The Language of Threads Page 11

  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.”

  Fire and Ash

  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 authoriti
es.

  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.

  Pei’s heart raced. “Are you sure?”

  “Very.” Mrs. Finch let the newspaper fall to the floor. She fitted the teakettle and clanked it on the stove to boil. “It might be nice to have one more cup of po lai tea before I leave.”

  Against Mrs. Finch’s initial wishes, Pei and Ji Shen decided to accompany her down to the bank. “I don’t want you girls walking back alone,” she argued.

  “You’ll need us to help carry your suitcase,” Ji Shen answered.

  Pei stood before her in silent determination, until Mrs. Finch finally relented. She was allowed to bring with her one suitcase, which she’d had packed and ready for days. “No need for much,” she’d said, carefully folding a few sweaters and three of her favorite cotton dresses into the case.

  They walked in silence down the nearly empty streets, pockmarked from the constant Japanese shelling. The sky hung heavy and low. The once vibrant streets were battered beyond recognition. Where there had once been trees and houses, now stood empty craters and burnt-out automobiles. As they weaved around downed power lines and the rubble from collapsed buildings, Pei saw for the first time the extent of the damage the Japanese had inflicted on Hong Kong. She felt sick to her stomach as a strong and repulsive smell drifted through the chilly January air and made them all quickly cover their noses. “What is it?” Ji Shen asked.

  Pei didn’t point out the dead body that festered beside the road, its face no longer recognizable in decomposition. She picked up the pace along a patch of clear road, then slowed down again to avoid a mangled piece of steel and concrete that resembled part of a ship.

  Pei spied a servant hurrying down Robinson Road, and was instantly filled with dread. Was Song Lee safely tucked away with her family up on the Peak? Had Ah Woo and Leen survived the bombing? And what of Quan? Dear Quan, who lived and worked on the streets. Pei tried to clear her mind and swallowed the sourness that rose up to her throat.

  Once they arrived down in Central, they were surrounded by groups of Japanese soldiers in their drab, ill-fitting uniforms, rifles fitted with bayonets slung across their shoulders.

  As they neared the bank, Mrs. Finch turned to Pei and said in one quick breath, “Now, you know where everything is hidden. It all belongs to you and Ji Shen. Take it and take care of yourselves. I’m afraid, my dears, our paths must part now.”

  “We’ll keep it all safe for you. For when this all comes to an end,” Pei added.

  The sharp sting of cold air surrounded them.

  Mrs. Finch smiled. “Of course you will.” She leaned over and kissed Ji Shen, then Pei, on each cheek. “We’ve had a lovely time together. I wouldn’t have traded it for anything in the world.”

  “I’ll come to see you as soon as I can,” Pei said, her heart racing. What else am I forgetting to say? she wondered. Ji Shen stood stone-still next to Pei, squeezing her hand tighter and tighter.

  Mrs. Finch nodded.

  Long lines of people waited in front of the bank, carrying suitcases and other belongings, which Pei suspected would be confiscated—dangling cameras, hat boxes, makeup cases. For a moment she wished they would fight back, flinging their possessions at the thin young Japanese soldiers who pushed them along with their bayoneted rifles.

  Mrs. Finch reached for her suitcase, gently prying it from Ji Shen’s hand. “Please be careful walking back home,” she said, her voice breaking. “God be with you both till we meet again.” She waved at them to hurry off. “Go!” she commanded, slapping at the air between them.

  Pei and Ji Shen barely had time to wave back before Mrs. Finch turned away from them. They watched her walk to the end of the long line, while the rain began to fall as lightly as tears.

  Chapter Seven

  1942–43

  The million and more who comprise the Chinese population of Hong Kong and who have been under British Imperialism for over 100 years have now been released. The Japanese army, by its courageous advance, has, in the shortest interval of time, lifted the hundred years of oppression which the Chinese people have suffered.

  The Hong Kong News

  December 31, 1941

  Pei

  The soft clattering of rain interrupted the flat’s eerie quiet. The humidity of the day before had evolved into heavy gray clouds. With the electricity out, the room appeared dark and deserted. Pei picked up the newspaper that Mrs. Finch had dropped on the floor that morning and ripped it first in half, then into quarters. They would have to leave the flat as soon as possible now that Mrs. Finch was to be interned at Stanley Camp. There was no telling how soon after she was processed the Kempeitai—the Japanese military police—and soldiers would arrive to confiscate the rest of her possessions. Pei almost wished she could stay to see their faces when they kicked in the front door, to find nothing of value left. In the end, they had been outsmarted by an old woman.

  Pei had heard rumors that the Kempeitai were cruel and unrelenting when they wanted something. How could someone as good and humane as Mrs. Finch stand up to them?

  She hurried into Mrs. Finch’s bedroom, where the lingering scent of lily of the valley offered a comfort, yet tempted tears. She knelt down and searched for the lever underneath the armoire, then popped open the hidden drawer just as Mrs. Finch had instructed. Inside, Pei found a cloth bag containing a diamond brooch shaped like a flower, a gold bracelet, a man’s gold wedding band, and a pearl necklace. There was also an envelope of Hong Kong dollars, which, since the Japanese occupation, had been greatly devalued. And lying face down underneath the envelope was the blackboard on which she’d learned to read and write in English. Pei picked it up and turned it over. On it, Mrs. Finch had written in large, clear letters, “You will be with me always.”

  Pei hugged the blackboard tightly against her chest and closed her eyes against tears. When she looked again, the words were smudged, the chalk a dusty veil across her breast.

  Pei and Ji Shen had been back at the apartment for less than an hour when a faint creaking caught Pei’s attention. She looked up from the extra pocket she was sewing into her tunic. How could the Japanese soldiers be coming so soon? She quietly stood up, her hands shaking as she tossed aside her sewing and reached down for the sturdy piece of driftwood she kept for her protection. She listened, then heard another creak of the floorboards. With the rugs burned in Mrs. Finch’s bonfire, the wood floor no longer muffled even the lightest step.

  “Ji Shen,” Pei whispered. Ji Shen
had closed her eyes in exhaustion while Pei sewed. She quietly inched over to Ji Shen’s bed, gently pushing her awake, covering her mouth to keep her from saying anything. “There’s someone out there,” she murmured quietly into Ji Shen’s ear. Ji Shen nodded, wide-eyed, before Pei lifted her hand from the girl’s lips.

  “Soldiers?” Ji Shen’s voice trembled.

  “I don’t know,” Pei whispered.

  Ji Shen stayed right behind her as they moved cautiously toward the closed door of their bedroom. If only Pei hadn’t stopped to sew more pockets into their clothing. They had planned to gather their belongings, then make their way back down to Wan Chai, where they hoped to find Ma-ling still at the boardinghouse, or the old herbalist ensconced in his crowded shop. It was the only place left for them to go.

  The floorboards creaked again, careful steps clearly heading toward their room. Pei took a deep breath, then turned around and gestured for Ji Shen to crouch down low behind the bureau. She gripped the piece of wood with both hands, ready to strike whoever entered.

  The steps grew closer. Pei heard a quick intake of breath on the other side of the door; then the doorknob gradually turned. She stepped back to allow herself room to swing the driftwood. If the Japanese were to take them in, it wouldn’t be without a good fight.