I nodded my head.
Nancy turned triumphantly to her mother. ‘See, didn’t I tell you?’
‘I can hardly believe this,’ Mrs Chen exclaimed. ‘Aren’t you afraid?’
‘No,’ I replied with a laugh. ‘Afraid of what?’
‘Didn’t your parents tell you the Communists don’t believe in God and hate foreigners? A Chinese student in a foreign convent school is seen by them as a member of the same religious order and will be persecuted along with the nuns if they win the war.’
I could only stare at her dumbly as she continued. ‘What are your parents thinking of? Everyone is fleeing Tianjin for Shanghai or Hong Kong. And here you are coming from the opposite direction! Do your parents plan to move to Tianjin and live here from now on?’
‘I don’t think so. I heard Father say to my uncle in the car yesterday that they’re flying back to Shanghai in four days.’
She looked at me, horror‐stricken. ‘And they are leaving you here by yourself? All alone in a foreign convent school? Don’t they read the newspapers in Shanghai? Haven’t they heard the Communists are winning the war? Soon PLA soldiers will be marching in from Manchuria. When they arrive they’ll probably arrest us capitalists along with the foreign sisters and put everybody in prison. Thousands of refugees from up north are pouring into Tianjin every day to get away from them! It’s almost impossible to get a plane or train ticket out of here! We’ve been waiting for two months!’
Suddenly I remembered the chaos at the airport yesterday and could only suck in my breath, sick with dismay.
Then she said, ‘What have you done that your parents should wish to punish you like this!’
My new school seemed so different from my old school in Shanghai. To begin with, there were fewer than one hundred pupils in this enormous place meant for a thousand. We were divided into six classes, depending not on age but on our ability to speak English.
To my embarrassment, they placed me in the beginners’ group. My classmates ranged from five to eight years old even though I was almost eleven. It was as if I’d never left kindergarten. Instead of algebra, I was doing additions and subtractions.
We were not supposed to converse in Chinese with each other at any time. So I said nothing at all unless the sisters addressed me by name. My classmates probably thought I was dumb because I was so much bigger but never raised my hand or volunteered to answer any questions.
In English conversation class one day, Mother Marie pointed to me to stand up and read aloud from Grimm’s Fairy‐tales. My mouth was dry and I knew my accent was terrible. Mother Marie mimicked my pronunciation and everyone snickered.
Finally she asked, ‘How old are you?’
‘Ten.’
‘How do you feel about coming to school here?’
I looked around at my classmates, all of them smaller, younger, smarter and fluent in English.
‘I feel old,’ I told her.
‘You mean like having one foot in the grave?’
All the girls chuckled. I looked up the word ‘grave’ with a fury of concentration in the English–Chinese half of my dictionary. Then I made a quick search for two other words in the Chinese–English section.
‘Well, as I was saying, do you feel as if you have one foot in the grave?’
‘Yes! And my other foot is on a piece of watermelon rind!’
There was loud laughter and a twinkle came into Mother Marie’s eyes. ‘So we have a comedian here! Tell me, what is your favourite book?’
I held up my dictionary. ‘This book here! I can’t live without it.’
Everyone laughed, including Mother Marie. ‘And if you can have one wish granted, what would that be?’
‘To receive a letter addressed to me. Just one letter. From anyone.’
Nancy Chen left Tianjin with her mother in the middle of November 1948. By then, the number of students had dwindled and we were all gathered into one single classroom, ranging in age from seven to eighteen. Every morning, fewer girls would show up than the day before. One by one they vanished, many without saying goodbye. By the middle of December, I was the only student left.
Three days before Christmas, Mother Marie gave me an assignment. I was to learn by heart a poem called ‘A visit from St Nicholas’.
I didn’t like the poem. It was too hard. I looked up all the long, complicated English words and translated them into Chinese, but the poem still didn’t thrill me.
When I recited it, Mother Marie asked, ‘Who wrote it?’
‘Someone called Clement Clarke Moore.’ ‘Really! I wouldn’t have guessed in a million years! Clement Clarke Moore is probably turning over in his grave! It sounds like nothing I’ve heard before. I thought you were repeating a Chinese poem!’ I didn’t feel so badly because she smiled while saying this and patted me on the head. Besides, we were all by ourselves in the classroom and there was no other student there to laugh at me.
Mother Marie was nice but she seemed at a loss as to how and what to teach me. In fact, all the sisters appeared somewhat bewildered and avoided looking at me directly whenever they happened to meet me in the corridors. They themselves darted around aimlessly all day in their black and white winter habits, silently clicking their rosaries. The atmosphere was eerie and strange. Our days were numbered and we were doomed. The Communists were coming! Everyone knew, but nobody talked about it.
Day after day, I would wander by myself from classroom to classroom because there was nowhere to go and no one to play with. I hated being by myself and missed my schoolmates terribly. All the rooms were empty. Rows and rows of desks and chairs and nobody anywhere. I would look at the white‐washed walls hung with maps of China, Tianjin and France, stand in front of the blank blackboard filmed with chalk dust, stare at the crucifix above the door, sit at a desk scarred by thousands of cuts and pencil marks. The place had become a ghost town.
Once I wandered into the chapel after lunch and found it full of praying nuns. Apparently, this was where the sisters were spending most of their time. I knelt on a pew and looked at the majestic, high, vaulted ceiling. The statues of Jesus and the Virgin Mary radiated a special tranquillity as they peered out from the candle‐smoke and incense‐vapour floating upwards. I dared not breathe too hard, for fear it would all be blown away. Someone started playing the organ. The music enchanted me. For a few minutes I felt safe again, the way I used to on Saturday nights in Shanghai, when I’d snuggle deliciously in bed for hours and hours, knowing there was no need to get up early the next morning. Once more, I saw Ye Ye and Aunt Baba playing cards by my bedside. Everything was cosy, relaxed and comfortable. My aunt’s hair was combed back smoothly into a bun which glistened under the lamplight. I heard again the rhythm of her voice intermingled with Ye Ye’s laughter drifting across the room. What wonderful, soothing sounds! Then she tucked the blankets around me and lowered the mosquito net over my bed.
On Christmas Day, I ate dinner all by myself in the vast refectory. Sister Helene brought me an enormous plate of ham, beans and potatoes. Meanwhile, she was rushing in and out distractedly, bringing in one thing at a time: bread, water, butter, apple‐sauce, salt, pepper. But she had neglected to give me a fork and I had nothing to eat with. One minute, she seemed glad I was still around for her to fuss over. The next minute she had forgotten all about me after saying she would bring me hot Christmas pudding for dessert.
I sat for ages pushing my food around on my plate. Outside I could hear the sound of a gramophone scratching out the sweet refrain of ‘Silent Night’ sung by an unknown soprano. I put my head against my folded arms on the refectory table and fell asleep.
Later that evening, I wrote a Christmas letter to Aunt Baba.
Dearest Aunt Baba,
I have been trying to think of what I should say to you because I don’t want to worry you, but there is no other student in the school now except for me. I am the only one left. Just me and the sisters in this enormous place. Sometimes I can’t help wondering what’s
going to happen when the Communists come. Will they take me away with the sisters and put me in prison too?
It is impossible to describe to you how I feel. I have written to you so many, many times! And to Ye Ye and Third Brother too. So far, there is no letter from anyone.
Why don’t you write? Why doesn’t anyone send me a letter?
I want you to drop me a line when you get this. I can’t imagine why you don’t reply. You have no idea what it’s like. To be all alone here makes me very, very sad. At night I lie awake for a long time and stare at all the other empty beds in my dormitory, laid out next to each other like little tombs.
I want you to send me your photograph so I can place it by my bed. I would give everything in the world to be with you and Ye Ye again back in Shanghai.
Don’t forget me.
Day after dreary day went by. New Year came and it was 1949. There was nobody to play with and nothing to do. The sisters were far too worried and preoccupied to fuss with me. Every day was a free day. I spent a lot of time in the library reading fairy‐tales. Mother Marie had given me a book for Christmas called Paper Magic (Playing Solitary Games with Paper: Origami and Paper Cuts). Hour after hour, I learned how to fold and cut paper into aeroplanes, ships, flowers, monkeys and birds. I loved this book because my troubles seemed to vanish when I applied its magic.
I didn’t dare ask Mother Marie too often whether I had any mail because the answer was always no. I didn’t know then that Niang had instructed the nuns to stop all my incoming and outgoing mail and forward it all to her instead.
‘Look, there is no point inquiring any more!’ she told me one day. ‘Believe me, if you get a letter, I’ll shout it from the roof top and bring it to you at once! Even if you’re asleep I’ll wake you up!’
Then she looked embarrassed and gave me a piece of candy which she took from a small gold box in her pocket. ‘This little snuff box is the only thing I have to remind me of my father,’ she told me. ‘He died in Nimes three years ago. So you see, we all suffer in one way or another . . . Let us pray for each other.’ In her voice I heard sadness and fear.
I was bouncing a ball against the wall in the school yard, sending it as high as I could and jumping up to catch it. I saw Mother Marie huffing and puffing towards me. She was waving her right arm and yelling, ‘Adeline!* Adeline!’
Was it lunchtime already? I glanced at her as I bounced the ball hard, one last time. Back up it went! I tried to catch it as it came down but it landed on my head. It hurt a lot but I didn’t want Mother Marie to notice so I acted as if it were nothing. What was she saying?
‘Adeline! Your aunt is here to take you out of school! She is sailing to Hong Kong next week and wants to take you with her!’
My heart gave a giant lurch as her words sank in. For a dazzling moment, I knew with every fibre of my being that somehow, against all odds, Aunt Baba had come to my rescue! The whole of me was vibrating with joy and I ran as fast as I could towards the visitors’ lounge, followed by Mother Marie.
I stopped abruptly at the threshold. In front of me was a small, mousy, foreign woman with dark brown hair, dressed in a Western suit. There was no one else.
‘Adeline!’ she smiled and greeted me in English. ‘How big you’ve grown! Do you remember me? I am Aunt Reine Schilling, your Niang’s older sister.’
I smiled back shyly, saying nothing. A black wave of disappointment swept over me.
‘Come here! Don’t be afraid! The last time we met you were still in kindergarten. It must have been six years ago when your Nai Nai was still alive. You were only four or five years old then. No wonder you don’t remember!’
Something came over me. Great waves of anguish swelled up. I tried again and again to greet her, to be polite and say how grateful I was that she had come. Words choked me as I struggled, silently cursing my poor English. Then, to my great embarrassment, in front of Mother Marie and this stranger, I started to weep.
I hardly knew why I was crying. For the last few months, I had taken the blows as they came, with stoical fortitude. The pain of being torn from my aunt; the anxiety of seeing all my schoolmates disappear from St Joseph’s; the perception of being abandoned and forgotten; the fear of being imprisoned by the Communists; the knowledge of my teachers’ own terror and helplessness . . .
Of course, I had no words to describe any of this. Somehow, it was still desperately important to put up a front and keep up the pretence. Besides, Aunt Reine was stroking my hair and telling me not to cry. ‘Hush now! Hush! Everything will be all right! It’s a good thing your parents mentioned you were enrolled as a boarder at St Joseph’s when they dined with us in September. Otherwise how would we have known? To think we might have left Tianjin without you! Now you can sail with us to Hong Kong next week. You can share a cabin with me and my daughter Claudine. She is nine. My husband Jean will share one with our son Victor who is ten. Your parents will be so pleased to see you. They fled to Hong Kong three months ago with Ye Ye and your younger brother and sister.’
For the first time since my arrival in Tianjin, the sisters allowed me to go out. We walked briskly towards Father’s house on Shandong Road. Outside, it was bright, sunny and cold. The streets were deserted. There was very little traffic and few pedestrians. A truckload of soldiers in peaked caps and padded winter uniforms drove past us.
‘People’s Liberation Army!’ Aunt Reine exclaimed. ‘How young they are! None of these Communist soldiers look over twenty.’
I was shocked. ‘Is Tianjin in Communist hands?’ I asked in a whisper. ‘Has Chiang Kai‐shek lost the war?’
‘Yes! With hardly a bullet being fired! Beijing is lost too. The Nationalists simply gave up and retreated south. Didn’t the sisters tell you?’
‘No, they never talk about the civil war. But all the girls are gone and I am the only pupil left. Thank you for rescuing me.’
‘It’s a good thing I suddenly thought of you. You see, we’ve been living in your father’s house for the last few months and taking care of it for him. Since we’re leaving, I tried to contact your Big Sister to keep an eye on the house. That’s when I learned she and her husband have already escaped to Taiwan. Didn’t your sister visit you to say goodbye before she left Tianjin?’
‘I’ve seen no one since I came here last September. You are my first and only visitor.’
‘Aren’t you afraid? All by yourself like this?’
I heard the concern in her voice and was close to tears again. ‘A little.’
She tried to reassure me. ‘Everything will be fine from now on.’
‘Where is Aunt Baba? Is she in Hong Kong too?’
‘No, she chose to remain in Shanghai.’
‘Does Niang know you’re taking me with you to Hong Kong?’
‘No, I haven’t had a chance to write her.’
I was terrified and trembled with fear. ‘May I please go to Shanghai instead of Hong Kong?’ I begged.
‘No, of course not! The Communists will probably be marching into Shanghai in a few months. Don’t look so scared! You’ll be safe in less than three weeks. After lunch, we’ll come back in a rickshaw and get your belongings. What can be better than being with your parents and Ye Ye in their new home in Hong Kong?’
I dared not reply but thought, What can be worse? All the time I was quaking at the thought of what Niang would say when she saw me.
Chapter Sixteen
Hong Kong
We three children were very excited when we walked up the gangway of the British flagship China Star and saw officers, crew and staff rushing around. A Chinese steward led the way and helped Uncle Jean and Aunt Reine with our luggage. Victor, Claudine and I lagged behind. The steward was tall and thin and towered over everyone. His head was completely bald and he walked with a pronounced limp.
As we followed them down a long, narrow corridor towards our cabins, all we could see was the steward’s shiny scalp bobbing up and down under the dimly lit ceiling lights. Victor whispered to
me, ‘One thing about having no hair at all on your head, you always look neat!’
Though I was still feeling nervous and tongue‐tied because it had only been three days since Aunt Reine took me out of St Joseph’s, I laughed out loud. That was the effect Victor had on people. He and Claudine made me feel at ease as soon as I met them.
‘Boys to the right and girls to the left,’ Uncle Jean said. Our two cabins were directly opposite each other. Inside, everything was neat, bare and clean.
While Aunt Reine, Claudine and I were unpacking, there was a knock on the door. Victor stood there, grinning from ear to ear and wearing a bright‐red and orange life‐jacket.
‘Why are you wearing that?’ Claudine protested. ‘Our ship hasn’t even sailed yet!’
‘In case the China Star starts going down. Then you’ll really be sorry you’re not wearing one yourself! Here! Let me show you something!’ He parted the curtain and looked out of the round porthole. Our cabin was below deck. Outside we could see nothing but deep dark water. It did appear rather sinister and forbidding.
Claudine became alarmed. ‘Mama, how often does a ship sink?’ she asked.
Before Aunt Reine had time to reply, Victor quipped with a straight face, ‘Only once!’
Aunt Reine and I could not help laughing in spite of ourselves. But then Victor did something my brothers would never have done. He took off his life‐jacket, slipped it on his sister and showed her how to adjust the straps.
There were only two narrow twin beds in our cabin, each covered with a dark‐blue bedspread tucked in tightly. At night, our steward brought in a tiny roll‐out cot because there were three of us.
I assumed that the cot was for me. Though the mattress was thin and barely six inches from the floor, I didn’t mind because it was a small price to pay for being rescued from the Communists. I was arranging the blankets and pillow when Aunt Reine put a restraining hand on my arm.
‘Now, now! Remember what I told you on your first day with us. It’s share and share alike in our family. Nobody is going to be treated differently. Come, let’s draw lots to decide who will sleep on the floor.’