bombardments that Intramuros had already suffered. There were long rows of trash cans and piled boxes, indicating that the alley would have been used by the service staff who came and went through the back rather than the formal front entrance, or for taking deliveries.
On the other side of the alley stood a stone wall and beyond that another tall building, creating a kind of manmade canyon. The only way in or out was at the ends of the alley. It was a promising way into the building, and as far as Roddy could tell, it wasn’t guarded. He felt his spirits soar at his good luck, wondering if he had so easily found a way into the building, but he stayed cautious, creeping forward.
His hopes were soon dashed. Peering above a chunk of stone, he spotted the Japanese patrol moving toward him. He counted a dozen of them, all with rifles, looking this way and that. Apparently they had recognized the alley as a weak point and were on the lookout for any interlopers.
With a start, Roddy recognized their leader as the sergeant who had been at the university when the hostages were brought out — his father among them. Instinctively, he knew that this man was trouble. He had a cruel hatchet-like face with a perpetually angry expression.
There was no way that Roddy could avoid the Japanese patrol if he stayed where he was. He looked around for someplace to hide, where he might be able to tuck himself into the rubble, but unless he could shrink himself to the size of a mouse, he was out of luck. He looked again at the Japanese. They were close enough now that if he made a run for it, they might spot him. What should he do? He ducked down again, trying to make up his mind, feeling his heart hammering. He wished that he was older, bigger, stronger, and that he had a rifle like the GIs. He thought of the lieutenant with his shotgun and that soldier with the scar — either one of them could have licked these Japs in a minute.
But Roddy had only himself.
What would his father do in this situation? His father would fight back, that was what.
Roddy remembered one time when he had gotten into a fight with an older boy who had been picking on one of his friends. He had come home with a torn shirt and a bloody nose, having gotten the worst end of things. But the older boy had gotten the message that Roddy and his friends weren’t worth picking on. He had fully expected to get in trouble for fighting. His tall, red-haired father had towered over him, scowling down at Roddy.
Tears of anger and frustration that he’d held back in the wake of the actual fight had found their way out when recounting events. Roddy had wiped the tears away using the back of a hand with scraped knuckles from an ill-timed punch that had managed to hit a patch of gravel instead of the bully’s face when Roddy had briefly gotten the upper hand as the boys grappled on the ground.