One more story of life and death in World War II
One more story of life and death in World War II
Posted 02:25am (Mla time) Feb 18, 2005
By Neal Cruz
Inquirer News Service
Editor's Note: Published on page A14 of the February 18, 2005 issue of the Philippine Daily Inquirer
A FEW weeks ago, I visited an aunt, whom I had not seen in a long time, in the tiny one-story apartment she rents in Malabon. She lives alone there, except for a great-granddaughter in grade school she takes care of during school days (the father fetches her to spend the weekend with her parents). My aunt is 95 years old.
She is a small woman, less than five feet tall, and she has become smaller because she is now stooped with age. But she still does all the housework, cooks, cleans the house and hand-washes her laundry. She is a little hard of hearing, but she can still read, sew and knit without using eyeglasses. She is the younger sister of my mother who died at age 30, when I was just starting to go to school, leaving us six children orphans. My aunt became our surrogate mother.
It is nothing short of a miracle that she has lived to be this old because she almost died during the Battle for Manila. In fact, her husband and crippled younger brother died at Fort Santiago, within sight of the American forces on the other side of the river. She and her little son almost died at San Agustin Church, where the Japanese had herded the women and children of Intramuros and tried to kill them.
February is the anniversary of the Liberation of Manila and the massacre of residents of Intramuros and Malate by the Japanese rear guard, which is why I am writing about my aunt. Her story is as moving as those of the casualties and survivors that the Inquirer published in a series the last several days.
My aunt's name is Eugenia Villanueva-Sanchez. Her husband was Pedro Sanchez Sr., and her brother was Paquito Villanueva, who was crippled by polio. Survivors of Intramuros and Fort Santiago who came across them may remember them or their names.
The family would not have been trapped had they heeded warnings to leave Intramuros as the Americans were already coming. We had a family compound on an island in the middle of fishponds in Malabon, but we also had a shoe store in Intramuros, one of a long line of shoe stores and tailoring shops on Calle Real. Our store's name was Real Shoe Store.
My uncle Paquito was the manager, my aunt was the housekeeper, and Pedro was one of the expert shoemakers working for them. The workers made the shoes and boots at the back of the store; living quarters were on the mezzanine.
My father kept telling them to come back to Malabon but business was good in Intramuros. So many Japanese officers were ordering boots and my uncles were loath to close the store and leave all that opportunity.
When they woke up to the danger because of the more frequent air raids and the sound of artillery in the distance, it was already too late. When they tried to leave, the streets out of Intramuros were closed. Japanese sentries told them to go back. Later, they heard several loud explosions. The bridges across the Pasig River had been blown up by the Japanese.
Still later, Japanese soldiers went from door to door telling residents to come out. They were herded to the San Agustin Church. There the men were separated from the women and children. A doctor tried to protest the separation of the family members. The Japanese shot him dead.
The men were ordered to walk to Fort Santiago, while the women and children were locked inside the San Agustin Church. As the cannon blasts came closer (the American forces were already on the other side of the river and coming up from the south), the Japanese opened the church doors a little, poured gasoline in and then hurled a grenade inside. Those in front were immediately killed by the blast and fire, but my aunt and her son and others who were behind immediately dived under the church pews and were saved.
At Fort Santiago, meanwhile, the men were locked up inside the dungeons. (This information now comes from survivors of Fort Santiago.) Little by little, they were able to dig through the adobe wall to an adjoining small cell, then punched a hole through the top of the wall beside the river. The hole was only big enough for one person to squeeze through at a time. From there, it was just a short dash to the edge of the wall to the river, and then a long swim to the other side and freedom.
As the Americans came closer, the Japanese also poured gasoline into the dungeons and threw grenades. As the dungeon burned, the prisoners squeezed through the hole one by one, ran to the edge of the wall and jumped into the river. Some were too weak to swim across and drowned.
My uncle-in-law Pedro was already out when he heard my uncle Paquito calling him. Being a cripple, he couldn't reach the hole in the ceiling. Pedro went back to help him. But even had Paquito been able to get out, it was unlikely for the cripple to be able to swim to the other side. Pedro stayed with his brother-in-law up to the end. They were never able to get out. We were never able to find their remains.
Years later, the small hole was still there. When I was working in the Manila Chronicle nearby and we used to walk to Fort Santiago some afternoons, I would point it out to my fellow journalists and tell them the story of my two uncles who died there together. That hole has now been patched by workers who probably didn't know its story, no doubt because some hapless tourist might step into it and break a leg.
Meanwhile, my aunt wants to see the dungeon, San Agustin Church and Calle Real one more time before she dies, although she hopes to live to be a hundred and promises to throw a big birthday bash.
Posted 02:25am (Mla time) Feb 18, 2005
By Neal Cruz
Inquirer News Service
Editor's Note: Published on page A14 of the February 18, 2005 issue of the Philippine Daily Inquirer
A FEW weeks ago, I visited an aunt, whom I had not seen in a long time, in the tiny one-story apartment she rents in Malabon. She lives alone there, except for a great-granddaughter in grade school she takes care of during school days (the father fetches her to spend the weekend with her parents). My aunt is 95 years old.
She is a small woman, less than five feet tall, and she has become smaller because she is now stooped with age. But she still does all the housework, cooks, cleans the house and hand-washes her laundry. She is a little hard of hearing, but she can still read, sew and knit without using eyeglasses. She is the younger sister of my mother who died at age 30, when I was just starting to go to school, leaving us six children orphans. My aunt became our surrogate mother.
It is nothing short of a miracle that she has lived to be this old because she almost died during the Battle for Manila. In fact, her husband and crippled younger brother died at Fort Santiago, within sight of the American forces on the other side of the river. She and her little son almost died at San Agustin Church, where the Japanese had herded the women and children of Intramuros and tried to kill them.
February is the anniversary of the Liberation of Manila and the massacre of residents of Intramuros and Malate by the Japanese rear guard, which is why I am writing about my aunt. Her story is as moving as those of the casualties and survivors that the Inquirer published in a series the last several days.
My aunt's name is Eugenia Villanueva-Sanchez. Her husband was Pedro Sanchez Sr., and her brother was Paquito Villanueva, who was crippled by polio. Survivors of Intramuros and Fort Santiago who came across them may remember them or their names.
The family would not have been trapped had they heeded warnings to leave Intramuros as the Americans were already coming. We had a family compound on an island in the middle of fishponds in Malabon, but we also had a shoe store in Intramuros, one of a long line of shoe stores and tailoring shops on Calle Real. Our store's name was Real Shoe Store.
My uncle Paquito was the manager, my aunt was the housekeeper, and Pedro was one of the expert shoemakers working for them. The workers made the shoes and boots at the back of the store; living quarters were on the mezzanine.
My father kept telling them to come back to Malabon but business was good in Intramuros. So many Japanese officers were ordering boots and my uncles were loath to close the store and leave all that opportunity.
When they woke up to the danger because of the more frequent air raids and the sound of artillery in the distance, it was already too late. When they tried to leave, the streets out of Intramuros were closed. Japanese sentries told them to go back. Later, they heard several loud explosions. The bridges across the Pasig River had been blown up by the Japanese.
Still later, Japanese soldiers went from door to door telling residents to come out. They were herded to the San Agustin Church. There the men were separated from the women and children. A doctor tried to protest the separation of the family members. The Japanese shot him dead.
The men were ordered to walk to Fort Santiago, while the women and children were locked inside the San Agustin Church. As the cannon blasts came closer (the American forces were already on the other side of the river and coming up from the south), the Japanese opened the church doors a little, poured gasoline in and then hurled a grenade inside. Those in front were immediately killed by the blast and fire, but my aunt and her son and others who were behind immediately dived under the church pews and were saved.
At Fort Santiago, meanwhile, the men were locked up inside the dungeons. (This information now comes from survivors of Fort Santiago.) Little by little, they were able to dig through the adobe wall to an adjoining small cell, then punched a hole through the top of the wall beside the river. The hole was only big enough for one person to squeeze through at a time. From there, it was just a short dash to the edge of the wall to the river, and then a long swim to the other side and freedom.
As the Americans came closer, the Japanese also poured gasoline into the dungeons and threw grenades. As the dungeon burned, the prisoners squeezed through the hole one by one, ran to the edge of the wall and jumped into the river. Some were too weak to swim across and drowned.
My uncle-in-law Pedro was already out when he heard my uncle Paquito calling him. Being a cripple, he couldn't reach the hole in the ceiling. Pedro went back to help him. But even had Paquito been able to get out, it was unlikely for the cripple to be able to swim to the other side. Pedro stayed with his brother-in-law up to the end. They were never able to get out. We were never able to find their remains.
Years later, the small hole was still there. When I was working in the Manila Chronicle nearby and we used to walk to Fort Santiago some afternoons, I would point it out to my fellow journalists and tell them the story of my two uncles who died there together. That hole has now been patched by workers who probably didn't know its story, no doubt because some hapless tourist might step into it and break a leg.
Meanwhile, my aunt wants to see the dungeon, San Agustin Church and Calle Real one more time before she dies, although she hopes to live to be a hundred and promises to throw a big birthday bash.
posted by Dante at 2:25 AM
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