The train pulled into Tutuban station, a chaotic mass of people going helter - skelter: passengers, well wishers, standbys, hangers on, porters and hawkers delicately balancing wares on heads, hands or shoulders, incessantly shouting, shoving, cursing, going hither and thither but always converging near entrances and exits to the consternation of actual passengers who want nothing more than finding a vacant seat and reach their destination. The sour and rancid smell of sweaty and unwashed bodies permeated the sticky air.
Fighting his way to a ticket booth, Bernabe bought tickets for Dagupan, Pangasinan and hurried to a platform where a train was raising steam. The mass of humanity continued to mill about the train, making it difficult to board. Men were clambering up a window into the train; he followed suit and soon signaled Flora to toss him the luggage through the window. When the whistle was blown signaling departure, the clogged platform slowly emptied and she boarded the train without difficulty, the baby cradled on one arm.
She rested her head on the arch of his shoulder, the baby cuddled against her breast, and let out a weary sigh. The locomotive lurched slowly forward, conquering its own inertia until it gained speed and developed a chugging rhythm. They passed rows of makeshift houses made of cardboard and discarded galvanized iron which thinned out when they reached the countryside. The train traversed the vast Central Luzon plain, wending its way across meandering rivers and shallow streams, rattling wooden trestles of narrow bridges, trailing black smoke which fouled the pristine country air.
Shortly, Mt.Arayat loomed in the horizon, slender wisps of clouds suspended near the summit - a dormant volcano, standing in the heart of Pampanga like a sentinel watching everything that transpires in stolid silence. The train skirted the wide Candaba swamp which drains water from Mt. Arayat, impassable during the rainy season but served as a veritable garden in summer for farmers and growers of succulent red and yellow watermelons. Boys astride huge water buffaloes dotted the countryside, blending unobtrusively with the dense sugarcane swaying in the gust raised by the rushing train.
As the train rumbled on, there was no sign of a world at war. Everything looked rustic and peaceful, except when the train crept into a railway station and revealed ubiquitous sentries manning sand bagged checkpoints and the omnipresent red rising sun on a white background draped at the facade of a town hall. Persistent hawkers offered all sorts of foodstuffs. She chose a juicy red watermelon from where a wedge was cut as proof of its content. She took a bite and savored the juiciness, quenching her thirst. After loading and unloading passengers, the train lurched and again fell into a clacking rhythm.
The train ride seemed to take forever. The sun had reached its zenith and the glare reflected on the parched earth stung her eyes. There was no cloud in the sky and very little movement in the landscape; there was no breeze, creatures which normally scurried about like fugitives hid under the shade of small shrubs and weeds. The heat inside the train rose, fanned only by the train's forward movement.
The train passed through Capas, Tarlac and she thought about her brothers, Crispin and Luisito Ante and the husband of her sister, Consorcia. They fought at Bataan. "Where are they now", she wondered then fell asleep.
