The Taste of Rain

by Monique Polak

  That’s when I notice the dog is limping. I crouch down, and when I look more closely I see the dog’s right front paw is bleeding. A jagged shard of glass is caught at the bottom of his paw. “Come here, boy,” I tell him.

  The dog must sense I want to help, because he obeys.

  My heart beats double time inside my chest. What if he sinks his sharp teeth into me and never lets go? What if he clamps his teeth on my neck and drags me along the road? What if the Japanese soldiers think the dog went after me because I was trying to escape? What if they shoot me before I can explain I was trying to help the dog?

  But the dog doesn’t bite me or drag me down the road. Instead he drops to his haunches. His snout is so close I can smell his sour dog breath.

  I inch my hand toward the wounded paw. I feel his eyes on my fingers. He must be deciding whether or not to attack me.

  The dog’s blood is bright red. No different than human blood.

  I suck in my breath and reach for the wounded paw. Warm dog blood trickles down my hand and over my wrist. There’s no time to wipe it away. I reach for the shard of glass, and in one quick move I pull it out from the creature’s paw. There is more blood. But now the dog makes a noise I never knew a dog could make—he sighs.

  I need to find some way to stop the bleeding. Why didn’t I think of that before I removed the shard of glass?

  I look around, but I don’t see anything that will do the trick.

  Then I remember my Girl Guide scarf. I have worn it every day during the time we have been at Weihsien. Miss E. says that wearing our uniforms is good for us because it reminds us who we are and who we want to be. Who I am and who I want to be is a true Girl Guide, someone kind and courageous who thinks of others before herself. Right now the only way to stop this dog from bleeding is to sacrifice my pale-blue scarf.

  The cotton is soft and worn from so much wearing, so it’s easy to tear a strip off the scarf. The dog watches me, alert, interested. His mouth still hangs open so that I can see his sharp yellow fangs. He is drooling.

  “Let me help you,” I tell the dog as I reach for his paw again. They say animals can feel fear, and I wonder if this dog knows how afraid I feel right now.

  I wrap the strip of pale-blue cotton around the wound as tightly as I can. Because my fingers are trembling, it’s hard to get the job done. The dog’s blood seeps through the fabric. But once I wrap the paw four times, the bleeding stops. There is just enough loose fabric left for me to tie a knot.

  “Good boy,” I tell the dog.

  If I was braver, I’d scratch behind his ears. But I’m not that brave.

  “Inu!” an angry-sounding voice calls. Inu is the Japanese word for dog. It is the same unsmiling soldier who often inspects our hut in the morning, the one with the small black mustache. The soldier that even Miss E. could not make smile.

  The soldier shouts more words in Japanese, but I have no idea what they mean. Is he angry with me—or with the dog?

  The dog’s ears bend back, and he lunges toward the soldier. That’s when the soldier notices the tourniquet. I wonder if he understands I sacrificed my scarf to make it.

  I hold out the shard of glass. It still has the dog’s blood on it.

  I know that the Japanese for “thank you” is arigatou gozaimasu. But the Japanese soldier does not say thank you. Instead he blinks, then drops his head and turns his back on me. The dog follows him down the gravel path. He’s still limping, but less than before. And though I have to look carefully to see it, the dog’s tail is wagging ever so gently.

  My heart is still beating double time.

  I look at the shard of glass between my fingers and picture the dog’s tail wagging gently. That’s my reward.

  SIX

  We’ve gotten very good at counting in Japanese.

  Ichi, ni, san, shi, go, roku, shichi, hachi, kyuu, juu.

  Every day at 9:00 AM on the dot and then again at exactly 5:00 PM, the bells ring to announce roll call. Because there are so many prisoners at Weihsien, roll call takes place in different spots around the camp. The 140 children from Chefoo and our teachers meet behind the kitchen down the road from our huts.

  It has been pouring rain all afternoon. If only we had umbrellas! Sometimes rain this time of year makes the air in northern China less muggy. But today’s rain only makes it muggier.

  We form five lines facing the Japanese soldiers and their dogs. We rattle off our numbers in Japanese. The soldiers watch and listen. One records numbers in a small black booklet.

  Miss E. thinks roll call is the perfect time to practice good posture. She says that because the spinal column is attached to the brain, keeping our spines straight will help our brains work better. She recommends that we imagine we are hanging from the sky by golden threads attached to the top of our heads. Shoulders back, chins slightly dropped.

  Except for our numbers, we are not allowed to say a single word during roll call or to shift in our spots. If we do we could be strapped—or worse! Miss E. says it helps to focus on a spot in the distance. I keep my eyes on the electrified stone wall. It’s been getting hotter and more humid every day, and my skin feels clammy underneath my uniform. And this is only May. The next few months will be even worse.

  I hear a fly buzzing near my right ear. Do not land on me, I tell the fly. I can’t say the words out loud. I just hope the fly will read my thoughts. But this fly is not a mind reader, because he lands on the inside of my elbow. If only I could shake him off or swat him with my other hand.

  “Go,” I say. In Japanese, go means “five.” The Japanese soldier turns his attention to Jeanette, who is sixth in line. The fly takes the tiniest step. I can feel his fly feet moving closer to the bend inside my elbow. I want to scream, but I can’t. I pull my shoulders back and try to refocus on the stone wall and the jagged electrified wires that run along the top.

  “Roku,” says Jeanette. She is standing perfectly straight. Even if it isn’t very kind, I wish the fly had landed on Jeanette, not me.

  I don’t dare shake my arm. But then I remember another one of Miss E.’s lessons: there is always a solution if only you can think of it. So without moving even an eighth of an inch, I blow at the fly out of the side of my mouth. I will him to leave my arm. I blow a second time. If Jeanette notices, she cannot say.

  The fly takes one more step, then flies off into the rain.

  I’m so grateful I could cry, only that would make noise too.

  I promise myself that I will not complain during the rest of roll call. I will not complain during any other roll call ever. Girl Guides do not complain. Girl Guides make the best of every situation, even the most challenging ones. The thought makes me stand taller. It makes me want to try to be a better person. The kind of person who doesn’t wish a pesky fly had landed on one of her best friends instead of her.

  A fat droplet of rain lands just above my lips. I open my mouth and wait to catch it. We get so little fresh water at Weihsien that even a drop of rain is a treat. There, I got it! I savor the taste and the feeling of the droplet trickling down my throat.

  I don’t realize that Matthew, the rat killer, is standing behind me until he calls out his number. I recognize his voice. I’d like to turn and look at him, but that isn’t allowed either. Maybe I will catch a glimpse of him when this roll call finally ends.

  I want to smile when I hear Miss E. call out her number. How can she make a Japanese number sound like a song? Though I am staring at the electrified wall and my face shows no emotion, my heart feels strangely full. How lucky we are to have someone like Miss E. looking after us at Weihsien. How would we ever have managed without her?

  Now I hear a strange sound, some kind of disturbance coming from the other end of the line, closer to the kitchen. I wish I could turn and see what is going on. The noise gets louder. Even without looking I feel movement at the other end of the line. Not turning to look is even harder than not swatting the fly.

  Then Jeanette—Jeanette who never,
ever does anything she shouldn’t—turns her head.

  I turn mine too.

  One of the boys has fallen over, probably from hunger or fatigue, or maybe both. What happens next seems to happen in slow motion. As the boy drops to the ground, his foot catches on something I cannot see. I hear a strange sizzling sound. The boy is lying on the earth. His arms are limp by his sides, his face paler than a ghost’s.

  There is more commotion at the other end of the line. Two of the Japanese soldiers march over to see what has happened. They speak to each other in clipped Japanese. Though I don’t understand what they are saying, I know something bad has happened. The third soldier stays in position, his hand on his rifle, eyes flat.

  “Oh my god,” I hear someone say.

  And then I hear someone whisper, “Sagging electrical cable.”

  I smell burned meat.

  At first I think it’s food, but then I realize it’s the boy. He has been electrocuted.

  The Japanese soldiers insist that we finish the roll call. They leave the boy’s body on the ground.

  When roll call is over, Miss E. stretches out her arms and gathers us together. “Don’t look,” she whispers, and I know she means we shouldn’t look at the corpse. We pass the message along to the other children from Chefoo. “Don’t look. Miss E. says not to look.”

  I don’t look.

  “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord,” Miss E. quotes from the book of Job as she leads us back toward the huts. Her voice is louder than usual.

  “May the name of the Lord be praised,” several of us say together.

  Tilly does not join in the prayer. When I look over at her, I see she is not following Miss E.’s instruction. Tilly is looking at the dead boy. Cathy stops to look at him too. “His boots are in good shape,” I hear Cathy say. “Someone had better go back to get those boots.”

  Miss E.’s body stiffens. “Ichi, ni, san, shi, go, roku, shichi, hachi, kyuu, juu…” She sings the Japanese numbers. Loudly.

  I join in. So does Jeanette, and all the other girls walking with us.

  Miss E. needs us to sing with her. I know because I catch her wiping at her cheek. I don’t think the wetness there is only from the rain.

  Later I can’t stop thinking about how Miss E. raised her voice when she was quoting from the book of Job and singing out numbers in Japanese, and about her wet cheeks. For the first time in the many years that I have known and loved Miss E., I wonder if she is not really as cheerful as she acts.

  SEVEN

  We are packed together on the sleeping pallet as tightly as sardines in a tin. If I move my elbow even a quarter of an inch, I’ll bump into Jeanette. Tilly is on my other side. She isn’t worried about disturbing her neighbors. The pallet swarms with lice. When Tilly swats at one she calls out, “Got you!” so loudly that she wakes me from my half sleep.

  I turn toward her with a groan.

  “I hate it here,” she says.

  “Shh,” I whisper. “Not so loud. You’ll wake the others.”

  “I really hate it here.” At least this time she whispers.

  “Miss E. says we must do our best,” I remind her. “It’s hard, but it’s the Girl Guide way. Girl Guides do their best, even in the most difficult situations.”

  Tilly doesn’t want to talk about the Girl Guide way. “Did you see the dead boy?” she asks instead. “I heard his name was Daniel. Miss E. will go back for his boots when it’s safe to touch him. Another boy will be able to use them. Did you see how his body convulsed before he died? That was from the electrical current.”

  “Tilly!” I say. “I wish you hadn’t told me that.” I close my eyes to make the picture in my mind go away. Then I open my eyes again. “Miss E. told us not to look at the corpse.”

  “You know we don’t always have to listen to Miss E.,” Tilly says. “We’re thirteen years old. We can think for ourselves.”

  Tilly’s words feel like a slap. Of course we can think for ourselves. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t listen to Miss E. Instead of trying to explain that to Tilly I look up at the ceiling and wait for sleep to come. If we’re lucky, we’ll be able to sleep through the night. If we’re not so lucky, we’ll be awakened by an elbow in our ribs or the noise of a girl getting up to use the honey pot.

  But Tilly has more to say. “Miss E. is not our mother.”

  This time I have an answer. “She is the closest thing we have to a mother,” I remind Tilly without taking my eyes off the ceiling. “Our parents deserted us back in Chefoo so they could spread God’s word.”

  Tilly clasps her hands behind her head to make a pillow. “You’re right about that.” For a few moments neither of us says anything. Then Tilly nudges me in the hip. Because we get so little to eat at Weihsien, I keep getting thinner, and her nudge hurts me more than it would have when we first arrived and my hips had more padding. But I don’t cry out because I don’t want to awaken Jeanette or any of the other girls on this lice-infested pallet. Just because Tilly doesn’t care about the others doesn’t mean I have to be like her.

  “I’m glad I looked at the dead boy,” she says. “At Daniel. And I’m glad some other boy will get his boots.”

  I let Tilly have the last word. Otherwise I won’t get any sleep. Then how will I be able to do my chores and do good deeds tomorrow?

  In my time at Weihsien I have learned that memory is complicated. Before I came here I didn’t know that a happy memory could hurt more than a nudge to the hip. That is why I try not to remember the days when I still lived with my parents, before they left me at the boarding school in Chefoo. It’s as if I keep those memories in a special box (I don’t know why, but in my imagination the box is long and thin and made of cardboard) and hardly ever take the box out of my head.

  Sometimes, though, memories come out of nowhere, the way I remembered my mother when Miss E. was giving us the crushed-eggshell paste.

  When I feel very brave or when, for some reason, I feel a need to open that box of memories, I let myself do it.

  That’s what I do now as I try to fall back asleep. I take out the box and open it just a crack. I let myself think of my mother—without the usual anger I feel when I remember her. I think of how her head tilts to one side when she laughs, how her blue eyes sparkle when she talks about the Lord and how she used to squeeze my hand when we took a walk or sat side by side in church. I think of how my mother smells like lavender. She kept a bottle of lavender water on the bureau in her room and dabbed some on her wrists every morning. Sometimes she dabbed a little on my wrists too. “Don’t tell your father,” she’d say, winking at me.

  Is my mind playing tricks on me? Because though I know I’m in our hut at Weihsien, I smell lavender—flowery, sweet and clean. It’s the most delicious thing I ever smelled.

  Maybe I dreamed of lavender fields.

  It’s not the delicious fragrance of lavender that wakes me up. It’s the sharp stench of fresh urine. One of the other girls has used the honey pot.

  Next to me, Jeanette trembles in her sleep. My body stiffens when I remember what Tilly told me about how Daniel convulsed before he died. Has Jeanette been electrocuted? No, I tell myself, that’s impossible. There’s no sagging electrical cable in the hut, and Jeanette hasn’t been standing out in the rain, making her even more likely to be electrocuted.

  I run my fingers across Jeanette’s forehead. “Everything’s okay,” I whisper.

  The trembling stops, and Jeanette opens her eyes. She looks relieved to see me. That’s when I know she was in the middle of a nightmare.

  “I saw him,” she says.

  I don’t have to ask her who she saw.

  Daniel.

  “He was lying on the ground, dead, and we were walking right over him. All of us. As if he wasn’t even there. We could hear his bones crunching under our feet.” Jeanette’s voice breaks.

  “Everything’s okay,” I whisper again. “It was just a dream.”

 
Tilly wakes up and turns onto her side. She rolls her eyes when she hears what I tell Jeanette. “Don’t you see, Gwen,” Tilly mutters, “that everything is not okay?”

  Jeanette sniffles. So does Cathy, who has overheard our conversation.

  I glare at Tilly. How can she be so heartless?

  EIGHT

  We usually have a lesson after our morning routine—prayers, broomcorn, sweeping out the hut and roll call—but today Miss E. thinks we should try changing our routine.

  “But aren’t you the one who’s always saying routine is good for us?” Tilly asks Miss E.

  “I do say that,” Miss E. admits. “But we can’t let ourselves be enslaved to anything—including routine.”

  “We’re enslaved to the Japs,” Tilly says. “And there isn’t much we can do about that!”

  “Matilda! Watch your language!” Miss E.’s voice is firm, not angry. “We’re not slaves. We’re sojourners. And by the way, I’d prefer if you used the term Japanese instead of Japs. It’s more polite.”

  Jeanette raises her hand. “If we’re changing our routine, what will we do instead of lessons?” she asks.

  “Rat catching!” Miss E. sings out the answer. She makes rat catching sound like we are going to see a movie or to the world’s fair. “I’ve decided today will be the official contest. The children from all the other huts will be participating too. That makes 140 rat catchers in all.”

  “You said there’d be a prize,” Jeanette reminds her.

  Dot, whose expression is almost always sad or grumpy, brightens at the mention of a prize.

  Miss E. claps. “Of course there will be a prize. I’m just not at liberty to tell you what that prize will be.”

  “Is it food?” Tilly asks. Like me, Tilly scraped her frying pan clean this morning. Our pans and plates are getting scratched from all our scraping. When your stomach is empty, it’s hard to think of anything else.

  “Maybe yes—maybe no,” Miss E. says. “You don’t want to eat rat fricassee, do you?”