When the Elephants Dance Read Free

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.”
    “Why would I do that? I’m not stupid.” Roderick glares at me.
    “Roderick,” I say. I look toward the soldiers. My feet refuse to go farther.
    “Come, come.” A Japanese soldier waves to us. His palm faces downward, as if he were swatting a fly.
    I nudge Roderick forward and he shoves back at me.
    “Nem,” the man barks at Roderick.
    “Roderick Karangalan,” my brother answers.
    “You.” The man points at me.
    I stare for a moment at the accusing finger. “Alejandro Karangalan.”
    “Where go? You have guerrilla friends?”
    I shake my head.
    “You deliver something? That. What that?” He motions to our basket. I place the cigarettes on a folding table.
    The soldier stabs a pack with his bayonet and opens it. “You send message in here?” He squints at Roderick. “Ha?”
    “No,” Roderick answers. His eyes are fixed on the man’s shirt.
    “You, where is message?”
    “No message,” I answer.
    The soldier slaps me on the head. I grit my teeth and stand still. My eyes water, and it angers me. From behind the soldier a Filipino approaches, a Makapili. He does not wear a mask, as the others. He is thin, with long hair that smells of old pomade. He stands before us, folds his arms, and smiles. He pushes the boxes aside, inspecting the different brands that I have collected. The Makapili picks one, opens the package, and places a cigarette in his mouth. I count two ruined boxes.
    Roderick lifts his head sharply and stares at the man. I can see the small muscles of his jaw.
    “Ikáw,”
the man says to Roderick. You. “Who do you think you are, staring at me like that? Come with me.”
    He reaches for Rod, but I put a hand on my brother’s shoulder. “I am the eldest.”
    The man snorts and lights a match, watching me. “You know the name Domingo Matapang?”
    “No,” I answer.
    “He is a guerrilla leader. You know him.” The man nods.
    I shake my head. “I do not know that name.”
    “He is this tall. Is he not?” The man raises his hand higher than his own head. “What does he look like? Tell me, and I will instruct them to let you go.”
    “I do not know this man. How can I tell you what he looks like?”
    “He lives north of here, in Bulacan.” The Makapili points downward insistently. “You are from Bulacan.”
    “Quiapo,” I lie, holding his gaze.
    The Makapili blows a stream of smoke into my eyes. “How could you not know him? Suddenly everyone here is a stranger? No one knows anyone? Where does he hide?” The Makapili blows smoke upward and glances at Roderick, then back to me.
    “I do not know this man.” My throat tightens and my voice sounds weak.
    “Liar.” He puts his face close to mine. His teeth are yellow. “Liar,” he says again, and slaps me harder than the Japanese did.
    I taste blood inside my mouth. It streams down to my shirt. I bring