Temptation may take unexpected shape. For my mother, it came as an offer of three remaining seats in a box-like, charcoal-fueled vehicle traveling South.

Its owner exhibited a 'strong' military pass, signed by General Yamamoto. That, and the two hundred peso cost per seat, in what had come to be known as Mickey Mouse currency, were unbeatable, he claimed. "But," he added, knowing our destination was just a little more than halfway to his final stop," even if you don't travel all the way, the price is the same."

Mother had made up her mind. Passenger vehicles with permits were very rare. As to dangers on the road, my mother, usually a very cautious person, now merely shrugged them off. What could happen under the open sky, she reasoned, that could not be happening under protective roofs?

"Besides," she reminded me with uncustomary flightiness, "there is to be a wedding on the day we will be there. You could attend." I could do without that, and I knew she was merely finding cause for me to share her eagerness. Gentle, stubborn mother had made a decision, there was no changing her mind.

It was the same when we left six months before. Father had been offered a post in the capital, three townships away. Mother insisted that the appointment to the provincial council would be an excellent cover for the underground resistance work he was doing. Father had agreed.

In fact, it had been time to leave the town which had already been overrun by Japanese soldiers. By then, half the male population had spent time, or were still, in concentration camps. Those who could, had escaped to the mountains, despite watchful Japanese and Filipino spies. Whenever possible women and children, ostensibly on the way to church or market, had continued walking away to safety. Our exit had been easier, official, although several times the pass issued by our Filipino provincial governor had been scrutinized by the soldiers.

Now, it was reported, the town was back to normal. The army had been transferred, leaving behind only a small detachment of soldiers. Curfew had been lifted. Former evacuees had returned. Isiong, the garbage man, rode the streets once more, his horse and cart clattering behind him. Selmo, the cobrador, made the rounds, collecting jueteng bets. There was even enough flour for the bakery to make a visit, Mother said, so we could fetch documents and valuables we had left behind.

A third seat remained. Timorously, Adriana approached Mother. Could she come along? She would like to visit her sister, Karia, now wife to our widowed overseer. Besides, she could help during the trip. Why not, Mother said, looking as pleased as if she had thought of it herself.

There is little I recall of my youth in which Adriana does not figure. I remember the first time I saw her, I was sitting on the wooden steps leading up to the veranda of our house in Manila. Behind me, Lola Marta and Mother were talking to a lady from the agency and a girl she had brought to be our maid.

"Please," she said, her young pained eyes turning towards the garden, "Please take my sister too." I had followed her gaze to the child, barely two years older than I, who was chasing dragonflies, unmindful of my grandmother's discerning stare.

"But, this Adriana, she is only nine," Lola Marta had questioned, "Of what use would she be to us?"

It was Mother who answered, "Mama, she could be good company for Emma."

At first Lola Marta would not be swayed. Adriana was just another mouth to feed, another responsibility. Whatever service she might provide would not outweigh the costs. But Mother argued that since my sister, Marina, was now a young lady, I would need a playmate. Besides, wasn't Marina going to stay in the farm for longer periods with her? This must have finally moved Lola Marta, for grudgingly she nodded her consent.

Of approval, that was all she ever gave Adriana. In the years that followed Lola Marta saw all the mischief and misdemeanors we contrived, and meted out the punishment. When we were out of hearing range, we laughed about how Adriana's ears might shrivel and fall off from Lola Marta's unending litanies.

Adriana did whatever was required of her, and she did so lightheartedly and satisfactorily. But Lola Marta seemed blind to this. Praise was never showered on Adriana; table napkins were never laid straight enough, darning stitches were too tight, her scalp massage was either too heavy or too light. In spite of this, because Adriana remained bright-eyed and cheerful, Lola Marta kept her on, and so Adriana and I were seldom apart.

I was enrolled in the convent school of Benedictine nuns, Adriana was granted a place in their charity public school, a hedge away from own spacious grounds. Until I was older and felt secure enough to sleep alone in my room, Adriana had a bunk in one corner. On it we played card games or read books. But that was only when we were along. As soon as we heard anyone outside my door, Adriana would jump to her feet and stand at attention while I carried on with whatever I was doing.

She was careful to obey the injunctions of Lola Marta, one of which was that servants should keep to their place. Lola Marta had norms of conduct for both masters and servants. Once Adriana had presented me with a freshly plucked bunch of lanzones that caused me to exclaim my thanks in the presence of Lola Marta. She frowned, dismissed Adriana after a curt, "Never take anything from the garden without permission," then turned to me and severely ruled, "You do not say thank you to your maid, and especially not if what she has given you is yours."

We learned to be clever conspirators, Adriana and I, each using the personal license of the other. For instance, I was forbidden from husking the floor because, according to Lola Marta, it would make childbirth difficult. But when Adriana frisked about, polishing the hardwood floor with half the coconut husk under her nimble feet, I pushed her off and enjoyed myself, while she went to the piano, which she was forbidden to touch, and played the scales and arpeggios. The appropriate sounds received approval of those on the other side of the closed door. And we kept our secret.

The journey was extremely uncomfortable. The motor spewed granulated smoke, the roads were rutted, and the seats were hard. We shared the van and its two small windows with a nurse, a nun and two men.

At every stop the nun's prayers became more audible, the beads sliding faster through her fingers. Mother tried to look composed, but I knew from the way she clutched her rosary, that like the others, she too was nervous whenever the soldiers hailed the driver for his papers. I was nervous also. It seemed it was only Adriana who was completely at ease.

We spent two days in our house. Mother walked from room to room, up the spiral staircase and down the other, smiling dreamily as she stroked the polished banisters. She would gaze out of the second story windows, her eyes roving over rooftops, the church steeple, distant mountains. "Nothing as changed," she mused. I did not remind her that the war was not over. Nor that we still had a worrisome trip before us.

An unexpected matter had come up. Some hours after our arrival, a ban had been imposed on vehicular traffic on the highway. This was not unusual when military convoys were on the move. Nor would it disrupt our plans. Twenty-five kilometers was not such a long way, we could walk. We would be accompanied by a farm laborer with a carabao-drawn sled for carrying clothes, and if she tired, Mother and her precious valise of letters and old photographs.

I looked through Marina's old dresses, picking some for myself and two for Adriana ­ a blouse and skirt with floral patterns, and a gray dress with demure white collar and mother-of-pearl buttons down the front. If she could fit into them, I said, she could have them. Adriana was overjoyed. A seam let out, a tuck sewn in, and she could be Rosa del Rosario, she grinned. The new acquisitions were carefully laid out in a small buri bag she would carry.

For the long walk, she and Mother had dressed to look like farm workers. The loose clothing, reaching almost to their ankles, were practical for concealing the girdles lined with genuine currency and valuables. Covering their heads they had faded cotton bandanas, tied under the chin, their folds and shadows hiding all but the tips of their noses.

I decided my faded brown dress was disguise enough. Anything on my head would my my scalp itch, so I merely pulled back my hair and tied it with a band.

We started out a dawn, trailing behind the farm hands on their way to the fields. We made good time. A short way past the center of the next town we had our first encounter with the Japanese. We had made sure to skirt around all the guardhouses, but two soldiers were bathing by a nearby wall and had seen us. One, with bare torso, wet and glistening in the sunshine, stepped forward, calling out loudly, "Daraga, daraga." I bowed deeply, deeper than what was expected in the presence of Japanese. I walked on, bent, my face hidden, until we were safely out of sight and could not longer hear their howling laughter. Mother and Adriana walked stiffly on either side of me.

The few houses we passed along the road looked empty, or fearful of intrusion, kept their windows closed against the street. But further on, through a stretch of trees and tall grass, we could see a hut almost hidden by thick overgrowths.

But then the sun was setting and we were hungry. We turned into what seemed to be a seldom trodden path. If the house was abandoned we could at least rest in it and eat the food we had with us. But before reaching it, we were welcomed by a middle-aged woman, a child straddled on her hip. She insisted we share their meager dinner and stay for the night. It was dangerous, she warned, with soldiers, guerillas and bandits roaming about at night. Mother accepted her offer gratefully, but refused to take the only bed in the only bedroom of the hut. Instead, she instructed Adriana to lay out our sleeping mat in a tiny partition used for storage, a space half-concealed by giant carrying sacks, and home woven bayongs filled with produce.

Mother and I lay beside each other, Adriana curled at our feet, insisting she was fine. We were weary from the day's walking and sleep came quickly. All was quiet except for the occasional heavy thump of single coconuts dropping to the ground, or a solitary palm frond breaking from the trunk. It must have been close to midnight, the cicadas had lain their wings to rest, and even the tuko refrained from their exchanges, the only sign of their presence, a rustling of dried leaves as they moved about in the dark.

Then, from below the house a man's whispered cry broke the silence, "Ka Talia, wake up!"

The door creaked open. Conversation followed, faint but distinguishable. After bidding her good evening, the new arrival said, "Major Mestizo . . .Tisoy, he knows the young girl is here."

"What girl? I am along with my grandson," Talia denied.

"Ka Talia, our courier saw them. They were followed here from the army outpost." He paused. "The Major is eating, but he'll be here in an hour."

"No, she is only sixteen," Talia muttered nervously. "I shall hide her in the bamboo grove by the river."

"They will find her. We have dogs, and then it will be worse . . . Ka Talia, I do this for you, for your late husband. But don't make the Major angry. If she is not here when he comes, you know he will burn your house."

"But my husband was one of his men," she protested.

"I know. And he will not harm any of you as long as the girl is here. You know how he likes young girls. . . I must go before they miss me. You decide."

For the first time in my life I faced panic. The blood had drained from my body. I was limp, trembling, flushing hot and cold. I clung to Mother as Ka Talia repeated what we had already heard. "No, no," Mother kept repeating, her arms around my quivering shoulders. Adriana had been standing silently behind us, and I did not notice when she turned away. When she returned, she had on Marina's gray dress. Her newly-combed hair hung loose about her shoulders. When she spoke, in a low steady voice, it was to Talia.

"Where can you hide her?"

"No, I have to be here for him," I mumbled without thinking.

"I will take your place."

"But he wants me," I heard my voice, hoarse and pleading, and did not recognize it as my own.

"I will kill him if he touches you," Mother said to me.

"Then all of us will be killed. . . Hide her," Adriana ordered.

"Adriana," I begged. For what, I was not sure. I was petrified. Mother was near hysterics and Talia looked at us helplessly. Only Adriana was steadfast.

"Be quiet. This is the only thing to do." She had taken charge, pushing me towards Talia, who was at the far end of the room, holding an open sack. It was partly filled with grain. "I can't," I said.

"Get in," Adriana ordered. "Be quiet. Pray. Stay till I fetch you." I was half immersed in rough grain, surrounded by garlic and onions, my head and arms free, but covered by clothes Adriana had thrown over me.

Mother had been quietly watching the scene in front of her, a glazed, faraway look in her eyes. Adriana had made her sit on the mat and not gently pushed her to lie down. "Señora Nena," she said, "Lie down and rest."

Her touch unleashed a flow of words and tears from Mother. "We should not have come, we should not have come."

"Sssh, Señora. It will be all right," Adriana comforted her.

Ensconced within the rough womb of grain and spices, I followed the tormenting sounds of deepest night. First, Mother's quiet weeping and Adriana's wooing her to silence. Then Talia's and Adriana's muffled conversation as the older woman offered advice she could. And finally the sound of footsteps at the stairs.

The Major's voice was low, even courteous. He said good evening loudly, as if knowing there were others in the house besides Talia who had bid him enter.

"Shall I go down with my grandson?"

"No, my men are below. They may not respect your age. Stay here."

Other sounds followed. I heard Talia moving nearby and felt her weight as she leaned against the sacks. I heard Mother's labored breathing. I prayed hard, as Adriana said I should. I bargained with God. Please don't make her suffer, take from me what you will. But I did not know what I could possibly have that could equal what Adriana gave for me.

I shivered even as I sweated, and remembered the giggling imaginings Adriana and I shared as we exchanged whatever theories we had about sex, our fears and expectations always embellished with romance. Never like this.

The sound of a shoe dropping on the floor reminded me of where I was. Then a muffled exclamation, and the sound of bamboo in orgiastic frenzy.

I don't know why I had expected her voice to have been different but it was clear and unchanged. They stood at the top of the stairs, saying good-bye. "You're a good girl," he said, "I hope you were not hurt."

"No, sir," she said.

"If there is anything you want, send me a message," he said. I head him call out, "O, Talia, I am going now," and without warning he left.

No one rose, and the only sounds were those that Adriana made. I heard her drawing water from the well and the splashing as she washed herself. She was out for a long time and when I finally heard her returning footsteps, the roosters were already crowing.

She joined Talia who, by then, was busy preparing food. I heard the sizzling of eggs and smelled the frying of dried fish. when Adriana came to me, I sat leaning on an upright sack. I put my head on my knees, hiding it in my arms, and bit my lips.

I could not bear looking at her. She looked freshly scrubbed as she did every morning when she woke me for school. Her dress, worn and faded but impeccably starched, her hair washed and oiled, still smelling of coconuts. The corners of her lips were turned up in a little smile. But her eyes had lost their merriment, and in its place, a sadness like that of Karia's when she begged Lola Marta, "Please take my little sister too."

"Your mother is already at the breakfast table. Come we must have something to eat before we go."

The remainder of our trip was made on a carretela delivering bananas to army headquarters. Ka Talia had somehow managed to secure space for us. Mother and I sat side by side. Adriana across us. Our previous escort, who had slept through the night's events on his sled by the river, had been dismissed by Adriana back to town on some pretense.

Only once during this ride did anyone speak of what happened. It was Adriana. "Señora, please do not tell Doña Marta. Please."

I had hoped to tell my grandmother, make Lola Marta admit an Adriana more equal to her demands. I begged Adriana to allow me, but she would not.

Mother said, "I will never tell anyone." She looked as if ready to weep again and Adriana quickly produced the valise she was holding and placed it on Mother's lap.

"Maybe you would like to show us some of the photographs," she smiled. "I would like to see some, especially those of Emma when she was very young."

Repeatedly the pictures exchanged hands. "Emma, look," Mother said. She was holding a photograph Father had taken of me when I was twelve. I was dressed as a fairy princess for a school play, and Adriana was holding up the train of my gown to keep it from getting dirtied. As she handed the photo to me, a slight breeze lifted it from her hands and it fell on top of the pile of fruit.