UNDER THE MANGO TREE

Returning heroes

"But that's not always true. You remember our discussion last weekend?'' I said.

"Oh , yes, I have not forgotten. Still, you have not had to live through our poverty and pain. You have never had that in America.''

How could I argue? I knew of no pain first- hand. I never saw anyone starving. Through the desperate thirties there was always food on our table and ample clothes to wear and a snug apartment to sleep in . Although my father had lost the wealth gained during his most vigorous years, and he had lost his daring and capacity to dream for the rest of his life, he never lost his belief in America. In its worst times the nation somehow provided opportunity for survival.

When the meal was over, Anita handed me sleeping mat, which I unrolled on the floor beside those of my hosts. It was too hot to be out in the high sun of the early afternoon. What could be more sensible than to have a cool siesta? In two hours Anita awakened me from a soft sleep. Lucio had returned to the field, her mother was elsewhere, and her grandmother squatted quietly in a corner weaving a mat.'' my father has asked me to show you the mango tree,'' she said.'' will you come with me, please?''

We walked down the path to the highway, at first side by side, but soon she fell behind.'' Am I going too fast for you?''

"No, no,'' she giggled in amusement.'' It's the custom in Lubao that I walk behind.''

Since the concrete highway blistering, we walked along the narrow dirt shoulder, which was less hot but still burned through the soles of my GI boots. Anita, barefoot as usual, didn't seem to mind. Nor, in her white dress and wide brimmed woven hat, did she seem bothered by the afternoon sun beating down on us, while I perspire heavily and had to stop to rest now and then under a tree. Although several passing ten wheel army trucks offered us a lift, she refused them. Grudgingly I submitted to her dish. " we have only a few miles,'' she said, a promise of small comfort. Soon we passed by the grand white stucco hacienda, a stark contrast to Anita's house. 

"So this is where the rich landowners live,'' I said.

"Oh , but they are no longer rich, Hal. They have the land , but that is all. The Japanese took all the crops. The land is of little use without seed. And the Japanese removed all their possessions, leaving the house bare. They are mestizos and very proud, but the Japanese took that away too. A commander occupied the hacienda and humiliated the family, making them his servants. He hoped that by doing this, the rest of us would be pleased and that we would cooperate with him''.

"And weren't the people happy to see the selfish landowner get what he deserved?''

"Oh , on, the  Santoses are good people; they are always very kind. When we have malaria, they bring us quinine. When a typhoon ruins our crops, they give us rice to eat and new seed for the next planting. The Japanese commander had mistaken how we would feel. We knew he was cruel''.

At last we reached our destination, the small solitary thatched house on stilts beside the sluggish stream that I had observed on our first trip along the highway. We climbed the ladder to the house and entered its cool, dim interior, where I saw a mostly naked old man seated on the floor.'' This is my grandfather,'' said Anita as she uncovered a basket of fruit, vegetables, and rice that she had brought for him.

He reached for my outstretched right hand with his left; his other arm hung limp by his side. "combust ka,'' he said in a clear, high voice.

''Combust,'' I said , returning the greeting. He then spoken to Anita in dialect, pointing to a small woven box beside his hearth, which she retrieved for him . From it he removed a GI dog tag, which he held suspended for me to see.

"It is an American soldier's necklace,'' said Anita.

" May I look at it closely?'' I asked, astonished that he would have such a thing. The dog tag bore the name Roger B. Anderson and his serial number and blood type.'' where did your grandfather get this, Anita?''

"From Lieutenant Anderson,'' she replied plainly.

" I don't understand. GIs don't give away their dog tags.''

"Let us sit and I shall tell you about Lieutenant Anderson.'' She peeled a banana for her grandfather, and handed me one with dark green skin.'' It is quite ripe even though it is green,'' she said. It was, and tasted sweeter than any I had ever eaten. " He is there under my grandfather's mango tree''. I followed her gaze through the doorway. Symmetrical and spreading, a low tree stood between the house and the stream, creating a cool, grassy oasis beneath its graceful branches.

Baffled by her indirection, I tried to deduce her meaning.'' Buried? In a grave? Under the tree?''

Anita's grandfather, having sense my sudden comprehension , broke into excited dialect, and struggled to rise. '' My grandfather says that you may keep the necklace,'' said Anita. She addressed him sternly and he sat down again.'' my grandfather's bones give him much pain. They never healed correctly after the Japanese broke them. He should stay with us in the barrio, but he refuses. My grandfather is a stubborn man''. Later I learned that Anita made the trip to her grandfather's house several days a wee to Bering him food and often to stay and cook for him. I could sense an unspoken bond between them, a mutual appreciation. Anita once confessed that she felt much closer to her grandfather than to her own father. The old and young are on common ground: Both are concerned only with the fresh simplicities of life, the very business of begin alive.

Anita began her story: ''The Japanese marched hundreds of American prisoners through Pampanga from Bataan, giving them no food or water, and whipping them when they fell behind. They made them walk on the hot concrete so that they left bloody footprints from their scorched and wounded feet''. I winced, recalling my recent distress walking under the sun , even along the cooler shoulder of the highway. Anita spoke with a chilling earnestness, as if she were describing a scene in progress, making no comment, stating only facts.'' some were already weakened from wounds in the battle on Bataan and could not keep up. Lieutenant Anderson was one of these. When the men fell and did not rise after being kicked and beaten, they were shot, and their bodies were collected on a wagon pulled by Carabao that followed the marchers. Lieutenant Anderson was shot there at the edge of the road''. She stared out at the glaring white concrete.'' But my grandfather and grandmother saw him; he was still alive. So before the wagon passed they dragged him from the road and hid him under the trees by  the stream in the field behind the house. They nursed his wounds for many weeks.'' She interrupted her account to consult with her grandfather in dialect.'' Yes, my grandfather says it was more than a month before the American opened his eyes and spoke.''

"Did you meet him?'' I asked.

"Much later in the barrio,'' she said , ''but I was only a child.'' I had failed to realize immediately that she had become a woman in the intervening four years.

"It's was very dangerous for grandparents. The Japanese often warned us not to help the Americano or we would be shot. When the monsoon came and the land was covered with water, Lieutenant  Anderson was moved to Reverend Mr. Coram's house in Lubao. But soon the Japanese returned to search for the Americano, but he would admit nothing. They broke his limbs and he passed out from the pain.'' Tears welled up in her eyes at the thought of his suffering.'' Then they took him and my grandmother  to the barrio where all the people were gathered and they showed what they did to my grandfather and they threatened to kill us one by one until we gave them the Americano. My father and Reverend Mr. Corum replied to the Japanese commander that killing us would be useless.'' she faltered; the words came hard. "The commander ordered a soldier to stand my Nancy by the wall of the church''. With tear streaked cheeks , she went on .''And he shot her. Oh, I loved my Nancy so very much''. She had to stop, and her grandfather reached for her with his one good arm and took her into it and comforted her with the soft words of his dialect as he, too, cried.

                                                                         THE END😊💐💐💐💐💐💐💐