The Taste of Rain

by Monique Polak

  When Miss E. does not say, Now, Matilda, I know something serious is going on.

  Miss E. is carrying something wrapped in a black cloth. It’s hard to tell from the shape what’s underneath. I can only make out one flat edge.

  Miss E. takes a deep breath. “I need to do it now,” she says.

  “Do what?” Eunice asks.

  Tilly sighs. “She means she needs to slaughter Albertine. Now.”

  “By yourself?” I ask Miss E.

  “Yes, by myself. Lu told me how to do it. And he lent me this.” Miss E. taps the black cloth lightly without showing us what is underneath.

  “What if she squeals?” Tilly asks.

  “Tilly!” Jeanette and I say at the same time. How can Tilly be so heartless?

  Miss E. looks down at the floor, then back at us. “We thought of that,” she says quietly.

  “Can we say one more goodbye to Albertine?” Jeanette asks.

  Miss E. shakes her head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Her eyes look sad.

  Our hut has a small back door we rarely use. Now Miss E. opens the back door to reach the clearing where we’ve been hiding Albertine since she grew too big for keeping in the hut. We hear a small, sleepy snort. The aspirin has been working. But it sounds like Albertine is happy to have a visitor.

  “What do you think Miss E. is hiding under that cloth?” I ask Tilly.

  “I wish it was a gun,” says Tilly. “Then she could slaughter Albertine with just one shot. It would be a painless death.”

  “Maybe it would make things easier if we sang,” Jeanette suggests. Her eyes are wet. Which makes me wonder how people who are as dehydrated as we are can still cry. Where do the tears come from?

  “I can’t,” I tell her.

  From out back we hear Miss E.’s voice. “Keep still,” she says. “Please.” She isn’t calling Albertine by her name. Maybe that would make it even harder for Miss E. to do what she has to do.

  “Don’t move!” we hear her tell Albertine. “Will you please stop moving?”

  Tilly and I look at each other. It’s obvious Miss E. needs help. Jeanette could never do it—she is too gentle. Tilly could. She is probably the best girl for the job. But I’m the one who loves Miss E. most, who would do anything for her.

  “I’ll go,” I say.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Miss E. is trying to get Albertine to settle on her lap. But Albertine isn’t cooperating.

  The piece of black cloth has fallen to the ground. I gasp when I see what is next to it. A rusty hammer with a red wooden handle.

  “Gwen,” Miss E. says when she sees me, “go back to the hut. Now. Albertine, sit still!”

  “It might be easier if you didn’t call her Albertine,” I say quietly.

  Miss E. is still struggling with the pig. “Gwen,” she says without looking up at me, “I asked you to go back to the hut.”

  I avoid looking at the hammer. But I can picture the rusty hammerhead in my mind. “You can’t do it alone,” I tell her. “Someone has to hold Alb—” I stop myself. “The pig.”

  Miss E. sighs. “Fine,” she says. “You may be right. I can’t seem to do it by myself. If you could hold her…I mean… if you could hold the pig like this…from behind.”

  I grab Albertine. I hope Miss E. doesn’t notice that my hands are trembling.

  “Are you really going to do it with a hammer?” I ask—even though I already know the answer. Why else is there a hammer on the floor?

  Miss E. swallows before she answers. “Lu told me what to do. He offered to do it himself, but I thought it would be too risky. The Japanese soldiers already have it in for Lu. The hammer is the quickest way to do it. And the quietest.” Miss E. touches my arm. “Do you really think you can handle this, Gwen? You can still change your mind.”

  I think about Mr. Liddell starving to death in the infirmary. I think about the pit in my own belly. “I can handle this,” I say, though I’m not really sure I can. I have never killed anything before. Not even a spider or an ant. I think about how, if my father found a spider in the house, he’d catch it in his cotton handkerchief and set it free outside.

  I try not to wince when Miss E. picks up the hammer from the floor. “If I do it right,” she says, more to herself than to me, “it should take just one blow. Lu showed me where to aim. Just up a little from between her, I mean its, eyes.”

  Now Miss E. is trembling. I notice it when she swings back her forearm, raising the hammer into the air. I hold the pig so tightly that I can feel her heart beating. Not for much longer, I think.

  I close my eyes so I will not see the moment when the hammer hits the pig’s head. But I say a silent prayer. Let Miss E. find the spot. Thank you, Albertine.

  I hear a crick-crack as the hammer hits bone. The pig lets out one squeal. Just one. I open my eyes a sliver. Miss E. must have found the spot. But if she did, why is Alb—I mean, the pig—still flailing? Why are her feet still kicking? Even though my stomach is empty, I think I’m going to vomit. I want to drop the flailing pig, but I know I can’t, so I don’t. She struggles in my arms. Her feet are still kicking.

  Miss E. lets the hammer fall to the ground. It lands with a thud.

  “I did it.” Miss E. sounds surprised. As if she didn’t know she could slaughter a pig.

  “You didn’t,” I say. “She’s still kicking.”

  “Lu warned me about that. The pig’s heart is still pumping. The heart doesn’t know she’s dead.”

  Then, just like that, the kicking stops. The pig’s feet flop to each side. Her yellowish-brown eyes are still open, but they have a glassy, faraway look. Albertine’s soul has disappeared. All that’s left is her pig body.

  “I need you to hold her upside down,” Miss E. tells me. “So I can slit her throat.”

  “Slit her throat? But why? Isn’t she already dead?”

  “It drains the blood,” Miss E. says calmly. “The meat will be tastier if we can get all the blood out. And Lu can use the blood to make blood pudding.”

  Miss E. takes a sharp knife out of her apron pocket. I don’t ask where she got the knife. She also reaches for the tin feed bucket. “To catch the blood,” she says.

  This time, maybe because I know the pig is dead, I don’t shut my eyes. I watch as Miss E. jams the knife into the pig’s throat.

  The blood—it’s redder than any red I’ve ever seen, redder than the sunset in Weihsien, redder than the rising sun on the Japanese flag—comes gushing out like water from a hose. Miss E. holds the pail perfectly steady underneath the pig’s neck. She catches nearly every drop. A little blood lands on the back of her hand. Miss E. lifts her hand to her mouth. For a second I think she’s going to lick her hand clean, but then she changes her mind and lets her hand drop, wiping it on her apron.

  Miss E. knows what I’m thinking. “Some people drink it raw,” she says. “But I’ve heard it can cause worms in the brain. It’s safer to let Lu make pudding from it.”

  Alber—the pig has only been dead ten minutes, and I already feel a little ashamed of the thoughts swirling through my head. Blood pudding, blood sausage, pork dumplings, stir-fried pork, a juicy pork chop. My mouth, always so dry and parched, begins to water.

  I want to ask when exactly we will get to eat some pork.

  But unlike me, Miss E.—being Miss E.—isn’t thinking of herself. “If all goes well,” she says quietly, “Mr. Liddell should have something to eat by this evening.”

  I bite my lip so hard that I taste blood.

  I forgot about Mr. Liddell.

  TWENTY-SIX

  “A lot of things could have gone wrong,” Tilly says.

  We are on our way to the infirmary. Lu will be there with some roasted pork for Mr. Liddell and, of course, for us too! The thought of real food to eat makes me dizzy with anticipation.

  “Instead of saying A lot of things could have gone wrong,” Miss E. tells Tilly, “you could try saying it another way: A lot of things went right.”
>
  “It’s the same thing,” Tilly tells Miss E.

  “Not quite,” Miss E. says, reaching out to brush Tilly’s hair out of her eyes. “A little more positive thinking might be good for you, Matilda.”

  The things that went right—or that, according to Tilly, did not go wrong—are as follows: the boys have still not been caught, Miss E. was able to get Albertine’s carcass to Lu, the winds have been unusually strong, so the dogs have not picked up the scent of pork, and we have prepared our musical performance for Mr. Liddell.

  When we get to the infirmary, Dr. McGregor is waiting for us. He claps Miss E.’s shoulder. Lu is there too. I can’t help looking at the jagged scar on his cheek. Miss E. was wrong —it doesn’t make him look roguish. For a second I get a delicious whiff of roast pork. It’s a good thing it’s so windy and the infirmary is set apart from the huts and other buildings, or the Japanese soldiers might smell it too. If I could eat air, I swear I would open my mouth right now and take a gulp! My stomach gurgles so loudly I’m sure the others can hear it.

  None of us—not even Jeanette—has mentioned Albertine’s name since I helped Miss E. slaughter her. We’re all too hungry to feel bad about what happened to our piglet.

  Dr. McGregor stands in front of one of the gray curtains. We can hear Mr. Liddell’s labored breathing. “I understand you girls have prepared a musical performance for my patient. I’d ask that you keep your performance short. Not more than ten minutes in total would be ideal. But first, why don’t we all have a little something to eat?” The doctor’s eyes are shining. That’s when I realize he is as hungry as we are.

  “Yay!” we start to cheer, but Miss E. quickly raises her finger to her mouth, and the doctor gets a worried look and says, “Shhh.” They’re afraid we’ll draw the attention of the Japanese soldiers. I shudder when I think about how angry they would be if they knew we had managed to get something to eat.

  “Your natural urge will be to eat a lot,” Dr. McGregor warns us, “but you must only have small bites, and not very much at first. Your stomachs are not used to digesting large quantities, and it’s been years since you’ve had any meat. I think we should give Mr. Liddell the honor of having the first bite. What do you think?”

  We all nod, but I am wondering if the other girls are thinking the same thing as me—I can’t wait much longer. And what if Mr. Liddell is so weak that it takes him forever to chew? How can I stand by and watch him eat when I am so very, very hungry?

  Dr. McGregor extends his arm to open the curtain, as if we are at the theater and he is about to introduce an exciting stage act.

  Mr. Liddell is sitting up but just barely. He is thinner than ever, and his skin looks gray.

  “You have some visitors,” Dr. McGregor tells him. “They’ve prepared a little entertainment for you.”

  “We’ve also got something delicious for you to eat. To help you regain your strength. Lu’s wife prepared it in her own kitchen outside the camp,” Miss E. tells Mr. Liddell. Lu nods when he hears his name. Miss E. does not say anything about pork. “We thought we’d join you for a little lunch before the girls present their entertainment.”

  Lu uncovers a cast-iron pot. Inside is a glistening mixture of little bits of meat and tiny cubes of what must be eggplant. If heaven has a smell, this, I decide, is exactly what it will smell like. Dr. McGregor hands Miss E. a pair of chopsticks. She uses them to grab hold of a little of the mixture and brings it up to Mr. Liddell’s cracked, gray lips. “We’ll start with just the tiniest bite.” She pauses before adding, “It’s pork.”

  I see Mr. Liddell meet Miss E.’s eyes as he opens his mouth. I can tell he understands that Albertine gave her life to feed us.

  As I watch Mr. Liddell swallow, I can almost taste the salty-sweet pork.

  “Delicious,” Mr. Liddell says. His voice is so weak it is hard to imagine him ever sprinting in the Olympics or even standing in our hut, telling us to rotate our ankles. “Thank you,” he says, and then he slumps back on his thin pillow as if having one small bite of food and saying three words has exhausted him.

  “Why don’t you have a second bite?” Miss E. asks him. She is already using the chopsticks to grab a little more of Lu’s mixture.

  Mr. Liddell shakes his head. “You eat,” he says.

  Lu hands around a few more pairs of chopsticks. Dr. McGregor and Miss E. let us go first. “Why don’t you start with three small bites each?” the doctor suggests.

  Cathy is the first of us to taste some of the mixture. She closes her eyes as she swallows.

  It’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted—and not just because my stomach has been empty for over a day—and it’s the first taste I’ve had in years of something besides broomcorn, broth with eggplant or chunks of stale bread. I try not to eat too quickly, not swallow down the pork mix in one gulp. I let the flavor and the food’s texture fill every corner of my mouth before I finally swallow. Three bites are over way too soon. I try to concentrate on what the doctor said. Our stomachs aren’t ready to digest much food. Besides, it’s Miss E.’s and Dr. McGregor’s turns to eat.

  I step away from where Lu is standing with his pan.

  “What do we say to Lu?” Miss E. asks us.

  “Xiexie,” we say together, “thank you.”

  Lu grins and takes a small bow.

  Miss E. and Dr. McGregor help themselves. Miss E. wipes her eye after she takes her first bite. I think she’s remembering Albertine.

  “Have they come to talk to you?” I hear the doctor ask Miss E.

  “Not yet,” she whispers back.

  I know what they’re whispering about—the Japanese soldiers are interrogating everyone who knew Matthew and Benton. They have spoken with all the boys in Matthew’s hut. But my back stiffens when I realize the doctor has a point. The soldiers will want to talk to Miss E. too. Matthew and Benton were her students once, and she organized the rat-catching contest they won. The soldiers will know about that.

  “Is one of you keeping watch out the window the way I asked you to?” Miss E. asks us.

  “I am,” Tilly answers. “The coast is clear.”

  We are each allowed to take three more bites before our performance.

  I can already feel the effect of the six bites of food inside my body—it’s making me stronger. But instead of feeling satisfied, I’m even hungrier than I was before. “Can we have a little more?” I ask Miss E. and Dr. McGregor.

  The two of them exchange a look. “One more small bite each,” Miss E. says. “There are many other prisoners who have had nothing to eat.”

  Her words hit me like a kick in the belly.

  How could I forget about all the other people who are starving at Weihsien?

  Is that what starvation does? Makes a person so selfish all she thinks about is filling her own belly?

  Or would I have been like that no matter where I was, even if there wasn’t a war going on and I wasn’t imprisoned here?

  Maybe I’m just not a very good person.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Miss E. fluffs Mr. Liddell’s pillow and helps him sit up a little straighter for our performance. His face brightens when we sing our version of “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy,” complete with the arm gestures.

  He was a Scottish doctor from Ed-in-burgh.

  He had a friend people liked to call Miss E.

  She told him thinking pos-i-tive worked as well as med-i-cine.

  But then another patient turned up at his infirm-a-ry.

  An Olympic med-a-list with a Scottish family tree…

  Jeanette accompanies us on her paper flute.

  Mr. Liddell also likes it when Cathy and Dot sing, “Run this race, Olympic champion…” But I can’t help feeling sad during this part of the performance. Matthew thought up this version of the song. Where are Matthew and Benton now? Have the Japanese soldiers caught them? And if the boys manage not to get caught, what are the chances I’ll ever see Matthew again? I am so busy thinking all this that I
forget to sing along.

  Tilly announces she’d like to do a solo recitation.

  “How lovely, Matilda. Go ahead,” Miss E. tells her.

  “The Japanese are our masters. We shall not complain.”

  It doesn’t take long for me to realize that Tilly has prepared a parody of the Twenty-Third Psalm. Knowing how religious Mr. Liddell is—he did refuse to compete on the Sabbath—I worry his feelings will be hurt.

  “They maketh us to lie down on flea-infested pallets. They leadeth me to the honey pot.”

  How does Tilly dare to joke about the honey pot?

  Miss E. must be wondering the same thing, because she grabs Tilly’s wrist. “Let’s not tire Mr. Liddell out, Matilda,” she says, giving Tilly a sharp look.

  “Nonsense,” Mr. Liddell says. “Matilda’s recitation is doing me good.” It’s the first complete sentence Mr. Liddell has uttered since we arrived. Maybe the old saying is true—laughter is the best medicine. I just never expected Mr. Liddell to laugh at a parody of the Bible. But I am learning that people don’t always act the way I expect them to—that people have sides they don’t always show the world. Like when I heard the fear in Miss E.’s voice when she talked about the Nanking Massacre and about not being able to protect us.

  “In that case,” Miss E. tells Tilly, “go ahead.”

  “Their goodness does not extend to Weihsien.”

  Miss E.’s eyes widen. Though we all know Miss E. has a good sense of humor, I don’t think she likes Tilly’s poem, even if it is a parody. “But God’s goodness extends to Weihsien,” she calls out. “It’s the Lord who brought us here together for today’s special event. Thank you, Matilda, for your recitation.”

  Tilly meets Miss E.’s eye. “I haven’t finished,” Tilly tells her.

  Miss E. purses her lips. “Actually, you have,” she says.

  Mr. Liddell’s eyes dart from Tilly to Miss E., then back again to Tilly. I think he is enjoying this part of the show too.

  I almost forgot about Dr. McGregor, who is watching from the corner. “Miss E.,” the doctor says, “I wonder if you would oblige us with a short dance number. Since rumor has it that you were part of the Birmingham Royal Ballet.”