Everyone claps. Mr. Liddell blushes. Miss E. looks on as proudly as if she had won the gold medal herself. “Well, well,” Mr. Liddell says, “I would never have won that race without the Good Lord’s help. At any rate, that’s enough about me. I think it’s time we move on to some pointers to help you with your own running. Maybe one of you will go on to win gold one day.”
Tilly sighs. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir, but the truth is, there’s no room for us to run anywhere at Weihsien. There isn’t room to do a jumping jack.” When Tilly stretches out her arms, she bumps into me on one side and Benton on the other.
“That fact occurred to me and to El—I should say, Miss E.,” Mr. Liddell tells Tilly. “But there is always a solution—if only you can think of it.” That’s exactly the kind of thing Miss E. would say. No wonder she and Mr. Liddell are friends.
“For example,” Mr. Liddell continues, “not many people know about the importance of foot-strengthening exercises. Most people ignore their feet altogether, though our feet work harder than any other part of our bodies.”
Jeanette raises her hand again. I wish she’d stop doing that. “What about our brains? Don’t our brains work harder than our feet?” she asks.
“Point well taken,” Mr. Liddell says. “Our brains probably work just as hard as our feet. You obviously possess a hard-working brain, young lady.”
Jeanette’s face lights up. “Thank you, sir.”
“So if you young people are willing, and since I agreed to be your prize for your excellent participation in Weihsien’s very first rat-catching competition, I thought I’d start by teaching you some basic foot exercises. If you could each raise your right foot—an inch or two off the ground will do. Yes, that’s perfect. Let it hover. Now rotate your foot slightly to the right. Three rotations. Excellent. Try not to bump into your neighbor. Now to the left…”
Miss E. does the exercises too.
Mr. Liddell wants us to flex our feet, then point them. “Miss E.,” he says, “you’re doing beautifully. Of course, that’s no surprise considering you were a ballerina.”
Now it’s Miss E.’s turn to blush.
My left foot, which was raised in the air, falls to the ground.
Miss E. a ballerina?
I never would have guessed it.
ELEVEN
I’m glad I’m not a grown-up.
Grown-ups are too, well, grown-up. They never get to play. Of course there are exceptions like Miss E. She’s the most playful grown-up I know. It’s one of the reasons we all love her so much. Some grown-ups forget what it means to be a child, but not Miss E.
At Weihsien the grown-ups work extremely hard. Besides looking after us and giving us lessons, Miss E. works in the camp kitchen and sometimes in the infirmary. That’s why her hands are always red and the skin on her fingertips is cracking. From so much scrubbing and looking after ill people. The infirmary has fifty rusty iron cots that are always in use. Aside from dysentery, a highly contagious stomach infection, other common illnesses here at Weihsien include beriberi, which comes from having a poor diet; hepatitis B, which attacks the liver; typhus, which comes from drinking dirty water; and jaundice, which makes the whites of your eyes turn yellow. And, of course, many of the people who end up in the infirmary are there because they are dehydrated and malnourished, making them too weak to work and sometimes even too weak to stand. It’s a wonder we aren’t all in the infirmary, really.
Even Mr. Liddell, an Olympic gold-medal winner, has to report for work detail. The other day I saw him chopping wood, his forehead and arms as sweaty as they must have been when he ran the four-hundred-meter dash. I wonder if, while he chops, he ever remembers what it felt like to win gold. Or if, like me, Mr. Liddell finds some happy memories too painful to remember.
We have to work too. Only the very youngest children at Weihsien are exempt from work detail. Most of those children live with their parents in the few huts reserved for families, on the western side of the camp, across from the ladies’ dormitory.
The boys from Chefoo work mostly at the wells, pumping water, which they then have to boil and distill. Most of the other girls from our boarding school work in the eggplant field or in one of the kitchens. Dot works in the guardhouse, cleaning and preparing green tea for the Japanese soldiers in the afternoon.
Jeanette has the best job. She rings the bells for roll call. But Jeanette says bell ringing is harder than it sounds, that pulling on the ropes to activate the bells hurts her neck and shoulders. She also has to rush like crazy to be on time for roll call herself. The one time she was late, she got two smacks across the face. And when she cried, she got two more.
The fear of being shouted at or smacked makes all of us work very hard.
Tilly and I are assigned to clean the mess hall where we get our meals—if you can use the word meals to describe the scraps they feed us. Tilly and I always begin by sweeping the floor, collecting dirt in an oversized tin dustpan.
This afternoon Tilly must be checking for crumbs too. That’s what happens when you’re starving. Back in Chefoo I’d never have eaten anything from the floor, but here I always hope to find a crumb or two. Today there is only grit and sand in our sweepings. I shouldn’t be surprised. Who would be foolish enough to let a single crumb fall to the floor of the mess hall?
I want to ask Tilly if she was as surprised as me to learn that Miss E. was once a ballerina named Eliza. But a Japanese soldier is supervising us, and chatting is forbidden during work detail.
This soldier grunts orders. When he sees that the dustpan is getting full, he lifts his chin toward the door and double-grunts. That means it’s time for me to empty the dustpan outside. As I get up from the floor, I am careful not to let any of the grit fall out. I have seen other children punished for far less serious offenses. Usually the punishment is two slaps across the face, like the ones Jeanette got, or a swift hard kick in the legs or belly. Once I saw a Japanese soldier twist a child’s arm like it was a dishrag he was wringing out.
I go to empty the dustpan at the side of the mess hall, close to where the nearest kitchen is.
As I am about to turn the corner, I spot Miss E. My heart leaps. She is carrying a basket filled with eggplants so purple they’re almost black. Eggplant is the only vegetable we get at Weihsien. “Miss—” I start to call out, but then I stop myself. What if the guard has followed me outside? I don’t want him to twist my arm or kick me.
Miss E. does not notice me. Now I see why—Mr. Liddell is with her. I didn’t see him before because he was hidden behind the eggplants.
“I’m terribly worried,” I hear Miss E. tell him.
They put down their baskets, and I wonder if it is a coincidence that they have met up here or whether they planned it.
I know I should announce that I am nearby or leave. It isn’t right to listen in on other people’s conversations. But something makes me stay where I am, frozen in my spot. Miss E. is usually so cheerful and optimistic. The only time I ever saw her get upset was after Daniel’s death. So why in the world would a person like Miss E. feel worried? I can almost feel the ground shift underneath me.
A small, hard lump begins to form at the bottom of my throat. If Miss E. is worried—no, terribly worried—then something must have gone awfully, terribly wrong.
“You mustn’t worry, Eliza,” I hear Mr. Liddell say. He reaches for Miss E.’s hand, but then he lets his arm drop to his side. “Worrying,” I hear him tell her, “is like praying for bad things to happen.”
I can see from the creases on Miss E.’s forehead that she is thinking about Mr. Liddell’s words. I am thinking about them too. Mr. Liddell thinks worrying can make things worse. Is that possible? If Miss E. is right that being cheerful and doing good deeds makes life better, then doesn’t it make sense that being sour and worrying can make things worse?
“Everything is in the Good Lord’s hands,” Mr. Liddell assures Miss E.
Miss E. shakes her head. “What about th
e Nanking Massacre?” she asks Mr. Liddell. “Are you saying that was in the Good Lord’s hands too?” And now Miss E. makes a sound I’ve never ever heard her make before. She whimpers. At first I can hardly believe my ears. Miss E. whimpering? When she does it again, I know I’ve heard right. The sound reminds me of the German shepherd with the piece of glass in his paw.
Mr. Liddell wraps his arms around Miss E., but she shakes them loose.
“Hundreds of thousands of innocent people were murdered by Japanese troops in Nanking. Hundreds of thousands.” Miss E.’s shoulders tremble as she speaks. And there’s the whimper again. “And worse.”
What could be worse than the murder of hundreds of thousands of innocent people?
I try to remember everything I ever heard about Nanking. In one of our geography lessons we learned that Nanking is the capital of the Republic of China. But Miss E. never said anything about a massacre.
I cannot help shivering when I suddenly remember how once or twice I heard my parents mention the capital city. When they said Nanking they always dropped their voices. Was that because they didn’t want me knowing about the massacre?
“You know what upsets me most of all?” Miss E. asks Mr. Liddell. “That try as I might, I may not be able to protect my children.”
I haven’t moved from my spot. When Miss E. says my children, I know she means us. Those two words feel like a warm bath or a good meal eaten in front of the fire. For a moment I even forget how hungry I am. Miss E. thinks of us—of me—as if she was our mother.
I expect Mr. Liddell to start talking about the Good Lord again. But what he says next has nothing to do with religion. “You may not be able to protect them.”
Not be able to protect us?
What does that mean?
I cover my mouth so Miss E. and Mr. Liddell won’t hear me gasp. The water in my imaginary bath turns cold, and I remember how hungry I am.
TWELVE
I need to learn more about the Nanking Massacre, but I don’t know where to go or who to ask. If I ask Miss E., she’ll know I was listening in. Besides, Miss E. doesn’t like to discuss upsetting subjects. But I don’t want to live in a bubble. And a part of me is starting to think that is what Miss E. has been trying to do—keep us in a kind of bubble. What if I want answers—even if the answers are upsetting?
Some of the teachers from Chefoo have set up a small lending library in one of the huts. So after the Japanese soldier grunts to indicate that our work in the mess hall is finished, I tell Tilly I’m going to see if there’s anything new at the library.
Of course, new means new to me. All the books in the lending library are old, with pages that are yellow and worn.
The lending library is really just two lopsided wooden crates. A boy is already there, hunched over the crates. Because I don’t want to startle him, I announce myself by saying, “I hope you remembered your library card.”
The boy answers with a deep laugh. When he turns to look at me, I am surprised to see it’s Matthew.
“It’s you,” I can’t help blurting out. “The rat killer.”
“No one ever called me that before,” Matthew says, “but I guess it fits. What’s your name?”
“Gwen.”
“Gwen.”
I never really thought about my own name before. For me, it’s just something I always had, like my dirty-blond hair or my ten toes. But something about the way Matthew says it makes me realize for the first time that I like my own name.
“What book did you find?” I ask Matthew.
He holds the book out so I can see its cover. “Around the World in Eighty Days. It’s an adventure story by Jules Verne. I always wanted to read it.”
“It sounds good,” I say. “Now if you could move over, I’d like to look for a book too.”
Matthew takes two steps away from the crates. “You won’t find much. It’s mostly just schoolbooks and religious tracts. What kind of book were you hoping for?”
“A book about Chinese history. I want to learn about the Nanking Massacre.” I don’t know why I’m telling the rat killer all this.
Matthew looks at me like he is seeing me for the first time. “Aren’t you a little young to read about massacres?”
I throw my shoulders back so that I’ll look taller—and older. “I’m thirteen.”
“That old?”
I can’t tell if Matthew is teasing. “How old are you?” I ask him.
“Fifteen,” he says. “Old enough to know all about the Nanking Massacre.”
“I heard that hundreds of thousands of innocent Chinese were killed.” I pause before I add, “And worse.” I watch Matthew’s face for his reaction.
“The Imperial Japanese Army can be very cruel,” is all he says. “But I don’t think you’ll find any books about the Nanking Massacre here in Weihsien. The Japs would never allow it.”
“Would you ever like to go around the world in eighty days?” I ask Matthew.
“Who wouldn’t?”
“Does that mean yes?”
“Of course it means yes. I would like to go around the world in eighty days. If we get out of here alive.” He practically spits out the words.
“We’ll get out of here alive,” I tell him.
“You don’t know that for sure,” Matthew says.
“I do know it. For sure.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realize how young and foolish I must sound. Because I don’t know what else to say, I add, “Miss E. is sure we’ll get out alive. I trust Miss E.”
“Miss E. and Mr. Liddell are believers,” Matthew says. “That’s why they don’t have doubts. You must be a believer too.” I can tell from the way he says it that Matthew doesn’t have a high opinion of believers.
“Are you saying you aren’t a believer?” I ask. “Aren’t your parents missionaries too?”
“Even if my parents were missionaries,” Matthew says, “which they aren’t, I wouldn’t have to be a believer. A person doesn’t always have to agree with his parents—or his teachers.”
“I thought all the children from Chefoo had parents who were missionaries,” I say.
“In that case, I’m an exception. My father is a tea importer. He travels around China doing business. I wanted to go with him, but he left me at Chefoo so I could keep studying. He meant well. The Chefoo School was known for its high standards. But then look what happened.” Matthew lifts his eyes toward the dirty, cracked window and the watchtower outside.
“At least we’ve been able to keep up with our schoolwork,” I say. “Thanks to Miss E. and the other teachers.”
“It isn’t the same as being at a real school.”
“Of course it isn’t. But it’s still something. And I’m grateful for it.” I wonder if Matthew knows what I’m thinking—that he could try being a little more grateful himself.
“What about your mother?” I ask. “You didn’t mention her. Only your father the tea importer.”
“My mother died when I was little. I don’t remember her.”
“I’m sorry.”
Matthew presses the book he’s borrowed to his chest—like a shield. “A person can’t miss what he never had,” he says. “I should let you find a book, Gwen.”
I reach out to touch Matthew’s elbow, but then I stop myself. “Before you go, can you tell me any more about the massacre? I overheard Miss E. talking about it with Mr. Liddell. She was upset. Which is unusual for Miss E. She’s always so cheerful.”
I can feel Matthew’s eyes on me, deciding how much to say. “You’ve seen how brutal the Japanese soldiers can be,” he says. “Let’s just say they were even more brutal in Nanking.”
“What do you mean by even more brutal?”
“Here’s an example for you. During the Nanking Massacre, two Japanese officers had a killing contest.”
“A killing contest? You mean like our rat-killing contest?”
“Something like that—only worse. The two officers wanted to see who could be the firs
t to kill one hundred people, using only a sword. They didn’t only kill Chinese soldiers. They killed innocent civilians.” Matthew pauses. When he speaks, his voice is not much louder than a whisper. “Including women and girls.” He lets those last four words sink in and then he adds, “We need to get out of here, Gwen.”
“We’ll get out when the war is over,” I tell him. “Miss E. says it will be soon. Until then we have to make the best of a difficult situation. It’s one of the Girl Guide laws.”
I don’t expect Matthew to agree.
But I also don’t expect him to react the way he does.
He laughs.
THIRTEEN
There is always a long lineup outside the latrine.
An old man with bony, hunched shoulders stands off to the side, away from the others. As I get closer I see the dark dribbles along one of his scrawny legs. He must have lost control of his bowels. Terrible diarrhea is a sign of dysentery. The others keep away because of the stench and because they are afraid to catch the disease.
Only one woman is brave enough to approach the man. I can only see the back of her. She hands the man a scrap of fabric, or maybe it’s a leaf she found on the ground. We use leaves for toilet paper at Weihsien. Then the woman pats the man’s back. I think it’s her way of telling him not to feel ashamed.
When the woman turns around, I realize it’s Miss E. My cheeks get hot. I’ve never seen her in line here before. I know it’s normal to empty our bladders and bowels, but I still don’t like to imagine the teacher I so respect squatted over one of the stinking toilets.
Miss E. does not seem embarrassed to see me. “Why, hello, Gwen,” she says cheerfully.
“Good afternoon, Miss E.” I can’t look her in the eye. If I do, I’ll picture her squatted over a filthy toilet.
“Teng chu!” a voice calls out. It’s one of the coolies. He’s carrying a honey pot, and he wants us to make room so he can pass. We all move to the left—away from the old man. We don’t want to be splashed with what’s inside a honey pot.
The Taste of Rain Page 5