The Language of Threads

  Many of the silk sisters had returned to Ma-ling’s boarding house to find it in blackened ruins, Song Lee told them.

  “They returned like bees to honey, only to learn that the hive was gone. I couldn’t believe my eyes!” Song Lee shook her head. “Ma-ling hasn’t been seen, though one of the sisters saw the old herbalist walking away with all the jars he could manage to carry.”

  A shiver ran up from the small of Pei’s back to the nape of her neck. For days after Lin’s death, she kept hoping Lin would wake up, as if from a deep sleep.

  Song Lee shook her head. “Poor Ma-ling. I only pray that she didn’t suffer.”

  “Yes,” Pei whispered.

  Song Lee changed the subject. “I hope you both will come and join us. Each day new sisters arrive. Only a few have stayed with their households, or what’s left of them. The Japanese have taken or destroyed whatever they want. I’ve heard that several wealthy Chinese families are now all living together in one house. The last thing they want is more mouths to feed, so we amahs were immediately sent away.”

  Pei thought of Ah Woo and Leen and wondered if Chen tai had just as quickly dismissed them. And if so, where were they now? So many names and faces had passed through Pei’s life since she’d arrived in Hong Kong five years ago that they blurred in front of her. And even now, when she closed her eyes and searched for solace, she saw Lin.

  “Yes,” Pei said, “we’d love to join you.”

  Mrs. Finch

  After she had spent hours waiting in line at the bank that morning, Mrs. Finch’s turn to go in had finally come. The room she was ushered into was cold and bare. A tall, well-bred Japanese officer stood waiting and greeted her in perfect English. “Welcome, Mrs. Finch; please take a seat.”

  Her safety-deposit box was brought in by a young soldier and placed on the table in front of them. The officer smiled at her as he snapped open the cover and began to rifle through the contents. But when he discovered only insurance and personal papers, his smile disappeared and his hand slammed down on the table.

  “Where is the rest?” he barked.

  Instead of keeping her head bowed low, Mrs. Finch looked up and stared him straight in the eyes. “I’m sorry; that’s all there is.”

  “Do you think I’m so stupid as to believe you wouldn’t have jewelry? Money? Please don’t play a Japanese Imperial Army officer for a fool, Mrs. Finch.”

  Mrs. Finch removed her watch and her gold wedding band and pushed them across the table toward him. “There, you have everything I own. My departed husband was a very practical man. He didn’t believe in spending money on frivolous things.”

  The Japanese officer paced back and forth, stopped and smiled down at her. “For your sake, I hope you are telling me the truth.”

  “Why should I do otherwise?” Mrs. Finch pushed herself up from the chair. “If it would make you feel better, please feel free to search me,” she said, raising her arms.

  The Japanese officer hesitated, then grabbed her watch and ring and motioned to the guard at the door. “Take her away!” he ordered, stepping aside for Mrs. Finch to pass.

  From the bank, Mrs. Finch was taken to the Hong Kong Hotel, where she and a hundred or more other British civilians awaited transport to Stanley Camp. The lobby of the hotel was swarming with Indian and Japanese soldiers. Young enough to be schoolboys, thought Mrs. Finch as she was herded into the ballroom with the other prisoners. They were perched on their suitcases or sitting slumped against walls, the boredom of waiting etched on their faces.

  Mrs. Finch looked around with a heavy heart. The once-grand ballroom was now just a faded shell, meticulously stripped of everything from light fixtures to furniture. Most likely, all the furnishings had been shipped back to Japan. Deep gashes and dark holes scarred the walls and ceiling wherever she looked.

  Even in ruins, the ballroom brought back memories. When they’d first arrived in Hong Kong, she and Howard had often come here. Mrs. Finch remembered the orchestra playing “A Little Bit of Heaven” as they danced under the crystal chandeliers and gilded ceiling. Now she grieved to see how such a beautiful room could be so shamelessly destroyed.

  Mrs. Finch saw several familiar faces, including that of the young barrister named Douglas who had directed their meetings on Conduit Road. He caught her gaze and hurried over to her.

  “Let me take that for you, Mrs. Finch,” he said, removing the deadweight of her suitcase. “I hope they’ve treated you well.”

  Mrs. Finch suddenly felt tired, her hand weak from gripping the handle of her suitcase so tightly. “As well as can be expected for a prisoner of war!”

  “Come over here.” He led her away from the open doors to a quiet corner. “We have orders to keep the doors open at all times. The soldiers barge in at all hours, with their bayonets raised for effect. One minute they want us all standing; the next, we’re commanded to sit. It’s a circus, but not all that frightful, as the hours wear on.” For just a moment, his crooked smile reminded her of a young Howard.

  “Have you seen Mrs. Tate?” she asked.

  Douglas nodded. “She has been transported to Stanley, evidently.” He turned and scanned the room. “I don’t see anyone else from Conduit Road, but I’m sure we’ll meet up again soon. You must be parched. Let me see if I can get you some water.”

  Mrs. Finch watched the young man walk away. She leaned back against the wall, then slowly sat down on the floor. Only when she was finally able to relax did she realize how every muscle in her body ached. The room spun slowly around her. Mrs. Finch closed her eyes against the loathing she felt for these men she didn’t even know. She tried to focus, instead, on the happiness she’d had with Pei and Ji Shen. They’d become her only family, and the fear of losing them was far greater than any other horror the Japanese could inflict upon her.

  Mrs. Finch opened her eyes with a start.

  “I’m sorry if I woke you,” Douglas said, leaning over with a cup of tepid water. “It’s not exactly afternoon tea, but it’s all I could find.”

  She smiled. “You’re very kind.”

  Douglas sat down next to her. “Keeps me out of mischief.”

  Mrs. Finch was grateful for the company, even if they said few words to each other after that. Just the warmth of another body next to hers seemed to ease her fears, make her feel less lonely amidst the dull murmur of voices.

  The next morning they were herded into the back of military trucks for the hour’s journey to Stanley, a quiet, sleepy beach resort. Back in 1937, it had acquired a certain notoriety with the building of a new prison. The peninsula itself lay between the waters of Stanley Bay to the west and Tai Tarn Wan in the east. Douglas had told Mrs. Finch that he’d heard their camp wouldn’t be in the prison itself, but spread across the grounds and out-buildings and the nearby St. Stephen’s College, an Anglican institution. She’d let out a sigh of relief. All night she had imagined herself in a striped uniform, with a ball and chain fastened to her ankle. At least nearby was the fishing village of Stanley, which fronted the white sands of Stanley Beach and had always been a calm refuge from the noise of Hong Kong.

  Though they couldn’t see anything from the covered trucks, Mrs. Finch saw in her mind’s eye the tall mountains and green trees, and felt the sharp curves in the road, which would take them past the Repulse Bay Hotel. All its solitude had been shattered less than three weeks ago, just days before the Japanese occupation on Christmas Day, when close to two hundred civilians at the hotel were taken prisoner by the Japanese. Rumors circulated that over fifty British soldiers and civilians had been tied up and perched at the edge of a cliff, then methodically shot to death. One by one, bodies tumbled over the rocks and into the sea. Mrs. Finch could scarcely believe that such a beautiful place was now tainted with blood.

  In better times, she and Howard had often had tea at the hotel. They’d sat on white wicker chairs on the long veranda overlooking the beach, the twirling fans and string orchestra accompanying the constant buzz of the roo
m. It was a place Mrs. Finch had always loved. Without the frantic pace of Central, Repulse Bay and Stanley reminded her of a small English village by the sea, a quainter, quieter place of the past. It was the one aspect of British colonial life that Mrs. Finch cherished.

  As they bumped along the road, Douglas leaned over and said, “Do you think they’d let us take a quick dip in the ocean?”

  Mrs. Finch laughed out loud. “Now, wouldn’t that be a treat!” She sat back and breathed deeply, certain she could smell the sea.

  When the truck slowed, Mrs. Finch heard the long whine of a gate opening, then closing behind them. The truck came to a full stop. Quick, harsh-sounding Japanese words were spoken before the canvas flaps suddenly flipped open and a blinding sunlight filled the back of her truck. With bayonets raised, the Japanese soldiers ordered them out, then lined them up under the warm sun. Mrs. Finch heard the lapping water of the nearby beach and smelled the salt-tinged air; she wished for the cooler weather of the day before. The sun’s heat burned against her back; her cotton dress was sticky with perspiration. Her legs felt heavy, and her stomach growled from hunger. All they’d been given to eat both morning and night was two bowls of watery rice gruel. It seemed an eternity before the stocky Japanese officer in charge of the prison came out to inspect his new shipment of prisoners.

  “Keep your heads bowed. Eyes to the ground!” a guard reminded them.

  “Welcome, welcome,” the officer said. A younger soldier next to him was translating. The officer clasped his hands behind his back as he strolled back and forth in front of them. “You are the fortunate guests of the Imperial Japanese Army. We wish you no harm, but you must understand the rigors of war. In order to ensure your safety during the difficult transitional days ahead, we will house you here.”

  Mrs. Finch felt lightheaded, the heat swirling around her like a cloud of flies. She glanced up and beyond the Japanese officer to see a handful of young Chinese boys hawking what looked like chocolate bars. They peered through the barbed-wire fence, yelling out something that she couldn’t understand, until they were chased away by some Japanese guards.

  “For your benefit, we will try to make your stay here a comfortable one. . . .” the officer went on.

  Mrs. Finch shaded her eyes against the glare of the sun, a soft buzzing in her ears.

  “You will be well fed . . . well taken care of. . . .”

  His voice slowed and grew fainter. The ground began to spin beneath her feet and Mrs. Finch reached forward, grabbing at the warm air. Then everything before her eyes turned to shadows and disappeared into blackness.

  When Mrs. Finch came to, she was on a wobbly canvas cot. She sat up and tried to recall what had happened. Propped up on her elbows, she looked around the small, cramped room. It was dingy and musty smelling, furnished with a few wooden crates and three other cots, side by side. Squashed bedbugs made red-brown streaks along the rough, whitewashed walls.

  “Not exactly the Peninsula, is it?” a familiar voice said.

  Mrs. Finch turned to see Isabel Tate walking toward her, carrying a tin cup. “Isabel,” she said, her head throbbing, her words sounding thick and rubbery.

  “I’m glad to see you’re up. You gave us quite a scare when they carried you in. Here, take a sip.” Mrs. Tate handed her the cup.

  “Did I faint?”

  Mrs. Tate nodded. “All a bit frightful,” she said, patting Mrs. Finch’s hand. “You’ll be fine.”

  Mrs. Finch took a mouthful of what she expected to be water, but instead was brandy. She choked it down.

  Mrs. Tate whispered, “It’s black-market. We keep it hidden. For medicinal purposes.”

  “Where is everyone?” she asked.

  “They’re outside trying to get some exercise or waiting in some queue. Also, Griffith has called everyone in our block together for a meeting.”

  “Who’s Griffith?”

  “You could say he’s the acting governor of Stanley Camp.” Mrs. Tate laughed. “It’s not much, but it’s home.” She waved her arm around the cramped room.

  “Where are we?” Mrs. Finch asked.

  “We’re in the blocks known as the old Indian Quarters. Most of the Indian guards who used to work at Stanley prison used to be housed here. We’ve been divided into two main groups: the flats associated with Stanley Prison and the others belonging to St. Stephen’s College.” Isabel sat down heavily on the cot next to hers. “There are also the Married Quarters, the Master’s House, where most of the single men reside, the Main Blocks, which house the Americans and so on. There are about three thousand of us cramped into these buildings.”

  “Dear God.”

  Isabel leaned close. “You haven’t seen anything yet. Sometimes thirty-five people share a two-room flat and one bathroom. You can imagine the queues every morning. There are four of us women who share this room. I managed to get you assigned here. It was good luck I saw the truck arrive and went to sneak a peek. Rather than take you to our small infirmary, I had them carry you in here.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s not quite as awful as it sounds.” Isabel smiled. “If it weren’t for the overcrowded space, bad food, barbed wire, and Japanese guards, you’d think colonial Britain still reigned.”

  Mrs. Finch smiled. Isabel looked and acted so unlike the frightened woman who’d come to their meetings just after the occupation began. “You seem so different.”

  “I’ve had little choice,” Mrs. Tate replied. “Either I remain afraid of my own shadow, or I make do with the cards that were dealt me. It’s a strange thing, Caroline. It wasn’t until I simply gave up everything that I suddenly felt free.”

  “I know just what you mean.” Mrs. Finch lay slowly back down on the wobbly cot, the bit of brandy warming her all over.

  As the days passed, Mrs. Finch fell into the slow, difficult rhythm of camp life. She took long walks around the camp when she could, happy to discover, near the Indian Quarters, a wonderful spot that gave her an unobstructed view of Stanley Beach through the trees and barbed-wire fence. Whenever she could, Mrs. Finch found her way there, “A Little Bit of Heaven” playing over and over in her head as she gazed out at the blue sea, imagining the warm, white sand between her bare toes.

  The Japanese shelling and bombing had damaged most of the buildings on the campgrounds. Most of the flats were devoid of furniture, except for cots crammed in next to each other. Prisoners without cots slept on the cold stone floors. Their daily meals were two cups of rice, sometimes supplemented by poor-quality vegetables—stale pumpkin or watery spinach. Her thoughts often turned to Pei and Ji Shen. Thank goodness Pei had stockpiled food. She could only hope they were safely tucked away somewhere and would make it through the occupation. She longed for a visit from them, not knowing if it was even possible.

  True to Isabel Tate’s words, despite their living conditions, the internees’ social life remained quite on a par with what they had once had in Hong Kong. Even incarcerated, they complained about the British government and the lack of servants. They formed committees, put on plays, and held card games, which diligently broke for afternoon tea, even if tea consisted only of lukewarm water and hard biscuits bought on the black market.

  The young Chinese hawkers she’d seen lingering outside the barbed-wire fence the day she arrived were their most vital link to the outside world. Every few days they sold goods by the east fence, overlooking Tai Tam Wan. Occasionally, the Japanese guards chased the hawkers away, but usually they turned a blind eye to all the bargaining in order to appease the prisoners.

  “Chocolate bars! Biscuits!” the vendors yelled, hands and merchandise sliding between the barbed wire.

  “I bring any kind of cigarettes you want!” another voice cried.

  While Mrs. Finch had left all her worldly possessions to Pei and Ji Shen, other prisoners had had the presence of mind to smuggle in money and jewelry, taped to their bodies, cleverly sewn into clothes, or buried within their children’s stuffed animals. When
their money ran out, the Chinese hawkers accepted lOUs, trusting that the British citizens wouldn’t go back on their word when the occupation came to an end. Magazines and bars of soap, sold at three times their worth, were still readily snapped up. Mrs. Finch shook her head and marveled at the Chinese loyalty to the British colonials. On many occasions since she had moved to Hong Kong, she’d found herself embarrassed by her countrymen’s superior British attitude and rudeness toward the Chinese. The British could learn so much from the Chinese people, if they just opened their eyes.

  After her first few months in camp, Mrs. Finch saw how in-conveniences had to be tolerated and tempers controlled. Even among the woman and children, baby blankets and bars of soap were readily stolen once their owner’s head was turned. Basic necessities, such as a hot bath or a good night’s sleep, once taken for granted, were now something longed for. With thousands of men, women, and children crammed into the buildings, bathing was an all-day affair of waiting in long lines only to have a few minutes under a rusty shower head, where barely enough cold water dripped to make the wait worthwhile. In the back of a storage room, Mrs. Finch found an old wooden bucket that held enough water to take a sponge bath or wash her hair. Usually the bucket was rotated among the women in their building, so that everyone had the luxury of using it.

  On a hot and humid afternoon in July, with tempers particularly on edge, a cold bath was the only way to cool off. A woman who usually kept to herself confronted Mrs. Finch and demanded the bucket right away.

  “You’ll have to wait your turn, just like the rest of us,” Mrs. Finch said calmly.

  “I want it right now!” she barked, barring the doorway to the bathroom.

  Mrs. Finch simply said, “Well, my dear, it’s not yours to want.”

  “I said, now!” The woman, lunged forward, slapped Mrs. Finch hard across the face, and grabbed the bucket.

  Before Mrs. Finch had time to react, Isabel Tate came to her rescue. “Now, just who do you think you are, her Royal Highness the Queen? Well, I think not.” She slapped the woman back across the face, seized the bucket, and returned it to Mrs. Finch.