“Chin’s cargo can’t be that important. There’s no reason to stay here.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to go to India?” I asked Lady Jane one last time. “It might be safer.”
“I’m positive,” she said quickly. “I’m not welcome there.”
I felt sorry for her. Her whole life had collapsed, all within a few short weeks. And now the Japanese were stealing the island an inch at a time, destroying everything in their path and squeezing the Allied armies into an ever dwindling footprint. Our escape was jeopardized; our lives were at risk. The next twenty-four hours would be critical. We all knew it. Even if none of us said it.
The chandelier shook, specks of plaster drifting from the ceiling. The great guns of Singapore were firing at the enemy. A moment later, the air raid siren wailed, dwarfing the cannons, and the drone of aircraft buzzed overhead. The taproom emptied as patrons hastily made their way to the bomb shelter.
I guided Lady Jane down the steps. Thomas followed, a bottle of gin in his hand. We went to the far wall and made ourselves as comfortable as we could, listening to the distant rumbling of war. We talked for a while, discussing our escape, but after an hour had elapsed Thomas became reflective and thoughtful, finding his gin more interesting than those around him.
Lady Jane, no longer in the mood for conversation, reached into her handbag and withdrew two books. She began reading the first,Murder on Mount Kilimanjaro. I wondered if the murder mysteries were part of a series by the same author. She seemed to have an unlimited supply, digesting one every few days. She laid the second book on the floor. I looked at the title:Florence During the Renaissance.
I think we were numb to the danger. It was ever present, never more than a minute away. But life had to go on, and it did. The city still functioned: clerks sold, chefs cooked, reverends preached, and children played. But they did so with an ever-growing shadow looming over them, like night about to swallow the day.
The bombing lasted for hours. Not like the short, intense attack on the day I arrived, but a steady pounding by shot and shell, cannon and craft. The attack was distant, but steady, and the rhythm was only occasionally interrupted by the sound of an aircraft whizzing overhead. It was sometime after midnight when the bombing ceased. After several minutes of silence, the siren sounded to signal the end of the attack and those in the shelter made their way up the steps. They were quiet and subdued, anxiously awaiting information. It arrived shortly, passing through the crowd like a bullet. The Japanese had launched another attack, invading the island from the west.
CHAPTER 11
I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling as the night slowly passed. I couldn’t stop thinking about the escape, the dangers wrapped around it, and its diminishing chances for success. The Japanese had attacked from both the northwest and the west. They occupied Ubin Island to the northeast, and if those troops attacked as well, the island would be sandwiched into submission. Then any chance of leaving would vanish. I thought about my colleagues in theTimes office who had already gone, and Alistair Duncan, now on his way to India. We hadn’t planned our exit in time; we shouldn’t have waited for the forged passports. They couldn’t be that important. If the Japanese surrounded Singapore, Chin wouldn’t be able to avoid them. What would we do then?
My thoughts wandered to Lady Jane. I felt sorry for her, but there was nothing I could do to help her. There was no way to ease her pain. I could be her friend and provide a sympathetic ear. But I couldn’t undo what had already been done.
I wondered what had motivated her. Was it strictly her love for Balraj Patel? Or had she come to Singapore to escape something worse, to borrow a phrase from Thomas. Maybe her rebellious streak sparked her flight. But I knew, for an action that drastic, there had to have been a catalyst, and I didn’t think Balraj Patel was it.
Thomas was attracted to her. And I think the feeling was mutual. Maybe romance was blooming now that Balraj Patel had walked out of her life. I felt a tinge of jealousy thinking about them together. I was attracted to her too. Then I felt pangs of guilt. I should have been thinking about Maggie. So I did.
I remembered the time Maggie found a puppy, a sleep-eyed bulldog tucked in an alley off Whitehall Street. He was lost or abandoned, and she insisted we take him home. We stopped along the way to buy food and toys and a little cushioned bed, and then put a notice in the newspaper stating that a lost dog had been found. When no rightful owner came forth, we eagerly adopted him. Maggie had decided that the bulldog closely resembled the English monarch Henry the Eighth, so that became his name. Before I left London the dog and I were inseparable, just like Maggie and I once were. He was with my sister now, but I thought of him often, especially when reminded of Maggie’s sense of humor. Who else could imagine that a dog and a king resembled each other?
I got out of bed when dawn colored the sky a burning amber hue. I had little packing to do. I was so terrified of the Japanese that I had never unpacked. I carefully separated my money between my wallet, a pocket, and each suitcase. Then in the event of theft or a lost suitcase, I wouldn’t lose everything. I also had a stack of bearer bonds theTimesoffice had provided for my living expenses. Before leaving my room, I knelt down and rested my elbows on the bed.
“Dear Lord, please guide our delivery to a safe harbor, and please give me the strength to endure the journey and to be brave when I must be. Amen.”
I entered the lobby around 8 a.m. and found it full, packed with panicked people checking out of the hotel, waiting to leave, or wanting to leave. There were only so many ways to get off the island. The airport was threatened by the Japanese, eliminating flight except by small cargo planes like Chin’s. But the enemy had yet to conquer the seas, which left a limited number of ships with an overabundance of people. The chaos in the lobby symbolized the panic that consumed the entire island.
The room was filled with conversation, casual and controlled, frantic and anxious, by people coming and going at a rapid rate. Others waited, scanning the newspaper, which was probably the last local edition available, or reading magazines. Still more hoped for a miracle, a British victory.
I waited in line at the registration desk, checked out, and then started pacing the floor, waiting for the others. I studied the people. Everyone seemed rushed, all in a hurry to go nowhere. Luggage was stacked near the door and propped against the wall, filling all unused space in the room. I glanced out the doors and saw cars, taxis, and rickshaws cramming the circular drive that led to the lobby entrance, picking up departing passengers. I wondered where they were all going.
Thomas arrived a few minutes later. He wore rugged outdoor clothing, dark blue in color with a matching peasant’s cap. He hadn’t shaved probably for a day or so, and he had the beginnings of a beard. A half-smoked cigar, harsher than his aromatic pipe, dangled from his lips, and a white duffel bag was slung over his shoulder. He eyed the people rushing to check out, hurrying to escape, and trying to find passage to anywhere, but he didn’t seem concerned. It was almost as if he’d expected it.
“Where’s Lady Jane?” he asked. He dropped his bag on the floor beside my luggage.
“She hasn’t come down yet.”
He went and stood in line to check out. Five minutes later, he returned and sat beside me. After a final glance at the chaos in the room, he reached into his duffel bag and removed a book. Within seconds he was engrossed in the pages.
I looked at the title on the spine:Social Stratification of the Indian Subcontinent. I was startled. The book belonged to Lady Jane. I wondered when he had borrowed it. I certainly wasn’t present when he did. How much time were they spending together?
I didn’t want to dwell on what Thomas and Lady Jane may or may not be doing, so I decided to interview some of the guests. I wanted to know if they were as scared as I was and if they thought their escape would be successful. I was curious to see if they were residents of Singapore or visitors. And why did they come here to begin with.
I went over to a young woman, probabl
y in her early twenties, a cute Caucasian with red hair and freckles. A little girl, an exact replica of her mother, clung to her knee. She waited anxiously by the door, studying each taxi that pulled in front of the hotel, looking for the one that would whisk her away on the next leg of her journey. She was a bit frantic, wide-eyed and pale, and her eyes were moist. She was probably trying to be brave so she didn’t frighten her daughter.
“Are you a resident?” I asked.
“Oh, no,” she said. “I’m Australian. My daughter and I came to see her father. He’s in the army, stationed on the west coast. We finally got a chance to see him the day before yesterday. Then the invasion came, and now I don’t know what has happened to him. I hope he’s all right.” She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief and whispered to me so her daughter couldn’t hear. “I know it was stupid to come, but we didn’t know when we’ll see him again.”
“How are you traveling?”
“We booked passage on a freighter,” she said. “I was lucky. It only takes a few dozen people. I just hope we make it home. And I hope my husband does too. I hate to even think of what might happen to him.”
“Have faith,” I said, stealing a phrase from my father the minister. “I’m sure he’ll be fine. Have a safe journey.”
I walked away, my heart heavy. The toll on the families and friends of front-line soldiers was unimaginable, almost unthinkable. I looked back at the young wife who might never see her husband again, the young daughter who may never know her father, and I felt a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach. I had seen the fear in their faces, their futures uncertain, dreams delayed. I wondered how many more were just like them, how many others in the lobby were leaving loved ones behind.
I made my way to an elderly gentleman dressed in a handsome suit with a broad-brimmed hat. “Excuse me, sir. Are you a resident?”
“Sort of,” he said. “I live here several months a year. I stay at the hotel. I never thought the Japanese would invade. I didn’t think His Majesty’s troops would let them. They wouldn’t in my day, I can tell you that.”
“How are you getting out?”
“By ship, along with most of the others. I’m told five vessels are leaving today, but only two or three more after that. You need to get out too.”
“Where are you going?”
“Home.”
“And where is that, sir?”
“London. And I can’t wait to get there.”
I felt my heart sink, depression washing over me like a tidal wave. I wished I was going home. “Good luck to you, sir. And have a safe journey.”
I thought about London, and realized how empty I was without it. Just to stroll along the Thames, or walk through Hyde Park, or gaze upon the unbelievable architecture of Victoria Station, would be such an enviable treasure.
And then there was my family. My mother, who was sweet and considerate, kind and compassionate. And my father, the stern and staid Protestant minister, at least on the exterior. But on the inside, he got teary eyed watching a movie, emotional reading a good book. He might deceive his congregation, but he had never fooled me. My sister Angie was an interesting mix of mom and dad, and her husband Tom, was an executive with the electric company. And then there was my dog Henry the Eighth, temporarily residing with my sister. I missed them. I missed London. And I missed Maggie.
Lady Jane came down the stairs a few minutes later, looking tired and drawn. There were black circles under her eyes, and an anguish seemed to consume her. She dressed casually, wearing dark pants and a beige blouse, and her blond hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail. She carried two leather suitcases. I was worried about her. I didn’t want her hurt; I didn’t like to see her sad.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” she said. “I overslept. I had a difficult time sleeping last night.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Thomas said. “Chin won’t leave without us.”
“Did you borrow your friend’s car?” I asked.
“No,” Thomas said. “The best I could manage was an old wagon.”
“How did you find that?” I asked.
“The driver was delivering fruit to the hotel yesterday. I asked if he would take us to Chin’s. He agreed.”
“I hope he shows up,” Lady Jane said. “I can’t wait to leave.”
“He’s already here,” Thomas said. “He’s parked just past the third taxi, next to the rickshaw that the woman and her daughter are climbing into.”
It was the lady I had just interviewed. She had made her exit from the Victoria Hotel. Now she was escaping Singapore. And hopefully, someday, her husband would join her.
“Let’s get our bags and get going,” Thomas continued. “Can I carry something for you, Lady Jane?”
She forced a smile. “No, thank you. I can manage.”
On the street beyond sat an old wagon pulled by two slouched mares. Anchored in the driver’s seat was an elderly Asian whose hair, mustache, and goatee were as white as the clouds. His eyes were a pale blue, and they twinkled mischievously as he watched us approach. I suspected he was at least ninety years old, and I seriously doubted he had the strength to manage the wagon. Actually, once I saw the wrinkles etched upon his weathered face, I was surprised he was even alive.
Thomas tossed his duffel bag into the back. “I know it’s not the best, but not much is available. Throw on your luggage and we’ll get going.”
We each took one of Lady Jane’s bags and placed them behind the driver’s seat. I put mine next to hers.
“Would you like to sit next to the driver?” Thomas asked her.
“No, you go ahead,” she said. “I’ll sit in the back with George.” She smiled at me. It was a weak smile, masked by sadness, but I liked it anyway.
Thomas climbed up front while I helped Lady Jane get into the back. We were just about to depart when the whistle of the air-raid siren interrupted our plans. I helped Lady Jane back down and guided her to the shelter. I glanced at Thomas, who was slowly climbing down from the wagon, assisting the elderly owner.
“Thomas! Hurry!” I said.
I was anxious as I entered the bomb shelter; I didn’t know how much longer we could avoid disaster. So far we had endured the attacks with no harm, except for Thomas’s mishap in the taproom, but that was unlikely to continue. The assault might last for hours, as it had the prior evening. We would never get out in time to meet Chin. If the Japanese invaded the eastern half of the island, we would never get away.
Thomas ambled in a few moments later, among the last to enter, engaged in an animated conversation with our driver. They sat beside us, the discussion continuing. Unfortunately they spoke Mandarin, and neither Lady Jane nor I had the slightest clue what they said. Thomas acted as if he had known the man his entire life, the discussion was so congenial. That was another quality of his that I admired: the ability to talk to anyone about anything, regardless of social status, creed or color. I decided then that I would strive to behave the same way.
The air raid was brief, lasting less than fifteen minutes. The bombing must have occurred in a distant part of the city, since we’d barely heard rumbles from the explosions. Once the attack ended and the all clear sounded, Thomas and his companion were the first to leave. They were waiting at the wagon by the time Lady Jane and I emerged.
We started down Orchard Road, moving in an easterly direction past a mile of family-owned shops, maneuvering among cars, bicycles, rickshaws and pedestrians . I looked back at the Victoria Hotel, premier lodging of Southeast Asia, and the Raffles Café, my sanctuary from the war that provided memories of London, and fondly remembered my discussions with Mr. Hyde. The mares trudged onward, and even the peak of the capital building, some six blocks from the hotel, grew distant in the background. After negotiating a series of turns and moving through blocks of well-maintained Chinese tenements, I had completely lost my sense of direction.
As our journey progressed, the skill of our driver, so suspect at the outset, became apparent. I soon realized t
hat he was very spry. Maneuvering the wagon required little of his attention, which allowed him to continue his conversation with Thomas.
We had traveled about thirty minutes when we saw a tiny wagon pulled by an ox that had stopped on the opposite side of a broad boulevard. It was perched beside a roadside fruit stand while its driver, a woman of about thirty, sat facing the wagon. In the back, a young girl, no more than five or six years old, sang and danced. Her arms and legs moved in tandem, displaying both her talent and coordination, and her voice mimicked that of a practiced vocalist with years of experience. She sang an upbeat, cheerful tune, a coordinated tap dance providing the rhythm that accompanied it, much to the amusement of a small crowd who had gathered to watch. We also stopped and, even though we were some distance away, we were able to enjoy the show.
The brief interlude was moving; the girl seemed to symbolize so much naivety and innocence that for a few joyful moments the war and all its horrors slowly faded, dissipating like the fog on a rainy day. We were all smiling and laughing, clapping our hands and singing along, joining a dozen others in celebrating life.
The whine of the bomb was unexpected. The whistle it made offered no warning. We would never know which cannon it had come from. But somehow, with sudden and absolute finality, the shell exploded, shrouding the street in a mist of disaster.
CHAPTER 12
We leapt from the wagon, our mares whinnying and stomping their hooves in the street while we took shelter in the stairwell entrance to a basement laundry. It offered some protection but not from a direct hit. We all stood there, trembling, our breath coming in anxious gasps.
A minute passed. Two. There were no more whistles or whines, no hints of arriving bombs or exploding shells. Tentatively, we peeked from our hiding place and surveyed the landscape.
The fruit stand lay in fragments, splinters of wood and pulp scattered about the road. The wagon was damaged, the axle broken, one wheel lying flat on the ground. The ox was dead, laying by the side of the road, maimed and disfigured, its blood staining the street. People lay scattered beside the wagon, crying and bleeding. Some were motionless.
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