[Exerpts] ...

[...]

Slowly, the chilly spring turned into summer, and as the hot, airless days rolled by, tempers sizzled like overloaded fuses, turning the camp into a powder keg.

The chairman of our administration committee, Roger Barton, one of the Kailan’s top men, realized if we didn’t have some way to vent our steam we would soon be out of control. He discussed it with his committee, and the suggestion was made that what we really needed was entertainment of some kind. Something light and musical to kill the somber mood of the camp before any real killing took place.

Not using quite those words, Roger asked the Commandant for permission to stage a show in the assembly hall. “Thought you’d never ask,” he said, smiling, then, on a more serious note, added, “I’ll have to get permission from the captain. Hope I catch him in a good mood.”

Happily, when the Commandant approached King Kong, he found that he and the guards were as bored of camp life as we were, and all the captain asked was that the first two rows in the hall be reserved for him and his men.

That was all we needed to hear—auditions began on the spot.

It was just as well school was out by then, as the hall was monopolized by rehearsals, and the old piano that had belonged to the university was tuned till it sounded like a Steinway concert grand.

When we weren’t listening to Sharon Talati working on Chopin’s Polonaise, the exquisite notes cascading out of the open windows and climbing the tall pines that surrounded the building, we would peek in and watch Jacqueline de St. Hubert practising the finale to Tchiakowsky’s Swan Lake.

When, or where, the small band of black nightclub musicians from Peking rehearsed its numbers I couldn’t say, but when the show came together a few weeks later, they were superb.

The night of the performance, King Kong made a rare appearance, sitting front-row center, flanked by the Commandant and Gold Tooth, with the rest of the guards filling the first two rows. It’s a good thing the camp didn’t have a fire marshal, as the remainder of the hall was packed, and the aisles crammed. Even the open windows were jammed with expectant faces.

The program turned out to be a portrayal of all our frustrations, lightened by song, skit, and mime, and punctuated by the Polonaise and Swan Lake for those who enjoyed classical entertainment.

A complete surprise just before intermission was the appearance of a Trappist monk singing the tragic lament, If I Had the Wings of an Angel, the words re-written to reflect our distaste for our new lifestyle.

Although the lyrics were humorous and right on target, his voice was so exceptional, I almost missed them. I couldn’t help thinking of the MC’s short introduction, where he said the priest had just come down from the hills beyond Peking after a twelve year vow of silence! I didn’t realize at the time that the vow of silence only covered communication with other people, and erroneously thought, Even the Lord can’t ask that of such a voice...

When his last notes died away, the applause rang out again and again. There was no way he was going to get off the stage without an encore, but as he had run out of re-written verses, he returned to the original lyrics, and had us all spellbound again by the feeling he wrapped around the words.

No one dared leave their seat at intermission for fear of losing it to the hoards pressing to get in, so the MC cut the break short, and the program resumed with a skit on The Jerry Trot.

We were lucky our cell was only a hundred feet from the women’s latrines on Main Street; for all those who were blocks away, with umpteen kids or invalids, the “Jerry Trot” several times a day was a must, each person trying to pretend that the object they were carrying draped artfully with a towel was not a chamber pot, when it so obviously was! The cheery “Hellos”, “Nice day, isn’t it?” and “How’s the family?” as the parties passed back and forth, trying to appear nonchalant, were typically British, and ridiculous, and the skit had us laughing at ourselves till I thought I would cry.

As the evening wound down to a close, it appeared our Japanese captors had enjoyed the program almost as much as we had, even though they hadn’t understood a word of it—except, of course, for the Commandant.

When it was time for the last number, the MC turned it over to Roy Stone, the leader of the black combo that had given the show such fantastic backup, and he stepped forward and said they would like to dedicate the number to Gold Tooth. The Commandant caught onto the name right away, and standing up, interpreted, as the supply sergeant beamed and hissed in pride at the honor. “And now...we would like to dedicate...to Gold Tooth (here the Commandant obviously put in the sergeant’s correct name, as he got up and bowed several times to everyone)...this special number... (in English) We’ll Be Glad When You’re Dead You Rascal You!

The number was a solid hit. Thundering applause rattled the rafters of the old hall as the internees yelled for more, and the encores got louder and louder till the crescendo seemed to break through the walls. It was an ear-splitting success, and Gold Tooth jumped up and yelled and clapped, then climbed up on stage and danced a jig before the ecstatic musicians.

Everything seemed to ease up a lot after that, and ball games on the roll-call field in the evening became a daily occurrence, much to the Puerto Ricans and the “Padres” delight, It didn’t take long for me to figure out how Father Windy really got his nickname: the fact that his name was an unpronounceable, vowel-less Polish one was secondary to the way he hit home-runs and winged it around the bases. There was only one drawback to his powerful swing—we started to run out of softballs in a hurry.

It must’ve been around the third or fourth game that the problem resolved itself. After Windy’s bat had done its duty and he was sailing around the bases with a look of triumph on his face, and a look of woe on everyone else’s, there was a lovely “Ay-a-a-AH!” from over the wall, and the ball came flying back in! Our Chinese friends on the outside had decided to join in the fun, even though they couldn’t see the action—and whoever pitched those balls back must’ve had a fantastic arm. Later, when I kidded Windy about his name, he admitted he’d played semi-pro for several years before entering the order.

After the success of the musical and the ball games—the latter also enjoyed by the guards—we had no problem getting permission to put on other group activities and shows. The talent tucked away in that crowd of inmates was nothing short of remarkable. So much of it would never have been found if it hadn’t been for the easygoing atmosphere that started to take over in the camp.

To break the monotony of the days, people who never thought of performing before would audition just for the heck of it.

[excerpt]

Ursula gave me a withering look, turned, and marched out of the compound. When she got back, she announced she’d auditioned for a minor role in A. A. Milne’s Mr: Pim Passes By, and had got the part. It was her way of getting involved and not dwelling on the things she couldn’t change. I got her message.

She was all aglow when she came back to the cell after the first rehearsal. She spoke of all the neat, new people she’d met, and in passing, mentioned that a prompter was needed desperately.

Margo perked up, decided that was right up her alley, volunteered, and got the job. It proved to be a happy decision, as the part of Mr. Pim had gone to the Reverend Simms-Lee, the sweet soul who had married her and Jack twenty months earlier, and she thoroughly enjoyed renewing their friendship.

A week into rehearsals, the director said, “We’ve got to get out some publicity. We need posters—at least one at each kitchen.” That’s when Margo and Ursula remembered they had a kid sister who was “something of an artist”, and I was asked to do the posters. They even supplied art board, and replaced many of my dwindling colors—where they came from I’ll never know.

I started out having a ball, at least on the first poster for Number One Kitchen. And I refined it somewhat when I painstakingly redid it all by hand for Number Two Kitchen. But it became a total drag when I rendered it a third time for Number Three. Everybody had to be listed, from the lead to the props, in copy of lessening importance, and heaven help me if I didn’t get them in the right pecking order!

The play ran for three nights, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, so that all could have seats and enjoy it. It was a delightful study in human nature, and the Reverend Simms-Lee seemed a natural for the mixed-up Mr. Pim. When the house lights dimmed for the last time—we didn’t have a curtain to drop—I felt a nice cozy glow settle over the audience, reminding them that it was a pretty good old world after all.

[excerpt]

Saturday night dances at K-2 became a regular affair toward the end of summer, and as the guards never checked in on them, we could almost kid ourselves into believing we weren’t in a prison camp.

The music was great ... and live. It was impossible not to enjoy Roy Stone’s band and the two Hawaiian guitarists who teamed up with them. They didn’t need amplifiers to send their notes sailing, and although the kitchen windows were open most of the time, no one ever complained about the music.

The dances were also a great place to find out who was going with whom, who had broken up, and who was on the prowl. Lisa and I usually went with a group that fluctuated in number due to work shifts; sometimes I had a date, sometimes not. It was on one of the latter occasions that Guy came in alone.

Nico never came to the dances, and I dearly wished he would. If he’d been there, I could have gone over and struck up a conversation without turning into a barb-tongued witch. It happened every time I got near Guy. As I glanced his way, trying not to look obvious, Renée Francoise, a slim little French [speaking] girl with flaming hair, went over to him and clung on his arm, looking up at him with her ice-melting eyes.

He looked over her head with a bored expression, trying not to make eye contact, but she giggled and finally got him to smile, and they stepped out on the floor. I thought, Oh Lord, she’s nuts over him. Look at the way she’s clinging to him, and I realized, with envy, that I could never do that.

I was still quietly fuming over the situation when Norm Shaw, one of the many camp bachelors, and a great dancer, caught my eye. The black mood of the moment was soon forgotten in the enjoyment of dancing with him. When the number came to an end, he asked conversationally if I’d seen King Kong’s latest bulletin.

[further reading]
http://www.weihsien-paintings.org/books/MushroomYears/Masters(pages).pdf [excerpt]

Later in the morning, when breakfast was through and the wash-up done, I started to set up for the lunch crew. As I double-checked the different items I had to put out, Dan came in and asked if I would like to go to the New Year’s dance with him.

“Love to.”
“I’ll pick you up around seven-thirty then.”

[excerpt]

New Year’s Eve arrived bitter and raw, boding no promise for the winter ahead. The cell was like ice as I changed for the dance, and I was still shivering when Dan came to pick me up. His warm smile did wonders for my heart, but nothing for my frozen feet—and I told him so.

“So let’s get over to the kitchen and thaw out,” he said, propelling me through the door and out into the freezing night.

As we skirted the frozen puddles on Main Street, we were joined by Lisa and her boyfriend, Ian, on their way to the dance.

The kitchen was warm and steamy, smelling romantically of the leak soup we’d had earlier in the evening. The tables had been shoved up against the walls, and the trestles either stacked on top of them, or pushed up against them for us to sit on. The members of the dance combo were tuning up their instruments when we arrived, and Roy Stone was talking to Deirdre Carver, the lovely girl in the last cell in our block.

He seemed completely taken by her, and the musicians were getting a boot out of watching him try to make time. Finally Smitty, the bass player, called out, “Come on, Roy, let’s g-o-o-o!” and with a flustered giggle, he turned to the group and they broke into My Blue Heaven.

[excerpt]

Not long after their arrival, the weather turned bitter, and the long, cold evenings started to get to us.

None of us could afford to fire up a stove; we found ourselves keeping our little stashes of coal-balls for emergencies, or a possible illness requiring heat for recovery. Even when we huddled in each others’ cells, the cold dampened our mood and stunted conversation. The only night we all looked forward to was Saturday, where the dances in old K-2 really warmed us up. It didn’t matter that the place stank of rancid stew, or pungent leeks; it was warm, and that’s all we cared about.

The Saturday following my seventeenth birthday, Dan had the evening shift, so I went to the dance with Lisa and Ian and the rest of our little group, most of whom had paired off by now, leaving me feeling rather like the proverbial “crowd”. When we got to the kitchen, Ursula was there with Alex. And I saw Grant come in with Tessie. Well, I thought, just to round it out nicely, Guy should arrive with René. But he didn’t.

[excerpt]

Camp life continued to go on its muddled way, and Saturday night dances moved outdoors as the weather got warmer. Our favorite dance floor was a concrete circle in front of the bell-tower dorm, with a bank and benches around it, like a little amphitheater. Some nights, when the music wafted on the air, and the moon sailed through a starless sky touched now and then by wisps of clouds, it reminded me of summers in Chinwangtao and Mother’s Harvest Moon parties.

Then my mind would play tricks, and I’d see the dancers—not in their bedraggled clothes, most of them barefoot—but beautifully dressed in crepes, voiles, and satins, the men in dress whites, and I’d keep up this charade till the last note drifted away on the evening air. It was at one of these dances in early June that Dan, all lean six-foot-something of him, started to collapse in my arms. I looked at him, and my panic was reflected in his eyes.

“Get me to a bench, quick!” he pleaded.

I half-danced half-dragged him to the sidelines, then eased him down onto the bank, as the benches were all taken.

“What happened?” I asked, scared.

[further reading]
http://www.weihsien-paintings.org/books/MushroomYears/Masters(pages).pdf

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