The Language of Threads (15 page)

Amongst the general panic and uncertainty, there was an emergency meeting of all the British citizens left in the Conduit Road vicinity, who now numbered fewer than forty-five. It was held at the third-floor apartment of Mr. Spencer, less than a block from where Mrs. Finch lived. She had come to know most of her fellow expatriates well during their long hours spent in bomb shelters. In the dim, musty cellars of houses and apartment buildings, a solidarity emerged, based on fear and fading hope.

“My God, Caroline, have you heard the news?”

Isabel Tate, also a widow, rushed across the living room. Mrs.
Finch watched her quick, nervous movements, thinking Isabel would have been better off returning to London with most of the others.

“Calm down, Isabel.” Mrs. Finch took her friend's hand. “What is it?”

“Have you heard? Now the Japanese are beating and murdering people who aren't bowing low enough. Gladys says you have to bow like this.” She bowed low toward the ground. “And never make eye contact with them!”

Mrs. Finch tried to remain calm. “It might be an isolated incident,” she said, knowing full well that the monstrous atrocities increased every day. “Aren't there other things we could talk about?” She was ready to change the subject.

But Mrs. Tate continued. “They're not only confiscating everything they can get their bloody hands on, but raping nurses and bayoneting doctors.” She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped the corner of her eye. “What's to become of us?”

Mrs. Finch tried to smile reassuringly, thinking more of Pei and Ji Shen and their vulnerability; she was sick with awareness of what could happen to them when they were outdoors on their own. “What would they want with a couple of old ladies who have one foot already in the grave! We're more of a nuisance to them than anything else.”

“Exactly my point. We're dispensable!” Mrs. Tate anxiously turned to complain to another woman who had entered the room.

Mrs. Finch shook her head in sorrow, as the horrible news of Japanese brutalities spread through the room. “Why, they've left the bloated bodies of soldiers and innocent people just lying on the streets as a reminder of their Japanese superiority,” Mr. Spencer was saying. “And everywhere, there's the stink of night soil dumped in the gutters!” he went on.

Mrs. Finch thought of how much easier this would all be if Howard were still alive.

A young man named Douglas—Mrs. Finch thought he was a
barrister—suddenly called for their attention. “There's no need to panic. We've been instructed to stay indoors, and to wait for our next orders from the Japanese commander.”

Mrs. Finch watched Douglas pace the floor, and thought his voice soothing, perfect for a courtroom or for making these sorts of announcements. Calm and impartial.

“How long do you think that will be?” she asked.

“We're not sure yet.” Douglas smiled reassuringly.

“I suppose it depends on when the Japanese call each of us in,” she pressed on.

“Exactly,” he said, his smile disappearing.

Behind her came the muffled cries from the other women in the room. She swallowed her own fears; they were all in for a bumpy ride.

In the next few days, Mrs. Finch's life changed in more ways than even she could have imagined. All British and Canadian civilians in banking and business positions were methodically rounded up and taken away, kept in overcrowded Kowloon hotels to await internment. Any sign of resistance would result in death, slow or quick depending on the mood of the officer in charge.

Each morning, Mrs. Finch found herself reluctantly picking up
The Hong Kong News
, the only Japanese-English newspaper, and looking down the list of all Hong Kong and British banks. Each name was followed by neat, narrow columns of safety deposit box numbers. Mrs. Finch anxiously scoured her bank's column for her own safety deposit box number, 8949. Like all the other foreigners living in the Hill District, she had been allowed to remain in her home temporarily. But when her box number appeared, she would have to report immediately to the bank and empty out her box for the Japanese authorities. Afterward, she'd be sent off to an internment camp at Stanley Beach.

Day after day, Japanese ships loaded with stolen jewelry, furniture, and even bathroom fixtures sailed back to Japan. Mrs.
Finch was thankful that she'd kept most of her jewelry and personal valuables with her. Only some important papers were in the box.

Mrs. Finch sipped her tea, nervously scanning the row of numbers in front of her. She released a soft sigh of relief when she didn't see hers, but relief turned to anger at the thought of how four simple numbers could irrevocably change her life and the lives of so many others. If she had been younger, she might have tried to make a run for it with Pei and Ji Shen, escaping into the hills of China until all the insanity had ended. But as Hong Kong residents, the girls were safer blending in among the other Chinese, and Mrs. Finch's age had reduced any other thoughts to dreams.

Isabel Tate's safety deposit box numbers had been listed in the paper yesterday. She had stopped off to see Mrs. Finch on her way to the bank, amazingly calm.

“Well, I'm off, then. Don't know what will become of me, but I suppose I'm in God's hands now.” She tried to smile and kissed Mrs. Finch on the cheek. “Pray for me.”

“You'll be just fine, Isabel.” Mrs. Finch held on a little longer. “I'll be joining you soon enough,” she whispered.

Isabel nodded.

From the window, she watched Isabel hurry back down the steps to the street, then lift her hand in a quick wave before she disappeared around the corner.

Mrs. Finch sat back in her chair, and wondered if it weren't better to be Isabel and facing her fate instead of endlessly waiting. She crumpled the newspaper and hurried off to her room. She had to do something, and her jewelry and what little money she'd hidden would benefit Pei and Ji Shen the most. Everything else she had decided to burn, rather than let the horrid Japanese get their hands on it. Just as she'd come to this decision, a dull rumbling from somewhere outside caught her attention. It gradually grew
louder, and she hurried to the living room to find Pei and Ji Shen staring out the window.

“What
is
that noise?” Mrs. Finch inched her way between the two.

“It's a piano!” Pei pointed down to the street.

“What piano?” Mrs. Finch craned her head to see her neighbors the Wongs, along with their two children, pushing their grand piano up Conduit Road. The wheels reverberated loudly against the uneven pavement. “Dear God, whatever are they doing?”

“They're taking their piano for a walk!” Ji Shen laughed. “Can we go see?”

Mrs. Finch hesitated, then nodded.

They ran downstairs to the street and watched the Wongs push the piano to the end of the street, assisted by a few others who had emerged from their houses to see what was happening.

At the top of the slope, near Fierce Ghost Bridge, Mr. Wong turned around, wiped his forehead, and yelled, “You want it, you devils, you can have it!” Then, as his family stood back, Mr. Wong walked behind the piano and with all his strength, pushed it back down the hill.

For a moment, Mrs. Finch felt as if she were watching a Charlie Chaplin movie. The piano bumped and skittered across the pavement, slowly picking up momentum. The vibration of the keys against the strings made a mournful tune. The piano thundered past them and didn't stop until it had rolled all the way down the slope and off the curve in the road, smashing on the rocks below. The gathered crowd cheered, as Mr. Wong waved his hands above his head in triumph.

Mrs. Finch closed the door behind them. “And now for the big bonfire,” she said, irked that Mr. Wong had taken some of the wind out of her sails, then wondered if the entire neighborhood had the same thoughts of destruction.

Pei and Ji Shen stood looking at her with blank faces. “I don't understand,” Pei said.

“When I was young,” Mrs. Finch explained, “we'd gather around the yard and burn all the rubbish we no longer wanted. A good house cleaning, my mum would say!”

“But what will we burn?” Ji Shen asked.

“Why, just look all around you.”

With Pei and Ji Shen's reluctant help, Mrs. Finch burned everything they were able to carry. Even her needlepoint pillows and oil paintings found their way into the flames. At first, Pei thought Mrs. Finch was joking, a reaction to the splintering moan of the piano upon the rocks. But when she saw the steel-gray determination in Mrs. Finch's eyes, she argued against the bonfire—to no avail.

“But what if they see the flames? Won't we get into trouble?” Pei asked.

Mrs. Finch smiled. “You and Ji Shen are to be out of here at the first sign of trouble. I'll take all the blame. They can do as they wish with me.”

Pei shook her head, arms crossed against her chest. “No, I won't let you. It's asking for trouble.” Ji Shen stood silent next to her.

“I'm not looking for your permission,” Mrs. Finch said, in a stern teacher's voice. “Just your help.”

“It's too dangerous. The flames will attract the Japanese soldiers,” Pei pleaded.

Mrs. Finch grasped a chair. “What's another fire, with all the death and destruction around us? For all they know, it's their own soldiers doing the burning! I have to do this. They can drag me away to bloody hell for all I care, but they shan't have my rugs
on their floors, or my paintings on their walls. If you won't help me, I'll do it myself!”

Mrs. Finch picked up a chair and slammed it hard onto the floor, again and again and again. Her breathing was labored, but the chair remained intact.

“Please stop!” Pei begged. “I'll help you with anything you want.” Her voice quivered with emotion. “But if those Japanese devils dare to show their faces, they'll have to take me along with you.”

“Me too,” Ji Shen seconded, coming to life again.

Pei tried to keep the fire under control in the courtyard, a black veil of smoke floating up into the sky. For a moment, she closed her eyes against the crackling heat and willed herself not to think of Lin. When she opened them, it was to see dozens of curious neighbors peeking out of their windows. When they realized what the bonfire was for, they cheered, precious possessions rained from their windows onto the fire—a French lace tablecloth, silk shirts, ties, and a leather handbag.

What they couldn't burn, Mrs. Finch left in the flat—the beds, the sofa, the dining room set, her armoire, all stripped and bare except for the essentials. All her jewelry and everything else of value, Mrs. Finch had secreted inside a hidden drawer in her armoire weeks earlier.

“Howard had it specially made,” she had told Pei. “Just push this”—she knelt slowly and reached underneath the armoire for a small lever—“and out it pops.” The drawer hidden behind the baseboard slid out, empty. Mrs. Finch raised herself back up and leaned close. “I promise you it'll be full the next time you open it.”

The final, most difficult possessions for Mrs. Finch to part with were her books, her records, and her beloved Victrola. She set a
small stack of books to one side. “I'd like you to have these if you wish,” she said to Pei. Pei craned her head and tried to sound out the titles:
Gr-eat Ex-pec-ta-tions . . . Ro-meo and Juliet . . . Ham-let
. Mrs. Finch fingered the base of the phonograph. “And I want you to have this,” she said to Ji Shen. “I can't imagine anyone else making better use of it.”

The sky was darkening as they put the last books gently into the fire. The flames popped and crackled; the three women's faces were flushed from the heat. Mrs. Finch sighed, then could no longer hold back her tears. “It's like saying good-bye to dear old friends,” she whispered.

The next morning the flat felt cold and empty and the biting smell of smoke still drifted in from the courtyard. Pei rubbed her eyes, wiped away a thin film of ash from the kitchen counter, then listened for any movement from Mrs. Finch in the dining room. Ji Shen was in their bedroom, listening to records. With all the schools closed, her days were filled with the low hum of music. But that, Pei knew, would soon come to an abrupt end when Mrs. Finch had to report to the Japanese authorities.

Pei felt a sinking in her stomach every time she thought about Mrs. Finch having to turn herself in. She scrubbed the counter over and over. She'd heard from some other servants that most British civilians were taken to Stanley Camp on the other side of the island. Pei's mind moved to the quick rhythm of her scrubbing. After Mrs. Finch was called in, Pei would have to find a new place for herself and Ji Shen to live; then she'd have to figure out a way to visit Mrs. Finch at Stanley. Since the bombings began, there'd still been no word from Quan or Song Lee. Pei prayed every day that they were somewhere safe. She swallowed her grief. The past year and a half of living and working for Mrs. Finch had brought her great comfort.

Pei paced the kitchen as she waited for Mrs. Finch to read the paper. Outside, the sky looked as if it might rain. She'd left Mrs.
Finch alone with
The Hong Kong News
, as she had every morning since the occupation began. Each day an eternity seemed to pass before some small sign came from the dining room, letting Pei know Mrs. Finch's safety deposit box number wasn't printed. Usually Mrs. Finch gave a sigh of relief, or a low whistle. So far, Pei had heard nothing. She pulled out their box of supplies, Moi's clay jars knocking against one another as she set the bulky box on the kitchen floor. She began dividing the foodstuffs into separate sacks, so they would be easier for her and Ji Shen to carry when the time came. Pei had just finished when Mrs. Finch surprised her in the doorway of the kitchen, the newspaper clutched in her hand.

“It's here,” Mrs. Finch said matter-of-factly, steadying herself against the counter.