Freedom Disrupted

By Cecilia Goynes Brodbeck

Freedom Disrupted is the story of a typical boy crazy teenager, Lillian Goynes, whose fathers connections at a U. S. Navy base in the Philippine Islands during the 1920s and 30s offered her a near-blissful life until the Japanese invasion transformed her world.
One day after Pearl Harbor, her existence exploded into bloody destruction. After narrowly escaping death, she and her family witnessed enemy invasion as the Imperial Japanese Army marched into Manila. Then, Japanese soldiers ordered them to gather food and clothing for three days before herding them, along with 3000 other civilians, into a makeshift concentration camp, the University of Santo Toms. For over three years, these captives had to confront challenges of incarcerationloss of freedom, constant fear of death, deprivation and starvation.
Using ingenuity, indomitable spirit and trust in God, many survived until the heroic United States First Calvary rescued them. Ironically, danger persisted, for once the Japanese had abandoned the camp, they bombarded it.
Robbed of her coming of age years, Lillian made the most of her newly acquired freedom when she arrived in the vibrant, free-spirited city of San Francisco.
After recuperating, she and her family traveled to Texas, where her dreams became reality.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 22, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503577589

Cecilia Goynes Brodbeck

Born in Alice, Texas, in 1947, Cecilia Goynes Brodbeck, daughter of the woman on which the book is based, earned a B.A. in English and history at Southwest Texas State University, now known as Texas State. A retired teacher with thirty six years in the Texas Education System, she taught various levels of English, including Advanced Placement courses with writing as a main component of the syllabus. She credits the New Jersey Writing Clinic as a major influence in her writing. Having heard numerous versions and read many letters and accounts from her mother, uncles, aunt and grandfather, she decided to tell their story through the eyes of her mother, adding details researched from various sources and creating dialog from her intuition and mother's personal letters. She volunteers as a writing lab instructor at a local private school, providing more opportunities for 6, 7 and 8th graders to express themselves in written form and enjoys reading and writing in her spare time.

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Copyright © 2015 by Cecilia Goynes Brodbeck.

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Rev. date: 06/18/2015

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Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Chapter One Nearly Paradise

Chapter Two Mildly Liberating

Chapter Three Rude Awakening : The Invasion

Chapter Four Life as an Internee: Starvation Diet

Chapter Five Life as an Internee: Work, Play and Morale

Chapter Six Life as an Internee: Boredom and Fear Factors

Chapter Seven Prelude to Freedom

Chapter Eight Rescue

Chapter Nine California

Chapter Ten Texas

Bibliography

Dedication

Freedom Disrupted is dedicated to the memory of my mother, Lillian Rose Goynes, and her family—her dad, George Augustus Goynes, her sister, Dorothy Irene, and her three brothers, George Alfred., Raymond Richard and Charles Melvin—who were interned in Santo Tomas University Prison Camp in Manila, Philippines Islands, for three years from 1942 to 1945 by the Japanese. Without their courage, perseverance and strength to survive three harrowing years of starvation, deprivation and incarceration— many of us would not exist. Moreover, I wish to thank my uncle, Fred Allen Goynes, who was part of the contingent sent to rescue his dad and siblings. He risked his Navy rank to assure their safety personally. We can never forget the sacrifices of people before us, securing our safety and the right to be free.

Acknowledgements

Without the stories which my mom, her dad and siblings regaled the family, I would never have been able to write their story. My sisters, Janey and Ellen, brother Joe and cousins—especially Vicky, Rhonda, Lynn, June and Paul—filled in gaps that I had missed growing up; moreover, my lovely Aunt Renie, before she died, offered much detail in the interviews I had with her — both verbal and written. My Uncle Fred provided many details through conversations with him and his many writings and letters he had sent my mom. Aiding me tremendously, my husband Danny offered the help of not only being a sound board, but editor and researcher, along with my sisters—Janey and Ellen—and my daughters—Amy, Gina and Lori. Thank you all so much.

Chapter One

Nearly Paradise

Oh, my God! We’re going to be killed! I shrieked. Our heads lowered, faces braced against each other’s shoulders, Renie and I huddled against the wall in the second floor hall of our building, our arms wrapped around each other, holding on for dear life. Her shudders reverberated with my own, and our heartbeats pounded against our chests. During these past three ghastly years, having my sister with me had brought comfort, but now the elation of freedom for nearly two days seemed incongruous with these wretched moments.

The eerie whistling of shells zinged through the night, detonating in loud explosions, renting the room we called home for three years and swirling debris all around us. Squeals and groans of maimed and dismembered internees added to the hellish night.

Sis, I’m so scared. I don’t understand; I thought we had been rescued! What can we do? Where can we go? Renie mumbled against my shoulder, her flinches with each boom and crack fusing with mine.

Me, too! I don’t know Rene, and I don’t know anywhere that’s safe. Let’s just pray that God will protect us, I said as I patted her back, attempting to offer solace to both of us. Gosh, I hope Dad, Bud, Nooksie and Peewee are safe.

Just hours before, we had been so thrilled we could not stop shouting for joy; now we wailed in fear and shivered with shock. Our American soldiers had freed us. Why was this happening to us now?

My cries became reality and my upper body lurched upward. I found myself sitting in bed, sweating profusely. Once I became acclimated to my location, I realized this weekend’s activities and memories had probably spurred this nightmare that forced me to relive the most terrorizing moments in the Japanese prison camp during World War II, fifty-eight years ago in the Philippines. I forced my mind to reflect on Saturday’s celebration to take away the abysmal images in my unnerving dream. I remember sitting at the head of the dining room table draped in a colorful cloth. Card tables, decorated festively, and chairs placed around the perimeter of the room made it resemble a small, yet intimate restaurant filled with relatives and friends.

Happy birthday, to you; happy birthday to you; happy birthday, dear Lillian.

Sis!

Mama!

Grandmommie!

Happy birthday to you!

Tears filling my eyes, I inhaled enough breath to blow out the two candles denoting 80 on top of the beautifully decorated piña colada cake, baked by my good friend Estelle. Surrounded by my husband of fifty-seven years Charles, three of my siblings—Fred, Renie and Nooksie—my four children, ten grandchildren, nieces, nephews and friends—new and old—I felt overwhelmed with joy. I had survived and lived to enjoy this special occasion, my birthday in September 2003; however, these lyrics had brought forth from the recesses of my mind memories of years long ago in the Philippine Islands, suspending this present event.

Sitting around a table covered with a paper cloth and highlighted with rainbow-colored streamers hanging above from the light fixture, I heard the song of minutes ago, but this time sung by young children—friends and siblings—and my mom standing over my shoulder ready to cut the cake. Everyone wore crepe paper hats, made by my mother, and eagerly awaited the servings of ice cream, cake and punch. Presents of all shapes and colors sat on a side table ready for me to unwrap after the treats.

Lillian, make a wish and take a deep breath, my mom directed.

Oh, Mama, she’s a girl! I bet she can’t blow all of them out with one breath, my older brother challenged from across the table. He and I were always involved in some kind of competition.

I can, too. Just watch! I responded to his mockery.

Yeah, watch you take more than one breath.

Freddy, leave your sister alone. She can do anything she sets her mind to. Now stop making fun of her, Mama reproved him.

I blew as hard as I could, encouraged by Fred’s disparaging words. One candle held out, but finally extinguished.

When I heard my oldest daughter over my shoulder ask if I would like to cut the first piece, the reminiscences dissipated, leaving me somewhat bewildered. Once my mind was completely back in the present, I answered, No, you can do it.

Once everyone started eating the delectable sweet, despite all the people around me, my eyes wandered from Fred to Renie, then Nooksie, and I could not help but think how fortunate we were to be here celebrating. I wondered if the memories I had just revisited had intruded into their minds as well.

Later that afternoon as we chatted around the circular table in my kitchen, I asked them if they had recalled some of the parties Mama had given us. This question immediately brought a long discussion of our childhood.

As always when we were together, the topic of food drifted into our conversation. Fred began the discussion when he asked, Which of these dishes that Mama made was your favorite: Halo Halo, Puto, or Bukayo?

Halo Halo was my favorite, I responded. Its mixture of sweetened beans and fruit topped with shaved ice or, even better, ice cream was so delicious and refreshing, especially on a real hot day.

Me, too, Renie agreed.

When we had them at the ice cream parlor, they made them look so appealing served in those tall glasses like a sundae, I added.

I liked them all. Nooksie added. Although, I don’t remember too much about Mama’s cooking. I guess I was too young.

I liked them the same too, but Puto was so yummy! Mama could make those steamed rice cakes taste so scrumptious! Fred exclaimed.

That night sleep eluded me, for nostalgia set in once again, flooding my mind with more acute reminiscences of my early life.

A paradise filled with gorgeous scenery, rich vegetation—including mangoes, coconuts, palm and abacã trees—fantastic beaches, calming seas and carefree living for us six children—ages from four to fourteen—best described my childhood in the Philippine Islands. Of course, it was dampened by the loss of our mother to tuberculosis. She was only thirty years old when it finally consumed her. This contagious disease was at that time incurable, forcing her to be quarantined in the hills at Baguio away from my dad and us children—a difficult separation for all. However, with our youthful resilience, life of leisure returned. Servants cleaned, cooked and served as sitters for us while Dad worked as a civil service employee, an administrative officer, at the U. S. Navy Base in Cavite, Philippines. His father-in-law had convinced him to apply for this position as Chief Clerk in the Industrial Department on the base. While he worked, we attended school or found a variety of activities to keep us occupied.

Those were the good old days in the islands. My brother Fred’s words from that day filtered into my memories, The Saturday night hops in Cavite on H McKinley - we sure had quite a gang to pal around with! Participating in sports, having and going to parties, visiting relatives and cavorting with friends kept us entertained in this tropical bliss year round.

The warm, wet climate nourished a variety of flora on the islands—multi-colored hibiscus, bougainvilleas, banana plants, sugar cane plantations, coconut forests, mango and pineapple groves, as well as rice paddies. Ifugao rice terraces climbed Luzon hillsides like sects in a Roman amphitheater, a network of ingeniously coordinated levers and irrigation ditches for production on steep slopes.

Along with this natural full foliage beautifying the country, graceful, extensive models of medieval architecture of the Far East and Spain could be seen throughout Manila. Gracing the city stood moss-covered palaces, churches and the University of Santo Tomás, a learned institution older than Harvard but later the center of an appalling nightmare. Another classy, mossy landmark was the stone-structured Bridge of Spain, eventually replaced with a newer one. Along the palm-lined boulevards, such as Dewey and Taft, many large buildings dominated the skyline. Notable landmarks included the ancient Walled City—also called Intramuros and tied to Fort Santiago, a solidly built Spanish fortress—the Manila Hotel, the Malacañan Palace—the scene of many parties thrown by Governor William Howard Taft—Luneta Park, Rizal Stadium, Jones Bridge, the Escolta, Pier 7 and of course, one of our favorites, Magnolia Ice Cream Parlor.

Jewel-like resorts provided relaxing vacation spots to the inhabitants of the islands. Pagsanjan Falls drew many a weekender with the walls of the narrow gorge rising to dizzying heights, monkeys leaping across overhanging trees, canoes shooting the rapids and dugouts paddled by two natives—all offering a fun time and excellent picnic spot. In addition, we enjoyed family time in Baguio, where the pine-covered hills sometimes had snow. Its elevation 5000 feet above sea level and its average temperature of around 65 degrees F made it ideal as a retreat from the sweltering heat of summers in Manila and Cavite. We would take long walks among the pines and enjoy a warm, dancing fire at night in our bungalow or be refreshed by the fresh, cool air when it did not snow. My mom thrived under these conditions, and we found the change in weather exhilarating.

One of God’s spectacular creations, the sunset over Manila Bay—a gorgeous palette of bright yellow, fiery orange, divine magenta, and royal blue—lured many people to stand and admire its breathtaking beauty. Against this blazing skyline rolled the wispy shadows of boats and ferries while the bay mirrored the glorious flamed-streaked clouds above. From the Manila side to the right stood the Mariveles Mountain guarding the bay. I often strolled along the bay, hand in hand with one of my boyfriends, thinking how captivating God had made our world.

Within the city of Manila, sounds of mooing water buffalo and carabao hitched to carts, snorting and blowing horses drawing carromatas, squealing streetcars on their tracks, cars, trucks and taxis honking, vendors shouting prices and buyers bartering at the Yangco Market melded with those coming from the Pasig River. Murmuring travelers in Cascos—dugout canoes— conversing passengers on island steamers and warning signals of river traffic, together with the city noise, created a cacophony of busy music. The Pasig, a swift, muddy yellow strewn with floating islands of green plants, divided Manila into two parts and poured into the Manila Bay. Wafts of coconut, humid air and sweaty bodies blended together to augment the assault on one’s senses. Eight miles away, across the water, lay the quieter town of Cavite.

Lillian Rose, I told you never to eat green mangoes. They’ll make you sick, my mother would holler at me, knowing I was under the house indulging. With all kinds of fruit abundant and accessible such as santol and duhat, we were healthy and satisfied, but the mangoes were my favorite. We also loved the native dishes my mother would provide, including delicious lumpia, the Filipino eggroll; bukayo, a sweet made from mature coconut; bilingka, rice cake garnished with salted eggs and carabao milk cheese; pan de sol, sliced bread; fried bananas and pineapple pusit.

As the second oldest of the six children and eleven when my mother died, I remembered the warnings and discipline she had instilled in me and later relayed them to my younger brothers and sister. Rosie, as my dad called her, had many friends, whom we always seemed to visit. She loved to talk with them, sometimes in English, but often in Tagolog, the Philippine language. We did not understand what she said when she reverted to her native language, for she did not want us to learn it, fearing we would have accents. In one letter written to her sister Carmen, she epitomized the typical woman, explaining how she was so terrible for not writing in such a long time and gossiping about who was getting a divorce and who had left their husbands.

Despite the hot, humid, one-dimensional weather and occasional typhoons, we loved our lives on the islands. Most of the time we wore shorts and went barefoot around the house, but for school the boys wore khaki pants and we girls wore dresses. Whenever we went to church, social functions and other special occasions, my mother dressed us in high fashion. To combat the heat, older male citizens of the islands wore white cotton suits with hats designed from Pandan leaves, while women chose lightweight dresses in pastel colors sewn from cotton, silk, rayon and chambray cloth, made from abaca fiber and Manila hemp. Shoes of straw, wood, Carabao hide or imported leather and bags of Pandan leaves complemented the attire. A bamboo hand fan accompanied most people wherever they went.

Another adjustment to the weather included the architecture of houses. Built on stilted blocks or stone-paved ground like the Spanish-style Patios, homes included wide verandas, shell windows, and wooden mahogany fans hanging from high ceilings above hardwood floors of hewn mahogany boards. We found the way housemaids cleaned these wooden floors quite entertaining. They would