by Hazel Gaynor
I drifted in and out of sleep and heard whispers and footsteps intermittently throughout the night until I eventually fell asleep and dreamed about the sunflower we’d left behind at Chefoo School. In my dream, I watered it and took care of it as best I could, but no matter what I did, it withered and wilted until its sunny face drooped to the ground where it shriveled up to nothing, and the birds pecked at the seeds and flew away with them, dropping them over the school walls.
When I woke in the morning, Sprout’s mattress was empty.
Pulling my coat around my shoulders, I crept downstairs to find Miss Kent and Miss Butterworth sharing a pot of tea, both of them pale-faced and still in their nightdresses. Miss Butterworth had rollers in her hair.
Miss Kent walked over to me. “Is everything all right, Nancy? You’re up early.”
“Where’s Sprout, Miss?” I asked. “I mean, Dorothy? She isn’t in her bed.”
“She had a rather bad night I’m afraid. She’s in the San. Nurse Eve is taking good care of her.”
“Can I see her?”
Miss Kent looked at Miss Butterworth, who raised her eyebrows in an “I don’t know” sort of way.
“Let me check with Nurse Eve first thing after breakfast. If Dorothy is a little brighter this morning, I’m sure she would like to see you.”
I trudged back upstairs to the loft, where Mouse was also awake.
“Where were you? And where’s Sprout?” she asked. “Is everything all right?”
I shook my head and sat down beside her. “I don’t think everything’s all right at all, Mouse. She’s in the San again. Miss Kent wouldn’t say very much, but I think she’s really quite poorly this time.”
Mouse looked at me, eyes wide as she spoke in a thin whisper. “You don’t think . . . You don’t think she might die?” She stared at me as she held my hand. “Do you?”
I nodded, unable to speak my worst fears out loud.
Without saying a word, Mouse wrapped her bedsheets around me, and then she wrapped her arms around me and we sat together, huddled in a tight cocoon as we watched the autumn sun rise over the distant mountains.
Chapter 19
Elspeth
September 1943
I’m proud of us, Almena Butterworth,” I said as we walked back from chapel. The sun was shining and I was in an unusually optimistic mood.
“Elspeth Kent? Proud! Goodness! We must celebrate immediately.” Minnie smiled.
“I’m not that bad, am I?”
“Yes, dear Elspeth. You are. So what has you all cheery?”
“It’s just that we’re all still here, still making a good go of things; still talking to one another. I’d say that’s worth admiring, wouldn’t you?”
“Absolutely,” she agreed. “And you’re right, you know. We’re doing ever so well, the children especially. They’re really quite remarkable.”
They certainly were resilient little things. No matter what we threw at them, they got on with it.
“I envy their innocence sometimes,” I said. “Their lack of understanding of what this all means.”
“I think they understand more than we know,” Minnie replied. “But, you’re right. Children don’t deal in consequences. They have a wonderful capacity for living in the now, while we’re forever imagining the worst, and ‘what-iffing.’”
As we approached the end of our second year under Japanese oppression, I’d learned that there was little benefit to continually worrying about what lay ahead. What was the point? We had no control over our destiny. The best we could do was enjoy any brighter moments when they arrived, however brief they might be. I’d also learned that every situation, no matter how bleak it might seem, always had the potential to improve, and so it had proven to be with our move to Temple Hill. A year after our weary arrival, our group was managing well. The children had settled into the school routine nicely, and we had an efficient system in place for the day-to-day management of domestic arrangements. We’d made an unfamiliar, hostile place feel like home. We’d survived and endured, when everything had conspired to see us fail.
But my mood darkened as we passed the hospital.
“I think I’ll check in on Dorothy,” I said.
Minnie placed her hand on my arm. “I doubt there’ll be much change from this morning. Why not leave it to the nurses and have a sit-down for once.”
She already knew my answer.
I made my way to Dorothy’s room, but, as Minnie had predicted, there was little change.
“She’s comfortable, but still running a fever,” Nurse Eve confirmed. She saw the concern on my face as I looked at the child, who, mercifully, was sleeping and at least looked peaceful. “Try not to worry, Elspeth. We’ll make sure she’s comfortable. Rest and kindness are the best remedies for her now.”
But I did worry. I worried all the way back to the house, where I found Minnie setting up the gramophone player.
“I thought it might take your mind off things,” she said as she took a record from its sleeve, set it onto the player, and carefully lowered the needle.
Charlie had given us the gramophone player after finding it in the basement of the boys’ house. Fortunately, Minnie had been silly enough to pack her collection of sixpenny records, bought from Woolworth’s before she’d left England, so we had everything we needed to add a little musical interlude to our days. The scratch of the needle as it connected with the grooves on the record made us both smile.
“See?” Minnie said as the first bars of music struck up. “Music is the best cure.”
Since Charlie’s discovery, we’d got into the habit of playing records for a precious hour of relaxation each week, an hour during which we forgot about everything else and let ourselves become gloriously lost in the music of dance bands and military bands. “Goodnight Sweetheart,” “Easter Parade,” and “Cheek to Cheek” from Top Hat were our favorites. Our musical interludes beside the gramophone were a balm; a reminder that life was full of beauty, and that a gentle waltz or a rousing band number could do wonders for one’s sense of hope and determination. Minnie was right. It did take my mind off things, if only for a little while.
But like a dressing placed over a grazed knee, show bands and symphonies concealed the wounds of war only temporarily, and the next cruel reminder that we were in a precarious and dangerous situation was never far away.
On a cool September morning, almost exactly a year after we’d arrived at Temple Hill, and after an especially grim breakfast of watery porridge, and even more watery tea made from six-day-old leaves, Charlie asked if he might have a quiet word. Alone.
I left the girls in charge of washing up the breakfast dishes, reminding them not to leave the soap in the water.
“We’re down to the last few bars,” I told Charlie as we stepped outside. “And to think we used to rub naughty children’s toothbrushes in it to wash their mouths out after being caught using bad language. It’s far too precious now to waste on reprimands.”
I always talked too much around Charlie. Minnie was right when she said he made me come over all silly, and his easy brooding silence only made me natter on all the more.
Once we were safely away from prying young ears, he began to explain why he’d wanted to talk to me.
“I’m afraid I’ve had some rather upsetting news concerning a former servant at Chefoo School. The gardener. Wei Huan.”
It was such a long time since I’d heard his name spoken that I was a little taken aback.
“Wei Huan? Is he in difficulty?” I swallowed hard and prepared myself for the worst.
“Since leaving the school, he’s been staying in the Temple Hill area with his family,” Charlie explained. “He saw us arrive, and suspected we would be short on supplies. You might not be aware,” he continued, “but Wei Huan has been working with some of the male staff to send additional food in to us.”
“Gosh. How brave of him.”
I smiled as I fondly remembered the kind, gentle man who’d
been so patient with the children and who had given me the parcel of sunflower seeds, but my smile faded as I thought about the haunted expression on his face as he’d stolen from the school supplies.
“It was indeed brave,” Charlie continued. “An act of admirable loyalty, but not without risk.”
He paused.
“What is it? Charlie?”
“I’m afraid he was caught smuggling eggs and milk over the wall. We believe one of the guards tricked Wei Huan into his confidence, and betrayed his trust.”
I felt sick to my stomach. “What happened to him?”
“The guard who caught him has been promoted in rank. The one who calls himself Trouble.” I stiffened at his name. “Wei Huan, I’m sorry to say, was beaten in front of his family and other local farmers,” Charlie continued. “I don’t know what his condition is now, but it is clear he was being used to teach a lesson to those who sympathize with enemy nationals.”
It was the most upsetting and awful news, a chilling reminder that those who disobeyed the rules would pay the price.
“And his wife? Shu Lan? Did you hear any news of her?”
He shook his head. “All I know is that they were married in the spring, but she has already traveled north, to Weihsien, with other members of the family. Wei Huan’s mother is unwell, so they couldn’t make the journey together.”
Our conversation was interrupted by the headmaster.
“Emergency staff meeting,” he said. “Quick as you can.”
I looked at Charlie. “Whatever now?”
He shrugged. “We’d better go and find out.”
We made our way to the school building where all the Chefoo School staff were already gathered.
“I’m just back from a meeting with Major Kosaka,” Mr. Collins announced. He looked exhausted, and serious. “I’m afraid it’s not good news. We are to be moved again.”
A gasp of shock and disbelief passed around the room.
I clasped my hands together, my nails pressing into my skin.
Minnie’s hands fell to her sides. “And just when we were making a good fist of things here.”
The headmaster’s shoulders slumped as he continued. “I know you’d all hoped we would remain here until we were liberated, but that is not to be the case.”
“Do you know where we’re going?” Charlie asked.
“I wasn’t told, but I have my suspicions.” Mr. Collins paused. “As you all know, large groups of enemy nationals have been moved to so-called Civilian Assembly Centers in Shanghai. Those farther north have been taken to a center in Weihsien. Without doubt, that is where we are going.”
“When?” I asked, my voice thin and strangled with shock. “When will we go?”
He cleared his throat. “We leave first thing tomorrow morning. I think it will be best if we tell our individual house groups, rather than a formal announcement coming from me. The children might take the news better if it is presented in a more matter-of-fact way.”
Whichever way we presented it, there was no avoiding the fact that the children would be dreadfully upset. I couldn’t bear the thought of telling them, of disrupting and unsettling them again.
After more questions to which there really weren’t any answers, we returned to our respective houses in a daze, all of us devastated by the news of another move, and terrified by the prospect of where we were being moved to. I felt as if we were teetering on the edge of a deep hole, waiting for someone to push us in.
I looped my arm through Minnie’s as we made our way back to the house.
“I can’t bear it, Min. How can I tell them? I just can’t.”
“Of course you can. You’ll find the right words, just like you always do.”
I let out a long sigh. “I find words. I’m not entirely sure they’re always the right ones.”
“I’ll tell the girls if you’d really rather not, but I honestly think they’ll take it better coming from you. They trust you, Els. We all do.”
I leaned my head wearily on her shoulder. “Dear Minnie. Whatever would I do without you?” I pushed my shoulders back and closed my eyes, savoring the stillness and the golden glow of the autumn sun. “I’ll tell them.” I sighed. “Somehow, I’ll tell them.”
Once again, I found myself standing in front of dozens of eager young faces, ever more conscious that their well-being and safety rested in my hands. I calmly explained that we would be leaving Temple Hill, careful to erase any hint of worry or concern from my voice, and yet I heard the echo of my words from a year ago when I’d offered the same calm reassurances. How many more times would I do this? I drew strength from the girls in front of me, a year older, taller and wiser. Despite everything, they were doing what all children do: learning, growing, finding their way in the world. Even war couldn’t hold back that which nature intended.
I fielded questions for which I didn’t have any answers, and consoled Connie Hinshaw, who was particularly upset to hear that we were leaving.
“Will my sister be able to travel with us?” she asked. “We won’t have to leave her behind, will we?”
“Nobody will be left behind, Connie. I can promise you that.”
When I’d addressed their immediate questions and concerns, I dispatched the girls to the loft to gather up their things. They were instructed to take down the pictures they’d drawn to make the place look a little more like a home, to pack away their clothes, roll up their mattresses, and sweep the floors so that anyone arriving after we’d departed would find the place clean and tidy and far more welcoming than we’d found it when we arrived.
“As Lord Baden-Powell once said, ‘Try and leave this world a little better than you found it,’” I remarked. “And that applies to this house, too.”
Before I attended to my own belongings, I went to the hospital block to see how Dorothy was faring. Nurse Eve’s diagnosis was not good.
“She’s still very weak, I’m afraid. Tuberculosis is a cruel condition. Consumption, as we used to call it. It was a fitting name. It really does consume the person who suffers.”
I flinched at the word. It was the first time she’d officially diagnosed Dorothy’s condition. I’d suspected for a while, but hoped I’d be proven wrong in my amateur diagnosis.
“Is she well enough to travel?” I asked.
“Not really. She needs plenty of rest and fluids, and clear fresh air. I’ll keep doing my best. That’s all I can promise.”
I thanked her and popped my head in to check on Dorothy. She was sleeping. I sat with her for a while, remembering all the times I’d asked her to stay behind after class, and all the curious questions I’d answered. Mostly, I thought about the potential I saw in her.
“Come along now, Dorothy,” I said as I held her hand. “It’s time to put up a fight. I know you can, and we’ll hopefully find a doctor at the new place we’re going, and there’ll be all the medicine you need to get better.” I smoothed her bedsheets and straightened her blanket and touched my fingertips lightly to her cheek. “One more big effort, Sprout. That’s my girl.”
Before I returned to the others, I took a moment in the garden beside the hospital block, and stood for a while next to the patch of earth where Tinkerbell was buried. I took a sunflower seed from the packet in my pocket, and pressed it deep into the earth that had been warmed by the generous autumn sun. I watered the patch of soil, said a prayer for Dorothy, and made my way back to the house.
From the nine seeds Wei Huan had given me, I had seven left. One sunflower grew at Chefoo School, and one would grow here, at Temple Hill. I wondered how many more places we would call home, how many more sunflower seeds I would plant before the war was over.
Whatever happened, I was determined to keep one seed, to plant when I was back home, in England. That one would be for freedom, and in its bright face I would see the hope and resilience of the children I’d kept in my care. From its seeds, I would plant many more sunflowers, until there was an entire field of them chasing the sun, and
I would be gloriously free to walk among them, to go wherever I might choose.
But that was for the future. For now, I must follow orders and go where others instructed, no matter how great my fear of what awaited us there.
Part II
Internment
Weihsien Civilian Assembly Center, Shantung Province
1943–1945
The Guide Law: A Guide Obeys Orders
It makes no difference whether you are cleverer, or older, or larger, or richer than the person who may be elected or appointed for the moment to give you orders; once they are given, it is your duty to obey them.
Chapter 20
Nancy
Oxford
1975
Memory is a curious and maddening thing. People and places appear and fade as quickly as footprints in the sand so that no matter how desperately I wish to remember something or someone, I can’t always grasp them or study them properly before they are washed away. My past is one of scraps and fragments. Perhaps it is the same for us all.
And yet there is a cruel irony in that the memories I would rather forget are precisely the ones that I recall most often. They bloom and form with ease, creeping up on me when I least expect it—while pruning the roses, or minding my own business along the riverbank—yet the moments and conversations I actively seek cannot easily be found. Do I imagine things, or did they actually happen? I can never be quite certain.
Of all the things I recall from those years, what I remember most is how desperately I missed my mother. Even when the soldiers arrived, and our lives were forever changed, being apart from her was the hardest thing of all. You see, our war wasn’t one of battles and bombs. Ours was a war of everyday struggles; of hope versus despair, of courage against fear, strength over frailty. For all the time we spent under the control of the Japanese regime, without any certainty of when—if—it would end, not one of us could be sure which side would win. So we simply went on, rising and falling with each sunrise and sunset; forever lost, until we were found.