Blood on the Rising Sun

A Factual Story of the Japanese Invasion of the Philippines

Adalia Marquez

• Éditeur: Eschenburg Press
• Année: 2017
• ISBN:
  9781787207264
• Sujet: History
• Sous-sujet: Military & Maritime History

The Truth about the Philippine Rape by a member of General MacArthur's U.S. Counter-Intelligence Staff—Adalia MarquezBLOOD ON THE RISING SUN is a true story of life in Manila under Japanese occupation and, later, during the American liberation. There have been many tales told about guerrilla activities and underground operations in the Philippines but in almost all of them the chief protagonists are Americans. BLOOD ON THE RISING SUN is the story of the fights against the Japanese waged by a Filipino woman, her husband, and their friends and presents an aspect of the Philippine resistance that has never yet been told.Adalia's account of life in the prison hellhole of Fort Santiago describes the terrible privations and tortures the inmates were forced to undergo. Later on Adalia worked for the American Counter-Intelligence Corps and helped pin authenticated collaboration charges on many Manilans who had sold out to the enemy. While carrying on this task she received numerous threats against her life and the lives of her children.On the Philippines was staged the Bataan Death March, as well as the crucial landings on the Island of Leyte. Many who will read the story of those two unforgettable episodes of the War of the Pacific will feel deeply grateful to Adalia, her husband Tony, and the hundreds of other brave Filipinos who sacrificed all for freedom.BLOOD ON THE RISING SUN is not a book of light fiction. The truth asserts itself and here in this book Adalia Marquez writers with eloquence and simplicity, which go direct to the human heart.

XIII

IN THE latter part of April the enemy must have been celebrating some real or imagined victory. The women from cell four were allowed to go to the bath. I took advantage of the opportunity to run there, as I had not been able to talk to any of the inmates from that cell yet. Besides, I was going home, and maybe those I knew would be sending messages to their families. I saw Mrs. Mary Boyd Stagg and Mrs. Brush, wife of an American missionary. They had no messages. Mrs. Perez, however, wished me to tell her children to eat well and not economize on their food. There was plenty of canned goods stored in her home.

Fearful of being suspected, I hurried back to my bed. When I arrived, there was a Philippine-educated Jap waiting for me. I accompanied him to the investigation office.

These later investigations were not hard, but they were tedious. I was asked about the women with whom Bautista had gone. This was a difficult list to produce as I had never known of any for there were none, I evaded a direct answer by saying that he had never admitted the names of any to me, but that I had heard he patronized women who were not of the respectable class. Then, to my surprise, the Japanese named the “house mesdames” one by one! He was not very insistent on knowing more about Tony’s girlfriends. I asked him if he had been a newspaper reporter; was that how he knew these houses that were so well protected? I knew it was subtle flattery to “mistake” any Jap for a journalist. He immediately tried to impress me with the fact that he was a man-about-town. He asked if I knew such and such a young man.

“Of course I do,” I said, “He is very rich, the son of one of our country’s outstanding leaders. He entertains a lot; he wears the latest clothes; and there is no girl he is not able to get.”

Puzzled, he asked, “How do you know all this?”

“My husband used to tell me about him—his ideal of a young man.” I had wanted to be consistent in the description I had given the Japs of Tony’s frivolity. The truth is, he was the talk of Manila.

My investigator supplemented what I said about this social figure, naming all the women connected with the man, all of them “top girls” of our city. I must have gasped very realistically, as he nodded with great satisfaction. And thus Tony’s women were forgotten altogether. Suddenly my questioner looked at his watch, saying that he had over-investigated me.

When the children and I returned and settled down in our places in the patio, Nakata brought some nursery rhymes and Mother Goose books in English. He said the Major sent them for the children. As my babies asked questions loudly and excitedly, not being able to read yet, we attracted the attention of the guards. They were supposed to be sleeping, but all came and looked at the books themselves, especially the pictures, since they could not read English. I spent the whole night reading aloud, explaining each picture as we went along. The most popular one was “The Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe.” The guards were very much amused at the number of children the woman had. To these simple-minded folks these were real-life stories, and they kept repeating that they did not know American women could have so many children. When it was early morning the guards, growing sleepy themselves, decided to let me go to bed.

The prisoners were let out that morning for a short shower; it meant that Uncle Sam was taking another beating. While it was refreshing for the prisoners to have their bodies wet, even superficially, yet it meant a breakdown of spirit if we did not have faith in MacArthur’s promise to return.

As the prisoners rushed into the patio and I did not wish to intrude upon their privacy, I took the children down by the gate, leaving the nursery books on some lumber in the patio. The chief of the guards loaned me a chair and I sat beside the guardhouse with the children. I noticed the prisoners were swarming around the books, looking at them avidly. Doctors, lawyers, justices, professors, scholars—all reading Mother Goose books. They were reminded of home, for these were not Japanese books, they were American. And right here the Allies triumphed again. These American books, childish though they were, were being read in prison in preference to the Jap-controlled Tribune pasted on the guardhouse wall. This was the most touching of all my prison experiences.

I was not seated near the guardhouse long before Nakata appeared, to conduct me to the next investigation. The investigator was Namiki. He told me he was thinking of sending me home. This day completed a one week’s stay in prison and I had already grown weary. In the beginning I was weakened by successive investigations and lack of food. Now I was worn out from anxiety over their promise to send me home. I did not take what Namiki said very seriously, although I kept on bowing all the time he talked. “Now,” he said, “write down what you think would be the most logical steps your husband would take after he escaped and up to this hour. You will go home after this report is submitted,” he promised.

I thereupon started this comic strip:

“As soon as Tony escaped Fort Santiago (which up to now I think is impossible, as no one can escape the Japanese Military Police), he hid under the large bridges, taking shelter there as no one frequents those places. He would stay there until he was very hungry. Then he would look for something to eat. The first place he would think of would be his home. He would come home to see me and ask me for money.

“If he found that he could not elude the Japanese Military Police, as they have a very efficient Intelligence system, he would try to commit suicide. But most likely he has drowned in the river, from fatigue and hunger.”

I then submitted this “report” to Fujiwara, to be interpreted to Namiki. As soon as Fujiwara read it, he inhaled through his teeth and said, “Very good!” This gave me a little hope. I was sent back to the patio with Fujiwara escorting me. I felt freer with this interpreter than with any other enemy in the place. I asked him, “Are they really going to send me home? Or is this just another of Fort Santiago’s tricks?”

“You must not really worry, Lieutenant Namiki still likes you. We are trying to do all we can to help you. We must submit everything on your case to the Major, and the Major will decide if you shall go home. That is, of course, unless your girlfriend finds out our scheme and tells the Colonel to stop it.”

I dared not comment.

As we were walking very slowly, I saw the figure of a man that looked like Jose V. Bagtas, the man who had been taking care of my boy Marquesito. I could imagine nothing worse than this—Bagtas taken because of harboring a “wanted boy.” I trembled all over, but since I wanted to take advantage of Fujiwara’s friendliness, I had to take hold of myself and ask him several things.

“Is that not Jose Bagtas?”

“Yes. He has been questioned several times. Your son is all right,” he said softly, “we don’t have him in prison and I hope we don’t take him.”

I kept silent. I learned to suspect every word of the Japanese, however nice they appeared to be. Again in my helplessness, my only resort was to pray that the Lord would keep Tony and Marquesito safe. I returned to my place dejected. Fujiwara must have noticed it, as after lunch he returned and informed me that he thought I had passed the examination; that the Major thought my paper was satisfactory. I did not care about home any more, I was more concerned over Marquesito now. It seems as though if one got relief in one way, there would be something else to suffer for. If I were released now, Marquesito would enter. So it would be better that we stayed in prison.

The prisoners were again let out in the afternoon to continue the day’s “victory over the allies” celebration. This time cell fifteen was opened and when the prisoners came out we were already seated in front of the gate of the enclosure. Jackie recognized his godfather, Jose B. L. Reyes, and called “Ninong” (Tagalog for godfather).

Reyes had barely washed himself when a Jap from the office singled him out and led him to a room by the guards’ lavatory. I heard part of the interrogation, as I pretended the children had to go to the lavatory. Reyes was questioned about Tony’s girlfriends. He answered that men did not make it their business to find out who was the other man’s girl. That was not talked about at all.

On our way back from the lavatory, the Jap interrogating Reyes called to Jackie and I did not lose the opportunity to see Reyes close at hand. I followed the child. The interrogator and Reyes were already laughing and I took it for granted that the investigation was in good humor.

“Who is this man, Jackie?” the Jap questioned.

“My ninong,” he answered, innocently.

Reyes and I exchanged glances, but dared not speak to one another. Yet that quick exchange meant so much! Here was someone who was very close to Tony, it was almost like having Tony there with me; and to Reyes, there I was, the wife of his friend, his companion in the fight for an ideal.

I spent the balance of the day sadly. I sat on my bed and tried not to worry about Marquesito, but that was impossible. After dinner was over and I had put the children to bed, Nakata came to our quarters. He invited me to sit at the guards’ table and there he questioned me about Tony’s moods.

“His disposition is very morose,” I told him slowly. “He even tried to commit suicide once when we had a quarrel about his girlfriends.”

Nakata wrote this down. I did not wish him to ask any more questions, so I talked to him about his classic Tagalog, which not every educated Filipino knew. He puffed up and admitted he was the best in that language.

“Are there many Military Police taking lessons in Tagalog?”

Yes, it was compulsory, he said. The Military Police were supposed to study both Tagalog and English. This made me feel rather contented, as now I was certain the Japs really did not know Spanish and that we could very well use it when we wanted to say things to the prisoners. In fact, Spanish became our “underground language” in prison, and messages were communicated for the most part by way of the children.

So, the evening wore on. Nakata went to his barracks at midnight. I slept until morning.

It was now April 22, 1944, my eighth day in prison. After breakfast Nakata conducted me to the office. I was really afraid for Marquesito, but the questions did not even touch upon him.

“Sit down,” Nakata began, as nicely as he could. “Now, tell me why you think that Bautista would go home to your house.”

This was easy. “Because he has nowhere else to go. He would be hungry.”

“After that, what do you think he would do?”

“He would look for me to ask me for some money, so he could go away. Or maybe, ask me to hide him in the house.”

It was a fortunate answer, for Nakata immediately put away his notes and brought out peanuts. We again talked of everything except my case. After a long conversation he took me back to my cell.

I did not know what to make of this interview, it seemed so senseless. I sat by the guardhouse where I could see everything that went on in prison for my curiosity had not died out, I found. Then, as the heavy double door that led to the outside opened, I saw Namiki. He came near and said, “At seven tonight be ready to go home. I shall come and get you.” I smiled and he asked, “Happy?”

“Yes, sir,” I answered. When he left I was almost delirious over the news. This meant freedom. Breathing fresh air. No more tortuous investigations. An end to the rigid discipline of Fort Santiago. Above all, I could see Marquesito. I rushed to the bed and shouted to the children in Spanish that we were really going home at seven. Wada was pacing the guard and I told him the same thing in Tagalog. I was not supposed to tell anyone, but this was a guard. I felt it would make the hearts of the other prisoners glad to know of my release. Such was the spirit that predominated in those cells; everyone was happy whenever someone was released.

Seven o’clock came. Tengko was over, but no Namiki appeared. The prisoners in cells fifteen and sixteen coughed their anxiety about me, but I said aloud in Spanish to the children, “We will give the Japanese more time. After all, they are not as punctual as Filipinos, and even Filipinos have a touch of ‘manana.’” There were little titters of laughter from the cells. Then everything was quiet again. I could not sleep. This, definitely, was mental torture!

It was one o’clock in the morning when I heard the door open. The messenger came to my bed at once. “Bautista, or, or—” he said. “Lieutenant Namiki is waiting for you outside in a car.”

I straightened up, swelled my chest, and said, “I am going home in style, am I not?”

“It is true,” he answered.

He then hoisted Jackie onto his back, took Throbbie in his arms, while I took my “or, or” and limpingly followed him. We got to the car. I thanked Namiki for releasing me and he said, “You are welcome.” I kept on chatting with him. I was no longer a prisoner, nor a “hostage.” The car was the same one that had picked us up, the same driver, Nakata sat in front, with the driver. I was happy over the mere thought of going home, not asking myself why all this secrecy, this midnight release.

But we were home at last. The two girls, (our protégés, Nita and Eve) were expecting us. Nita caught up Throbbie, while Eve took Jackie. Both girls were crying. Namiki and Nakata watched us embrace.

“She is here; now, you believe us?” Nakata asked.

“Yes. In fact, we did not go to sleep after you called up at eleven,” answered Nita.

Namiki yelled. I was taken aback with his familiarity. Then, to my surprise, I saw a very tall Japanese walk out of my bedroom. He was followed by another almost as tall, and a smaller one, older than the first two. I wondered what had been going on in my house during my absence.

“How do you do,” said the tall one, in perfect American-English.

“I am certainly pleased to meet you,” I answered. For what else could I say under the circumstances! What were these men doing here? Was this the kind of release they were giving me—the kind that would keep me under guard?

“My name is Hasiguchi, and this is Mr. Kaihachu, our chief, and Mr. Kobadera,” pointing to the elderly man. “We have sort of invaded your room and the beds are very comfortable.”

I smiled. Then Namiki said I could get a change of clothing, as I had worn the same clothes for over a week. I entered my bedroom which the three “guests” were occupying. Jackie and Throbbie raced in to jo...

Table des matières

• Title page
• TABLE OF CONTENTS
• DEDICATION
• PREFACE
• I
• II
• III
• IV
• V
• VI
• VII
• VIII
• IX
• X
• XI
• XII
• XIII
• XIV
• XV
• XVI
• XVII
• XVIII
• XIX
• XX
• XXI
• XXII
• XXIII
• XXIV
• XXV
• REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER