The Taste of Rain

by Monique Polak

  The other girls want us to tell them more about what we saw. I describe the farmers’ fields—the long rows of crops, mostly eggplant—and the acacia trees. Tilly describes the run-down shacks. “They’re not very fancy, that’s for sure,” she says

  “I wouldn’t want to live in one of those shacks,” Cathy says.

  Dot has been listening, wide eyed. “At least they have their freedom,” she says.

  “You know what made the biggest impression on me?” I ask the other girls. “That there weren’t any walls blocking the view. That the horizon seemed to go on forever. I forgot what a world without walls looks like.”

  I wish I could make a drawing of what I saw this afternoon. Then I really could remember it always.

  Every inch of the sketchpad I brought from Chefoo is full. I keep the sketchpad tucked behind our sleeping pallet, and now, when I take it out, I feel sad as I flip through the pages. I wish I was a better artist. The pad falls open to a sketch of my parents. It was one of my very first drawings. Mother was much prettier in real life, and I had made her lips too thin, and Father…well, there is something wooden about the way I drew him. I did not capture how his eyes lit up, especially when he was preaching. In my head, I suddenly picture Mother and Father when I last saw them. They were delivering me to the boarding school. Mother kissed my forehead. Father shook my hand.

  Why is it always so hard to transfer the pictures in my head onto paper?

  I think about how Miss E. made us erase our class notes. What if I erased this not-very-good sketch of my parents? I could borrow Miss E.’s eraser, but something stops me. I have never been superstitious. But I have the weird feeling that if I erase this sketch, I’ll feel even farther away from my parents than I do already.

  I flip through my other sketches. The front entrance of our school in Chefoo with its red double doors. A steaming bowl of dumplings floating in broth (I can’t look at that sketch for too long because it makes me so hungry). Miss E. reading from a textbook. In my sketch her cheeks are round and full, and I realize I’ve forgotten how Miss E. used to look when she had enough to eat. I pat my own cheeks and feel the bony parts. Are my cheeks as hollow as Miss E.’s?

  I think of how Miss E. would not take any of the crushed-eggshell paste because she said her bones had stopped growing. Or of all the times Miss E. has given one of us a little of her broomcorn or her SOS, saying she’s full. Does Miss E. sacrifice some of her food for us?

  I think of how hungry I feel at this very second, how I have grown used to the feeling of always being hungry, the constant pit in my stomach, the awful dry taste in my mouth. If Miss E. is giving us some of her food, she has to feel even hungrier than we do.

  I close my sketchpad, but instead of putting it back behind the pallet, I take it with me outside and sit on the hut’s crumbling stone stoop. Usually I like having the other girls to talk to, but right now I want to be alone with my thoughts. Besides, the others are so busy admiring Albertine they won’t even notice I’ve left.

  I wish I had a brand-new sketchpad. I pick up a small twig from the ground and spin it between two of my fingers. Maybe it’s because the twig is the size of a pencil that I get the idea of using it for drawing. Since I have no sketch paper, I lean forward and use the twig to draw on the gritty earth. I start with a row of small run-down shacks, and then I add some eggplant fields, a cluster of acacia trees and, finally, the long horizon. Drawing the horizon gives me the same feeling of freedom I had when the soldier lifted me up so I could see over the electrified wall.

  My drawing will disappear as soon as someone walks over it, or with the next rain. But then I remember something else Miss E. said to me—I will always remember it in my heart. No footsteps or rain can take it away.

  Miss E. and Mr. Liddell are walking toward the hut. From where I am sitting I catch bits of their conversation.

  “I just don’t think it’s a wise idea,” I hear Mr. Liddell say.

  What isn’t a wise idea?

  “It’s good for the girls to take care of another living soul,” Miss E. tells Mr. Liddell.

  Because Miss E. has used the word soul, I decide they must be talking about religion.

  But then I hear Mr. Liddell say, “When you told me the girls had put a bonnet on that creature, well, that’s when I got concerned.”

  It’s Albertine they’re talking about—not religion.

  Mr. Liddell takes hold of Miss E.’s forearm. “Look how thin your wrists are,” he tells her.

  Miss E. shakes her arm loose, but she doesn’t back away from Mr. Liddell. “I’ve always had thin wrists,” she says.

  “That pig—” Mr. Liddell starts to say.

  Miss E. interrupts him. “Her name is Albertine.”

  “That pig—Albertine—is not a doll for you and the girls to play with. That isn’t why the coolie gave the creature to you in the first place. That pig is meant for eating. I’m sorry to be so blunt, my dear, but that pig, slaughtered and roasted, might just help keep you and the children alive.”

  SEVENTEEN

  The other girls aren’t the only ones who want me to describe the view over the electrified wall. Two days later, after twenty minutes of running on the spot with Mr. Liddell (“It’s every bit as good as running on a track,” he assures us. “Lift those knees, ladies and gents!”), Matthew says he wants to speak to me.

  I wipe the sweat from my forehead. Mr. Liddell is right that running on the spot is good exercise. There are giant wet rings under Matthew’s armpits, and his forehead is sweaty too, but he doesn’t bother wiping it.

  “Is it about books?” I ask Matthew. “Or rats?”

  “Neither,” he says. “Why don’t we go for a little walk? So we can have some privacy.”

  I blush when Matthew says that. Wait till I tell Tilly and Jeanette. They probably won’t even believe that a boy like Matthew has invited me to go for a walk with him. I’m just a regular girl. Nowhere near as beautiful as Jeanette or with as much personality as Tilly. Why would Matthew want to talk to a girl like me?

  What will I do if he tries to hold my hand? Shake his hand loose the way I saw Miss E. do with Mr. Liddell? Or let Matthew hold my hand—and maybe even squeeze his back?

  I am disappointed when Matthew does not try to hold my hand. We walk down the gravel path that leads away from the girls’ and boys’ huts. I am also disappointed that we don’t run into Tilly or Jeanette—or any of the girls, who would definitely tell Tilly and Jeanette if they saw me with Matthew.

  “I heard that you and Tilly made friends with a soldier, and that he lifted you up so you could see over the stone wall,” Matthew says.

  “Who told you that?”

  “Word spreads quickly at Weihsien” is all Matthew will say. “It’s important for us to pay attention to things.”

  “Us?” I ask Matthew. “Who’s us?”

  For a moment Matthew looks like he’s been trapped. But then he shrugs and says, “You know, everyone in the camp.”

  “I drew a picture afterward,” I tell Matthew. “There wasn’t room left in my sketchpad. So I drew it on the ground.” I don’t know why I want him to know all this.

  I can tell from the way Matthew is watching my face that he is interested in what I am saying. It makes me want to tell him more. “The rain washed my drawing away.”

  “I would have liked to see it,” Matthew says.

  “Really?” I run my fingers over my Artist badge. Should I show it to him? Or would he think I was showing off? But then I decide I want him to know about the badge and about this part of me. “This is my newest badge,” I tell him.

  “Artist,” he says. “Congratulations. I’ve heard Miss E. doesn’t part easily with her badges.”

  I don’t tell Matthew that I wish I was a better artist. “You’re right,” I say. “Miss E. doesn’t part easily with her badges. But she said the drawing I made of our school in Chefoo gave her shivers.”

  “Shivers,” Matthew says. “That’s saying
something.” His arm brushes against mine, and I nearly tell him that I am having shivers. Does he have them too?

  “Gwen, could you tell me about what you saw over the wall?” Matthew asks.

  I tell him what I told the others—about the run-down shacks, the eggplant fields, the grove of acacia trees, and how good it felt to see a world without walls.

  Matthew stops walking and turns to face me. “What about a road?” he asks. “Did you see a road?”

  “Um, I’m not sure.”

  “Close your eyes and try to remember,” Matthew tells me.

  I do what Matthew says. Even with my eyes closed I can feel Matthew standing across from me.

  “A road,” he says again. “Was there a road?”

  That’s when something else comes back to me. “There was a road,” I tell him, opening my eyes. “A narrow gravel road. Behind the rows of eggplant.”

  “Which way did it go?”

  “Why do you care so much about a road?”

  “It’s better not to ask too many questions, Gwen.”

  “You ask a lot of questions!”

  That makes Matthew laugh. “I guess that’s true. Now which way did the road go? Away from the sea or alongside it? Does it run north-south or east-west?”

  Something about the way Matthew asks these questions makes me nervous. As if it’s a test I didn’t study for. “I’m not sure. It was hard to tell north from south or east from west. But like I said, the road was behind the fields. Definitely.”

  Matthew squats down on the ground and gestures for me to squat next to him. “Can you draw it for me?”

  I’m a little disappointed that Matthew does not compliment the way I draw the shacks and the eggplant fields. He’s only interested in the road. He runs his finger over the lines I’ve made on the ground. “So the road runs north-south. Hmm. That’s good to know. Thank you, Gwen.”

  Now something else comes back to me. It’s strange that I’m only remembering it now. There was a cemetery near the road. I know because I saw the headstones. I tell Matthew about the cemetery. He wants to know how close it was to the road.

  I point to a spot on the drawing I made on the ground.

  “Hmm,” he says again. “Interesting. That could be useful.”

  “Useful for what?” I ask.

  “I told you it was better not to ask too many questions.” “I can’t help it. It’s how my mind works.”

  That makes Matthew laugh, which makes me laugh. “I like how your mind works, Gwen,” he says. And even if he did not compliment my drawing, I’m glad he likes how my mind works and also that he thinks I’m funny. Matthew uses the heel of his boot to erase my drawing. “We wouldn’t want anyone else to see it,” he says.

  I decide not to ask him why. I come up with another question instead—one I know he won’t mind answering. “How’s the book?”

  “What book?”

  “Around the World in Eighty Days. The one you borrowed from the lending library. You said you couldn’t wait to read it.”

  “It’s excellent—so far. I haven’t had much time to read.”

  “Miss E. says it’s important to make time for reading. Even if we only read for a few minutes a day.”

  “Miss E. says a lot of things.”

  Something about the way Matthew says that bothers me. “I adore Miss E.,” I tell him. “When I grow up I want to be just like her.”

  “Is it true you’ve got a piglet in your hut?” Matthew asks.

  My mind flashes on the picture of Matthew with the dead rat in his arms. “You really do ask a lot of questions,” I tell him.

  “That means you are keeping a piglet in your hut.”

  “I never said that.”

  “That’s true. You didn’t say it. You’re not a very good liar, are you, Gwen?”

  “You’re right. I’m not. But it doesn’t matter because I’m against lying. Miss E. is against it too. Girl Guides always tell the truth.”

  “Are you also against eating that piglet once it’s fattened up and full grown?”

  “Of course I am.”

  Matthew claps his hands. There’s laughter in his eyes. “So you’ve admitted it. You do have a piglet in your hut.”

  I decide it’s better not to say anything. For a moment Matthew and I just look at each other. He’s the one who breaks the silence. “Aren’t you starving like the rest of us?” he asks. “And don’t you dream of getting out of here?” This time, there’s no laughter in Matthew’s eyes.

  EIGHTEEN

  Mr. Liddell rubs his hands together as if he is going to share some great news. “The beauty of the exercise I’m about to teach you,” he says, “is that no one will even know you’re doing it.” Maybe it’s the way the sun is landing on Mr. Liddell, but his face looks thinner and more lined than ever.

  Tilly doesn’t raise her hand before she asks a question. “Does that mean we can do it at roll call?”

  Mr. Liddell pauses before he answers. “As a matter of fact, it does.”

  “Well, show it to us then!” Amos calls out.

  “Manners!” Miss E. tells Amos, wagging her finger in the air. “How lucky are we all to know an Olympic champion?”

  “Mr. Liddell, would you show us the exercise, please?” Amos says, correcting himself.

  Miss E. nods approvingly.

  “What you have to do is clench your buttocks,” Mr. Liddell explains. He turns around to demonstrate.

  “Buttocks!” several voices call out. And we all start to laugh. Who knew there was an exercise for the buttocks?

  Mr. Liddell and Miss E. exchange a look. I think they are deciding whether to reprimand us for laughing. In the end they must decide against it. I have a feeling Miss E. thinks laughter is as important as good manners and being cheerful.

  Mr. Liddell waits for us to settle down. “Now let’s clench our buttocks. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, ladies and gents. This is an excellent exercise for strengthening the gluteus maximus muscle. All together now! We clench for ten seconds. We’ll do three sets of eight.”

  Miss E. raises one finger in the air. “What do we get when we multiply three times eight?” Leave it to Miss E. to teach us arithmetic during gym class.

  Matthew raises his hand. He waits for Miss E. to nod before he answers her question. I like that Matthew has good manners. “Twenty-four!” he says.

  “Very good. And what about four times eight?” Miss E. asks.

  Mr. Liddell turns to look directly at Miss E. “Four times eight makes thirty-two,” he tells her. “Now if you don’t mind, I’d like these youngsters to concentrate on muscle training. I don’t ask them to clench their buttocks when you are teaching them geography or how to write haiku!”

  Their argument makes us laugh some more. Of course we all know that Mr. Liddell and Miss E. aren’t really arguing. Only teasing each other the way friends do.

  “We’ll do some calf raises next,” Mr. Liddell says. “I want you all to squat down for this exercise. Be careful not to bump into each other. We’re in rather close quarters. I’ll demonstrate from the bench.”

  Mr. Liddell sighs when he sits down on the small wooden bench. For an Olympic athlete, he seems unusually tired. Then again, like all of us, he’s getting very little to eat. And because he’s so tall, he must need even more food than we do. “I want you to put all your weight on the tips of your toes. Like this. We’ll hold for ten seconds. Eight repetitions. And yes, Miss E., I think we all know that ten times eight is eighty.”

  By the third repetition I can feel my calf muscles burning.

  “Eight, nine, nine and a half, nine and three quarters…” Mr. Liddell calls out. Next to me, Jeanette is wincing. Cathy, who is next to Jeanette, isn’t having any trouble doing the exercise. I know because she waves when she sees me looking at her.

  Mr. Liddell gets up from the bench. Because we are packed in so tightly, there isn’t much room for him when he comes to check on us. “Tip those toes a little more
forward!” he tells Benton.

  “Excellent work,” he says to Cathy. “Your calves will be sore tomorrow—but it’s the best kind of sore.”

  I tip so far forward I’m afraid I’ll crash into Eunice, who is in front of me. My calf muscles are shaking.

  I hope Mr. Liddell will compliment me too.

  But when I peek at Mr. Liddell I notice that his eyes have a glassy look and his forehead is all sweaty. “Mr. Liddell, are you all r—” I start to ask.

  Mr. Liddell looks surprised that someone has spoken to him. When he suddenly collapses, my first thought is that it’s my fault, that I’ve startled him.

  Miss E. rushes over. Mr. Liddell is lying on the ground, his eyes closed. I know he isn’t dead because I can see his chest moving lightly up and down as he breathes. He is so thin that his ribs jut out from underneath his white shirt.

  “Someone run to the infirmary for some water!” Miss E. calls out. She slides one arm under Mr. Liddell’s neck. “Eric,” she says in a louder than usual voice, “you’ve overexerted yourself with today’s gym class. But everything is going to be fine.”

  A few minutes later Matthew comes back with some water from the infirmary. There’s usually a little fresh water there in case of emergency. “Small sips only,” Miss E. tells Mr. Liddell.

  Miss E. makes an announcement from her spot on the floor. “Girls and boys,” she says, “gym class is ending earlier than expected. May I suggest you use this time to review your geography notes or work on your haikus? And perhaps a couple of you could help me get Mr. Liddell to the infirmary. Not that there’s anything wrong with him, of course. We just want him seen to.”

  Tilly tugs on my tunic. “There is definitely something wrong with Mr. Liddell,” she whispers.

  “Miss E. says he overexerted himself.”

  Tilly shakes her head and looks at me as if I’m an idiot. “I don’t understand why you keep believing every word Miss E. says. An Olympic athlete—even one who isn’t getting enough to eat—does not overexert himself by standing on his tippy-toes. Or sitting on a bench.”

  I hate to admit it, but in my heart I know Tilly is right.