One lola’s story: Love in time of war from Albay to Tokyo

By Ana Sison Pascual Philippine Daily Inquirer (This is a love story, the story of Lola Elong—Consuelo Dancel-Sison—whose love for a young soldier from Albay, Domingo Duran Sison, bloomed on a moonlit night after Bataan fell. Lola Elong is now 89 years old. She bore 11 children and raised two more as her own. She has 33 grandchildren and two great-grandchildren. The author is one of her grandchildren.) MANILA, Philippines—“Who says war stories are all horror stories? This story I am about to tell is not.” That was how I began my essay when, as a freshman at the Philippine Science High School, I was assigned by my teacher to write a story about World War II in the Philippines. Instead of going to the library to read up, I thought of asking my Lola Elong, who experienced the war herself. Instead of a horror story about atrocities committed by the Japanese forces, or about fear and suffering and hunger during her family’s flight to the hills, she told me a story about love during wartime. She was in her early 20s then. This is my Lola’s story in her own words: After Bataan surrendered in April 1942, life in Albay was becoming normal again. People had come down from evacuation in the countryside or from up in the hills. My family came down from a distant barrio in the hills of Camalig and was invited to stay temporarily in the Buenaventura ancestral home in Guinobatan, which happened to be your Lolo’s hometown. I met your Lolo after he came home from the war. He was emaciated and pale with malaria, but showing promise of a fine and charming, gentle and intelligent man. One afternoon he came with his brothers to visit their relatives, the Buenaventuras. We had an impromptu party to welcome him. When he asked me to dance and started a conversation, aside from monosyllables, I could not carry on. I had painful cold sores (singaw) on my tongue. Not knowing this, I impressed him as being shy and awed by him. But this is going ahead of my story. I happened to be in Albay when the Japanese Armycame to the Philippines. A fresh graduate of the Philippine Normal School, I had come to Legazpi that summer of 1941 to visit my sister Corring, married to the regional internal revenue officer. She enticed me to apply for a teaching position there. It did not take much to convince me. After an interview by the American school superintendent himself, I was assigned to teach at the Central School near the Provincial Capitol grounds. I was told it was a choice assignment. I was very happy there. Being a new face and “figure,” I had many visitors—suitors paying court—and many eager dancing partners during balls and parties. Oh, how the Bicolanos loved to party and dance! I forgot all about my plans to enroll at the University of the Philippines (UP) and finish a bachelor’s degree. That could wait. Death March Alas! Like in the Cinderella story, the clock struck 12! One early Sunday morning of Dec. 9, my family had to pack and run for our lives. Japanese planes had started dropping bombs at the airport near our back door at Sagpon. Life stood still for me after that. In the bloom of youth, just starting a career, enjoying the attention of young swains, dancing to her heart’s content, what was a young girl to do in the fastnesses of the Albay hills? But let me continue with my story … On your Lolo’s next visit, I had recovered from the cold sores. I asked him many questions, how he was able to come home unscathed. Finding me a good listener, he soon lost himself in detailing his escape from the Death March and the last days before the surrender in Bataan. Your Lolo said that he was barely 20 and a UP ROTC cadet when World War II came to the Philippines and he was inducted into the Usaffe (United States ArmedForces in the Far East). After the surrender of the American forces inCorregidor and Bataan, he was spared incarceration in Capas, Tarlac, when, exhausted and burning with fever during the Death March, he fell into a ditch near Barrio Teresa in Pampanga. Fortunately, the good people there were able to fish him out while the sentry was not looking. The family of novelist-poet Bienvenido Santos nursed him back to health and hid him in their home until his cousin, Pio Duran, found him and brought him home to his family in Guinobatan, Albay. No words needed Before that, his parents had already given up hope of ever seeing their first-born again. His mother, a very religious lady, had already had four Masses said for the Dead after the name Domingo Sison, apparently a popular name, was listed among those who had died in the concentration camp. The news of his having been found alive spread like wildfire in the small town. After all, he was one of the town’s notable sons, the handsome, intelligent, young UP Law student before he left to fight in Bataan. Soon after, his visits became oftener. We found common interest in music, songs, books, and the movies we saw before the war broke out. We could match wits. We enjoyed each other’s company. We even had the same healthy appetites! We had become good friends. The days flew. The sights and sounds of Christmas 1942 and New Year 1943 were never more happy and memorable. There were parties and fiestas. And moonlit nights. One moonlit night, while strolling with friends toward the bridge at the town’s outskirts, your Lolo held my hand and I let him. No words were said. It was as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Maybe it was his way of telling me he liked me. I took the gesture of holding hands innocently, without malice. Much much later, when we had become closer friends, he asked me about the moonlit night incident, how I felt and why I let him hold my hands. My reply must have flabbergasted him—“Why did you? Was it your way of testing whether I like you? Of course, I like you and I let you hold my hands because I trust you not to put too much meaning in your gesture. We are good friends, remember?” A goodbye peck There would be more strolls in the moonlight—a favorite past time during those times. Also, as was the custom then, the boys would serenade (harana) the girls who would just peep through the windows (percianas). When your Lolo would ask the next day why I did not so much as look out the window, I would tease: “We were fast asleep, we did not hear you! What did you sing?” But these serenades would continue. Then, one day in January 1943, a bolt came from the blue! He was summoned to report immediately for training in the Police Academy in Manila. His father was the acting governor of Albay and the secretary of national defense in President Laurel’s Cabinet was his uncle so he had no choice. Reluctantly, he prepared to go. Before leaving, he came to see me, ostensibly to ask if I had messages for my mother who was still in Manila but really to bid me a long goodbye. When he turned to leave, he came back and asked: “Not even a goodbye kiss?” “Of course,” I said. He left with only the memory of a peck on the cheek. Had he insisted maybe I would have given him another one on the other cheek. And maybe if he had more guts and taken me in his arms, I would not have resisted. Who knows? First kiss It was time to leave again and your Lolo was leaving behind all that spelled safety, comfort and love of family. He was also leaving the girl he had begun to love. By serendipity I myself was sent in April as a scholar by the school superintendent to the Nippongo Institute of Manila to be able to teach the language. This must have been predestined. Had I not been given this opportunity to be near your Lolo in Manila at that precise time, our budding romance would not have had a chance to blossom. After graduation from the academy, 10 of your Lolo’s group at the academy were told they were being sent to Japan to study. When he gave me the news, I had mixed feelings— happy for him but worried. We could no longer see each other as often as we wished. In spite of our impending separation those were happy days for me. I was enjoying my classes in Nippongo and making new friends. Not only that, your Lolo was inviting me to parties at Malacañang Park, where the scholars to Japan were billeted and given orientation and pre-departure lessons. Your Lolo was at his best—the perfect host. I was growing more and more in love with him. One day, during a party, he kissed me while nobody was looking. That was the first time I was kissed on the lips. Red rose One drizzling July afternoon, four days before they left for Tokyo, in obedience to his urgent phone call the night before, on his instructions I crossed the Pasig River from the porch of Malacañang Heroes Hall on a banca manned by a lone boatman your Lolo had engaged to ferry me. With all the security measures in the place, I do not now remember how I eluded the guards. Your Lolo must have also asked them to hide from me so I would not be scared away. The young boatman rowed me across the Pasig but before we reached the landing of the rose garden at Malacañang Park it began to rain and I had not brought an umbrella. Your Lolo came out from behind a tall rosebush and welcomed me into his arms. The rain had become harder but, we would not have minded even if it was a typhoon. This was no time for words. He placed a red rose in my hair. I was crying. I was already feeling very lonely, imagining the void he’d leave after he had gone, not knowing if we would see each other again. ‘You ate my lipstick’ Looking back, I cannot remember the details of that afternoon, how long we stayed there, how I happened to be there, how I managed to return to Malacañang Palace and get out the gate, how I finally got home. All I remember is the loneliness I felt when he said goodbye. And the scent of roses would haunt me long afterwards. Your Lolo wrote me a letter from Malacañang the day before they sailed for Tokyo where he said he was worried about me because when he saw me that afternoon at the rose garden I was so pale and my eyes were sunken! When I wrote him back I asked, “Why would I not be pale? The rains had washed off my make-up and you ate all my lipstick.” Besides, after he called late the previous night, I could not sleep anymore … Of the scholars, 27 of them, 10 were from the Police Academy and 17 were sons of government officials, such as those of President Laurel, Secretary Vargas and other prominent personages. Most likely they were chosen as hostages to ensure the good behavior and cooperation of their parents. They sailed for Japan on the luxury liner Miiki Maru in the afternoon of July 9, 1943. Only three of them were able to come home before McArthur returned. One of them was your Lolo. The rest were able to return only after the war was over. 31 letters, 13 children According to my Lola, they wrote many letters to each other but their letters passed through the censors because it was wartime. She received 31 letters in all in the span of one year. She still has them—and his pictures—preserved in an album. One day she said somebody might want to write about their love story. Maybe I will. Including the sequel of how they finally got married in 1948 and had 13 children. WOW! Sorry if I get a little carried away with my Lola’s narration. I find it really “nakakaaliw” (fascinating) because I bet no one can imagine their grandparents being that sweet and going through all that. What I really want to show is that no matter how bleak times were, there was still that spark that nothing can take away, love and friendship. I wanted to focus on how people coped with war and still have a happy ending. What better way to illustrate my point than with a story about love during those times. My teacher gave me an A for my story. My Lolo Doming passed away when he was 78. My Lola? She will live to be 100, at least. When in Cebu City, please visit gregmelep.com for your real estate and retirement needs. Source: Philippine Daily Inquirer