It had been some time since Bishop Rego,2 a Jesuit serving as apostolic vicar of the Caroline, Marshall, and Mariana Islands (except Guam) had resigned, and in Rome, it was heatedly debated whether it would be suitable to appoint a Spanish Jesuit as Monsignor Rego's successor, since the Spanish Jesuits were in charge of the mission, or whether it would be better to appoint a Japanese bishop. By this date, all foreign bishops in Japan had resigned and Japanese bishops had been appointed to succeed them as apostolic administrators. The situation in the Church was extremely tense. The military government turned out to be very hostile toward the Catholic Church. On one occasion, the military governor said, "The Catholic Church must not be good, if Hitler is persecuting it so vigorously in Europe." In schools, they prevented children from attending catechism classes and spoke to them disdainfully of the Church. They also began to watch us very closely, as one would watch a suspicious person, harassing us frequently with prolonged interrogations. It was at this time that Rome sent us a visitor. He was a holy man of Japanese origin who loved the Church more than he loved his nation, and who was an expert on the Japanese military, having been involved in several conflicts as Church mediator. He had come to study our situation and to provide us with instructions as to how we should proceed in dealing with the Japanese military. It required a great deal of prudence, patience, and cordiality.

During 1941, around the month of November, if I remember correctly, the military assembled some thirty young native men with good command of the Japanese language to instruct them in the strategy of war. At this point, we must bear in mind that Guam, the southernmost of the Mariana Islands located only 206 miles from Saipan, belonged to the United States, and that all the other islands of the Mariana archipelago belonged to Japan. From these native men and their relatives, we learned that Japan was going to initiate the war against the United States at dawn on 8 December. At the time, Saipan had a population of 3,000 natives and 35,000 Japanese. The panic that struck the people was indescribable, and since all the local people were Catholic, each and every one, without exception, received the sacrament of penances in preparation for death. One should have seen the joy expressed by the parish priest, Father Jose Maria Tardio,3 because according to him, it had been more effective than a mission.

December 7th4 arrived. All the military men and the thirty selectees designated to start the war by attacking the island of Guam departed aboard ships to Rota, a small island halfway between Saipan and Guam. At dawn on the eighth, the feast of the Immaculate Conception, they headed for Guam, and before landing on the island, the thirty local men were ordered into the water to make preparations for the landing of the Japanese. The U.S. Government on Guam was unaware of Japan's intentions and was caught completely by surprise, with no war defenses. Consequently, the Japanese advanced with no difficulty and gained control of the island within four days. As a result of this attack, all missionaries, both Spanish and American, were taken prisoner, and only two recently ordained young native diocesan priests5 remained on the island.

Meanwhile, what was happening in Saipan? Father Tardio routinely came to our chapel daily to celebrate the Eucharist at 5:00 in the morning. I do not remember whether it was on the twelfth or the thirteenth when Father Tardio did not come, but at about 5:30, four Japanese policemen arrived to search our home. Since they found nothing suspicious (Mother Mercedes Gonzalez,6the mother superior, had hidden whatever might have been considered suspicious) they took nothing with them. After the search, they ordered us to accompany them to the police station. In a large room, the chief of police and the entire police force, both Japanese and native, awaited us. Father Tardio and Brother Oroquieta were there also. Once we entered the room, the chief of police solemnly declared that Father Tardio and Brother Oroquieta were under arrest and would be confined to their residence, totally isolated from the people. As for the sisters, we were placed under arrest also, although we were allowed to walk around, but only within the town of Garapan.7 At this point, a funny incident comes to mind that I cannot resist relating. While Father Tardio's house was being searched, which occurred at the same time as our's, Father Juan Pons,8 a missionary on the island of Rota, happened to be there. At the conclusion of the search, he demanded to know what was being taken. They showed him a small notebook, which Father Juan solemnly took note of. It was Father Tardio's personal examination book.9 Undoubtedly, its symbols and numbers seemed to be the most suspicious thing in the entire library.

Returning to the sentence imposed by the chief of police, Father Tardio (who realized we would be without mass as a result, but who did not speak Japanese) asked in Chamorro10 if he could go to our chapel to celebrate mass. A native policeman, very experienced and knowledgeable of the Japanese, in a completely free translation, said, "Chief, Father Tardio has to pray in the chapel every morning at 5:00, and he asks whether he may continue to do so." The chief, who must have been surprised at the need to pray, answered, "Of course! No problem!" Thus, our daily mass was saved, at least for the time being. But it was short-lived. Eight days later, the police came again to take us to the government offices because we had been summoned by the chief of police. There, we were told that Father Tardio was forbidden to go pray in our chapel, and that we, too, were to be confined to our residence and isolated from the people. It was 23 December 1941. There we were, without mass, without the sacraments, and without contact with the priest or the people. They did consent, however, that Remedios Castro (then an eighteen year-old young woman, today a sister of the Mercedarian Missionaries of Berriz)11could stay with us to obtain food and help with whatever necessities might arise.

Given this state of affairs and seeing God in the circumstances surrounding us, we prepared to spend the Christmas holidays as joyfully as possible. Although without the Eucharist, we tried to create a spiritual and temporal Christmas spirit, decorating the living room, singing carols, wearing our best habits, etc. The Christmas holidays passed and the feast of Saint Pedro Nolasco12 was approaching, which, at the time, was celebrated on 31 January. It occurred to us to request that Father Tardio be allowed to celebrate mass that day, adducing that it was one of our Institute's13 most important feasts. They told us to celebrate mass by ourselves, that it was not necessary for Father Tardio to come to our house; thus, we had no mass that day either.

And so, what did we do? We prayed, sewed, studied, read, played the piano, played cards, etc. As for me, I tried to recall what little English I knew, preparing for the arrival of the Americans. Remedios would bring food, something we never went without during this time. There was much corn on the island, and providentially, Mother Mercedes Gonzalez, from Colombia, knew how to make many delicious dishes with it, Colombian-style: soups, tamales, desserts, etc. Every once in a while, in addition to food, Remedios would bring messages from a Russian gentleman,14 an Orthodox Christian who had fled Russia after receiving death threats. This gentleman was fond of us, and via Remedios, he warned us to be very, very careful of the military officers who visited us, because their intentions were not good. The days and months passed and Lent came. Meanwhile, the people were caught in an ever-increasing panic, without mass, without the sacraments. The Saipanese were all Catholics and absolutely isolated from us. That group of people, so close to its missionaries! Suddenly, during Holy Week, Monsignor Idaguchi, the apostolic administrator of Yokohama, arrived. He had come, with the appropriate authorizations from the Government of Tokyo, to attend to the island's Christians and with authorization to have Father Tardio help him in his pastoral work, since Monsignor Idaguchi did not speak the Chamorro language. The joy and exhilaration felt by the island's Christians was indescribable when they learned that a bishop had come from Tokyo, that he would provide them with services such as masses, confessions, visits to the sick, etc. I remember hearing someone say, "Easter has arrived before Holy Week." Unfortunately, Monsignor Ideguchi was unable to remain on Saipan very long, because he had to go to Guam where the two young native priests were experiencing great difficulties; but he did obtain several authorizations for Father Tardio's pastoral work: he could celebrate one public mass a month; he could visit the dying and the gravely ill; Christians would be permitted to take their dead home for funeral prayers; and we ourselves would be permitted to go to mass at Father Tardio's residence on Sundays. Naturally, Father Tardio could not visit the sick and we could not go to mass on Sundays without being escorted by the police. Every Sunday, at 5:00 in the morning, two policemen arrived at our home and took us to Father Tardio's residence. If the policemen were natives, we would take advantage of the opportunity to receive the sacrament of confession. If they were Japanese, we could not. Because we were forbidden to communicate with Father Tardio, they tended to be distrustful of what we might say in the confessional, and for the sake of prudence, we did not want to give them cause for suspicion.

The monthly public mass was a more complicated affair. Our chapel had a door leading to the street on one side, another leading to the anteroom on the other side, and since the mass had to end before sunrise, people would begin to arrive at 2:00 in the morning in order to get a good place in line for confession. The women would stand on the street side, the men on the side of the anteroom and garden, and since everyone wanted to confess as quickly as possible, outbursts and fights would ensue regarding who was first. To establish some order, arrangements were made for Sister Genoveva to watch the men's line and for me to watch the women's. Of course, in order to do this, we had to be up by 2:00 in the morning. I remember that one day I observed a woman trying to get ahead of her place in line, causing those in front of her to protest. I chided her several times, but as soon as she could, she would attempt it again, bringing about the expected uproar from those in front of her. I finally said, "Madam, would you please stay in place?" To which she responded, "And what if I die?" I answered, "We are all in danger of dying, but God knows we are repentant and want to confess. Let us trust in God, who loves us so much." When her turn finally came and she had finished her confession, Father Tardio came to me and said, "Tell that woman who just confessed not to receive communion at mass, because I am going to give her Viaticum15 afterward." I was so impressed that I tried to compensate for having scolded her during the hours she had spent standing in line. In order to make her more comfortable, I had her sit in a large armchair, and I gave her a glass of milk after the Viaticum. We had to do everything in the dark, and since we were not permitted to light even the small larnp for the Blessed Sacrament, we could not see a persons' physical appearance or determine who was sick, unless they told us themselves.

This situation lasted from the spring of 1942 to early March 1944. We continued to pray, sew, read, study, and play cards, knowing nothing of our sisters or of the rest of the world, or even of the progress of the war in the Pacific. During this time, Sister Concepcion Bernaola managed to send us, via an islander, a letter from Ponape, in which she asked if we knew anything of what was happening in the world. Sister Teresa, with her unique sense of humor, sent a letter back the same way, responding in the affirmative, "The world is the same; some are born, others die; some laugh, some cry; some live in peace, others are at war."

By March 1944, the town [of Garapan] had been evacuated. Little by little, all Chamorro families had been moved to their ranches, the inherited properties that all native families owned in the jungles or in the countryside where they cultivated fruit trees and vegetable gardens and tended animals. Now, we were practically alone in town, surrounded by the military. Once in a while, we would receive a visit from some military officers and an occasional warning from the Russian Orthodox gentleman, reiterating the danger surrounding us.

In early March 1944, we were told we had to leave Garapan, and we were moved to a hill where there were two unoccupied houses a short distance apart. One was for us, the other for Father Tardio and Brother Oroquieta. Here we were able to participate in a daily mass celebrated by Father Tardio in a nearby hut. The scenery was beautiful, with views of the ocean, and we immediately realized we would be the first to see American ships when they arrived. The Japanese must have realized that also, because exactly a month later, they moved us to another location. They took us to a ravine surrounded by jungle where we could barely see the sky. They had built a small wooden house for us, while Father Tardio and Brother Oroquieta were given the small house belonging to the landowner. Here, too, we enjoyed a daily mass. About one hundred meters from our house, they had prepared an underground shelter, measuring approximately 1 1/2 x 5 meters, where we were instructed to take refuge when the alarm siren sounded. Father Tardio and Brother Oroquieta also had their own shelter.

On 22 May, the day of the feast of Santa Rita, we heard a deafening sound, like a truck lumbering up the mountain. We were surprised because we did not believe a truck could maneuver those roads. The truck stopped across from our house on the opposite side of the ravine and the crew began unloading it. They brought cases of ammunition and placed them around our house, like a wall. Sister Mercedes protested and asked how they could do such a horrible thing as to surround our house with cases of ammunition when in a war-time situation the slightest mishap could set them ablaze and kill us all. Unmoved, the officer commanding the operation calmly shook his head: "Our intention is to take this to a cave nearby, but we cannot do it today. We will return in a few days and take these cases to the cave." It was obvious that his intent was quite different, because for that purpose, it would not have been necessary to go to the trouble of hauling those boxes across the ravine and placing them around our house.

Our life went on more or less as it had in Garapan: isolated, with no news of anyone. Remedios would go to town or to the hamlets where she knew she could find food. It was at this time that an Infantry lieutenant, a Japanese named Mori-san, or Mr. Mori, happened to meet Remedios. He sent messages several times, saying he wanted to visit me because a cousin of his had been my student in Tokyo. I warned Remedios to ignore Mori-san, because, as a soldier, he knew exactly what to do if he wished to visit us. Finally, one day, Remedios brought me a message saying that Mori-san would come around noon the following Sunday. In effect, the following Sunday, at the appointed time, a young soldier appeared, whose manners and demeanor made him seem more French than Japanese. I received him under the huge mango tree that stood in front of our little house. I noticed immediately that he spoke Japanese poorly. He told me his father was Japanese and his mother French, that he had not lived in Japan very long, but had returned there to serve during the war so as not to lose his Japanese citizenship. He concluded by telling me that the Japanese were going to lose the war. To me, this seemed a very dangerous topic and I tried to change the subject; first, I expressed my surprise at his pessimism, given that the Japanese are such optimists and that, without a doubt, most of them believed they would win the war. He was very intelligent and realized that I did not want to talk about the war. We discussed many things, but every once in a while, very skillfully, he would revert to the topic of the war, and once again, I would change the subject. When I ran out of ways to maintain my position and noting that he was so well-educated and well-mannered, I dared ask him two questions that I have never asked a stranger, "Are you familiar with the Catholic religion?" He replied, "No, only what I have read in newspapers or magazines." "Have you ever thought about what awaits us after death?" "I have not thought about that either, although I have found myself in difficult situations many times. This is very interesting, but I have been invited to eat at the Camacho ranch not far from here, and they are probably waiting for me. This afternoon on my way back, I will stop to talk with you about these things." He said goodbye and I sighed with relief. Later we found out he had remained at the ranch, pretending to be wounded, and had not returned to the barracks. A few days later, he crossed over to the American lines. He was an American spy.

While Mori-san visited with me, the sisters had taken their meal and it was approximately 2:00 in the afternoon when I went into the house to get something to eat and relate the details of the visit to them. Suddenly, bombs exploded around us and a deluge of bullets and shrapnel fell on the roof. It was 11 June 1944.16 Mori-san must have known that the battle of Saipan would begin that day. I believe he tried to help us, but I also believe his visit represented one of the most dangerous and delicate moments of the period, because if the Japanese had suspected we had communicated with an American spy, they would have executed us missionaries that night, as they had others. In this predicament, we could not run to the shelter, about 100 meters away, and we protected ourselves as best we could, covering ourselves with mattresses. When the air battle ended at dusk, as it did daily during the battle of Saipan, we went outside the house. The spectacle was awe-inspiring and terrifying, the surrounding mountains aflame, covered by a dense black smoke. Miraculously, none of the bullets around our building exploded, although we could hear others exploding in the boxes located at a certain distance from the house. In the bushes nearby, we found two Japanese soldiers whose mission, undoubtedly, was to guard the ammunition stores. We struck up a conversation with them: "Hello! Good afternoon. The battle has been fierce, has it not?" "Yes, very fierce." "Do you think this will happen again tomorrow?" "Of course! Tomorrow morning, at daybreak, the air battle will commence and continue all day. They did this in Truk17 and we presume they will do the same here. We were at Truk and not a single tree remains; everything has been burned." We told Father [Tardio] what the soldiers had told us, and it was decided that the following day, at 4:00 in the morning, we would celebrate mass in a ruined shed nearby, then we would go to the shelter, taking sufficient food for the day. A young couple lived in a house nearby where they had been since being evacuated from town. We suggested they join us when we had to go to the shelter and they gladly accepted. It was important to have lay persons witness whatever might happen, because the rumor among the local people was that the Japanese intended to kill us. There were nine of us-seven sisters and the couple--compelled to spend the day in a space so small that we could hardly change position. The sisters were: Mercedes Gonzalez (mother superior), Maria Teresa Cortazar,18 Pia Goicoechea,19 Joaquina Revuelta, Genoveva Garate,20 Aurora Chopitea,21 and I. We never lacked food; the worst thing was that the air became more and more scarce as the hours passed, and by mid-afternoon, it was difficult to breathe. The first day of our voluntary retreat into the shelter was Monday, 12 June. We did not move all day, but placed ourselves in God's hands and listened to the thunder of the air battle. At dusk, as happened every day during the fighting, the battle ceased and we were able to leave the shelter to breathe fresh air and eat something hot that Sister Genoveva would prepare for us. We soon learned that an anti-aircraft gun had been set up on top of our shelter--also that the Americans had destroyed all the anti-aircraft guns at the various locations on the island, except the one over our heads. Naturally, this aroused suspicions among the military concerning any relationship we might have with the Americans. For us, however, it was the second miracle God granted to save our lives. Fortunately, the anti- aircraft gun was moved elsewhere.

The next day, Tuesday, when we emerged from the shelter at nightfall, the owner of the farm informed us that in the morning several soldiers had arrived and burned several war documents in the kitchen of Father's house, which, as I have said, belonged to the owner of the farm. The latter, who knew the Japanese and their intentions very well, carefully watched everything they did. In the afternoon, other soldiers arrived at the kitchen, causing an uproar and saying, as they pointed to the remnants of the burned documents, "Gentlemen, the missionaries have burned war documents here." Pedro, the owner of the house, said: "That is not true. I saw who burned those documents." He told who had done it, and subsequently, the accusation was withdrawn. Once again, we recognized the loving providence of God, our Father.

During this week, our schedule remained the same: mass at 4:00 in the morning, then off to the shelter. Theirs was also the same: the air battle began at dawn and ended at dusk. I cannot recall whether it was midmorning Wednesday or Thursday when someone arrived at the shelter with a letter for us, said to have come from Guam. We did not believe it, because it was impossible for a letter or anything else to come from Guam in the midst of the war. It was a sheet of paper from the Americans, stating that they did not wish to harm the civilian population; that precautions would be taken to safeguard the people. We realized that this was a trap of some sort. While discussing how to dispose of the paper, it occurred to Sister Mercedes Gonzalez that if we burned it, someone could examine the ashes. The safest solution was to eat it: we tore it into tiny pieces, distributed them among ourselves, and swallowed them.

I believe it was on Friday of that week that we came out of the shelter at nightfall to move around a little and breathe the fresh air while Sister Genoveva went to the kitchen to prepare food. From where we were, we could not see the little house, although it was close by--about 100 meters away--because there was a curve in the path that hid it from sight. When Sister Genoveva did not return, Sister Mercedes said to me, "Let's go see what Sister Genoveva is doing." Upon arriving at the house, we were met at the entrance to the kitchen by two military policemen, rifles in hand. The kitchen had no wall on one side and the fire that the sister had made to prepare dinner and the next day's meal could be seen from the outside. The policemen were furious, because according to them, we had made the fire to signal the Americans on the other side of the jungle. One of them pointed his gun at Sister Mercedes and me, about five or six meters away, and made a motion as if to fire. Fortunately, a third soldier appeared behind him, quickly grabbed his arm, preventing him from firing, and said: "Don't do that, you fool!" Remedios stood there, struck dumb with fear. "Remedios, speak", I said. As a lay person and a Chamorro, I thought it best that she be the one to speak. She said, "How can you think such a thing of these nuns who have come to help us all, the local people and the Japanese?" The soldier answered, "Fine, but if they build another fire, I will kill them." Once again, God's loving providence was with us.

On Sunday, the eighteenth, we were in the shelter, as we had been every day, when at mid-morning two civilian policemen appeared at the entrance, screaming for Angelica-sama22 to come out. At this point, one must remember that I was the only one who spoke Japanese, that for the past three or four years I had had to mediate during all visits, during innumerable interrogations, and had had to complete hundreds of forms. They knew they could communicate only with me; consequently, they led me from the shelter, and to prevent being seen by the Americans fighting overhead, we went into a thicket of bushes. One of them said to me: "We have come on behalf of the chief of the civilian police to tell you he thinks you will be better off near the Japanese civilian population, which we have gathered around Mount Tapochau. Be prepared at 8:00 this evening, and we will come to take you to Mount Tapochau." As soon as they finished talking, I ran to the shelter and relayed the message from the chief of police to the community. We informed Father Tardio and Brother Oroquieta. We did not know whether the change would be for better or worse, but since we were not doing well where we were, we received the order with a certain enthusiasm. We had reserved some food, especially in cans, and we prepared packages for each of us and also for Father Tardio and Brother Oroquieta.

We began the pilgrimage at 8:00 in the evening, carrying our small bundles and escorted by two policemen. It was a long walk. All I remember is that we arrived at Mount Tapochau at midnight. The policemen left us in a clearing, telling us to rest there, that they would take us to a better location at daybreak. Exhausted, we lay on the ground to sleep, when after a couple of hours, we became aware of a racket around us: a batallion of parachutists had landed exactly where we were. Imagine our fright, in the dark of night. At dawn, the policemen took us to another place, and again, God's loving providence protected us. No sooner had we moved from the site where we had rested, than a bomb fell on the exact spot. The place where the police had left us was a large clearing, with not a single tree for shelter. Furthermore, we were caught between Japanese and American crossfire. We spent the day lying face down on the ground, bullets whizzing continuously over our heads. A bomb fell close to Brother Oroquieta, but did not explode. At nightfall, a soldier approached to see if we were dead and was surprised to find we were alive.

This is when it occurred to Remedios to go to the chief of police and ask him to take us to her father's ranch, located in the northern part of the island where there are many caves and we would be safer. The chief amiably acceded, but said, "It cannot be tonight, because we are busy leading the entire Japanese population north." Consequently, we had to stay in the same place, under the same circumstances, caught in the crossfire for yet another day. Again, it must be emphasized that it was impossible to move during the daytime; only at night could we go from one place to another--to say nothing of the fact that we, as prisoners, could move only with a police escort. Meanwhile, Remedios never ceased going to the chief of police, insisting that they, please, take us to her father's ranch. I believe it was on the twenty-first, after Father Tardio had heard our confessions--which we thought could be our last--that the police gave us orders to proceed. We had to go down from Mount Tapochau, and to save time, they took us on a short- cut, a very narrow, steep, and rocky path. In some places we had to descend sitting down, grasping the bushes along the sides of the pathway. At this point, I would like to describe our attire. From the beginning of the war, we had been forbidden to wear our white habits outside the house; consequently, we used the black veils we had put away to make skirts for ourselves, and together with other large veils over our heads, we covered our white habits quite well. But coming down from Mount Tapochau, our skirts were tom to shreds; pieces were left,along the wayside and some of us could barely cover our white habits. This led to problems, because every once in a while the policeman would scream at us, "Shiroi, shiroi!" (White, white!), and we would try, unsuccessfully, to cover the white fabric with the rags we had saved from the black cloth.

While we were going down the mountainside, a batallion of soldiers was coming up the same path, heading for the early morning battle. On the plain below, new adventures awaited us. The place was like a small open valley. Several soldiers moved quickly, carrying the dead on stretchers. Here and there, huge piles of bodies were burning, which made a tremendous impression on us. Another new experience was that, from their ships, the Americans fired bullets or bombs--I do not know what those weapons were called--but they produced a deafening shrill, and upon reaching a certain height, lit the battlefield as if it were daytime. When they exploded, large chunks of burning iron fell; if they struck someone, they tore them to pieces, legs, arms, and heads flying in all directions. We seven nuns and two Jesuits, following the policeman's orders, walked in a straight line; when the siren sounded, we immediately threw ourselves to the ground, face down, until the bomb exploded. At times, this would happen every ten or fifteen minutes; at others, the interval between bombs was longer.

We continued to walk northward, and around daylight, we reached Talofofo. We were left there on the side of a mountain, at a place so rocky that there was no level place to sit. Each of us had to clear a space, moving rocks and soil, in order to sit or lie down during the day. The air battles began very early, and we had no choice but to lie, face down, all day. At around 5:00 in the afternoon, the battle subsided, and Sister Mercedes asked if we wanted something to eat, since at noon no one had dared to move. We had just begun to eat, when, suddenly, several planes flew by, showering bullets over the area. One of them struck me, entering the right side of my chest and exiting my back. Father Tardio was a few meters above me and I screamed, "Father, absolution, please! I am going to die--I have been wounded." Father Tardio, lying face down, turned and blessed me. All I could think of was, "Now, I will see God." Sister Mercedes realized I was bleeding to death, and in spite of the deluge of bullets, managed to remove a towel from her bag and wrap it tightly around me to stop the streaming blood. Meanwhile, everyone was trying to decide whether it would be best to leave the place, but since bullets kept falling all around, we did not know if it would be better to move or stay put. At this point, we noticed that several gasoline tanks eight or ten meters away had started to bum, and since the wind was blowing in our direction, the flames were coming toward us. Naturally, we started to leave, but then we noticed that Sister Genoveva was not moving. We went to her and found she was dead; but for the time being, we had to leave her. Once safely away from the flames, we met a soldier, and since our policeman was nowhere to be found, we asked him if he could take us to a cave. A very cordial man, he took us to a nearby cave filled with Japanese civilians. When they saw us enter, they protested strongly: they were not pleased to have foreign prisoners in the same cave. The soldier appeased them, telling them we would be there overnight only, that we would be taken elsewhere the next morning. In effect, early in the morning, we were taken to a much more peaceful place than Talofofo. We were left amid the foliage of trees where we felt safer psychologically, though such was not the case as planes flew overhead and bombs exploded all day.

Meanwhile, my wound was getting worse. We had had no opportunity to ask for medicines or seek relief of any kind, and Sister Mercedes told the policeman that we needed a surgeon to treat my wound. The policeman agreed, saying they would take me, but we had to wait until nightfall. Thus, at 8:00 in the evening, they took me to a large cave, not far from where we were, where two famous surgeons were attending wounded civilians. One of them treated my wound so well that it gave me great relief. Of course, I had to remain in my tattered and blood-stained clothes, as there was nothing for me to change into. Since we were not far from where we had left Sister Genoveva's body, we begged the policeman to take us there. He agreed to do so, and we found the body where we had left it. We told him we wished to bury her and asked when and how we could do it. The chief [of police] who was there replied that we need not worry; they would bury her. Later we were able to confirm that it did not happen. When the battle for Saipan ended, with the help of some American soldiers, a search for the body was made in the area where she had died, but it was never found. It was probably cremated, as were all bodies.

The next stop was at a place called Calaveras,23 near the coast on the east side where there are high vertical cliffs. There, we felt more protected from the bullets and bombs, although we could see them exploding against the huge cliffs before our very eyes, as though we were watching a scene unfolding on a screen. My wound was dressed a second time. Meanwhile, Remedios kept insisting that we be taken to Marpi, at the northern end of the island, to her father's ranch. Finally, they relented and the policeman informed us we would be escorted there that night. it was either June twenty-ninth or thirtieth. We had to cross the island from east to west, a distance of six miles, then continue up and down, over the mountains to Marpi. There was a doctor among the Japanese there, and it occurred to Sister Mercedes to ask him to dress my wound before we left, since it had not been treated for several days. The man was extremely nervous and frightened. By the light of the full moon, he began to dress my wound. He was standing and so was I, but in his haste, I do not know what he stuffed inside my open wound, and when a luminous bomb exploded, he fled like a bolt of lightening and hid. The pain was so great that had Remedios not supported me, I would have fainted; nevertheless, we immediately began our pilgrimage to the west. The luminous bombs followed us, and as usual, we had to hit the ground instantly when they appeared. How could I, in my condition, have walked so far, performed such movements as throwing myself suddenly to the ground, then getting up again? I do not know. What is clear is that, for God, nothing is impossible. I assure you it was not too much for me; but, yes, the wound did become infected, and I thought I would die.

We crossed the island and at a place near the west coast the policeman stopped and said, "You are now free; you may continue by yourselves." Imagine our joy, when after nearly three years of detention, we unexpectedly found ourselves free. We were at the intersection of two roads leading to Marpi. One was very long, since it was necessary to skirt a mountain to get there; the other was much shorter, but Remedios found it so changed that she was afraid there would be military installations along the way that would prevent us from preceding. We waited for someone to go by, and before long, a group of soldiers arrived. We asked them how we could reach Marpi by following the path that Remedios considered to be the best and shortest. One of them began to explain, pointing to a huge tree in the distance. "Do you see that mango tree..." At that point, his companions shouted at him, as if to prevent him from saying what he was about to say, and the youth fled and hid in the bushes. We realized there was something dangerous over there, and we sat down by the side of the road to rest and wait for someone else to come by. It was around 1:00 in the morning. Soon, a military officer appeared and we asked him the same question, to which he cordially responded, "Yes, it can be done, but be very, very careful. Walk down the middle of the road and stay away from the sides." He repeated, "Be very, very careful." We thanked him for the advise and realized we should not continue along that road. We decided to take the long way, and after skirting the mountain, arrived at Remedios' father's ranch at 4:00 in the morning. After the battle, we learned that the shorter road had been electrified along both sides, because it was feared the Americans would invade on that side [of the island].

There were many caves on the ranch, all filled with Chamorro people. Nevertheless, we managed to find one large enough for the seven of us, although we could not stand, only sit or lie down. Father Tardio and Brother Oroquieta found another one large enough for them and the youth who accompanied them. As soon as we were settled, Remedios went to all the caves seeking a nurse and found a very good one, one of our former students. Through her, we located a wounded Japanese officer24 who had medicines with which to treat himself and who provided some good ones for the infections in my wounds. With this help, the infections in my wounds (which had a diameter of approximately five centimeters in my chest where the bullet had entered and about twelve or thirteen centimeters in my back where it had exited) disappeared before we crossed to the American lines eight days later. Once we had medications and were well cared for by the nurse, we needed to find a way to change my clothes, which, after eight days, were tattered and soaked with blood. But how? Once again, Remedios went from cave to cave, asking for clothes. She brought me a sleeveless shirt from Brother Oroquieta, a short- sleeved, flower-printed blouse, and a flower-printed skirt with vivid colors and a two meter-long train in the style typically wom by the Filipino and Chamorro women. Imagine what I looked like, in a skirt with a train, a short-sleeved shirt, and a nun's wimple and veil. Now came the problem of washing the clothes. Remedios remembered a small creek nearby and asked the Japanese officer to accompany her, and at 2:30 in the morning, they went to wash my clothes, or rather, to dip them into the water. Do you realize what Remedios meant to us? Thanks to her, we found food at Marpi, where she could move about at night. She tried to find water nearby to quench our thirst, and throughout the entire war, never ceased her efforts to obtain, within the range of possibility, whatever would alleviate our predicament.