by Hazel Gaynor
Everything else, including my plans to return to England, would simply have to wait.
After the short meeting, we returned to our respective classrooms.
I smoothed any signs of worry from my face and walked the eleven steps to the front of the classroom, just as I had yesterday, and the many hundreds of days before that. I tapped my meter rule three times against the desk, and cleared my throat, twice. Routine and discipline sustained me in many ways, but especially on days like this.
The simmering noise of the girls’ chatter fell away as they stood behind their desks, the scraping of chair legs against the floor setting my teeth on edge.
“Good morning, class,” I announced.
“Good morning, Miss Kent.”
Like a well-rehearsed song, there was a distinct harmony and tone to the exchange, but the girls’ response that morning was understandably somber.
“Hands together for prayers.”
When the children had closed their eyes tight, and I was certain nobody was peeping, I crumpled Emperor Hirohito’s declaration into a ball and tossed it into the wastepaper basket beneath my desk. I placed my resignation letter inside the China Inland Mission Bible in my drawer. The pages fell open at Joshua 10:25. Joshua said to them, “Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged. Be strong and courageous.” Not for the first time, I wished the words meant more to me than they did.
I joined the girls in prayer, focusing on the singular truth I’d clung to all these uncertain years: that every decision I made, whether right or wrong, whether people criticized or admired me for my choices, took me closer to the place, and the person, I was meant to be. As the girls’ bright voices filled the classroom, I closed my eyes and absorbed the simple familiarity of the moment: chalk dust on my fingertips, the pool of winter sunlight against my cheek, the sounds of singing and instruction drifting along the corridors. Routine and discipline. The glue holding me together while the world was falling apart.
We were halfway through the Lord’s Prayer when the soldiers arrived.
Chapter 3
Nancy
Our prayer puttered to a stop, and the classroom fell silent.
I opened my eyes and reached up onto my tiptoes to see what all the commotion was beyond the snow-speckled windows: the loud rumble of trucks, raised voices, doors slamming.
Miss Kent followed my gaze, all the color drained from her face. For a moment, the world seemed to stop, unsure of what to do with us next, until Miss Kent clapped her hands and cleared her throat.
“Face the front, children,” she instructed. “It appears our new rulers have arrived. But that’s no excuse for incomplete prayers. Start again, please. Our Father . . .”
But another loud noise outside pulled everyone’s attention back to the window. The low winter sun glinted against steel helmets and short swords that hung from belts. Khaki-colored jodhpur-like trousers ballooned over the tops of glossy knee-high boots that stamped roughly across the fresh snow. I was too shocked to do anything but stare. It wasn’t the soldiers themselves that was so shocking—we’d seen them plenty of times before—it was the fact that they were here, in our school, trampling all over Wei Huan’s lovely flower beds.
“They’re spoiling everything!” The words came out before I could stop them. I clapped my hand over my mouth and glanced at Miss Kent, expecting a reprimand. When none came, I added, “Wei Huan will be so upset. They’re squashing the China roses. His favorites.”
Miss Kent started us off in the Lord’s Prayer again. I squeezed my eyes shut, swallowed hard, and pressed my knees together to stop them from shaking.
“Our Father, Who art in Heaven . . .”
There was an unusual wobble to Miss Kent’s voice. Even when we joined in, our combined voices couldn’t drown out the noise that was now coming from all directions. As we reached the part where we forgive those who trespass against us, an almighty commotion started up in the corridor outside the classroom. I opened my eyes a fraction and glanced at the door.
“For Thine is the kingdom,” Miss Kent continued, raising her voice another level until we joined her in the final words.
“The power and the glory, For ever and ever. Amen.”
A long pause circled the classroom as we waited to see what would happen next.
Miss Kent stood at the front of the room, her cheeks as pale as chalk dust. I couldn’t remember the classroom ever being so quiet. Even Sprout was silent. She’d recently returned from a spell in the San with instructions to take Nurse Prune’s awful cough medicine. I glanced toward the door again as another loud bang came from the corridor, closer this time. Any moment now they would burst in, I was sure of it. Agnes started to cry, which set off Winnie, and then Elsie beside her. I looked at Mouse, who stared at the floor. At the back of the room, Sprout smothered a cough with her hand.
“You can sit down,” Miss Kent announced, finally finding her voice. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
Miss Kent rarely smiled in the classroom so I knew the smile she gave us that morning was the sort of “we must be brave” smile adults use when they’re trying to pretend something awful isn’t happening. As I smiled back at her, the classroom door flew open, swung roughly back on its hinges, and banged against the bookcase, which fell forward with an almighty thud, spilling its books everywhere as two soldiers marched through the door. Their long boots squeaked against the polished floor as they positioned themselves on either side of Miss Kent’s desk, their dark eyes fixed on the wall at the back of the classroom where the map of the British Empire hung below a painting of King George VI. A third, older man arrived and stood stiffly in the doorway.
“School is now the property of Emperor Hirohito,” he barked. “I am Commander Hayashi. You obey my orders. All children. Come.” He waved a heavy-looking bamboo stick in the direction of the corridor.
We all looked at Miss Kent.
“Form a neat line beside the wall, girls,” she instructed, her voice as steady and calm as if she were about to lead us out to the bay for a spot of exercise.
We did as we were told. Nobody said a word.
With one soldier at the front of our line, and one bringing up the rear, we filed out of the classroom. I stared at the world map as I passed it, remembering how I’d borrowed Edward’s atlas before we left England and traced my fingertip around China’s vast coastline, wondering what it would be like to live somewhere as mysterious and exotic as the Far East. I’d seen so little of the real China, the China beyond the missionary and school compound walls, that I still didn’t know the answer. As Commander Hayashi marched ahead, leading us to the assembly hall, I wondered if I ever would.
Most of the other children were already gathered in the hall by the time we arrived. I looked around for Edward and was relieved to see him with his friend Larry and some other boys. I waved when I thought he was looking, but he didn’t wave back. I let my hand fall to my side, embarrassed for having waved at all.
“I don’t think he saw you,” Sprout whispered as she squeezed my hand encouragingly. “Connie never waves when she sees me. She doesn’t like to be seen with her little sister now that she’s all grown up and wears a brassiere.”
I told her to shush before she got into trouble for talking.
“Wait here,” Commander Hayashi ordered. He pointed his bamboo stick at us and then at the soldiers guarding the door. “Guards see everything.”
“What an awful man,” Sprout said when he’d gone. “You come here. You wait there.”
Her imitation of him made some of the girls giggle nervously.
Miss Kent overheard, and was quick to scold.
“I do not want to hear such insolence again, Dorothy. Not from any of you,” she snapped. I’d never seen her so cross. “We will show the soldiers the same courtesy and respect we would show any visitor to the school. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Miss,” we chorused.
“Good. Now, sit down in a circle. Nancy will start you of
f in a game of ‘I Went to the Shops.’ I’ll be back in a moment.”
She crossed the hall to speak to some of the other teachers as I started us off in the memory game, but nobody could concentrate on the shopping list we tried to memorize. We only got as far as onions, sausages, buttons, and blue wool before Winnie got in a terrible muddle and couldn’t even remember onions. She started to cry, which made me want to cry, too. I bit my lip to stop myself.
Miss Kent soon returned to explain that Japanese Shinto priests wished to perform a ceremony at the sports field. “They would like us all to wait here until the ceremony is done. Then I’m sure we’ll be able to return to our classrooms.” She fiddled with the St. Christopher that hung from a slim gold chain at her neck. “How about a few rounds of ‘This Little Light of Mine’ and ‘Little Peter Rabbit’ while we wait?”
The songs distracted us for a while, and when we’d finished, the Latin master from the Boys’ School led us all in a rendition of “Jerusalem.” I thought it rather brave to sing something so patriotic, but the guards at the door hardly seemed to care and didn’t stop us. Like a perfectly hemmed seam, our voices fit neatly together, boys and girls, teachers and children, all stitched together as one. When we sang, it felt as if nothing could harm us, so we kept singing, one song after another, until we were nearly hoarse and the younger children grew fidgety and tired.
“Are you frightened?” Sprout whispered as we played a game of cat’s cradle with a piece of wool she’d found in her pocket.
“A bit,” I admitted. “Are you?”
She nodded as we moved our fingers to make the intricate patterns from the wool. “A bit.”
Despite the teachers assuring us there was nothing to worry about, it was impossible not to be wary with stern-looking soldiers guarding the door and others marching about outside and shouting commands and instructions at each other. It was all so different from the usual calm routine.
Sprout lowered her voice and grabbed my hand. “But imagine what a story we’ll have to tell when we’re rescued. We’ll be famous Chefusians, like the children who were captured by Chinese pirates on their way to school a few years ago.”
“I’d rather not be a famous Chefusian,” I said with a sigh. “I’d much rather be spending Christmas in the Western Hills with my parents.”
I wondered what my father would say when he heard the school had been overrun by “the Japs,” as he called them. He certainly didn’t have anything nice to say about them whenever I’d heard him discussing the Sino-Japanese war with Edward.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that we shouldn’t even have been at the school when war and the soldiers arrived. We should have been with our parents, wrapping Christmas gifts and singing carols. It made it all seem so much worse.
* * *
The morning dragged on. We waited for hours in the cold assembly hall and still the headmaster didn’t come to tell us it had all been a mistake and we could return to our classrooms and carry on as normal. Several of us also needed to use the toilet rather urgently. Miss Kent told those of us who couldn’t hold it any longer to follow her.
“The children need to use the conveniences,” she announced to the taller of the two guards. Miss Kent looked especially short beside him. I noticed how she held her head high to add an inch or two. “The. Toilet.” She pointed at us, enunciating her words slowly and clearly, as grown-ups do when they’re not sure the other person understands.
The soldier looked at us without moving a muscle. We stared back, jiggling about like tadpoles, all of us bursting. He eventually seemed to comprehend the situation and waved us along.
“Hurry,” he said as Miss Kent shepherded us past, making sure to stand between him and us. “Quick, quick.”
I stared at his sword as we marched past.
In the girls’ toilets, notices in Japanese writing had been stuck to the sinks, the mirrors, the doors, even to the bar of soap. We all spent a penny as quickly as we could and followed Miss Kent back to the assembly hall. We passed a soldier who was sticking more notices to the classroom doors and to trophy cabinets along the corridor.
“What is he doing, Miss?” I whispered.
“They’re taking what is not rightfully theirs, Nancy,” Miss Kent replied, stiffly. “But we won’t stand in their way. They are, after all, only things. They can’t put a notice on us, can they?”
As we passed Miss Butterworth’s classroom, Miss Kent stopped suddenly. The door was broken at the hinge and I could hear a soldier shouting orders inside.
“You can jolly well shout all you like, young man, but you will not place one of your notices on my desk.”
I recognized Miss Butterworth’s voice, although it sounded strained, and much louder than usual.
I knew I shouldn’t look. Like the blind beggar who’d died at the end of our street in Shanghai, I knew that if Mummy were there, she would tell me to cover my eyes and look away. “There are some things little girls aren’t meant to see, darling. Best not to look.” But the temptation to peer into the classroom was too great. I looked, and immediately wished I hadn’t. I saw the soldier raise his arm. I saw him punch Miss Butterworth in the face. I heard the clatter of books and chairs as she stumbled backward and hit her head against the edge of the desk. And I heard the panic and fear in Miss Kent’s voice as she ran forward, screaming at the soldier. “Stop! Stop it! Leave her alone, you brute!”
Despite the many things I couldn’t understand that morning, I knew, with absolute certainty, that in those few horrible minutes, everything had changed. It didn’t matter that we were a Christian missionary school, or that our fathers were well respected and our mothers well dressed. In the end, our fathers’ occupations, our nice homes and clothes, the language we spoke and the color of our skin, didn’t make any difference. We were at war now. Chinese, British, American, Dutch—we were all the same.
We were the enemy.
Chapter 4
Elspeth
The soldier stared at Minnie, who was huddled in a lifeless heap on the floor. He laughed, kicked a book out of the way, and bent down to where I was crouched beside her—part nurse, part shield. He angled his face toward mine. I flinched at his nearness and prepared for the worst.
He placed his notice slowly, deliberately, on the desk.
“This desk now belongs to the Japanese emperor,” he whispered, his mouth so close to my ear that I could feel the nauseating warmth of his breath against my skin. “This school now belongs to the Japanese emperor.” The cold menace in his words turned my stomach. “What is your name?” he asked.
Minnie groaned and tried to sit up. I told her to stay still.
“Your name!” he shouted, his question now an order; his language clipped and terse.
“Elspeth,” I replied, desperately trying to conceal the tremor in my voice. “My name is Elspeth Kent. And yours?”
He smirked, either impressed or insulted by my response, I couldn’t tell. “Trouble,” he replied. “You can call me Trouble, Elizabeth Kent.”
“Elspeth,” I corrected. “Elspeth Kent.”
He burst into a sneering laugh as he stood up and kicked another book out of the way. “Elspeth Kent,” he repeated, mocking my British accent as he stalked from the room like a satisfied lion after a kill. “Elspeth Kent.”
“He’s gone, Minnie,” I said as I helped her sit up. Her lip was bloodied and horribly swollen. “It’s all right. He’s gone now.”
“Don’t let the children see,” she whispered. Her eyes were full of pain and fear and humiliation. “Not like this. Take them back to the hall.”
The girls were crowded around the broken door, too horrified to speak, too shocked to look away. It was typical of Minnie to think of everybody else. The selflessness of the gesture nearly broke me. I blinked away my tears, determined not to let the girls see how afraid or upset I was. Nor Minnie, for that matter.
“I can’t leave you,” I said. “I’ll send Nancy to fetch someone
.”
“No, Els. Take them back. Please.”
Despite my reluctance to leave her alone, I knew she was right. I propped her against the wall and folded my cardigan to make a pillow for her to rest her head against.
“You’re to stay right there,” I said.
“I can’t go very far, can I?” she replied, nodding toward the corridor, where soldiers were prowling up and down.
“I’ll be as quick as I can,” I promised.
“Els,” she whispered, as I stood up. “Is it very bad?”
I shook my head, although it was. I wrapped my hands around hers. “You’ll live. I’ll fetch some ice for the swelling. Don’t move.”
It was a very subdued group of children I shepherded back along the corridors. I was glad of their silence, relieved to be spared the difficult questions that were inevitably thundering through their minds and for which I had no reasonable answers. Everything was happening and changing too fast, and there was no time to gather my thoughts.
The four girls were keen to share the awful news about Miss Butterworth with the others. The story quickly developed from one soldier to two, and from a punch in the face to a barrage of bamboo sticks, and a raised sword. The girls had poor Minnie practically dead by the time I’d explained to Eleanor Yarwood what had actually happened.
“I ought to get back to her,” I said as I glanced at the door. “I hate to leave her.”
The young teacher urged me to go. “Will Almena . . . be all right?” she whispered.
“I’m sure she’s had better days, and she must have got a terrible fright, but she’ll be fine when I’ve patched her up and she’s had some rest,” I assured her. I hoped I sounded more certain than I was.
Eleanor Yarwood nodded. She knew I was trying to make the best of a bad situation and didn’t press for more.