by Hazel Gaynor
“And no complaints,” she announced, brusquely. “I don’t see anyone else covered in other people’s shit.”
“Thank you,” I offered again as she waited beside me. “I’m Elspeth. Elspeth Kent. I’m with the Chefoo School group.”
She didn’t appear to care who I was, or what group I was with. She was already busy talking to one of the other women about the camp library.
Edwina Trevellyan was older than most of the women I’d seen in camp. Her hair, which she left to hang long and loose around her face, was pure silver, and her skin was as wrinkled as creased linen. She wore the most extraordinary collection of flamboyant clothes, none of which appeared to fit her properly, but she somehow managed to look elegant and stylish nevertheless.
“We don’t talk to the honeypot girls,” an Australian woman beside me said.
“But I know the woman I spoke to,” I explained. “She’s a friend. Of sorts.”
She laughed. “And you’ll forget you ever set eyes on her, if you know what’s good for you. If there’s one thing the guards hate more than Chinese women, it’s a British woman being friendly with one of them.”
The shower, which I’d avoided using until now, worked by pulling on a frayed rope, which sent sporadic bursts of cold water over me and did little to make me feel in any way clean. I did my best with the rather meager remnants of soap, and rinsed off my skirt, which had taken the brunt of the spillage.
Edwina escorted me back to our basement room.
“What you did was admirable,” she said. “And utterly foolish. I don’t know where you were before they brought you here, but it seems to me that you need to wise up, dear.”
“How long have you been here?” I asked.
“Six months,” she said. “And a lifetime.”
She left me as abruptly as she’d found me.
Cold, wet, deeply humiliated, and with my stomach still cramping, I stepped inside our miserable little room.
“You braved the showers then! How was it?” Minnie asked.
I didn’t tell her why I’d taken a shower, too embarrassed about the entire incident, but as she held up a bedsheet to protect my modesty while I changed into clean clothes, I told her about Shu Lan.
“She told me Wei Huan is here, too,” I said. “Forced to support the puppet regime. I suppose that was his punishment for trying to help us at Temple Hill.”
Minnie was as surprised as I’d been. “It’s a dreadful turn of events, but at least we know they’re both alive.”
“Yes. At least there’s that, I suppose. And there’s something else.” I leaned closer, to make sure the older girls couldn’t hear. They had a terrible habit of eavesdropping. “She told me the baby isn’t Wei Huan’s. She said it was . . . theirs.”
“Whose?”
“The guards’.”
“Which guard?” Minnie asked, keeping her voice to a whisper, not only to keep the children from hearing, but because it was so shocking and upsetting.
I tugged the sleeve of my cardigan and fiddled with a button as I took the sheet from Minnie. “I got the impression there was more than one.”
We knew about “comfort women”—Chinese women and girls kidnapped by Japanese soldiers and raped—but such things were simply too awful to talk about.
Minnie’s face paled as she sank onto the edge of a low stool. “Oh, Elspeth.”
“She’s clearly in a very difficult and dangerous situation,” I added. “I need to find Wei Huan.”
“Do be careful, Els. I know you mean well, but this maybe isn’t the best place for daring acts of heroism.”
“There’s nothing heroic about it, Minnie. I simply want to help a friend. I’d hope anyone else would do the same for me. For any of us.”
She fussed with her hair. “Of course. You’re quite right. But still, do be careful. I rather depend on you, you know.”
We agreed not to talk about it again. For now, all we could do was pray for Shu Lan’s safety, and that of the child.
After curfew, as I lay in the dark, my thoughts and fears strayed and swelled. Memories of home visited without warning, offering a tantalizing glimpse of the past, and beckoning to the future: Mother at the kitchen sink, the cat in a patch of sunlight, Alfie’s bicycle propped against the gate, a rainbow after a summer rain shower, the smell of peat fires and malt from the brewery, Harry at the door with a bunch of daffodils. Small moments I’d taken for granted, and which brought such delight and despair in the remembering. How could I ever return to that life? How could I ever fully enjoy the spring sunshine when I’d known all this? Even if the war ended and we were liberated, I knew that part of me would always lie in this dark little room, waiting for the sun to rise. There would be no escape from these years of confinement. No liberation from the memories. My past was fractured. My present, uncertain. My future, shattered.
Around the room the girls tossed and turned, trying to get comfortable on their unyielding mats. They really were such resilient, hardy little things, like the first snowdrops of winter and the first crocuses of the spring. For them, I tried to hide my knowledge of the atrocities such as those endured by Shu Lan. For them, I rose each morning, washed and dressed, and prepared to face another day in camp with humility and good grace. For them, I found a room we could use for our Girl Guides meetings. For them, I sang, and prayed, and busied myself with the very practical matter of their education and welfare.
In this way, the long uncertain days passed.
For the children, I kept going. Without them, what reason did I have to wake up at all?
Chapter 24
Nancy
We won’t be defeated by a few sheets of paper, and a lack of pencils,” Miss Kent said from the front of the classroom. Some of us didn’t have writing materials, which we’d hoped would make it rather difficult for the lesson to continue. We should have known better. “All you need to learn is a pair of eyes, a pair of ears, and an inquisitive mind. And, Lord knows, you all have those in abundance.”
The sun shone through the classroom window as Miss Kent tapped out adverbs and pronouns on the blackboard. If I closed my eyes, I could pretend we were back in our lovely old school, a fresh ocean breeze lapping at the windows, the servants rushing quietly along the corridors, the prospect of an excursion to the bay never too far away. If I closed my eyes, I could pretend that we were free to go where we wanted, when we wanted, and not kept behind high walls and barbed wire fences.
“You might find it easier to work with your eyes open, Nancy.”
My eyes flew open. Miss Kent was watching me from the front of the room, arms folded across a lemon-colored cardigan, an encouraging smile at her lips. I sat up straight and picked up the remaining stub of my pencil.
Since there were so many of us, it had been arranged that all the Chefoo School children would be schooled together in one building in the compound. Other children were taught in other buildings. We’d been instructed not to mingle with non-Chefoo children, or with anyone else.
“You may see some rather more . . . cosmopolitan people than you’ve been used to,” the headmaster had explained at our first Weihsien assembly. “And while I’m sure you’ll find our new neighbors quite fascinating, we Chefusians will stick together. We will abide by the same structure, routines, and high moral standards we’ve always followed.”
Whatever else we might see going on around us was to be ignored, but that was easier said than done, especially when we saw the ladies who hung around the men’s accommodation blocks. They wore clothes that were too small for them and showed their bosoms, and we ran away when they saw us staring at them.
Weihsien was unfamiliar and overwhelming, but it also reminded me how big and varied the world was; that it wasn’t all white-skinned children, and starchy British teachers and Received Pronunciation, but a whole wonderful jumble of colors and shapes, languages and customs. It reminded me that I used to wonder about the world; that it used to excite me.
“I don’
t know why they’re so strict about us mixing with the other children,” I grumbled to Edward on Sibling Saturday. “I don’t see what harm it would do to be friendly.”
“You’re so naive sometimes, Nonny,” he laughed as we strolled around the parade ground together. “They don’t want us to mix with the other children because they’re not Protestants, like us. They don’t want us to be influenced by other religions.”
“What difference does it make? We’re all stuck here anyway, just the same. What does it matter if we say different prayers at night?”
For once, Edward didn’t have a clever answer to give me.
I really didn’t understand why the teachers enforced our separation from the other camp children so strictly. When the other girls asked us to play with them, they thought us rude and standoffish when we said no, and they didn’t ask again. Some of the older Chefoo boys spoke to the non-Chefoo girls anyway, despite the teachers’ instructions. Edward and Larry were two of the worst culprits.
“You really shouldn’t,” I cautioned. “You’ll be in awful trouble if you’re caught.”
“Not jealous, are you?” Edward teased. “Don’t like to see Larry talking to other girls?”
I went bright red and told him not to be silly.
Larry offered an apologetic smile. “I didn’t tell him to say that, by the way.”
“You’re both ridiculous,” I snapped as I stormed off in a huff, mostly because Edward was right. I was jealous of Larry talking to the other girls, and didn’t understand why.
* * *
No matter how much our teachers tried to enforce our usual principles and school routines, it was clear from the start that Weihsien was different from anything that had come before. Weihsien rules were stricter, and Weihsien guards didn’t hesitate to hand out punishments. Failure to bow when a guard passed, or to stand to attention, led to a slap in the face, or worse. We watched in horror one morning as an elderly man was cruelly kicked for collapsing during roll call.
“I hate them,” Mouse whispered when they’d left the poor man sobbing on the ground. “I know it’s wrong to say, but I really do.”
I hated them, too, and was glad that Mouse had said it first.
After that, we all made sure to bow or stand to attention, as required.
Roll call was one of the worst parts of our new camp regime. As soon as the bell rang, we had to stop what we were doing and assemble at our so-called district, where our supervising guard issued the command “Bango” and we began the long process of calling out our numbers in Japanese: ichi, ni, san, shi, go, roku, shichi, hachi, kyuu, juu, and so on. When the guards in each district were satisfied that everyone was accounted for, the warden rang a bell to signal that we were dismissed and could return to our chores or lessons. Sometimes roll call took so long we couldn’t remember what we’d been doing before it had started.
It was unbearably boring and we often had to stand in the rain or a cold wind, our teeth chattering and our fingers and toes numb. Miss Kent encouraged us to use the time to silently recite the Psalms or the Guide Laws or a favorite poem, but I used the time to leave Weihsien and go back to warm days in our garden in England, and memories of catching butterflies in my net. I’d always let them go after I’d admired their beautiful wings. There were too many butterflies pinned behind glass frames in my father’s office. “Sometimes we have to trap things to understand them, Nancy,” he’d explained when I said it was cruel. “It’s how all the great scientists and naturalists gather their knowledge.” It was impossible to disagree with Daddy. He was always right, even when he wasn’t. Standing at roll call, my stomach growling with hunger, I felt just like one of Daddy’s butterflies, pinned behind a glass case.
As I yawned, an older lady beside me caught my eye and winked. She was dressed in an odd collection of clothes, mismatched and brightly colored. She rolled her eyes at me in a way that suggested she was as bored as I was. I had to nip my wrists to stop myself giggling, and jumped as the warden rang his bell to signal the end of roll call.
“Insufferably boring, isn’t it,” the woman said. “I swear I’ll fall asleep one of these days.” She spoke with a sprightly Scottish accent. “Edwina Trevellyan,” she continued. “Eddie to my friends.”
I smiled back shyly, unsure if I was allowed to talk to her. “I’m Nancy,” I said, not wishing to be impolite, and because she looked like terrific fun.
“Very pleased to meet you, Nancy. You’re with Miss Kent, aren’t you? With the Chefoo group? Kingfisher Patrol?”
I nodded, but didn’t get a chance to say anything before she carried on.
“I was involved in the Girl Guides myself, back in the day. Captain of one of the first companies formed. The First Budleigh Girl Guides. We were quite marvelous.”
She really did talk an awful lot.
“And who is this quiet little thing beside you?” she asked.
“This is Mouse,” I said. “Joan, actually. Mouse is her nickname.”
“Well, Mouse and Nancy, it is a pleasure to meet you. Come and see me sometime. I have a little job for you both.”
* * *
Our love of Girl Guides had followed us to Weihsien, and we were pleased when Miss Kent found a room for our weekly meetings.
“We want you to find ways to help others around the compound,” she said. “The elderly especially.”
“Mrs. Trevellyan is elderly,” Mouse said. “We should help her.”
Intrigued by Mrs. T, as we called her, and by the job she had for us, we went to find her the following afternoon after lessons and chores.
“Aha! You found me,” she said. “Although, I am rather hard to miss!” She chuckled to herself. “They all think I’m an eccentric old bat, but somebody has to add a bit of color to this dreadful place.”
As well as helping with her domestic tasks, she asked if we might like to help with a camp library she’d set up; sorting the books into alphabetical order, keeping a tally of who had borrowed which books, and going around the camp to collect them again when they were due to be returned.
“I can’t pay you in money,” she said, “but I can most certainly pay you in knowledge, and, of course, you can choose any books you like, at any time.”
We were almost as hungry for books as we were for a decent meal. It was an arrangement that suited us all.
Mrs. Trevellyan was a breath of fresh air. She was mischievous and forthright and full of fascinating and shocking tales. She shared a room with some other ladies who, she told us, she wasn’t especially fond of. “Ever so stuck-up,” she muttered, under her breath, “and really quite useless, even at the most basic tasks. If you could eat airs and graces, they’d all be as fat as hippos. And they cheat at poker.” She was wild and unpredictable—everything our teachers weren’t—and our visits to her quickly became a favorite part of the week, not to mention a welcome distraction from the everyday drudgery of camp life.
Even the simplest tasks took forever, and we soon began to dread them. Water had to be fetched and then boiled before we could drink it, and boiling the water meant making a fire, and that meant first making fuel balls from the dirt and coal dust scraped from the stoves. Our mats and bedsheets had to be searched each morning for bedbugs, which we always found, like an advancing army that would never be defeated. There was no end to it all, and without proper meals to give us any energy to do our tasks efficiently, we were listless and clumsy and tempers frayed as quickly as the hems of our skirts and cuffs.
While we sorted through the library books, Mrs. T told us things Miss Kent would never have approved of. We lapped it up like thirsty kittens given a saucer of milk.
“What is it you want to know, girls? Ask me anything. Boys? Sex? Might as well get your money’s worth.”
I stared at Mouse. We didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t even say the word sex, let alone ask questions about it, so I asked about the Great War instead, presuming that Mrs. Trevellyan was old enough to have been in it.
“They called us ‘canary girls’ because the chemicals turned our skin yellow. Look at me!” She rolled up her sleeve. “Yellow as a ripe banana.”
“Is that why you keep a canary?” Mouse asked.
Mrs. Trevellyan kept a little bird in a bamboo cage that hung from a hook in the window frame of her room.
She chuckled. “I suppose it might be why I keep a bird, but Churchill isn’t a canary. He’s a yellow-breasted bunting, known locally as a ‘rice bird.’ He—or possibly she—used to belong to my servant,” she explained. “She was taken away by Japanese police when they came to round us all up. I presume she’s kept in a cage now, too.” She looked sad and shook her head. “Awful business isn’t it. War. We thought we’d seen the last of it in 1918, and look at us. Right back at it, and worse than ever. What a waste of all those beautiful young men. I was supposed to marry one of them, you know. They never found him. I ended up marrying his brother instead, more’s the pity.”
Mouse and I enjoyed listening to Mrs. Trevellyan’s stories while Churchill sang away in his cage. He sang beautifully, unlike Mrs. Trevellyan, who sang opera, very badly. She especially liked to sing songs from The Merry Widow and something by a lady called Jenny Lind, known as the Swedish Nightingale. Mouse said it was like listening to cats fighting.
Mrs. T took Churchill “for a walk” every day. “He can’t be cooped up in that awful room all day,” she said. “He’d go mad! I’m nearly gone mad.”
I thought she was quite mad enough already.
“Why don’t you set him free?” Mouse asked. “Then he wouldn’t be cooped up at all.”
“Well, young Joan. Some creatures, when they’ve been in captivity for a while, don’t adapt to freedom as well as you might expect. Churchill here is used to being fed and given water. He’s only ever known this cage, so this is where he feels comfortable.” He started singing, as if to confirm that he absolutely agreed with her. “Besides, he’s a dear friend, and nobody likes to lose a friend, do they.”