Mom was 11 when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, and 14 when the war ended. She remembers with the bravado of a child her outrage that she had to stop school, the novelty of watching planes dogfight in the sky, and jumping into bancas and hiding offshore with her older sister when Japanese soldiers came to their home.
One uncle survived the Bataan Death March. Two young cousins were arrested on suspicion of aiding the Americans, imprisoned and never heard from again. Mom’s own father fell ill and died before peace returned. But of all of her wartime memories, this stands out.
Mom’s uncle Jose Paez was minister of public works in the Philippines when war broke out. The Japanese kept him and his family under house arrest in Baguio, the summer capital of the Philippines. Throughout the war, they were kept under guard there. They were careful to show only the utmost respect in their daily dealings with Korean and Japanese soldiers, bowing low at every meeting. My grandmother sent baskets of food and supplies, praying there would be something left for her loved ones after soldiers and other profiteers took their share.
There was never enough food, and certainly no medical care, but they were together and that was enough.
The Americans gained the upper hand in the Pacific Theater in January 1945, and my great-uncle and his family allowed themselves to hope. Bombings and dogfights became regular occurrences, and the building they lived in stood pockmarked with bullet holes. Their captors grew more restless.
One afternoon, the highest-ranking Japanese officer in the compound approached my great-uncle and told him that he had been ordered to retreat. But before doing that, he had also been ordered to kill all his captives. The officer thought it was perhaps a good time to trek down the mountain. The officer would look the other way if they somehow disappeared during the night.
So my great-uncle and his clan quietly gathered their belongings, and waited for dark.
Before dawn, they carefully slipped away into the shadows, petrified their captors would give chase: a group of mostly women and children, walking through thick forests and steep cliffs, traversing creeks and keeping an eye out for enemy soldiers, eating roots and climbing and descending what seemed an endless line of mountains down to the city, where already the Americans had declared it was “peacetime.”
Mom says the group was exhausted, bedraggled and hungry when they arrived at her aunt’s home. There were tears and hugs and much catching up. She says she doesn’t remember the name of that one merciful officer who spared the lives of so many. But neither does she forget what he did. And this week, when we remember our heroes, I recall that officer’s act as well.
— Anissa Rivera can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org