The Taste of Rain Read online

  Text copyright © Monique Polak, 2019

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Title: The taste of rain / Monique Polak.

  Names: Polak, Monique, author.

  Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 2019006627X | Canadiana (ebook) 20190066288 | ISBN 9781459820265 (softcover) | ISBN 9781459820272 (PDF) | ISBN 9781459820289 (EPUB)

  Classification: LCC PS8631.O43 T37 2019 | DDC jC813/.6—dc23

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2019934058

  Simultaneously published in Canada and the United States in 2019

  Summary: This novel for middle readers takes place in a Japanese internment camp in China in WWII, where thirteen-year-old Gwen follows the Girl Guide code in order to survive.

  Orca Book Publishers is committed to reducing the consumption of nonrenewable resources in the making of our books. We make every effort to use materials that support a sustainable future.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada, the Canada Council for the Arts and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Edited by Sarah N. Harvey

  Cover design by Rachel Page

  Cover illustration by Jensine Eckwall

  Author photo by John Fredericks

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  orcabook.com

  Printed and bound in Canada.

  22 21 20 19 • 4 3 2 1

  For Sarah Harvey. With gratitude, respect and love.

  CONTENTS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  RESOURCES

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ONE

  “Rise and shine, Girl Guides!” Miss E. calls from the doorway. “It’s time to get dressed and welcome another shiny new day.” Even when she isn’t singing, Miss E.’s voice sounds like music.

  Tilly, who is lying next to me, her shoulder bumping up against mine, covers her eyes. “I am really not a morning person,” she mutters. Then she turns onto her other side and fake snores.

  “Stop it,” says Dot, Tilly’s neighbor on the other side, blocking her ears.

  I nudge Tilly. “Come on,” I say. “Miss E. is right. It’s time to welcome another shiny new day.”

  “Shiny new—argh!” Tilly says to the ceiling. “Something tells me it won’t be any better than yesterday or the day before. And I wouldn’t use the words shiny or new for either of those days.”

  Our uniforms are folded and ready at the bottom of our sleeping pallet. I toss Tilly hers, then grab mine. Though the cotton is worn thin, and the skirt has become too short for me, I can’t help smiling when I run my fingers over my newest badge: Artist. I think about the pencil sketch I drew of our boarding school back in Chefoo, and how much Miss E. liked it. “Why, Gwen,” she’d said, “this sketch is so realistic it gives me shivers.”

  “I told the boys’ teacher that I’d go next door and wake up the boys too,” Miss E. calls. “I’ll be back in five minutes for our morning prayer and song!”

  “What about our pep talk?” Jeanette asks. Jeanette is a morning person. Her uniform is already on. Even her pale blue scarf is tied nicely around her neck.

  “Yes,” a girl named Cathy adds. “Don’t forget about our pep talk.” Cathy’s scarf is still on the pallet. She is up on her tiptoes, stretching her arms over her head.

  Miss E. laughs and claps her hands. “Not to worry, Girl Guides! Every shiny new day begins with a prayer, a song—and a pep talk!”

  I pull the blue tunic over my head and tie on my scarf, though I can never seem to do it as nicely as Jeanette does. Even Tilly is getting dressed now, and Cathy is tying on her scarf. We can hear Miss E. outside, crowing like a rooster. The boys answer with a chorus of groans and laughter.

  By the time Miss E. is back, all twenty-eight of us girls have formed two neat lines in front of our wooden sleeping pallets. Because there’s so little room, we squeeze together as tightly as matches in a matchbox.

  We are together when we sleep, but we spend most of our time in smaller groups. Tilly and Jeanette are my two closest friends. Then there’s Cathy and Dot, who always seem to be together, and Eunice and Margaret. We are all part of Miss E.’s Girl Guide troop at Chefoo.

  “Don’t you girls look dapper!” Miss E. tells us. She presses her palms together over her heart, drops her head and launches into the Lord’s Prayer: “Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name…”

  We’ve all said this prayer so many times the words come automatically. But I try to concentrate on what they mean. That’s what Miss E. wants us to do. It’s also what my parents would want. But I don’t concentrate on the prayer’s words for my parents. I do it for Miss E.

  “Give us this day our daily bread...”

  I should be thinking about the Lord, but instead I’m thinking about how much I’d like a slice of toasted white bread with butter and strawberry jam—and a steaming cup of Lipton tea with milk and six tablespoons of sugar.

  When the prayer is done Miss E. announces she wants to teach us a new song. “You’ll love it, Gwen,” she says, singling me out, “because it’s American. It’s about a boy who plays the bugle.”

  Miss E. curls her left fingers and brings them to her mouth, then stretches out her right arm like she is playing a bugle.

  She lowers her pretend bugle and starts to sing. “He was a famous trumpet man from out Chicago way. He had a boogie style that no one else could play.”

  Miss E. taps one foot. She doesn’t need to ask us to join in. We are already playing our own pretend bugles and tapping our toes to the beat. What a fun song! And it’s patriotic too. No one—not even Tilly—can be in a bad mood when she sings this song.

  “He was the top man at his craft. But then his number came up and he was gone with the draft.”

  It’s also easy to learn. My favorite part is when it goes “A-toot. A-toot. A-toot-diddelyada-toot.”

  Jeanette drops her pretend bugle. “What do you think diddelyada means?” she asks.

  Tilly stops tapping. “It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a sound.”

  We do the song three more times with the arm gestures and foot tapping—and a lot of laughter.

  When she smiles, Miss E.’s gray eyes shine and her dimples show. “That was an excellent way to warm up our bodies,” she says. “Even better than a cup of tea. Now for that pep talk I promised.”

  We sit down cross-legged on
the dirt floor, elbows in so there is room for all of us. Miss E. kneels down to face us. Her face glows. I don’t know if it’s from the singing or the exercise or because she loves being with her Girl Guides. All three probably.

  “Today,” Miss E. begins, “is a wonderful gift. It may not be sunny outside, but in here”—she taps her chest where her heart is—“it is always warm and sunny, never muggy.” That makes us laugh. It’s May, and the weather in northern China is already unbearably muggy, making it even harder for us to fall asleep at night. It’s almost bad enough to make a person look forward to February, when it’s so cold our hands and feet get blisters.

  “We are together,” Miss E. continues. “And we are so grateful for that. Together we shall continue to make the most of this day and every day the Good Lord sees fit to give us. And today, like every day, as Girl Guides you must all find a way to do a good turn for someone—without any expectation of reward. How was that pep talk?” There is laughter in Miss E.’s eyes.

  We answer by applauding.

  “Well then,” Miss E. says, “let’s recite the Girl Guide Promise.”

  Even Tilly, who is looking more awake, joins in.

  I promise, on my honor, to do my best:

  To do my duty to God, the Queen, and my country,

  To help other people at all times,

  And to obey the Guide Law.

  Just as we finish reciting the promise, a fat gray rat scurries across the dirt floor. Jeanette shrieks. Tilly groans. Dot and Cathy whimper. Several girls grimace. We should be used to the rats by now. Just like we should be used to the bedbugs and the lice. But the last thing we want is any more roommates.

  For a split second even Miss E. looks alarmed, but then she bursts into laughter. “Did you see that fellow’s whiskers?” she asks. “Why, he’s the spitting image of my uncle Edward. Minus the glasses, of course. Did I ever tell you about my uncle Edward? He was a chemist. He knew all about herbs.”

  A chemist who knew about herbs? I’d like to hear more about him, but Miss E. is already on to another topic. She has the kind of brain that jumps from topic to topic, then back again. Tilly gets annoyed by Miss E.’s way of thinking, but I love it. I have loved every single thing about Miss E. since my first day at the boarding school in Chefoo, where she was our head teacher and Girl Guide leader.

  “One of these days I’m going to show you girls how to trap a rat,” Miss E. is saying. “We’ll make it a game. You can compete with the other children from Chefoo. With 140 of you, we could have many teams. The team that traps the most rats on a given day shall win a prize.”

  “A prize?” we call out. What kind of prize is Miss E. thinking of?

  “Absolutely,” Miss E. says. “What’s a game without a prize?”

  When we hear footsteps outside our hut, Miss E. brings one finger to her lips and winks at us. “Company’s coming,” she whispers.

  We stand up, shoulders back, eyes forward.

  “Kiwotsuke,” the Japanese soldier barks as he strides into our hut. Kiwotsuke is one of the first Japanese words we learned after the Japanese invaded China. It means “at attention.” The soldier’s right hand is on the shiny sword he wears at his side. He scans the hut, the pallets, all twenty-eight of us, before his eyes land for a brief moment on Miss E. Some of the Japanese soldiers are nicer than others. This one’s eyes are cold, and his face shows no feeling. He is not tall, and he has a thin black mustache.

  Miss E. smiles, but her dimples don’t show. “Ohayo gozaimasu,” she says, which means “good morning” in Japanese. This time her voice doesn’t sound musical.

  The Japanese soldier clicks the heels of his black knee-high boots together, then turns his back on us and leaves our hut. When he pushes on the door, I see a strip of gray sky and, in the distance, a watchtower. If I squint, I can see another soldier standing inside the tower, his rifle extended like a sword. Though the day is already steaming hot, I shiver.

  Miss E. claps. “Ohayo gozaimasu,” she says to all of us.

  “Ohayo gozaimasu,” we answer in one voice.

  “Your Japanese is getting awfully good, Guides,” Miss E. says. “Now how about joining me in another round of ‘Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy’?”

  TWO

  We have been imprisoned at Weihsien for almost two and a half years.

  On December 8, 1941—the day after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor—the Imperial Japanese Army took over our boarding school in Chefoo. They affixed Japanese seals to every single piece of furniture—even the chalkboards in our classrooms—and forced all of us students, and even our teachers, to wear red armbands. Mine has the letter A on it because I am American, though I have lived in China since I was three. Tilly, whose family comes from Britain, has a B on hers.

  For a year we lived like prisoners in our school. Because our parents are missionaries working in inland China, they were too far away to help us. When the Japanese decided they needed our boarding school for military operations, we were taken by steamer and then by train to the Weihsien Civilian Assembly Center in northern China. Civilian assembly centers are what the Japanese call places like these. What they really are is prisons.

  Miss E. once asked us to try imagining what Weihsien was like ages ago, when it was an American Presbyterian compound with pretty brick houses, a real school and hospital and lush green gardens. That took a lot of imagination. Even before it was turned into a prison, Weihsien was looted by Chinese bandits, then occupied by Japanese soldiers. None of them took very good care of the place.

  Now the buildings are falling down, the gardens are overgrown, and the roads are strewn with rubble and leftover bits of broken furniture that will be used for firewood next winter. The school’s been turned into a dormitory, and the hospital has hardly any medicine. Worst of all, eighteen hundred prisoners have to share only twenty-three toilets, which seldom flush, since we get so little water. The only buildings that aren’t falling down are the ones where the Japanese soldiers live and work. Most of those are at the back of the camp, in an area we’re not allowed to enter.

  I will never forget how, when we arrived at Weihsien in 1942, Miss E. pointed to the three Chinese characters inscribed over the gate at the main entrance. “Le Dao Yuan,” she said, reading the characters to us. “That means ‘Courtyard of the Happy Way.’ Isn’t that lovely? And we shall make every effort, Girl Guides, to be happy in this place. Won’t we, Girl Guides?”

  Of course, we’d all agreed. Only back then we didn’t know how hard life at Weihsien would be, nor how long we’d be here.

  It was Miss E.’s idea to pack our Girl Guide uniforms along with textbooks, games and art supplies. The other teachers went along with the plan, not only because Miss E. was head teacher, but also because she convinced them that if we followed the Girl Guide code, life in a prison would be easier to bear.

  There is no white toast, strawberry jam, Lipton tea or sugar at Weihsien.

  All we get for breakfast is a bowl of boiled broomcorn mush. Until we came here, I never knew that people ate broomcorn. Back in Chefoo, which is on the country’s eastern coast, the farmers fed broomcorn to their cows, chickens and ducks. The women made brooms from the broomcorn grass. Which explains the name broomcorn.

  Broomcorn doesn’t taste very good, but when your stomach is so empty it feels hollow, and there’s nothing else for breakfast, broomcorn does the trick.

  We line up to get our broomcorn in one of the camp kitchens—there are four of them—with plates and spoons we brought from Chefoo. Mine and Tilly’s aren’t exactly plates; they are small cast-iron frying pans. Another prisoner ladles out the broomcorn—a scant half ladle for each of us. She is so thin her cheekbones poke out of her face, and her lips, like all of ours, are dry and cracked from lack of water.

  Some people get into arguments. Yesterday a man complained he didn’t get enough of the grainy mush. Another day, two grown-ups waiting in line shoved each other. A Japanese soldier broke things up by grabbing hold
of the two people and slamming them together so hard we heard their foreheads crack.

  Miss E. does not tolerate arguing or complaining from any of us. Girl Guides mind their manners at all times. Or as Miss E. puts it, “It doesn’t matter whether you’re at Buckingham Palace or the Weihsien Civilian Assembly Center. Good manners are a constant.”

  Miss E. announces that she has a special treat for us this morning. It is something in a bowl, and because I can see Miss E.’s tin spoon poking out from her apron pocket, I am hoping it will be food. Maybe oatmeal. Or if I could choose anything at all, spicy soup with slices of sweet pork in it, the kind of soup we got sometimes in Chefoo.

  “Come see what I have for you,” Miss E. tells us. “It’s for your health. To maintain your bones.”

  When Miss E. says that, I decide there’s no oatmeal or spicy soup in her bowl.

  There’s a pasty whitish mixture in it.

  “Is it candy?” Jeanette asks hopefully.

  “Of course it isn’t candy. Whoever heard of candy paste?” Tilly rolls her eyes.

  “Now, now.” Miss E. gives Tilly a sharp look. “A Girl Guide is a friend to all and a sister to every Guide. It’s the fourth Girl Guide law.”

  “I’m sorry,” Tilly says to Jeanette, but if you ask me, Tilly doesn’t sound too sorry. Maybe because she wants to make up for being snappy, Tilly offers to have the first spoon of the mysterious paste.

  “What is it anyhow?” Tilly asks before she opens her mouth.

  “A better question,” Miss E. says, “is what you’d like it to be. If it could be anything in all the world, what would you choose, Matilda?”

  Tilly closes her eyes while she thinks about her answer. “English toffee,” she says when she opens them again. Tilly thinks everything from Britain is best—especially the people who live there.

  “Well then, English toffee it is. Open your hatch,” Miss E. says.

  Tilly opens her mouth wide. She makes a gulping sound and winces as she swallows the stuff. There’s some whitish paste left on her lips. The pupils of her eyes get very big, and she sputters and coughs like a train engine that is about to die. “Ugh,” she says, spitting out whatever is left in her mouth, “that is the yuckiest thing I ever tasted. It’s nothing like English toffee.”