The Bakelite Legacy

Many thanks to norafares, chasten628, PickFiction and GoneGray for the comments and suggestions.

*Translations:,

Kempeitai －Japanese military police

Tranvia － electric street trams used in Manila from 1905 to 1945

Katakana － simpler form of the written Japanese alphabet

Tiya － Aunt

Kundiman － traditional Filipino love songs very similar to the Neapolitan love songs

Hija － term of endearment addressed to a younger woman, translates to dear in English.

Suman － a rich, sweet, creamy snack made of sticky rice cooked in coconut cream and sugar

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There it stood, the old Bakelite radio, on the mantle of my Grandmother Aida's house, and for years, I wondered why no one had gotten rid of the sorry-looking thing; it had no paint left, had only one dial and did not work!

My cousins and I found ourselves making up stories about its history - perhaps it was the very first radio brought to Manila from overseas - or could it have been smuggled via my grandmother's southern cousins who had dubious dealings with Indian traders?

I never found out how it came to be in Aida's possession, but a year before she died, I finally found out why she had kept it all that time.

Manila, March 1942

" － to the people of the Philippines... I shall return."

－ General Douglas MacArthur's speech after his escape from Corregidor to Australia

Aida saw the look of terror on the faces of her mother, Justina, and her aunt, Caridad, as the words from the tiny Bakelite radio confirmed the rumors that had been swirling around Manila for the past week: General MacArthur, his staff, as well as the President of the Philippine Commonwealth, Manuel Quezon, and his family had been evacuated.

That meant only one thing, surrender was only a matter of time. The islands would soon be completely under Japanese rule.

Immediately after the Japanese forces took over Manila, a curfew and a nightly total blackout were imposed: any and all activities could only be performed at a certain allotted time; anyone caught on the streets before six in the morning and after six in the evening was severely punished, or worse, executed on the spot! And because of the imposed blackout, all lights － electric and gas, could not be used from six in the evening till six the next morning, only one candle per house was allowed to be lit.

Manila, October 1944

The islands had been under Japanese occupation for more than two years when Aida heard someone impatiently knocking at the front door of Aunt Caridad's house. Her aunt came out of the kitchen and opened the door.

There stood Konsehal Rivera and three members of the dreaded Kempeitai. The konsehal explained that all the radios in the city were to be turned over to the Japanese, but that they would also be given back within the week.

No one complained or even questioned the order and everyone complied, of course - it was not a secret that if you didn't, severe punishment was what you were looking forward to.

Some hastily turned over their radios, while others surrendered theirs grudgingly, like Mrs. Dela Gracia, their well-to-do neighbor across the street － her Zenith console was very expensive.

Aunt Caridad gave Konsehal Rivera their tiny Bakelite that very day; it was chipped in several places and had only one dial intact; it had seen better days.

"I shall make sure, Caridad, that this gets back to you at once," Konsehal Rivera said. Everyone on their street knew that the councilman had a soft spot for Aida's aunt.

Caridad smiled vaguely at the konsehal, the Bakelite seldom worked anymore and when it did, it only came on after one gave it a vigorous shaking. Aida and her aunt were not sorry to see it go.

After a week, the radios were returned, and this time, all the neighbors did complain! - but only to each other - the radios had been tampered with and now only broadcast two stations - one continually aired Japanese propaganda in Filipino while the other was dedicated wholly to Japanese music!

Aida and Caridad didn't even bother to turn on the Bakelite the day they got it back; they were certain the old radio was in the same condition it was in when Caridad had given it. Besides, the flag of the Rising Sun was hung outside every building in Manila, the posters with the katakana characters were prominently displayed in the city's tranvia stations (though nobody knew what they meant) and the Imperial Army's soldiers were on every street corner with their bayoneted rifles ever ready! The two women did not need to be reminded of their conqueror's presence.

"Just in case the radio works, Tiya, we can always listen to kabuki music straight from Tokyo," Aida said, as she helped her aunt with supper that afternoon.

Aunt Caridad, who had been a famous kundiman singer before the war, shuddered.

"God help me, hija," she said, "I would rather be shot breaking the nightly curfew than listening to that."

Aida grinned and finished setting the table.

It was her nineteenth birthday and although food was scarce (most families had had to survive on bean sprouts since the city's surrender), Aunt Caridad had managed to get hold of two cups of sticky rice - clean, white, fluffy sticky rice! Not the dirty kind that had more soil in it than grains that they had been eating for over two years. And in Caridad's capable hands, the two cups were transformed into suman, a native delicacy near and dear to every islander's heart.

But as the two of them sat down at the kitchen table, Aida felt the sudden sting of tears. There were too many empty chairs at the table.

Her father, Pol, and her uncle, Rodrigo, Caridad's husband, were at Bataan when it fell in April of 1942, and after five months of desperate waiting, word finally arrived - neither man had survived the Death March.

Aida's mother, Justina, still mourning her husband, contracted malaria the following December; Doctor Dy, the only physician left in the city, could do very little, it was impossible to get hold of any sort of medicine.

Justina died in Aida's arms three days before Christmas; it was the saddest Christmas the two women ever had.

Caridad offered the suman to her niece. And though it was sweet and creamy, Aida found it difficult to eat. She looked across the table and saw the tears in her aunt's eyes, they told the same story.

She reached out and touched the older woman's arm. Aunt Caridad smiled.

"Perhaps I should have placed the candle on the suman for you to blow, hija."

"Or invited the Kempeitai over as honored guests?" Aida gently teased, "The rest of the family are here with us, Tiya, even if we can't see them."

She squeezed Caridad's hand.

"Happy Birthday, Aida," her aunt said, through her tears.

"Thank you, Tiya, now let's not let the suman go to waste," Aida said, with forced brightness.

She took a forkful of the suman.

"Hmm, as good as ever, how did you get the fluffy rice, by the way?" she asked her aunt.

It was a few moments before the older woman answered.

"Konsehal Rivera is still a devoted fan, Aida," her aunt answered silkily.

Aida began to giggle, soon her aunt joined in.

"I hope you did not promise the konsehal something impossible, Tiya!"

Caridad shrugged.

"I said I would sing for the Christmas Vigil Mass he is sponsoring, a very small favor, I think."

"Do you want to laugh a little more, hija?" Caridad said later that evening after they had tidied up.

Aida nodded.

"If that radio is working, let's listen to the latest musical styles from Tokyo."

Aida stood up.

"I'll get the Bakelite."

When Aida returned with the radio, she sat beside her aunt and turned the dial on; as expected, there was only silence. She was about to give it its customary shaking, when it suddenly started to emit a hiss. The hissing soon turned into a buzz.

The two women looked at each other, Aida placed the radio carefully on the kitchen table. Then she and her aunt heard a very familiar voice,

"People of the Philippines, I have returned..."