Little Foreign Devil 2010 Chapter 11

8/3/2019 Little Foreign Devil 2010 Chapter 11

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NAKED AS THE DAY THEY WERE BORN

TODAY is just another run-of-the-mill school day soour curiosity is aroused when the Headmaster an-nounces that the hymn to be sung is O God Our Helpin Ages Past, which, as any third former can tell you,is usually reserved for Siege Day, Armistice Day, mo-ments of national crisis. And when we hear the somberappeal of the morning prayer: Give peace in our time,O Lord, because there is none other thatfighteth for us,

we know definitely that something is in the wind. Andso what an anticlimax, the Heads swelling, quaver-ing declaration: The world is at the brink of war! . . .Whats he talking about the brinkof war? Arent we

already in the thick of war? And doesnt his very nextannouncement confirm that to be the case? . . . I haveto bring to your attention some harrowing news which

will personally touch each and every one of you. Youwill all remember Wesley Morris, the bright young ladfrom Form Four Lower School. Tragically, the day before

yesterday, while exploring a battlefield on the outskirtsof Shanghai, he got hold of a grenade. It blew off hishand. He is in critical condition. But the doctors thinkhe has a chance. . .

. . . Hand blown off! . . . Wesley Morris! . . . My bloodcurdles, my toes cringe. Wesley is the spunky kid

brother of Railton, our classmate until a year ago whenhis parents, both serving with the Salvation Army, weretransferred to Shanghai . . . Poor Wesley!

At recess, still very much ill at ease, I try to keep tomyself, but Aliosha Bublikoff comes up to me. Hey,


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Deska, he says, what do you think of thatSpasoonchiklosing his hand?

Aliosha cant seem to refer to anyone without assigninghim a label. Every Salvation Army kid is a Spasoonchikas every Georgian is a Gruzinskiand every Armenianan Armiashka.

But I am in no mood for his waggishness. I say tohim: Lets hope Wesleys going to be all right.

Right then, most opportunely, Vahab Izgur gets Al-iosha out of my hair. From his clutch of hangers-onVahab calls over: Hey, Alioshka, come tell us aboutthat shooting you saw on Wellington Road.

I cannot shake Wesley from my mind. I keep seeingthat impish grin of his at the Christmas party for sonsand daughters of Salvation Army officers held at theirResidence on Mersey Road. Why was I invited two yearsrunning, me, the only outsider, and smacking of Massincense to boot? Could Gordon Stranks have told MajorStranks about poor Dismal Desmondwho sat directlybehind him in class? Or was it Ernie Waller? Or WilburWalker, perhaps, mentioning something of the sort toBrigadier Walker? Come to think of it, it must havebeen Wilbur. Didnt he and I on the occasional Tuesdayevening share the misery of detention? Didnt Mr Foxleebook him once for sticking his thumb in the beaker tosee what it did to the specific gravity of some substanceor other, and me for laughing out loud? Never mind

how I came to be invited to those Salvation Army par-ties, it matters only that I was, that I partook in theirsparkling joy, and was for evermore enriched by it.


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They were beautiful people, those Australian Wallersand American Dempsters and Swedish Cedervalls

and Canadian Sowtons, just to name a few. And theywere beautiful in more ways than one. There was thatteacher, Nelma Stranks, a dark serene Helen of Troy.

There was Eleanor Evenden who, even at that tenderage, her hair still sporting a bow, was already display-ing the radiance that was to turn so many a head inthe years to come.

But Wesley, how they must now be praying for Wesley,fighting for his life in a Shanghai hospital. I can see thestrained look on Brigadier Walkers face as he pleads

with the good Lord to spare the boy. I have seen thatlook before. I saw it the night he and two other officers

came to our tent at Buchans Ground, shining torchlights in our faces, looking for young James Dempster.Brigadier Walker and Scoutmaster Watkins whisperedsomething to James. He got up, dressed quietly, and

was gone. His father, Adjutant Dempster, stationed inthe interior, had been shot dead by bandits.

It is our mid-morning Englishclass. We each have ourMidsum-mer Nights Dreamopen beforeus. Wed better know it well; itis the Shakespeare work pre-scribed by Cambridge Universityfor this years English literatureexam. And wed better stay dou-bly alert while Natalie Shanekis struggling through Titaniassolemn affirmation: These arethe forgeries of jealousy, for

weve never been able to second-guess our English master Mr

May. He doesnt have us reading in rotation. He usesno system. He picks readers at random. I can tellright now by those little twitches of irritation that hesabout to make a pick. But before he can do so, thereis a sudden, urgent rapping on the door, and in burstsHeadmaster Woodall, gown billowing, voice booming:Its a miracle, Mr May, a miracle. Neville Chamberlainhas pulled it off. Hes back from Munich with a peacetreaty signed by Herr Hitler himself. Theres not going


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to be war. Then he turns to address the class. Yes,boys and girls, the world is saved. Can you hear me atthe back? No war, no shooting, no killing. And withhis nose pointed up at the ceiling, he sweeps out astriumphantly as he swept in.

For a second or two, total silence. Then whispers.Then growing rumbles. Mr May is about to bring theclass to order when Maxie Rosentool raises his hand.Excuse me sir, he says, with perfect aplomb, do youthink Premier Stalin is going to accept the piece of paperthose so-called statesmen have signed?

And someone else, just as quick off the mark: Sir,whose side do you think Mussolini is on?

While the Gladstones and Disraelis of Form Five Up-per School are having their field day, Aliosha Bublikoff

jerks his chin to catch my eye. He asks in a gruff semi-whisper: Why is GospodinVootballskitelling us thereis no shooting? Twice last week I nearly got shot. Do

you want to know about it?I already know about it. Vahab and Frankie told

me.And what they had told me sounded so scary it made

my blood curdle. According to Vahab Izgur, Alioshawas walking past a high-walled gong guanon Welling-ton Road when a single revolver shot went off so closeto him it just about shattered his eardrums. While he

was standing there stunned, guards burst out of the

gong guanfiring their Mausers at random. With bulletswhistling every which way, he flung himself behind arickshaw. And there he stayed not daring to move afinger till the police arrived. Frankie Butterworths ver-sion he got it straight from his brother Jim was thatthe gunman, ignoring Aliosha and other passers-by,had rung the gong guandoorbell then fired point-blankat the face that presented itself at the peephole. Andthat, according to brother Jim, was standard terroristprocedure for advising the master of the house he wasnext on the hit list.

Alioshkas second close call came only three days later

when he was caught in a shoot-out between gunmenand bodyguards of an eminent Chinese official, slainon the street only twenty yards from his residence. Thedead man, Dr T.L. Chao, was not only the most popularof the five Chinese members on the British Municipal


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Council, but long time Principal of Gong Xue, Tientsinsmost prestigious Chinese high school.North China Starpulled no punches in giving the reason for his assas-sination he refused to allow Japanese propaganda tobe disseminated in Gong Xuesclassrooms.

Why all this shooting in a foreign concession, a safeisland of neutrality in the stormy sea of the Sino-Jap-anese conflict? Why? Perfectly plain why. The Empireof Japan was flexing its muscles. It was showing byexample how the puppet government it had created andinstalled in Peking must follow suit. They were prettyhappy, were the Japanese, with this new creation oftheirs. And happier still, knowing they were going toget away with it just as they had got away with theirother creation, the vassal state of Manchukuo.

The Peking government must be recognized by thewhole world as the legitimate government of China,they declared.

fraid not, was the British-American-French re-sponse. Chiang Kai Sheks Kuomintanggovernmentis the only one we recognize.

Well see about that, bristled the Japanese. All theyneeded to do was give a wee nudge and their Pekingbully boys levied a special tax on all imports from theWest. And as for exports, they passed a law forbiddinggoods of any kind to leave Chinese ports without aspecial permit. In Tientsin these special permits could

be obtained only from the East Hopei Trade Bureaulocated in the Chinese City. So for the first time ever,foreign taipans sent their compradors there, to standin line, to kow-tow, to grease palms. And what a feel-ing of power it gave those puppet officials! What giddyheights they attained! Unfortunately for them, up therein the limelight, they were easy marks for freedomfighters. Freedomfighters? Well, thats what patrioticChinese called them; to the Japanese and their col-laborators, they were, of course, terrorists pure andsimple. Isnt that the same the world over, pot callingthe kettle black?

In broad daylight in the Chinese City, zip, some high-up would catch it. Next day, zap, another would go to

join his ancestors. The gunmen were never caught.They simply made their way into the sanctuary of theBritish or French Concessions.


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As a matter of common courtesythis is to advise you we are sending inour gendarmerie to apprehend thosemurderers, the Japanese informedthe Anglos and Francos.

Not on your life! Question ofBritish sovereignty, was the proudAnglo response.

And same from the Francos:Fous le camp! Question of Frenchsovereignty.

Okay, if thats the way you wantit, two can play at that game.

So the Japanese infiltrated death squads into theconcessions. Any academic or industrialist with pro-

Chiang leanings, any spokesman for the Kuomintang, was fair game. Hardly a day went by without someChicago-style execution, and there was little the Britishor French police could do about it.

With all that mayhem going on, I was going to becaught up in it sooner or later, and sooner if I stuck

with that jinx Alioshka Bublikoff. But who in his rightmind would have imagined that it was going to hap-pen on a Saturday afternoon at the Grand, Tientsinslargest movie house? It was after Scouts, most of FoxPatrol, including who else but Alioshka, were up inthe rear balcony. The film was Gunga Din. Came the

big scene, the climax, the three swashbuckling heroes:Cary Grant, Victor McLaglen, Douglas Fairbanks Jrtrapped on the roof of a temple, a column of gallantHighlanders marching to the rescue, kilts swirling,bagpipes squeaking, blissfully unaware of the fanatics

waiting in ambush. Oh, how we wanted to warn thosebrave Scots marching to their certain death! But inthe nick of time, Gunga Din, Rudyard Kiplings lowly

water carrier, put bugle to lip and sounded the alarm.In truest Hollywood tradition the Highlanders wheeledinto battle formation. And what a battle, what a dinfrom the muskets, Gatling guns, cannon! But hey! Wait

a minute! That last crack-crack-crackwas too sharp,too ringing to be coming from the screen. And now amuffled shout from the audience, rapid-fire voices,slamming seats, hurrying footsteps. Then the lightscame on. Then the mad rush for the exits. In the stalls,


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a few rows below us and to our left, schoolmate ArthurLi was standing, holding up his wrist, his jacket dark

with blood. In the seat directly behind him, a Chineselady was leaning over a slumped figure. Patrol LeaderPromptoff, always the perfect Baden Powell, rusheddown to offer his services. Someone we later heardit was Doctor Heinemann of the German AmericanHospital hollered at him to scram. On the landingdown the first flight of stairs lay the contorted body ofa man. (Next days North China Starstated that he, aBelgian, had gone to fetch his wifes coat she couldntstand the films violence when by a one-in-a-millionchance he stepped in the gunmans way.) Out on thestreet Achmet rushed over to tell us that Talat hadbeen shot. We learned afterwards that Talat Mansuroff,North Chinas breast stroke champion, had felled one ofthe gunmen with a flying tackle, whereupon the mansaccomplice shot Talat in the stomach, then turned andfired point blank at Talats buddy, Ravil Tahir. Click!Empty chamber. The incredibly courageous and fast-thinking Ravil got Talat to the Jewish Hospital in timeto save his life. We also heard that Arthur Li was go-ing to be all right, but the man seated behind him inthe stalls had succumbed. He was Dr S.G. Chang, topbanker and top Japanese collaborator.

To everyones astonishment, the British police appre-hended the gunmen, all four of them. Right away the

Japanese demanded that the four be handed over.Not on your life, the British responded, cool as all

get out.Was there no limit to Eeengliss arro-gance? How velly velly exasperating forPrince Konoyes militarists! After all,hadnt Dai Nippon gone to all the troubleof establishing a new bank, the FederalReserve Bank of China? And hadnt thesaid bank issued paper money so pretty,so arty that it was bound to supplantCNC, Chinas national currency? And

hadnt British and French banks refusedto accept the FRB notes as legal tender.And what about all that silver in theFrench Concession, Chinese govern-ment bullion, forty million ounces of it,


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and pedestrians were allowed throughonly after interminable delay. And that

was just the prelude. When word spreadof what the Japanese were doing at thebarricades, a shock wave swept throughthe community. Their gendarmes werepicking out men or women from thequeue of people waiting to get throughand stripping them bare.Act of war? What else? Surely the timehad come for Britannia, Ruler of theWaves, mightiest of the Conquistadorsthe world had ever seen, to retaliate bygiving the bullying Japanese a swift kick

in the pants. Nothing of the kind. The feeble bleats fromNo. 10 Downing Street hardly reached the milk bottlesat No. 11, let alone the War Office. So what better en-ticement for Tokyo to tighten the screws. And still nota peep from the Land of Hope and Glory. If poor presscoverage was at the root of the mother countrys indif-ference, then surely Fleet Street could have borrowedfrom Tientsins papers where it was front page stuff everyday. They could have picked up any paper, picked upthe June 26th edition of the Peking & Tientsin Times,for instance, and this is what they would have read:

The release after nine days of Mr G. A. Smith,

the almost complete stoppage of the milk sup- ply, and a particularly bad case of searchingwere the features of the 12th day of the blockadeyesterday.

Mr and Mrs D. Findlay were victims of the searchon Saturday afternoon as the couple were goingto the Country Club, of which Mrs Findlay is man-ageress. Mrs Findlay was taken into an inner hutwhere a Chinese woman searcher stripped herof everything but her corselet. Mrs Findlay askedthe Japanese sentry to leave but he remained

throughout the inspection. The woman searcherfelt under the corselet and then, after a most in-timate inspection, allowed Mrs Findlay to dressagain. The sentry remained there all the time whilethe door of the hut was wide open, exposing Mrs


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Findlay to the gaze of many people in theadjoining room. When she left the hut MrsFindlay found her husband in the open innothing but a singlet. His clothes strewnall over the ground.

Practically all milk coming in today wasstopped. This has hit the British MunicipalHospital, where some patients on a milkdiet are in a serious position.

Apologists for Japanese behavior (andthere were many of these and there stillare) would say that all one had to do to avoid the em-barrassment of public nudity and slapped cheeks was

simply to stay put in ones own concession. But thenwouldnt that mean saying good-bye to the CountryClub, the stables, the camping ground, Russian Park,German Park, and that incomparable gem of a restau-rant, Kiessling & Bader? And wouldnt it mean givinga miss to the Race Clubs network of canals which, atthis time of the year, seethed with surfacing schools ofgolden carp? Well, not necessarily if you possessed, asI did, that safest of safe-conducts a slender, made-in-Japan, four-piece rod. For arent the Japanese,practically the whole race of them, incorrigible IzaacWaltons? And arent the Izaac Waltons of this world a

breed unto themselves, their regard for one anotherbeing ever a source of wonder and envy among Rosi-crucians, Templars, Freemasons, and Shriners, fromthe high potentates to the boisterous jack-masons of alesser lodges? Dismount from my bike? Sure thing. Letthe khaki-clad warrior feel the whip of my rod? Whynot? Hes going to pass me through with a slap on theback. He does so every time.

Though I was never obliged to undo a trouser button,I was sufficiently slowed passing through the check-point to have a ringside view of the Nagasaki versionof that vulgar sport debagging. I saw with my own

eyes his nibs, Edgar J. Simpson Esq, taipan of HopeiCotton, standing out in the open, naked as the day hewas born. And then there was that acquaintance of

Tai-tais, the director of Belgian Tramways, MonsieurLeClerc, a mountain of pink, shielding his essentials with


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a Moyler Powell boater. It took thelovable Scottish eccentric, HerbertGeorge McKenzie, aka Mad Macto turn it into a frolic, a chuckling,thigh-slapping frolic. The whole

world loves an eccentric and anywho had the good fortune to knowMad Mac loved him best. A pianotuner by profession, his work tookhim to sundry mission stations inthe interior where his antics werelegend. His Mandarin was pure Pe-king, but he could revert to harshShansi or sing-song Kiangsu whenso inclined. And the bawdy pidgin

with which he could dress up versesfrom the Presbyterian Hymnal was

remarkable for its inventiveness. What a shock to thosestraight-laced mission ladies when he tested a tunedpiano with a verse or two!

Mad Mac breakfasted at the Country Club every morn-ing. Hed been doing it for donkeys years; no way washe going to let the barricades interfere with his dailyritual. According to the story that went the rounds, thefirst time they had his pants off, he broke into hilariousgiggles when a guard, armed with chopsticks, raisedhis privates in a mock search for contraband. After

that, the show he put on never varied. Hed arrive atthe barrier and strip right down to his skin without everbeing ordered to do so. And there hed stand, his clothesbundled under an arm, treating Chinese bystandersto a ribald ditty until the exasperated sentries bustledhim through. He wasnt playing fair!

And he wasnt alone, no sir. Others found other waysto tweak Japanese noses.

One day, at our favorite noodles eaterie on Taku Road,Murat Apakaieff grabbed my arm. Take a look at thisFRB dollar. What do you see?

The green bank note he put in my hand looked no

different from any other Id come across.Look carefully.I am. But whats there to see?Durak, look at what Confucius is doing with his

fingers.


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Holy Moses! Thats an obscene gesture hes making.And what a mischievous look on his face! Whats it allabout?

Ill tell you what I know, he said, witha mischievous glint of his own. The guy

who designed this dollar note is a famousChinese painter who shocked Pekingsart world when he agreed to go work forthe Japanese. And they, of course, lost

no time making a big song and dance about him, put-ting his picture in all the magazines and papers. Well,six months later he disappeared. Not a trace of him inPeking, Tientsin, anywhere. In actual fact all he did

was wander into the British Concession and board aButterfield & Swire ship bound for Hong Kong. By the

time the bank authorities noticed that Confucius wasgiving them the screw you Charlie sign, it was too late;millions of the notes were already in circulation. Youknow how the Japanese hate being laughed at. Theymust be out of their minds.

The guy was pretty lucky to get away.Not really, it was easy as pie. The Japanese havent

yet been able to interfere with British shipping. Youcan break the blockade anytime you like. All you haveto do is get on a British ship.

And thats how we got to Peitaiho that summer byB&S coaster.

We were late boarding, so there was hardly time toreconnoiter our cabin before the brave little tub pulledaway, gave three toots, and headed down stream. As

we passed the Japanese checkpoint on the GermanBund, tortured English crackling from a loudspeaker


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ordered the ship to pull to. The reply, blared througha bull horn, was pure Glaswegian: Shut yurr durrrtymouth you stupid barrrstarrrd. Cant you see wurrrBrrrutush! The vessel never faltered in its course, andnot another sound from the warrior of the Rising Sun.Who dares contend with a feisty Jock?

I stayed on deck watching the city skyline recedeinto the distance. Soon there was nothing to break themonotony of the barren yellow plain dotted with gravemounds all the way to the horizon. I was gazing hap-hazardly at the sweep of the bow-wave overflowing theshoreline when a wonk, one of those semi-wild native

watch dogs, caught my eye. It was feeding on a corpse.The wave snatched the meal from the curs mouth andsent it into the current. The cur simply plunged in, lockedits jaws on a limb, and paddled back to shore. Whenthe dinner gong sounded, I didnt leave my bunk.

The port of Chinwangtao where we docked was familiarto me as was Peitaiho Junction on the Peking Mukdenline. Although we waited there for a while, by tiffin time

we were at our beloved Peitaiho Beach. Our arrival wasa bit of a let-down. Where last year we rode donkeysinland to Quelchs place, now nothing so exciting; wetook rickshaws to the Rocky Point bungalow Tai-tai hadacquired the previous winter from an American mis-sionary. She must have noticed our disappointment;she went all out selling the place. Look at the lovely

cool verandah. Look at that rattan furniture. And justwait till you see the bathrooms all-modern plumbing.You dont know how lucky you are. American Beach is

just a stones throw from our front step. Why dont yougo down to the beach right now, all of you?

The others went, I didnt. I had a pilgrimage to make.I hiked out to the Quelch residence. The caretaker saidhe hadnt seen Xiao Ser for ages. Why didnt I try thevillage. I did but for the life of me I couldnt remember

which of the identical mud houses was Xiao Sers. Ev-eryone I asked clammed tight. In the end it was XiaoWang, Quelchs goatherd, who gave me the news.

Gone away, the whole family, to a mountain village.Father is an Eighth Route Army man.

Red Army?Yes.And Xiao Ser?


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He wears the scarf of the Little Red Devils, but hellsoon be a soldier.

A soldier, Xiao Ser! I just couldnt imagine him shoul-dering a rifle, such a scrawny lad with such wide-openinnocent eyes.

By the time I retraced my steps to Rocky Point, itwas midday. Tony and Betty were back from the beach,which now, under the suns direct rays, was too scorch-ing for human habitation. The much vaunted Peitaihosea breezes had given way to a breathless calm. In thesurrounding aspens and mimosas, massed cicadas infull screech were telling the world it was siesta time.

There was nothing for it but to collapse on a deck chairand wait it out till dusk.

At three-thirty Id had more than enough of thedeck chair. Though it was still hot as Hades outside, Idescended the steps carved into the cliff and crossedAmerican Beach to Tiger Rocks. The tide was way in,only the tallest rocks showed above the surface, andthey were a good fifty yards out from shore, too hazard-ous to wade to. Never mind, I could try for sandfish,

which at that time of day moved in to feed in the shal-lows. But what the heck was I going to use for bait?I was about to chuck it in and head for home when Icaught sight of the tall, tanned figure making his waytowards me, his toes caressing the corrugated sand atthe edge of the sweeping surf. It was Leonard Gmirkin,

heavens alive! Who else had those twinkling eyes, thatcatching smile?

Hi, Des, what you trying to catch?Sandfish, Leoka, sandfish.Caught any?No, havent tried. No bait.No bait? Ill get you a mussel. And with that he

waded in waist-deep, probing with his feet for submergedrocks. In no time he sank his hand down and cameup with a glistening black shellfish. I made a mess ofopening the thing. Here, gimme your knife, he said.Deftly as a surgeon he prised open the clamped valves

and gouged out the blob of gray-white flesh which heslid over the hook. Not quite done, he plucked a hairfrom his head and wound it around the bait. Stayson longer, he muttered. But you still gotta be gentle

with your cast.


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across it. I watch Leoka lift his slender eight-foot rodupright so that the wind does the work of carryingthe fine weightless line out over the churning water.Wham! Strike!

He signals me to have a go. With the sun burningfiercely and the salt spray whipping my face and thepowerful swells lifting and lowering the canoe as if it

were nothing but a matchbox, I maneuver into position.I raise my rod. The wind takes the line out. Wham! theswordfish strikes with frightening suddenness. Therod doubles in crazy arcs. For sheer excitement theresnothing in the world to beat it.

Or is there? Leoka says to me quite matter-of-factlyas we drag our canoes above high water mark: Wantmore fun? After youve got your catch in the ice box,

why dont you come down to American Beach? Ill in-troduce you to the gang.

Because I know them from Tientsin, I am able to con-quer my shyness when I come face to face with Bessie,Lucy, Brian, Charlie, Vincy. But those others I meet forthe first time Pat, Rob, Margie, Kathy, June, vibrantAmericans from Shanghai turn meinto a dithering eight-year-old. Becauseshyness is an emotion absent from theirmake-up, they fail to notice my simper-ing. They take me as I come.

But I must still prove myself. I do that

by throwing and catching the baseballas well as they, and by powering along

with the best of them when they swimout to the anchored junk their parentshave rented for the summer. They seenothing special in my prowess. Theyexpect it of me just as they expect me tokeep pace when they charge back fromthe water to bask on the sand. Some-times a curvaceous Lamour stirs uphowls of complaint when she pushes her way betweenbare shoulders and thighs to make room for herself.

Sometimes I am the one who has to surrender space.I know I should let out my howl of complaint. But no

way. When the firm hip shoves mine, I get such a burstof electricity my lungs are paralyzed.


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Afterwards, at dusk, on somebodys verandah, I takemy turn winding the Victrola. Its a serious responsibil-ity. There must not be a moments delay between BennyGoodman and Harry James. The one in charge simplycannot leave his post. I dont mind. Why should I? Itgives me the opportunity to take in the goings on, andI take in a lot. Just look at that pair from Shanghai, sopoised, so sophisticated, so completely at ease whetherits a fox trot, tango, or waltz. Look at them gliding,swiveling, cheek to cheek, body to body, molded asone . . . Tonight I mustnt think of her, Music Maestro,please. . .

Wow! theres Leoka, cool as Cary Grant, dancing withMargie Hale gorgeous, statuesque, with cascadingash blonde hair. And sonovagun, Brian Clarke too,another fellow Tientsinner, cheek to cheek with lovelyLucy Attree.

I look once, I look twice. It cant be, but it is, and di-rected right at me, the smile on the face of a girl seatedacross the verandah. My stomach ties in knots. Let it!Nothing in the world will induce me to budge from therefuge behind the Victrola . . .

Whats your name? Desmond you say? Whats thematter Desmond? I dont see you dancing? You dontknow how to dance? Youll soon learn. Come on. TheAmerican parent takes my hand. Though Im in a coldfunk, I force my feet to follow her feet . . .

When the record ends I find safety in the clutch oflarking, nudging, giggling twelve- and thirteen-year-olds. But my mind is on the older ones: Brian andLucy, Leoka and Margie, Pat and Irene. As far as I candetermine, not all the girls are spoken for. I sneak aglance at darling freckle-faced Betty-Ann, at vivaciousgolden-haired June, at sultry dark-haired Constance.Can I summon up the courage? Can I? May I have thisdance? Is that what I have to say? Just the thought ofmouthing those words and my heart skips a beat. ButI must do it. I must pull myself together. Darn, its toolate. Theres only an inch of record left. And anyway,

isnt it about time someone changed the needle? Andisnt Little White Liesa bit on the fast side. Wait forPenny Serenade. Wait for South of the Border. . .

Desmond, why are you notdancing? Come on, getup on your feet. The persistent parent takes me by the


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hand. I move like a condemnedman on the slow march to thegallows. Betty-Ann, the parentsays, dance with Desmond.

Im as rigid as a mechanicaltoy. I advance three steps. I re-treat three steps. I look past theshock of glossy brown hair, but Icannot avoid breathing in waftsof its natural fragrance. WhenBetty-Ann turns her head toreply to someones quip, I sneaka quick glance at the heavenlydown of her freckled cheek.

She lets me have the next dance, and the next. Wehardly say a word. There is no need for words. Thereis the silent language of the eyes. When a parent an-nounces its time to quit, we mill about saying ourawkward good-byes. Brian will be seeing Lucy home.Pat will escort Irene. Charlie will be with Bessie. Dare Idare ask Betty-Ann? I get the butterflies. But my new-found courage doesnt entirely forsake me. I somehowspill out the words: May I walk you home, Betty-Ann?She nods her yes. Lord oh lord, and the night pitchblack. A goodnight kiss? The thought of it and I ama quivering jellyfish. Diving into a shark-infested seaholds less terror for me. . . .

Someone said the Gheradis were packing. Someonesaid the Wallaces. Was Betty-Ann Wallace going? AndMargie Hale? How time flashed by that unforgettablesummer! The Hales gave a farewell barbecue at Light-house Point. Just getting there was pure delight, theflotilla offishing junks hired for the occasion swishinggently along the dead calm sea. Someone began strum-ming a guitar. We sang, we held hands, we had not acare in the world. Then on the beach, after barbecuedsteaks (the first Id ever tasted) and chocolate cake (asonly the Americans can make it), we lolled on the sand,

watching the sun paint the sky every shade of red as

it sank behind stately Queen Victoria on her Deathbed. Two girls dashed into the surf (only girls dared thecool evening water). Phosphorescence turned theminto silvery Dianas. The guitar player started singing

wistfully: Wishing will make it so, just keep on wishing


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and cares will go. . . I joined in with the few words Iknew: The curtain of night will part, if you are certainwithin your heart. . .

Hey you guys down there! Hey!All eyes turned to thefigure on the cliff top. Illuminated

by moonlight, he looked vaguely familiar. He starteddown the dangerous path. Crazy thing to do, but hekept coming. I recognized him unmistakably when hedrew close. It was Richard Evans, American, class ortwo below me at TGS.

Did you guys hear the news? War! England andFrance have declared war on Germany.

Whered you get that?Heard it on the radio. Didnt you see those British

warships take off yesterday?I remember that morning thinking it strange, Temple

Bay empty of ships. Where had they gone: HMS Kent,USS Paul Jones, and the sleek Bartolomeo Colleoni,flagship of the Italian Eastern Fleet?

My thoughts turned to my brothers: Patrick, in theRAF, stationed at Alor Star in Malaya; Brian, at LondonUniversity, certain to be called up; Jocelyn, serving inHMS Shropshiresomewhere in the Med.

In the junk carrying us back to Rocky Point, nobantering, no singing, just serious chatter from thegrown-ups, fussing over the possibility of their shiphome being re-routed.

It wasnt. In the coming days the Hales, the Rosss,the MacDonalds departed for Shanghai, the McCannsand the Benedicts for Peking, and the Fullers for HongKong. We Tientsinners took no part in the exodus. In

July our city had suffered a disastrous flood, and though


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the waters had now receded, there was the immensejob of cleaning up.

The mass inoculation program underway might con-trol the spread of cholera and typhoid; but there wasno safeguard against infantile paralysis.

It was well into October before we arrived home. TheJapanese barricades that had been swept away withthe first onrush offloodwater were back in place. So

we were again hostages, and hostages we remainedthrough the winter and into the summer of 1940. Asif that wasnt dispiriting enough, we were forced toswallow the ever-worsening news from Europe thedebacle in Norway, the blitzkrieg in the low countries,the BEF and French army in headlong retreat, Dunkirk,the fall of France.

Now, any time they liked, the Japanese could breezeinto the French Concession, and ours too, for that matter.How could the poor beleaguered mother country give asingle thought to her obscure outpost of empire tuckedaway forty miles inland from the Gulf of Peichihli?

But someone in the Foreign Office must have givenit some thought, enough thought to instruct HBMsAmbassador in Tokyo to submit to the humiliating

terms laid down by the Chrysanthemum Throne. Forthe thrones generosity in lifting the blockade, our sideagreed to assist the French in transferring the Chinesegovernment bullion from the Bank of China on rue de


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Paris to the Yokohama Specie Bank on Consular Road.And the British Municipal Council agreed to accept FRBin payment of its utility bills. And our people said yes,the brave Samurai warriors could have their show-of-force march down Taku Road and Elgin Avenue. Andthey also said yes, the Kempetai could have the fourGunga Dingunmen to do with as they pleased.

Saying yes to all those things, how could we everagain face our Chinese friends?

Documents

Little Foreign Devil 2010 Chapter 11