by Arif Anwar
“My roots are there,” Shar says, and does not elaborate.
“Okay, I think we’ll have to be more creative than usual with your case. Why don’t we call it a day for now, Shar? Katerina will be your primary contact point from now on. She’ll be in touch with next steps.”
“Thank you. We haven’t discussed your fees.”
Ahmed interrupts him with a raised hand. “Let’s not worry about that right this moment. I have a sliding scale. My fees won’t be anything you can’t afford.”
Katerina escorts him to the entrance, past the row of waiting clients, whose numbers have now been reinforced with several newcomers.
At the door, he turns to her. “You really think he can help?”
Her handshake is firm. “If anyone can, it’s him.”
Claire
Rangoon, Burma
MARCH 1942
Dr. Claire Drake awakens in stifling heat, her back stiff from lying on the cot that dominates the doctor’s rest room. The radium-lined hands of her Omega Seamaster—a gift from Teddie on their first anniversary—tell her that it is a quarter to five in the afternoon. Before this brief respite, she was awake for twenty consecutive hours.
Head throbbing, she nonetheless stumbles to her feet. Of the eighteen medical officers in Rangoon General, she is the only woman, so it is not enough for her to simply meet the quality of work and industriousness of her male colleagues, but to exceed them significantly. Only then can she be seen as keeping up with the lads. As a woman doctor, she must run to stand still.
She lurches into the hallway. There is no shortage of wounded soldiers; a fresh batch of casualties has arrived from Singapore, which fell just weeks before to the Japanese.
Weaving slightly, she does her rounds in a fog until Nurse Pershing, an ornery Scot who has seen war assignments at both ends of the Empire—Singapore and Tangiers—nearly pushes her out the doors. “Heavens, Doc. You have to go home before you kill some poor lad from Sheffield who picked the wrong day to be shelled by the Japs.”
She heeds the advice, and once outside, rejects the car allotted to her as an officer in favor of fresh air. Her white coat unfastened and flapping over her dress, she walks out to a main road devoid of people and cars other than for the occasional army lorries that zoom by. Rangoon has steadily emptied over the last few weeks as the threat of Japanese invasion has grown. Teddie speculates that it may only be days away now.
Unused to walking home, she orients herself using the golden peak of the Shwedagon Pagoda, the twin spires of St. Mary’s, walks until the gloomy teak expanse of the Pegu Club arises in the distance.
She is on Budd’s Road, which is lined with street stalls that display large pots of oily curries and noodles mere feet from open sewers. Her stomach growls with hunger at the sight, and she finds herself veering close to a stall boasting mounds of translucent noodles garnished with leaves that she cannot identify. The stall owner jumps up, her face alternating between alarm and elation at the potential of a customer of Claire’s stature. The Burmese diners sitting on low wooden stools are more wary. Some scoot out of her way, but none rise or leave.
The stall owner lifts the lids of the pots one by one and sweeps a hand over each with a magician’s flair, revealing in turn braised greens, tea leaf salad, lamb, chicken, and what Claire strongly suspects is curried frog.
“Thank you. That’s alright,” she says, losing her nerve at the last moment. She and Teddie were adventurous with the local cuisine when they first arrived. But they fell ill after a street-side lunch on their second week. Since then, his meals have always been taken at either home or the Pegu Club. But Claire has retained a weakness for Burmese food, particularly for mohinkhar, a unique concoction of rice noodles, fish broth, fried chickpeas and hot peppers. Her ayah, Myint, prepares it daily for her breakfast unless told otherwise.
Today, it is she who meets Claire at the gates of her house. Not yet twenty, Myint’s slim, small-breasted profile is elegant in a green blouse and clinging yellow longyi. Her face, wide and smooth, breaks into a pool of sweetness whenever she smiles.
But her expression today is stern as she ushers Claire inside.
“What are you doing, thakinma? It is dangerous to walk home. Looters everywhere. Robbers. What happened to car?”
Amused, Claire gives her a quick embrace. “Pardon my sweaty clothes, Myint, but it’s lovely to see you as well. I just couldn’t sit in a blasted car after the day I’ve been through. I needed to clear my head.”
“You want clear head? Stay home and clean house like me. I go to hospital and be doctor like you.”
Claire throws her head back and laughs, feeling some of her exhaustion fall away. “I accept! How soon can you begin?”
Despite her amusement, she does not think the offer entirely devoid of merit. Recently, Claire has become convinced that the young woman is wasting her potential as a housekeeper, and has resolved to discuss with the matron at Rangoon General the possibility of enlisting Myint as a junior nurse.
Myint’s father was their gardener before he passed from a heart attack two years before. He was under Claire’s care at Rangoon General on his last day, and he extracted from her a promise to provide employment for his young daughter living in Kalay, who would be orphaned upon his passing, her mother having died at childbirth. Claire kept her word, and with Teddie’s consent, sent for Myint to come work as an ayah. The girl proved a quick study in English, reaching fluency in a year; in addition to keeping their large house spotless, she has become a savant of both Continental and Burmese cooking.
“Were you able to get the pork chops?” Claire asks.
“Difficult. But I get it.”
Claire appreciates the trouble Myint must have gone through. With the run on supplies in Rangoon only intensifying as the Japanese approach the city, meat was a rare find in the markets.
Myint offers to cook the meal, but Claire politely insists on a collaborative effort, the day being Claire and Teddie’s fifth wedding anniversary. So the women slather the meat with salt, black pepper, crushed rosemary and the precious final drops of olive oil bought during a visit to Porto. Toss potatoes into a pot of salted boiling water for the mash.
The lights in the kitchen flicker off at one point, and this close to dusk, the darkness seems to plunge down on them. They light candles, set them on the counters, on the windowsill against the blood-cream sky.
Competing with the scent of broiling meat is that of jasmine, bailey, queen of the night and honeysuckle wafting in through the kitchen window. There are sounds too—from magpies returning from a day’s foraging that alight on the massive rain tree across the street. As the women cook, a particularly large specimen boldly hops down the length of a branch that comes within touching distance of the kitchen window. It fixes Claire with an amber-eyed regard. She steps back and looks for something disposable to toss at the bird. Settling on a potato, she is about to throw it when a hand gently clamps around her wrist.
Her ayah’s face is dark with disapproval. “No, thakinma. They are spirit birds, nats.”
“Fine.” Claire drops her hand. “But they’re such horrid creatures.”
“It is gone. Look.” Myint gestures to the abandoned branch.
Minutes later, assuaged by the bird’s departure and satisfied by the extent of her contributions to the evening’s meal, she departs for a bath.
Their house is a fin de siècle originally built for a British major, but the bathroom is newer, with marble floors and modern fittings that Teddie requested prior to their arrival. In it, she turns the crank so that the large casement window yawns out into the dusk. There are flashes in the distance. The rumble of thunder. A storm is coming to break the sun’s siege at last. Until then, the cool water already drawn in the claw-foot tub must do.
She sinks in and remains until the liquid turns cloudy. She emerges—wrapped in a bathrobe, her hair in a towel—to a house that smells of rosemary pork. The clock on the wall informs her that it i
s half past seven. Teddie will be home soon.
In the kitchen, Myint has already taken the chops out and set them on the counter. Claire melts butter for the potato mash, and is instructing Myint on how to prepare the string beans when there is a sharp knock on the front door.
She opens it to two soldiers, who offer her smart salutes. They are men from Teddie’s company. Claire clutches the front of her bathrobe, hoping that the heat she feels on her face does not show.
“What’s happened? Where’s Colonel Drake?”
“We’re here at his request, madam,” says the taller of the men. He has dark hair and blue eyes. His name, according to the name stitched on his uniform, is Waugh.
“They’ve given the evacuation order,” elaborates the shorter, blonder soldier—Geary. “Colonel Drake is safe. He’s asked us to collect you so you can join him at the train station.”
“The hospital. I’m done with my rounds today, but I have to be there.”
The men step inside. “The hospital staff and patients will be evacuated by ship. You’ll be taking the train with the other officers,” Waugh says.
“I have a duty to my patients.”
“My apologies, madam. I’m only following instructions.”
She bites her lip, overwhelmed by what needs doing. They have been hearing about the Japanese for so long, their exploits, their relentless encroachment on the British Empire that it was easy to think of them as myth. No longer.
“I suggest that we hurry, madam.” Waugh gestures to the eastern hills through the open door. She follows his finger.
When she first saw them from the bathroom window, the flashes in the sky she assumed to be lightning, the rumbles thunder. She realizes now how gravely she was mistaken. Their nightmares are now in the clouds, fighter planes circling them from above like metal vultures.
She sighs. “I don’t suppose we have time for pork chops?”
SHE and Myint have kept their most essential things ready to be packed for weeks. Now the two women rush to prepare. After helping Myint gather her modest belongings into a leather bag, she crams a suitcase with clothes and slings over her shoulder a panic bag that holds her signed first edition Graham Greenes, photographs and jewelry. Waugh and Geary assist, promise that the RAF will do their best to deliver the rest to her afterward.
They run out. No more than ten minutes have passed since the men arrived, but the rumble and flash of the raid is much closer. Sirens shatter the air as bright blooms burst like mustard flowers against the sky.
They pile into the Lanchester parked in the driveway. The men sit in the front. Geary takes the wheel. They hurtle out of the gate and roar down Halpin Road. Turn sharply right at the intersection onto Godwin, the car’s rear wheels screeching and wreathing in smoke. They pass the parade grounds from which panicked crowds stream out pointing at the sky. A heavily pregnant woman slips and falls, vanishes under the stampede in seconds. Claire looks away.
Geary is melded to the steering wheel, untouched by the chaos around him. The Lanchester’s carriage strains and groans as he swerves to avoid hitting the pedestrians who stray into their path. One man is a moment late to move and the car strikes him with a sickening crunch. He spins in the air for what seems an eternity before landing on the footpath, where he lies prone.
Claire and Myint scream in horror but the car does not stop. Claire seizes Waugh’s shoulder and he turns. “We can’t just leave him there. We have to do something.”
Waugh looks her in the eyes, unmoved. “We are doing something, madam. We are taking you to safety.”
They reach the rail station gates, which are locked and barred. British soldiers stand in formation in front, brandishing rifles at the crowds exhorting them to be let in.
The men part to let their car pass. Geary stops the vehicle and displays his identification to a soldier who approaches them.
“Who’re you transporting?” he asks, following a cursory glance at the card.
“Captain Claire Drake, RAMC,” Claire replies.
“She’s a doctor?” The man is incredulous, addressing the question to Geary, then hastily saluting her. “Why isn’t she at the wharves for the medevac?”
“You can speak to me directly, Corporal. I’m neither deaf nor a child. We’re here to join my husband, Colonel Drake.”
The corporal reassesses, then shrugs. “You can go in, but not your girl,” he says, pointing at Myint.
“She’s with me,” Claire speaks with authority. She takes Myint’s hand in hers and finds that it is trembling.
“I can see that, madam. But this isn’t up to you or me to decide.” The man disengages when he sees a commotion up ahead—civilians scuffling with soldiers.
“You blokes make her understand, please,” are his parting words as he rushes toward the crowd.
“She’s not going back,” Claire warns, but when she looks to Waugh for support, he does not meet her eyes. Geary stares straight ahead, fiddling with his identification with one hand, the other on the wheel. The car’s engine still runs, but the gate remains barred.
“We must apologize, madam,” Waugh says, “Geary and I discussed this before arriving at your residence. We decided not to tell you because we thought it might delay us. Time was of the essence.”
“What’re you saying?” she asks even though she knows the answer, has known it all along. She looks back to the crowds. Some are screaming at the soldiers to let them into the station, others are fleeing for shelter.
Some lie on the ground. Unmoving.
Not a single face among them is white.
THEY head to the officers’ cabins at the front of the train. In contrast to the chaos outside, the platform is a showcase of organization and efficiency: soldiers load luggage while officers supervise, their families guided to the cars by solicitous conductors. The wives and children appear frightened but composed, the officers and soldiers tense.
She spots her husband, who wears an army greatcoat despite the heat. She also recognizes the officer next to him. Selwyn. A bachelor, he has visited their house once or twice for supper, but his crass sense of humor and endless thirst for scotch left her unimpressed.
Teddie is tall and handsome, with deep-set gray eyes. He nods to Waugh and Geary, who have carried Claire’s trunk forward.
“What’s the matter?” he asks Claire, seeing her expression.
“You need to tell the soldiers at the gate that Myint will be joining us. She’s waiting there now.”
He moves in close and puts his hands on her shoulders. “Claire, the trains are for His Majesty’s subjects only. This comes down from McLeod himself.”
“We can’t leave her behind, in . . . in this.”
He holds her gaze for a moment, then says. “No. No, of course we won’t.”
He takes Waugh and Geary aside and has a furtive discussion that catches Selwyn’s eye; he drifts close. The group parts to accommodate him.
He soon explodes. “Are you joking, Drake? Just who do you think you are?”
As Teddie struggles to contain him, Selwyn confronts Claire. “Are you behind this nonsense? You think the rest of us like leaving our staff behind? This train would be full of bloody Burmese if we had a choice.”
She does not respond, holds his gaze until he is forced to look away.
Teddie, his face grim, puts a hand on his shoulder. “That’s enough, Selwyn. You will not speak to my wife that way.”
Selwyn shrugs and steps back. “Sorry. Sorry. Just a bit stressed from all this. My apologies to Claire, of course.”
“I’ve had a chat with Waugh and Geary,” Teddie tells her as Selwyn wanders away, lighting a cigarette. “We can’t take Myint with us, but there are separate evacs for soldiers and staff. Waugh and Geary will make sure that she gets on the latter.”
“Are those trains also?”
“Trains for the soldiers. Lorries, cars and whatever else we can spare for the staff.”
“What assurance do we have that she’ll
make it to her village?”
“There are no assurances for any of us.”
“I’m not leaving unless I know she’ll be safe.”
“The best way to guarantee her safety is for her to leave this station as soon as possible.”
“What do you mean?”
“Come with me.”
The platform is now emptying. A group of soldiers sweeps from end to end to ensure that the last of the luggage has been loaded. He leads her to the head of the train, past the engine car so she can witness what lies on the other side—army sappers scurrying with sticks of dynamite, depositing them in strategic corners—along the tracks, by the walls. Once they leave, nothing will be left behind for the Japanese to use.
There is a sound like firecrackers near the gates. Rifle shots, she registers dully. Nausea floods her senses.
Teddie takes her hand. “We need to go, darling.”
DINNER is served in the dining car a half hour after the train begins to move—cabbage soup and pot roast, followed by pink jelly. One officer rescued several bottles of claret from his personal cellar before leaving. They are opened and shared. Claire, who has little appetite, finds herself asking for a second glass, a rare occurrence.
Normally, the men would retreat to the smoking car after dinner while the women stayed behind, but tonight the gravity of the situation binds the sexes together. They remain sitting long after the tables are cleared, the women sucking on boiled sweets, the men, cigars.
Selwyn joins them at their table without asking and acts as though nothing happened on the platform. Teddie tries to catch Claire’s eyes, but she stares straight ahead. She has not spoken a word since they left the station.
Selwyn lights a cigar. Teddie opens the window an inch and the smoke drifts outside. The smudged outlines of Burmese flora rush by against the night sky.
A long journey awaits them. The train will cross Mandalay, the ancient royal capital replete with stupas and palaces, before it reaches Myitkyina, the city where the English summer. From there they will fly to Imphal, only to take yet another train to Chittagong.