Hilda, when she found out I might be staying out in the world like herself, grabbed at me feverishly. Gone was all that War Memorial resentment and the somewhat gang-headquarters aspect of the Watson household. “Now we’re all alone,” she said, “and I’m going to be so damn lonely. I won’t have Margaret any more. I’m going to live next door to you. Couldn’t we mess together as we used to? I have rice. You have Ah King. I’ll give your household rice if Ah King will cook for all of us. Other expenses, if one can ever buy anything again, we’ll have to share.”
“If I ever have any money,” I said gloomily. So we struck the bargain with a good grace, since fate seemed determined to keep us together, and we began to take counsel as to how the devil we were to get over to May Road. In the meantime it seemed more tactful to leave the hospital, because it was filling up more and more with sentries and plain soldiers carrying fixed bayonets, which they pointed at us at intervals. Once more — this time, as I thought, for good — I went up and said good-by to Charles. I had been doing that at intervals for twenty-four hours and we were both getting used to it by this time. At last Charles was helped up and dressed by an orderly and taken downstairs and out of doors, where the last remaining nurses and patients were waiting. Hilda and I, with our children and our luggage, crossed the compound and went straight into Margaret’s deserted flat, from where we could watch that forlorn group.
Not so forlorn, at that, as others had been. At least these hospital people were allowed to take as much luggage as they wanted, and mattresses and books and things. Most of the unlucky people who had been grabbed up in that insane business at Murray Parade Ground never did manage to collect their belongings. By this time their houses had been looted. Looting was going on at a tremendous rate, openly and everywhere. The Japs didn’t care; some of them encouraged it. At the tramways, Japanese had chopped open the safe and then called the watchman and workers and said, “Take whatever you want,” so full of loot were they already. Money spilled out on the floor and the coolies fell on it hungrily, as you can imagine. At that moment, among the poorer element of the town, the stock of Japan was higher than it ever was again. During those days the foundations were laid for many new fortunes. In after months, when these newly rich coolies brought their families into the unfamiliar splendor of the Hongkong Hotel for lunch, the Japanese were amazed at their appearance. They would come into the hotel wearing cotton pajamas or anything they liked, and the place was so full of bedbugs after a while that the management stopped trying to do anything about it. Fastidious Japanese were annoyed. Me, I was amused. But just at this moment it wasn’t funny. It was terrifying. These people had found arms. Sometimes on a quiet night the rifle firing sounded as it the war were still going on, though the noise was probably only due to one or two battles between the military and looters, out in the streets. The military did shoot at thieves on occasion, when they had nothing better to do.
We saw two trucks brought up by Japanese from a big pool of them down in the road below the hospital, and the people for Stanley were loaded on and driven away, waving gallantly. Then a special Japanese Army car came for Charles and he was taken off, presumably, I thought, to Bowen Road Hospital, the British military haven which was still being used for our wounded soldiers. Anyway, all the others had been taken there. The special car must have been a sort of courtesy. I refused to agonize over it. I had said good-by once too often: it seemed silly.
Something about the possibility of freedom and the general excitement of the situation had done magic for me. At last I felt normal. Not normal, however, according to the past year in Hong Kong. That dreamy, almost respectable phase was over forever. I felt like the person I had been in the Congo and in Shanghai in earlier days: alert and worried and alive and a little bit unhappy but not too much so. I wouldn’t have fainted now even if a whole regiment of Formosans threatened me. Maybe it was the sight of Charles being carried off, and the knowledge that I was up against it, alone again. My adrenals probably started to work.
Carola was asleep on the dusty, deserted Watson couch, kicking occasionally. May was hanging out diapers. Little Mary was wandering about, staring wonderingly at the empty rooms and the gaping bookcases. Hilda was on the veranda watching for an ambulance which Selwyn had said would call for her sooner or later.
A sentry came in and bothered us a bit, though I think in the light of later experience that he didn’t mean to. He was just curious, and interested in the children. Besides, some officer probably wanted to move into that flat and couldn’t make out why we were still there and not on the way to Stanley. It was a dangerous period. The ordinary soldiers had all been told that their wicked enemies were to be carted off to internment, and in their zeal they were rounding up all kinds of innocent neutrals and packing them off too. Lots of mistakes were made that day. We weren’t exactly innocent neutrals, and we were nervous. But Hilda had in her own defense an arm band which said that she was a British woman, aged forty-two, wife of the British adviser to the Imperial Japanese Health Department and so on; Mary wore an arm band saying she was a British female child, daughter of the adviser, et cetera, and I had my little card, which was getting rather smudged. We were well equipped. All we didn’t have was the ambulance.
It arrived at last, but a Japanese officer saw it first, and he waved imperiously and took it over for himself. That really did tear things, and Hilda and I began to be seriously worried. It was getting late in the afternoon, quite late. Selwyn would expect to find his household on May Road. And my pass was only good for two days. I couldn’t afford to waste time.
Finally Hilda had a brilliant idea. She walked back to the hospital building and asked for an officer who could speak English. She showed him her arm band and boldly requested the loan of a truck to take us to May Road. The amazing thing is that she got it, too. You might remember that the first few days after an occupation, while the Army still feels good and reckless, is the best time to ask favors of the conquerors.
A burly little Jap drove the lorry over to our house and helped us load it, catching things as Ah King threw them. He took a fancy to Carola. He made Hilda and Mary sit in back, on top of the load with May and Ah King and Hilda’s coolie, but he took Carola and me into the driving van with him. He drove to May Road at a terrific speed, now and then almost running us into a ditch when he kissed Carola. I didn’t much like his kissing Carola, but that was no time to say so.
We drove through town, and I peered around eagerly to see what changes had been made. Everything was deserted and dismal. The Chinese must have been huddling indoors wherever they could go, now that dark was falling. Windows were still boarded or plastered up with shatterproof paper. The streets were littered and very dirty. No corpses were left along the main road, but as we drove uphill a smell indicated that there was still a lot of work to do in the underbrush. We went sailing swiftly past sentries everywhere, which was fortunate because the place was full of sentries and Hilda and I could never have run the gantlet alone. Strangely, the sight of the town, which I wasn’t aware of having loved, hurt me as if I had seen a friend lying stricken. I suddenly realized that I was feeling all those emotions that people do in books; familiar land marks that reminded me of Charles really did twist my heart. Also at sight of die smashed places I began to feel hateful toward the Japanese. Until then I had only been afraid and stunned.
The little one who kissed Carola, however, was still amiable and didn’t seem to be aware that he was our enemy and we were his. He helped us unload our things at the foot of the staircase leading to Tregunter Mansions. He begged a can of bully beef from Hilda, and got two with her grateful thanks. We all waved to him as he drove off. Then — well, then it was time for me to go home.
Carrying the baby, I ran up the steps, cracked now and littered with torn paper. I hesitated for a moment, looking at Charles’s building over across the nullah. A shell had hit the place just below his veranda and left a great black spot. There were signs of life in some of the win
dows but not in his. Over on my side of the ditch the two buildings that were called Tregunter Mansions looked solid and whole, though there was not a window left in the front breadth of the lower house. Mine was in the upper, at the back, a safe place to be when shells came from Kowloon. I appreciated that, and wondered why we had ever gone to the Peak. I kept thinking of these things as I puffed up the last steps with Carola in my arms, because I was trying not to wonder what I would find there. Would these people let me in?
They saw me coming up the hill, and the door opened as soon as I rang. It was dark in my hall and at first, standing there on the direshold, I had a confused impression of crowds of people staring out at me. Then I made out that the front figure was that of a pretty, slender girl in a dressing gown, with her hair down her back. Her eyes were big and frightened. Behind her were two old people, and another girl, and a few Chinese servants, and a couple of babies. …
“It’s Miss Hahn,” said the slender girl over her shoulder. “She’s come back.”
That was Irene Fincher. She seemed to know me, though I couldn’t remember her. I said, “Is there room for us too?” or something silly like that, because I realized that they were more afraid than I was. “I want to sleep here tonight, if I can,” I added hastily.
“Well … it’s your house,” said Irene, a little out of breath. We trooped into the living room and sat down. I felt my silly smile getting somewhat frozen.
The old lady, the mother of the girls, was wringing her hands and weeping a little already. She had been through a lot and was apt to weep at almost anything these days, Irene explained. We talked with animation, and very soon things grew less tense. Irene told me that a lot of people were coming back to their flats around May Road: Danes and Swiss and such. They had been kicking the refugees out quite brutally, without warning. What flats were left, those belonging to enemy nationals who were now in Stanley, were full to bursting with these homeless billetees. The Gittinses had naturally supposed I would try to kick them out too.
“Well,” I said, “it’s a little different with me. In the first place I’m not a proud colonial any more; I’m a representative of a vanquished race, whereas you are liberated.”
Irene grinned a little. Phyllis, her sister, looked shocked.
“And I may be interned at any moment,” I added. “I’ll know for sure tomorrow. So there isn’t much point in disturbing you until we know. Even then, if I’m left free, I wish you’d stay. I’m afraid to live alone. Please stay. What are your plans, if any?”
They didn’t have any. Their houses were probably gone beyond redemption, over in Kowloon. Irene’s husband was missing. Phyllis’ husband was missing. They were dazed. For days they had walked miles from camp to camp, trying to find their men, and at last some friends among the soldiers told them the truth. They had been living on short rations, frantic with worry and despair. They inspected Carola and I inspected Frances and Bryan. Mrs. Gittins thought Carola looked peaked. They all seemed to know May already. In a little while we were pretty comfortably settled in, chatting hard.
We put Carola and May into the empty dining room — the table was already in the living room — and the rest of us were distributed between the “master bedroom” and the living room itself. Carola slept in her pram, since I had left her cot on the Peak. The amahs and Phyllis and the babies slept on the floor, on blankets. Japanese soldiers had acquired whatever my house offered in the way of mattresses, so most of the beds weren’t much use any more.
Ah King, shaking his head over the state of the kitchen, warmed me up some rice and stuff. We all went to bed, ultimately, and by that time Irene, Phyllis, and I were old friends who understood each other quite well. Nothing is so efficacious as a baby pool to bring women together.
“ — if I get my pass,” I ended some sentence for the tenth time.
“Oh, you’ll get it. Don’t worry. We’ll make out,” said Irene.
Carola had an excellent night. I didn’t.
Chapter 46
We had to plan my trip downtown like a campaign in enemy country, which, after all, it was. The streets were not safe for a woman alone, or even for two women. Irene said:
“It’s quite simple; we’ll go down and ask Nemazee to help us. He has a houseful of men, and some of them go downtown every day.”
“Who’s Nemazee?” I asked, and Reeny stared at me as if I were an Object.
“He’s practically your next-door neighbor. Haven’t you ever heard of Nemazee? Everybody knows Nemazee.”
“Well, I don’t.”
Nemazee’s house was across May Road from the archway that led to Tregunter, but a good deal lower on the steep hillside. I knew the garden well, because it was easy to see from the road and quite noteworthy. It was full of statues, Greek mostly, and there were fountains, and a big marble lion, and many flowers. I had often wondered who lived there, and it seemed fitting that it should turn out to be the house of a Persian. Nemazee is the second generation of his family to live in Hong Kong; he is a big shipper. We found his dining room full of people eating breakfast. As Nemazee had a huge dining room with two tables, and as both tables were full, one of grown people and the other of blond children, it was all overwhelming at first. After the introductions I figured it out. The people were all from a Norwegian shipping office, Wallem’s, which was managed by one Johanssen. Johanssen, his family, and a lot of other families were taking refuge in Nemazee’s house since the Johanssen house, on the Peak, had been destroyed. The Norwegian community was in a nervous state because they hadn’t been assured as yet by the Japanese that they were neutrals. They maintained that since the French were left free they should enjoy the same privilege. The Japanese, however, were waiting on word from Tokyo, before deciding on Norway’s status. They held that the French were free on account of Vichy, whereas they hadn’t yet heard much good of Quisling. The local Japs were not really eager to intern the Norwegians because they were pressed for room, and already the Stanley camp was so disgracefully crowded that even they must have begun to feel guilty. On the other hand, if Tokyo felt that Norwegians were inimical to the New Order in East Asia, the local government would have no choice. Everyone Norwegian was waiting anxiously for a decision.
In the meantime they lived in Nemazee’s house, dealing as well as they could with the food situation. Nemazee, like many of us, had been caught short and didn’t have any cash, and nobody had much credit in those days. Still, he had some supplies of rice and flour, and already he was managing to get more from the Jap Food Control office on behalf of the crews of the ships. He was a clever, stubborn man, and he had lived through other times of stress. There was a period when he was in Russia, he told us, when everyone was broke and could afford only one meal a day. He and his friends would put off this meal for as long as possible and then go to the best hotel and ear everything in sight against the next twenty-four hours’ famine.
Reeny had been Johanssen’s private secretary, and it gave her a feeling of security, ill founded but comforting nevertheless, to have her former boss, the Great Man, so near at hand and so accessible. Jo was as broke as Reeny was and far less gallant about it; he was crushed by his misfortunes and was apt to get emotional and choked up whenever he thought about them. Nemazee said, gently, that Norwegians are often like that. They act, he said, the way Russians are supposed to in books. But Jo was volatile too, and he had a way of cheering up and bouncing about that was nothing short of alarming, since he was a large man. His wife, a beautiful Englishwoman, remained serene through it all, and took care of the children. Nemazee was serene too. He was an immense comfort. He had a few bottles of arak, a Persian potion that made me homesick for the corn licker of New Mexico, and in his house, sitting on Persian rugs, standing on Persian rugs or looking at the Persian draperies on the wall, you could forget the stark facts of life out of doors.
This morning a few Norwegian captains, Nemazee himself, and Mehdi, a poor relation of his, all went downtown with us. We walked the
short, steep road that took us under the bridge of Conduit Road and passed through the wooded bit of the city near St. Joseph’s Cathedral, coming out in Wyndham Street and dipping straight into the middle of town. This way, they explained, was preferable to the others because there were fewer sentries standing about and challenging people. At each stop we came to, the sentry held out his hand for our passes. Everyone but myself had a proper one already issued by the Office of Foreign Affairs. My little smudged card made them worried and suspicious. “Nationality?” they always asked.
Not knowing exactly what it said on the card, I didn’t know. But I mumbled, “Chinese-American,” which seemed to work all right. Anyway, nobody arrested me, and the whole party breathed easier when we passed through the last barrier before I got to the office, my destination. This was stationed, temporarily, in the large, august chambers of the Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank itself. The cashiers’ desks had all been denuded of their chicken wire and practically the entire civic government was being carried on at one counter or another. Long queues of people were waiting to make claims or registration. I found a disappointment there, though; it was too late in the season to acquire my pass in the ordinary way. The dates for my registration were closed, and I was directed to the Japanese consul, Mr. Kimura. His offices were somewhere else.
Strictly speaking, Hong Kong didn’t need a Japanese consul any more, because it was now Japanese territory. Unlike Shanghai and the other occupied places of China, the Crown Colony was being claimed as an actual possession of Japan, not a part of “liberated China,” not subject to the government of puppets: it was always called “the captured territory of Hong Kong.” It had nothing to do, politically, with Nanking. The Japs were very proud of their acquisition and didn’t feel like handing it over to Wang Ching-wei, however nominal his powers in actuality. It was a matter of face. There was no nonsense in the Japanese ideology about returning Hong Kong to her rightful Chinese owners.