“Part of the Birmingham Royal Ballet? That sounds very fancy.” Jeanette is so surprised that when her paper flute falls to the floor, she doesn’t bother picking it up.
We’ve all heard the rumor that Miss E. danced, but I don’t think we’d ever imagined that she was a professional ballerina with a royal ballet.
“I couldn’t,” Miss E. says. She looks down to the floor. I’ve never thought of Miss E. as shy, but could I have been wrong about that too?
“You couldn’t?” Tilly asks. “I thought you didn’t believe in couldn’t. The word couldn’t doesn’t sound very positive to me.”
It’s a challenge, and we all know it.
“All right then,” Miss E. says, straightening her shoulders and lengthening her neck in a way that makes it easier for me to imagine her as a professional ballerina. “Fine.”
We step away from Mr. Liddell’s cot to give her room. “But just a short performance. It’s been many, many years. And, of course, I don’t have my ballet slippers,” Miss E. adds as she kicks off her boots.
Miss E. closes her eyes. I am imagining her in a pink leotard with a matching pink tulle skirt.
Miss E. starts with her feet flat on the floor and then goes up onto her toes. Why have I never noticed her elegant long neck? What she does next practically takes my breath away, it is so lovely.
Miss E. does two perfect pirouettes!
Mr. Liddell is smiling. “Wonderful,” he says.
“How beautiful!” Jeanette and I say together. Everyone claps.
Without looking at any of us, Miss E. takes a small bow, then reaches for her boots. I notice that the nail on her big toe is jagged and yellow. “All right then, Girl Guides, I expect that after all this excitement Mr. Liddell needs a nap.”
“Thank you ever so much for coming,” Mr. Liddell tells us. “And for the performance. And the food. This has been an unforgettable morning.” He rests his head on the pillow, sighing as he closes his eyes. I can see the tiny blue veins on his eyelids.
I don’t understand why Mr. Liddell is so tired. He’s been resting for days, and he finally got something decent to eat. It isn’t as if he sang or recited poetry or did a double pirouette.
“Why didn’t you teach us how to do ballet?” Jeanette asks Miss E. when we file out of the infirmary.
“Maybe because I like to keep a few tricks up my sleeve. Besides, you girls still have a lot to learn about geography, history, literature and mathematics,” Miss E. tells her.
“Are pirouettes very hard to do?” Tilly asks.
“I believe they’re the hardest part of ballet dancing,” Cathy says.
“Well, Miss E. made it look easy,” Jeanette tells Tilly and Cathy. “Miss E., could you teach us to do a pirouette? Then we could earn our Dancer badges.”
“I suppose that might be possible.”
If a heart could do a pirouette, that’s what my heart is doing right now.
Yes, I worry the Japanese soldiers will find Matthew and Benton. Yes, our living conditions are miserable. Yes, we live in fear of our Japanese captors. And yes, I miss my parents.
But when I think about learning to do a pirouette—and earning another badge—for a moment I feel like a lucky girl.
TWENTY-EIGHT
When we get back to our hut, before I even step inside I know something’s wrong.
Nothing’s out of place. There’s no unfamiliar sound or unfamiliar smell.
I just get a strange feeling.
And more and more, I trust my feelings. I try to pay attention to what they are telling me.
I raise my hand to signal the others.
“What’s wrong?” Eunice asks.
“I’m not sure.”
So I’m only half surprised when I open the door to find a Japanese soldier turning over the worn straw mattresses on our sleeping pallets. What’s he looking for?
“Let me handle this,” Miss E. says, pushing me aside. The roughness in her gesture is a far cry from the pirouette she did twenty minutes ago.
Then the soldier turns to look at us, and I realize it’s him—the soldier who lifted Tilly and me up and let us look over the wall at the world outside Weihsien.
“It’s our friend,” I tell Miss E. As soon as I say the words, I realize how strange it feels to call a Japanese soldier our friend. Only in this case, it’s true.
Miss E.’s shoulders relax. She’s figured out which soldier I mean. “Konnichiwa,” she says, bowing to him. But it’s a very different bow from the one she took in the infirmary. This time she bows from the waist, and there isn’t even a quarter ounce of pride in it. It’s the bow we have to give to every Japanese soldier, the bow that signals we understand the Imperial Army’s power over us, that we must obey its soldiers’ every command.
The Japanese soldier lets the mattress he was holding drop back onto the wooden pallet. Dust particles dance in the air, then disappear. I don’t think he found what he was looking for. Now he gestures for Miss E. to follow him outside, behind the hut. We trail after her. He could tell us not to, but he doesn’t. I gulp when I realize he’s bringing Miss E. to the exact spot where I watched her kill Albertine. I lick the corner of my mouth. The sweet taste of pork is still on my lips.
He points at something on the ground and grunts. It’s a rusty brown spot. Dried pig’s blood. I bring my hand to my mouth. I thought we got rid of all the evidence.
“Souji!” the soldier says. It’s an order, though I have no idea what souji means.
Miss E. does. “Yes,” she tells him. “Right away. Thank you. Thank you very much. Arigatou.” Miss E. turns to us. “See if you can find a bucket and any water at all. Even waste water. Right away, Girl Guides! If there’s no waste water, we’ll use spit instead.”
Souji must mean “clean it up.” Instead of punishing us, this soldier is trying to protect us. I’m so relieved I could cry.
It’s not hard to find a bucket outside the latrine, but there’s no water, not even waste water. So we use spit. Jeanette’s eyes fill with tears as we spit over the rusty spot. She is remembering Albertine. But there isn’t time to worry about Jeanette. The Japanese soldier has disappeared, but who knows when he—or another, less kind soldier—will be back.
“It goes to show that not all the Japanese soldiers are monsters,” Jeanette says when we are finished, and there is no trace left of pig’s blood. “That soldier didn’t have to be kind to us—but he was.”
“He’s the same one who lifted us up so we could see over the wall,” I say.
“I told you he was kind,” Jeanette says.
“It doesn’t mean we can trust him,” Tilly says.
It’s not that I don’t expect Tilly to say something negative, because I do. That’s Tilly. It’s just that I don’t expect her to say something negative about this soldier. He put himself at risk by letting us look outside Weihsien and now by pointing out the spot of pig’s blood on the ground and warning us to clean it up. If another soldier found out any of this, our new friend could be accused of treason.
Maybe it’s the feeling of a little food in my belly after so long that gives me energy to argue. “Do you think, Tilly, that for once, just once, you could try not to be so negative?” My voice comes out sounding shriller than I want it to. And I’m not finished. “What would be so terrible about trusting someone kind?”
Tilly’s eyes widen. I think it’s because in all the years we’ve been friends, I’ve never spoken back to her.
I know Tilly is about to answer me. I expect her to raise her voice the way I just did. But when she speaks, her voice is so calm it’s eerie. “You know what’s wrong with you, Gwen? You’ve swallowed Miss E.’s philosophy whole, without giving it time to digest in your brain. Don’t you see what she’s been doing all these years? She wants us to see the world the way she wants it to be—not the way it really is.”
TWENTY-NINE
A group of coolies is working on the electrified stone wall that separates us from the outsi
de world. Some are hauling gray boulders in wheelbarrows; others are passing boulders to coolies who are perched on ladders by the wall. All of their faces are dripping with sweat, and there are dark sweat stains under their armpits. Two Japanese soldiers stand near the bottom of the ladders, their arms crossed over their chests, supervising and occasionally barking out orders.
They are making the wall a full foot higher, and soon the world of Weihsien will get even darker.
It’s because of Matthew and Benton. The Japanese want to make sure there will be no more escapes from Weihsien. Miss E. explained to us that something called saving face means a lot to the Japanese. If two boys are able to elude the Imperial Army, the Japanese lose face. Meaning they look like fools. So everything the Japanese have done since the boys escaped—taking away our food and waking us up for extra roll calls, interrogating everyone who knew the boys and, now, extending the wall—is a way of saving face.
Pride is a strange thing. It’s all right to be proud of your accomplishments, as long as you don’t get too conceited. When I look at the rows of badges on my uniform, especially the one that says Artist, I feel proud. That kind of pride makes a person want to do more great things. For example, I would like to earn more badges. I would like my uniform to be so covered in badges it would be hard to see the blue cloth underneath!
But too much pride can be dangerous. I remember how, during one of his sermons, my father warned that too much pride can prevent us from knowing Him, meaning the Good Lord.
Perhaps the Japanese care too much about saving face. Maybe they should think about their day-to-day behavior and how they treat us. But then I remind myself that not all of the Japanese are like that. Not the soldier who lifted us up and alerted us to the bloodstains on the ground. I don’t care what Tilly says—that Japanese soldier is our friend.
We are headed to morning roll call. Miss E. doesn’t have to tell us not to stare at the coolies working on the wall. We have learned to make ourselves invisible. We can’t risk upsetting the Japanese, especially when they are still smarting after the boys’ escape.
Because I don’t know where else to look, I look at my feet. The tip of my big right toe is hanging over the sole of my shoe. Even if we are not getting enough to eat or drink, our bodies are still growing. That thought makes me glad. We may be prisoners—sojourners—but our captors cannot control everything about us.
Because I am looking at my big toe I don’t see the two Japanese soldiers marching in our direction. But Jeanette sees them, and she makes a hiccupping sound.
At first I think the soldiers are on their way to join the pair supervising the coolies’ work. But when one stops in front of us and raises his hand in the air, his palm outstretched, I realize I’m wrong. I also know from the stony look on this soldier’s face that something bad is about to happen.
“Ohayo gozaimasu,” Miss E. says brightly. I have never admired Miss E. as much as I admire her right now. If she is afraid of the Japanese soldier, she does not let it show.
The soldier speaks to Miss E. in rapid-fire Japanese. Each word sounds as harsh and deadly as a bullet.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re saying,” Miss E. tells the soldier, looking right at him as she speaks. “Though my Japanese is coming along, I still have a long way to go. And you do speak very quickly.”
The soldier reaches inside his jacket and takes a piece of paper from his pocket. The paper is folded into four.
The soldier wants Miss E. to look at what’s on the paper. “I’ll need my glasses,” she tells him, using her thumbs and index fingers to make a circle over each of her eyes.
When the soldier grunts, Miss E. takes her glasses out of her apron.
Though I know I shouldn’t move from my spot and draw attention to myself, I lean slightly over so I can peek at the paper too. I have to hold in a gasp when I see that it’s a kind of map—a lot like the map I drew for Matthew in the dirt.
But why does the soldier suspect Miss E. knows something about this map?
It’s only when the soldier turns the paper over that I understand why he was barking at Miss E. There’s a multiplication table on the other side of the paper. As soon as I see the neatly written numbers and the carefully drawn lines separating the columns, I recognize Miss E.’s handwriting.
The soldier doesn’t wait for Miss E. to say something. He grabs hold of her collar and pulls her toward him—and away from us.
“Miss—” Cathy starts to say.
Miss E.’s lips twitch. She wants to tell us something. But she doesn’t use words. Instead she purses her lips and blows us a kiss.
It’s Miss E.’s turn to be taken for interrogation. And there is nothing we can do to help her. But I think we all understand there was a message in that kiss she blew us.
We are Girl Guides. Miss E. expects us to hold our heads high and go to roll call.
THIRTY
If Miss E. had nothing to do with the boys’ escape, why is she being held so long in the Imperial Army’s office?
Roll call is over. Work detail is done. Dot, who was in the guardhouse making tea for the Japanese officers, tried to get news about Miss E., but she couldn’t find out anything.
The others are content to wait in the hut, but Tilly and I can’t stand not knowing. So we decide to sneak to the center of the camp, where we find a shady spot across from the Imperial Army’s office. Made of red brick, it’s one of the only well-maintained buildings in this part of the camp. The windows are clean, and there’s not a single broken pane. As usual, the shades are down, making it impossible to see what goes on inside.
“Why would they keep an innocent person so long?” I ask Tilly.
“Because they can,” she says simply. “Besides, why are you so sure she’s innocent?”
“Because she’s Miss E.,” I tell her. “She would never do anything wrong.”
Tilly looks at me and shakes her head. “She might do something wrong—if she thought it could lead to something right.”
I don’t know what to say to that. How can something wrong lead to something right? I hate when Tilly talks in riddles.
“How do you think the boys got hold of a ladder?” she asks.
“I…uh…I don’t know. Miss E. doesn’t own a ladder.”
“No,” Tilly says, “of course not. But the Imperial Army does, and I’m sure the coolies have ladders too.”
“What does that have to do with Miss E.? She isn’t in the army, and she isn’t a coolie.”
Tilly sighs. She thinks she is a lot smarter than me—and maybe she is. Could Miss E. really have helped the boys to escape? “Miss E. has many friends” is all Tilly will say.
Tilly suddenly grabs hold of my hand, clutching it so hard her fingernails dig into my wrist. The door to the office is opening. Two Japanese soldiers march out, heads held high. Miss E. is propped up between them. Each soldier is holding one of her elbows. Thank God Miss E. seems to be all right. We are too far away to make out her expression. Her hair looks mussed up, but her spine is as straight as ever. She is the bravest person I have ever known. I can’t imagine what it would feel like to be interrogated by Japanese soldiers for almost three hours.
I move to get up. I need to go to Miss E. But Tilly stops me. “It isn’t safe,” she whispers. I know she’s right. The Japanese soldiers will want to know what we are doing here, so far from our hut.
Someone else comes out of the office. I think Tilly is as surprised as I am to see it is the camp commander himself. I tremble when I see him. He is a large man in every way—nearly as tall, and with a trunk as thick, as a banyan tree. He says something in loud Japanese, and the soldiers who have Miss E. between them turn to look at him, then click the heels of their boots.
Miss E. turns too. The commander is speaking to her. His voice booms so much we hear its echo in our hiding spot. We don’t understand what he is saying. But we recognize his tone—angry, cruel and mocking. The commander stretches out his arm and ex
tends an upturned palm toward Miss E. He is ordering her to give him something. Now!
When Miss E.’s shoulders slump, I bite my lip.
And when Miss E. reaches into her apron pocket, I realize what the commander wants. Miss E.’s reading glasses. But why? He must have his own pair. After all, he’s the camp commander!
Miss E. holds on to the glasses for a few seconds longer than seems necessary. The commander barks again, and she lays the reading glasses in his palm. Poor Miss E. How will she be able to read without her glasses?
Nothing could prepare me for what happens next. I’ll never forget it. Not if I live to be a hundred.
The commander tosses Miss E.’s glasses to the ground in front of him. Then he lifts one foot, letting it hover just over the glasses. Though we are too far away to hear, I wince as I imagine the sound of his shiny black boot stomping down hard on Miss E.’s glasses, and the shattered glass flying up into the air and tinkling as it hits the ground.
The commander laughs, and then, as if they were waiting for instructions, the soldiers laugh too.
Only one small thing brings me comfort. Miss E. straightens her shoulders.
“How will she be able to read?” I whisper to Tilly. “How will she be able to give us lessons?”
“Don’t you see? That’s why he did it.” Tilly spits out the words. “So she won’t be able to rea—” Tilly doesn’t finish her sentence. She has raised her eyes to signal that someone is nearby. We could get into all sorts of trouble if anyone finds us here.
My body tenses when I realize that it’s another Japanese soldier. This one must have been watching the scene too.
Tilly tugs on my hand. “Let’s go,” she hisses as she hunches down, preparing to disappear into the shadows and take me with her.
The bushy eyebrows tell me who it is. Our friend. My friend. But I know it would be risky to speak to him now or acknowledge him in any way. So I follow Tilly back to our hut. She is as quick and quiet as a cat.
The Taste of Rain Page 11
