The Leper Spy (27 page)

Those who have come to know Mrs. Guerrero and her situation feel that she justly deserves to remain in the United States. Not only did she give her invaluable service to our country during the war; today she is making an outstanding contribution as a living symbol of the hopefulness for ultimate recovery by all Hansen's disease patients. As a result of the attention which her case has brought to the hospital at Carville, thousands of persons have gained a better understanding of the disease and its treatment. Mrs. Guerrero has been a most cooperative
and industrious patient, and this is best exemplified by her successful completion of the high school courses presented at the hospital. She gives of her time to fellow patients in many ways, such as reading to the blind, setting patients' hair, and by means of her own pleasing and cheerful personality, making life brighter for others around the hospital.

* * * * * * * * * *

What YOU can do:

(1) Write to your Congressman immediately, urging passage of
HR 2412.

(2) Send this material to a friend, asking her or him to share in our effort by sending it on to another.

(3) Give this information to your local newspaper.

(4) Adopt the suggested Resolution on the reverse side.

LET'S KEEP THIS LETTER MOVING FOR “JOEY”

For Additional Copies Write “JOEY CAMPAIGN”, 2159 Tulip, Baton Rouge, La.

RESOLUTION

(Suggested)

WHEREAS, Mrs. Josefina Guerrero was awarded the Medal of Freedom with Silver Palm, the highest award the United States Government can give to a civilian for battle services to this country, for her heroic activities during the Japanese occupation and the American invasion of the Philippines; and,

WHEREAS, Mrs. Guerrero was admitted to the United States on July 2, 1948, for treatment of Hansen's disease at the US Public Health Service Hospital, Carville, Louisiana; and,

WHEREAS, Mrs. Guerrero has faced periodic deportation hearings since the expiration of her visa on August 20, 1951; and,

WHEREAS, a private bill (H.R. 2412) is presently pending in Congress, directed toward granting permanent residence to Mrs. Guerrero; and,

WHEREAS, the passage of this bill will allow Mrs. Guerrero to remain in the United States for further treatment which she needs and grant her a reward she justly deserves; now, therefore,

BE IT RESOLVED, that _________ Club go on record as opposing deportation of Mrs. Guerrero.

BE IT FURTHER RESOLVED, that a copy of this resolution be forwarded to your congressmen.

Joey also had an attorney working on her behalf, pro bono. Robert Kleinpeter of Baton Rouge was a tireless advocate, and he kept in close contact with Rep. James Morrison. She also had the press on her side: James Linen from
Time
and Frank Folsom of RCA. Nixon Denton of the Cincinnati
Times-Star,
who was with the First Cavalry Division that saved the prisoners at Santo Tomas, wrote a full column calling on the Thirty-Seventh Division Association “not to boot its chance to smooth the way for Joey.”

“Can any gift equal his desire to help me?” Joey wrote in a column in the
Star.
“There is no gift like it, even at Tiffany's.”

On December 21, 1953, just before Christmas, the legendary Broadway producer and syndicated columnist Billy Rose, who had never before met Joey, took up the cause like so many others before. Newspapers from Montana to Maine carried his Pitching Horseshoes column about Joey:

During the last seven years I've written more than 1,000 columns—about 1,000,000 words—and I have never
used one of these words to ask anybody to write or wire his congressman about anything.

Today, however, I'm going to urge my readers—and their sisters, cousins, and aunts—to get in touch with their senators and representatives on behalf of a Philippine woman named Josefina Guerrero who wants to become a citizen of the United States.

Who is Josefina Guerrero? Well, if you haven't already read it in one of the national magazines, here's her story.

In 1941 Josefina, called “Joey” by her friends, was 23 years old, married to a medical student in Manila, and mother of a 2-year-old daughter named Cynthia. One day her doctor noticed a strange blotch on her body and, after a series of tests, told her she had leprosy and advised her to leave her home at once. Joey packed and left that night.

When the Japs landed in Manila in 1942, they took over the hospital in which Joey was being treated and turned her and the other patients into the street. A few days later she was attacked by two drunken Japanese soldiers, but beat them off with such frenzy that a member of the Philippine underground who witnessed the incident asked if she'd like to join up.

For the next two years, despite her aching head and blotchy skin, Joey smuggled in food and medicine to American internees and prisoners of war, and smuggled out military information which the guerrillas in the hills radioed to Australia.

When our troops landed on Leyte, it was Joey who mapped the Japanese fortifications on the Manila waterfront and their anti-aircraft batteries along Dewey Boulevard. These maps she managed to get through to her underground contacts by concealing them in hollowed-
out apples and oranges. She was, of course, stopped many times by Japanese sentries, but when they saw her lacerated face and swollen hands they drew back in fear and let her pass.

Early in 1945 when the 37th infantry division was blasting its way into Manila, Joey took her most dangerous job. The Japanese had mined and booby-trapped an area through which the allied forces had to pass and a detailed map of the danger spots had to be delivered to division headquarters 40 miles north of the capital. Joey volunteered to walk the 40 miles through the Japanese lines.

En route, time after time, the Japanese questioned her, but her mauled face was her passport. Twice Joey was arrested but, thanks to her sores, got away. And when she finally reached American headquarters, the map taped between her shoulder blades, she was too sick to eat the pancakes they made for her.

Shortly after the armistice, the United States war department awarded Joey the Medal of Freedom with Silver Palm, one of the highest decorations it can bestow on an alien. In 1948 she received something even more important to her—a temporary visa to enter the United States, and permission to go to the leprosarium at Carville, La.

At Carville, Joey was treated with the new sulfone drugs and, as of today, the disease is completely arrested in her. Her head no longer aches, she can eat normally again, and there are only a few scars on her face.

Early this year the United States immigration service informed Joey that her visa had expired and she would have to be deported. The officials were sympathetic but—well, the law was the law.

Moved by her story, Representative James H. Morrison of Louisiana introduced a bill to grant her citizenship, and persuaded the immigration authorities to let her remain until the measure came up. Unfortunately, the bill died in committee. However, it will be introduced again by the Louisiana legislator when congress convenes next month, and a similar bill, I understand, will be submitted to the senate.

So far, so good—but bills, even the best of them, have a way of getting lost on Capitol Hill.

This is where you and I come in. As soon as I have finished this piece, I'm going to wire senators and congressmen who represent my district in New York.

And, at the risk of sounding like a professional do-gooder, I urge you to give Joey the break she rates and do a bit of wiring or writing yourself. In your words or mine, here's what I'd suggest you say: “I think Josefina Guerrero, one of our top spies in the war against Japan, should be permitted to remain in the United States. Please do your best to expedite the bill introduced by Representative James H. Morrison of Louisiana, which will come before the judiciary committee when Congress convenes.”

J
oey and Ann Page stood together outside the closed doors of the Protestant chapel at Carville on a Sunday in October 1954. A cold front had blown in, and there was a nip in the air as they nervously whispered outside the Mission Revival-style church. Inside, twenty sisters of the Beta Sigma Phi sorority were busy preparing for a ceremony. They poured punch and unveiled a chocolate cake with icing that said W
ELCOME
S
ISTERS
.

Joey and Ann, who had reclaimed her birth name, Annabel Guidry, were both being installed as members of the international chapter of Beta Sigma Phi, a cultural, social, and service sorority. The initiation was sponsored by a New Orleans chapter of the sisterhood, Xi Beta.

“I never thought a day like this would come,” Annabel said, smiling. “I thought I'd always be on the outside, didn't you?”

Joey nodded.

In 1948, the year Joey arrived at Carville, several Beta Sigma Phi sisters started taking trips to the leprosarium to help entertain the patients with shows, cocktail hours, and parties. Soon more sisters joined them, and they made visiting Carville an official part of the sorority's service project. Over the years, the sisters got to know the more outgoing patients like Joey and Ann well. They learned about their lives behind the barbed wire, how they felt about the outside world, their dreams of someday leaving the hospital behind.
Most of the sisters had read the articles about Joey's underground resistance work and how she had transformed Tala Leprosarium. But they learned things about her that weren't in the newspapers and magazines. She loved to give permanents and makeovers to the female patients. She never talked about the war unless someone asked. She loved to dress up in pretty clothes.

She wore a white, formfitting sleeveless dress that day, and when the door opened, the two women were led inside, where they were each given a candle and were soon enclosed by a semicircle of twenty Beta Sigma Phi members.

“We are installing these women, not as a favor to them, nor just to show that we have no prejudice toward the disease, but because we feel as active members they will make a real contribution to the sorority, and be a credit to it,” said Mary Jane Caruso, Xi Beta chapter's service chairwoman. “We feel it is an honor to have them, and we are grateful they accepted our invitation.”

Joey and Ann learned about the plan to “bid” them in May. The previous service chairwoman had launched a campaign in 1952 to try to educate the public about Hansen's disease, to help dispel the mass superstition and fear that had grown around it. So the sorority began keeping a scrapbook about the disease, compiling modern information and the experiences of the sisters who had grown to be friends with Carville patients. In April 1954, they learned that a researcher for the comic strip
Rex Morgan, M.D.,
about a socially conscious family physician, was trying to learn about Hansen's disease for a series of strips. The sisters handed over their scrapbook, but they wanted to do more.

“We talked to the researcher, Vic Ullman, about our desire to do something constructive to prove Beta Sigma Phi attached no stigma to the disease,” Caruso said. “Gradually, after talking over our great admiration for both Annabel and Joey, we decided to invite them to become our sisters. We wrote national headquarters, which offered to pay the membership fee for our two friends to show how much they were wanted.”

Joey Guerrero with Stanley Stein and two friends at Carville, Louisiana, in March 1955.
Courtesy of Robert Wiygul

The ceremony lasted just fifteen minutes. One woman read the pledge ritual. Then they pinned Joey and Annabel, gave them the sorority handclasp, and congratulated them. Just like that, the outsiders had 120,000 new sisters all over the world.

Annabel had been at Carville for eighteen years. She had left behind a husband and three children, and her life was a portrait of the nuances of someone segregated for nearly two decades. Her kids were grown and she had grandchildren now, but she had chosen to make Carville her home in the days when the chance of ever leaving looked bleak. She remarried a fellow patient, who built them a lovely house out of an old chicken coop. She threw parties, went to church, and worked as managing editor of the
Star.

Now that a cure was within sight, she was anxious about leaving all that behind and what it would be like returning to life out-side
the fence. “It is natural to feel dependent on a place like this,” she told a reporter for the
New Orleans Times-Picayune.
“Many feel resistant to leave, even after their cases have been arrested because they have become isolated from what we call the outside world…. What will my husband and I do when that day comes? True, we have much to bind us here—our home, our work—but we are ready and willing to adjust to another way of life.

“Both Joey and I feel our membership in Beta Sigma Phi will help us to adjust when we leave Carville. And it still seems like a miracle to us that we were invited to join.”