The Language of Threads (19 page)

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.

“Here you are, Caroline,” she said, returning to her place in line, as the rest of the group cheered her on.

Mrs. Finch felt a hot sting across her cheek, her stomach churning at the thought of how many times she'd seen a Japanese soldier slap a prisoner in just the same way.

On other days, a numbness would set in among the prisoners, an awful awareness that this was not a game. Electricity and water were turned on and off without warning, and during the winter of 1942–43 the cold winds from the bay kept them awake all night with icy feet and chilblains. Rumors circulated among the women, whispers of the torture and beating of men accused of espionage or of trying to escape. Dysentery and malaria began to take lives in their cramped quarters. By the beginning of 1943, Mrs. Finch saw the rows of makeshift gravestones multiply in the cemetery overlooking Stanley Bay.

One October morning, shouting abruptly awakened them. Heart pounding and feet numb, Mrs. Finch rose from her cot and
peered out the window. In the pale light, she could just make out a group of Japanese soldiers dragging several men out the camp gate in the direction of the beach.

“What is going on?” Mrs. Tate whispered.

“They're taking some men down to the beach.” Mrs. Finch massaged her feet, trying to get the circulation flowing again, then hurried to dress.

“Where are you going?”

“I want to see what's going on. Don't worry, go back to sleep. I'll be right back.”

“Over my dead body. I'm going with you.” Mrs. Tate rose quietly from her cot and quickly dressed.

Groans came from the other cots as the door creaked open and they stepped out into the morning air. They closed the door quietly behind them, then caught the quick movement of a guard making his rounds and froze. When the guard disappeared and it was safe again, Mrs. Finch sighed with relief.

“This way,” Mrs. Finch said, stealing behind their building and across to the next. From her favorite spot, they had a clear view of the beach.

“Look!” Mrs. Tate pointed down to the open beach.

The soldiers pushed the six internees out onto the sand. All of the prisoners had their hands bound behind their backs. They stumbled forward and were made to kneel on the sand with their heads bowed. A soldier stood straight beside each prisoner like a dark guardian, hand poised on the shaft of his sword.

Mrs. Finch pressed closer to the barbed wire, noting how the prisoners were evenly spaced three feet apart. Seagulls squawked and circled overhead. “What are they doing?” she whispered.

An answer came before either woman said another word. As the sky brightened into morning, a glint of sunlight caught the swords as they swung down and beheaded one prisoner after the other. Mrs. Finch thought she heard a man cry out, “
Wait!
” before the sharp edge of the sword silenced his voice forever.

Mrs. Finch stood stunned, her thumb pressing into the sharp
point of the barbed wire, drawing blood. A quick sting followed by a dull throb. For months after, every time Mrs. Finch closed her eyes she saw again the perfect arc of the sword as it rose up and swung down, cleanly separating each head from its body. The thick silence suddenly broken by the shrieking seagulls and her own voice crying out,
“Wait!”

The room Pei and Ji Shen had rented at the boardinghouse in Wan Chai in February 1942 reminded Pei of the one she'd shared with Lin at the sisters' house in Yung Kee. It was just as plain and bare, with two beds, a dresser, and walls the color of pale sand. Pei imagined the walls must have been white at one time, yellowed over the years. Sometimes Pei would turn around in the small room expecting to see Lin standing there, as if they had met only yesterday instead of a lifetime ago. The Lin she saw in her mind was still young and beautiful, though at thirty-two, Pei was almost the same age as Lin had been when she died.

Pei smiled to herself, thinking how life sometimes brought you right back to the same place. Here she was living again in a house with other silk sisters. Since the silk work had diminished and the Japanese had sent most of her sisters fleeing to Hong Kong and elsewhere, their lives were constantly in flux. And here they were once more, needing to find a structure for their everyday lives, despite all the difficulties of the Japanese occupation.

But now, instead of the silk work or domestic work, Pei and Ji Shen had to take whatever employment they could find to pay the rent. She hid Mrs. Finch's jewelry behind the dresser, still determined not to sell a single piece. While her other sisters washed clothes or did light housework, Pei made most of her money by sewing and mending for anyone who came to her, a skill she'd learned from her mother. There had been so few luxuries
in her childhood; her mother, Yu-sung, had spent endless hours at night mending her daughters' two sets of clothing, hoping to make them last another season before they were outgrown or worn through. There had never been enough time for rich, colorful embroideries like those Pei had seen hanging in the Chen household. As little girls, she and her sister Li had been taught by their mother to read, write, and sew. “To read and write will help you understand life,” she'd said. “To sew and mend will help you to survive it.”

Pei had quickly gained a reputation as an expert invisible mender, unraveling precious silk thread from a seam or hem and using it to repair a rip or hole. Sometimes she'd close her eyes and once again see the long silk filaments of the cocoons disentangle in the hot water, then wind tightly up onto a spool. As in the silk work, she'd take the hidden threads and let them perform their magic. She could repair a motheaten hole or a tear so well that the garment looked new again. While others marveled at her handiwork, Pei thought it only natural to follow the tight weave of the material.

Thanks to word of mouth, her business grew with each day. Since the occupation had brought all overseas commerce to a standstill, many of the Hong Kong Tai tais her silk sisters had once worked for now brought their treasured cheongsams to Pei to be mended or altered.

Ji Shen ran errands and took whatever small cleaning jobs she could find, mysteriously returning once or twice a week with cans of potted meat and even a few fresh vegetables. Pei knew that, like Quan, Ji Shen was dealing on the black market.

Just the other evening, Luling, one of her sisters also living at the boardinghouse, had said, “If it's not the Japanese, then it's the Triads you have to be afraid of on the streets. I've heard the Triads will cut off a person's arm or leg if they catch him stealing from them.”

Daily the fear grew in Pei, growling louder than the emptiness
in her stomach. But every time she tried to talk with her, Ji Shen shrugged and said, “There's nothing to worry about; I know what I'm doing.”

With the severe rice rationing imposed by the Japanese, people had to scramble to keep their stomachs full. Since the beginning of the occupation, waiting in line had become a way of life in Hong Kong. From sunrise to sunset, everyone lined up for a multitude of reasons—to obtain a small ration of rice, to exchange Hong Kong dollars into Hong Kong yen, to barter for a few wilted vegetables. But at the end of the day, most would still go home without enough to fill their family's stomachs.

Despite her fears about Ji Shen's involvement, Pei also knew that the black market was essential in keeping people in Hong Kong alive. Even the scarcest fruits and vegetables could be readily had, although at astronomical prices. Men, women, and even children produced goods to sell and trade, cautiously bartering and bargaining in the streets, or through peddlers who set up their rickety stalls in the marketplace.

From the time they had lived on the sampan, Pei suspected Quan kept a hand in the black market. While Uncle Wei fished off the boat, Quan disappeared for hours each morning and returned with canned food and biscuits. Once, he even brought home a chicken.

“Where did you get this?” Auntie Lu had asked. Pei watched her squat low and begin to clean the bird; brown feathers fluttered gently through the air.

“Why does it matter as long as our stomachs are full tonight?” He grinned triumphantly.

“Guilt lies heavy in the stomach,” she had said, and then hurried to pull the rest of the feathers from the bird. “Just be careful,” she said in a softer voice.

They had quickly cooked and eaten the chicken before their neighbors on the other boats realized they had something other than watery rice jook for dinner.

Since their move to Wan Chai, Ji Shen, now eighteen, had grown even further away from Pei. Pei understood all the horror, the ups and downs of Ji Shen's years in Yung Kee and then Hong Kong. Her heart ached for all the losses Ji Shen had suffered in her young life—robbed of her family and childhood, fleeing from place to place.

But even in their most difficult times, Pei recalled the thirteen-year-old girl who had held her hand after Lin's death. She heard again the soothing words that came from Ji Shen's lips when all she wanted to do was close her eyes and die along with Lin. “You must live. For me,” Ji Shen had whispered, as if she'd known just what Pei was thinking. The words floated to Pei on the smoky breeze.

When classes began again after the first few months of the occupation, Ji Shen had adamantly refused to return to school. Pei tried to encourage her, but had not wanted to force her. Each school meant another difficult change for her—Spring Valley, St. Cecilia's, and now a new one in Wan Chai.

“But what will you do instead?” Pei asked. “Your education is the most important thing.”

“It's more important that we survive,” Ji Shen quickly answered. “I'll go back later, after the war. Right now I can wash or clean or even sell things like everyone else, until I find something better.”

“What do you have to sell?” Pei argued. “The Triads”—the gangs that ran the black market—“are dangerous.” And what about the Japanese soldiers lurking everywhere? It's not safe for you.”