Before the month of February ends, which is the anniversary month of the liberation of Manila by American forces, I would like to write about the deaths of two of my uncles and the narrow escape of my aunt and her 7-year-old son from the Japanese in the battle for Intramuros.
We lived on an idyllic island in the middle of fishponds in Malabon, but an uncle had a shoe store on Calle Real in Intramuros. It was called Real Shoe Store and was one of the most popular shoe stores there during the Japanese occupation. The store sold made-to-order shoes and boots to Japanese officers.
Workers made the shoes at the back of the store. The second floor was the living quarters for my aunt (the younger sister of my mother), her husband and their young son, and her brother who was crippled by polio.
My eldest sister used to take me there on some Sundays, and I liked it very much because on the way there we passed through the Mehan Gardens which had a zoo with many animals.
After the Americans landed in Leyte and later in Lingayen, and as the battle for the liberation of the Philippines raged closer to Manila, we were advised to evacuate to the provinces as many other families had already done. My aunt and uncles, however, refused to leave. Business was good, the war was still far away and they wanted to earn as much as they could before the battle reached them. That was a big mistake.
The three youngest children in the family, I and two brothers, were told to evacuate with the family of my oldest brother, his father-in-law and mother-in-law, and the families of three brothers-in-law.
We set out on foot with two pushcarts piled high with our belongings. It was like an outing for us children. We were bound for a farm in Pangasinan, and it was estimated that it would take us at least a week of walking to get there.
We cooked our food at the side of the highway and slept either on the ground or in some of the abandoned huts near the road. We bought what we could from markets along the way.
My eldest sister and older brother and my grandfather were left in our house in Malabon. My father and his new family were living in an apartment on Lepanto Street, Sampaloc, Manila. Meanwhile in Intramuros, my aunt and uncles were blissfully unaware of the coming holocaust. They were too busy raking in Mickey Mouse money from the Japanese.
At Barrio Agoso in Tarlac, two American bombers, Liberators, swooped very, very low. We thought they were going to land. But they only dropped leaflets. They said that American forces had landed in Lingayen and were fighting their way to Manila, and advised Filipinos to stay away from the highway and move inland so they would not get caught in the crossfire.
We were in a quandary. If we continued on to Pangasinan, we would meet the American troops and we probably would get killed in the crossfire between the American and the Japanese forces. The barrio folk in Agoso knew that, too, and kindly invited us to go with them across the wide river to a barrio on the other side.
We accepted the offer, and that same afternoon there was a mass evacuation from Agoso to the other barrios on the other side: San Jose, Sta. Maria and Sto. Niño.
The barrio folk piled their belongings into their carabao-drawn carts and led the trek across the river. The river was very wide, but it was summer and there was only a stream flowing in the middle, and pools of water were scattered here and there. The rest was white sand that became so hot in the middle of the day you could not walk barefoot on it. Luckily, the sun was on the way down and we could walk behind the carts.
We led an idyllic life there until Manila was liberated and we went back home.
My relatives in Intramuros, however, went through hell. As the sound of the big guns came closer, they decided to leave. But it was too late. All the bridges across the Pasig had been blown up. They could not go south because there was fighting there.
So they went back to Calle Real. One day, Japanese soldiers went from door to door and told the residents to gather in a church. The men were separated from the women and children.
The men, including my two uncles, were taken to Fort Santiago, but the women and children were taken to a church. They stayed there while the battle raged nearer and nearer. Shrapnel from exploding artillery tore through the roof and windows, but the church remained standing. The people inside took shelter under the pews and even behind the altar. My aunt put a basin on the head of her son as if that would protect him from shrapnel. It turned out, a very small piece tore through the basin and wounded him in the forehead.
When—from the sounds of battle—they knew there was already house-to-house fighting, the church doors opened and there stood several Japanese soldiers. They poured gasoline inside the church, and one Japanese then threw in two incendiary grenades.
Fire raged and everybody thought they were going to die. Luckily, the doors were left open by the Japanese hurrying to get away. So many of the refugees were able to rush through the fire and escape. My aunt, now almost 100 years old, is still alive to tell us the story of their harrowing escape.
My two uncles were not as lucky, however. Their deaths were told by the few who were able to get away.
They were packed into a cell in Fort Santiago. Some of them began chipping off the adobe roof of the cell. In time, they were able to punch a hole, just big enough for a body to push through. Just then, Japanese soldiers poured gasoline into the cell and lighted it. There was pandemonium as everybody rushed to the escape hole.
One uncle, the husband of my aunt, was already out, but my other uncle, the cripple, called out to him for help. So he went back although the fire was already licking at him. The two of them, and many other prisoners, never got out.