The peaceful Sinicaran hills and Mount Mayon of our small village were profoundly affected by the arrival of Japanese soldiers. Their presence disrupted our once tranquil environment, as their laughter and conversations echoed through the area. The neighboring town of San Juan, where we used to enjoy purchasing beautiful items with our hard-earned money, was no longer the same under Japanese control. Gunshots now filled its streets and opportunities for acquiring pretty things disappeared. In preparation for their arrival, we stayed confined within our homes, cautiously observing them through our windows. As they approached us, anxiety filled our hearts because their loudness and smiles instilled great fear within us.
We had no place to go. Some townspeople went to the hills. Our family's nippa house was located
...at the intersection of the trails, small and sturdy. The soldiers marched up that trail after leaving a parked Graham car where the chapel used to stand. Regrettably, a typhoon destroyed the chapel last month, resulting in the bell falling without any damage. Reconstruction began when the Japanese arrived. Numerous people were frightened and we heard various rumors regarding it. Continuing inland, the trail passed by the dry creek where the village schoolhouse was situated.
The corn fields and coconut trees now line both sides of the muddy trail. In our backyard, we have kilns for drying copra and piles of firewood from the Lafonte forests. My older brother Cario was well-acquainted with that forest. I helped him gather firewood and he showed no fear in the darkness. "Selmo," he would mock, "you have a timid heart and the memory of a turtle." As
I watched enemy soldiers pass under the sheds that stretched across our western backyard, I wondered where my brave, older brother was.
Formerly, on market days, these sheds were filled with products from town including many colored print cotton, threads, dried fish, rice cakes, toys, and black magic. Vendors would shout their wares and demonstrate the use of medicines and oils, creating a lively atmosphere where everyone smiled and nobody was afraid. Now, the Japanese soldiers stand under the empty sheds, smoking and talking loudly.
Smoke emerged from the crater of Mount Mayon as some people watched from a distance, while others cleaned mud off their boots with bayonets. Standing by the door, my father's white hair glowed in the sunlight. Inside our house's altar room, my mother knelt before an image of Santa Rosa. They got married last November during San Juan's feast day. Next to my father at the doorway, I observed how his hair was illuminated by the sunlight and saw his lips move silently. My thoughts couldn't help but focus on my brother Cario, who had extensive knowledge of Lafonte's forests. We didn't know where he was, and both Father and Mother were deeply saddened by this.
My father encountered a Japanese soldier carrying a long sword. The soldier conversed with my father in the local dialect, which surprised me. It was astonishing how much he resembled the Japanese acquaintances we knew from when Father would bring us to see movies in the provincial capital. Despite this similarity, Father remained stern and silent as the soldier praised the peacefulness of San Juan and the pleasantness of the afternoon,
highlighting Japan's triumph. The soldier claimed they were friends, but Father did not respond warmly or with kind words.
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