Writers Tricks of the Trade Volume 6 Issue 2 | Page 16

Life Stories (Cont’d)

One day, my mother, finely feathered in a suit, hat and gloves, took us out on a pedicab. She wore a
numbered red armband with a large black “B”—identifying her as British, and designated as a Japanese
POW. We passed exciting sideshows, fortune-tellers, rickshaws, cyclists, and a funeral procession. We
smelled roasting sweet potatoes and chestnuts. Arriving at the Bund, Shanghai’s famous waterfront, we saw
ships and hundreds of junks going up and down-river. The pulsating sounds of life on the water were both
deafening and exciting. The area thronged with people.
My mother’s best friend, Prissy, joined us to say “farewell” at Chakliane’s bakery and coffee shop. They
were sad and tearful…
A few days later, on the first day of Passover in 1943, we were stripped of all worldly possessions by the
occupying Japanese, and incarcerated until the end of WWII, first in Yu Yuen Road, previously the Public
School, and later in Yangtzepoo. All Internees were assigned duties. In spite of severe deprivation, hunger,
and loss of optimum health, their spirit was commendable. Bombs and sirens shattered our days and nights.
We had morning and evening roll calls, and curfews after blackout.
My parents, observant Jews, never lost faith that we would survive and prevail.
Occasionally, another young Jewish internee would creep along the passage after curfew to reach our
room for Sabbath services conducted in semi-darkness in hushed tones, risking severe punishment if caught.
My mother wrote wonderful musical shows. The Japanese guards enjoyed them so much they invited
friends from other camps, who all came dressed in full military regalia!
When the war ended, before fleeing, the Japanese Commandant stood on a platform in the compound
and informed us that “Japan was victorious,” and we were not yet permitted to leave. It was dangerous to
venture beyond the camp boundaries because there were still a lot of snipers. The allies dropped huge
parcels full of wonderful chocolates, chewing gum, canned beef, jams, powdered milk, coffee, tea, sardines,
cigarettes, and more! Some fell outside our enclosure and were recovered after dark, because of lurking
snipers and bandits.
When permitted to leave, I accompanied my father, who strode with feverish intent, to see what
happened to our home. We climbed three floors to our apartment. Nothing of our belongings, but one small
nest of tables bearing a Japanese sticker and a few sundry items, remained.
The Japanese had confiscated our car in 1942, so we used rickshaws and public conveyances. We walked
to school every day, and unfailingly encountered babies bundled in straw, rags, or paper, abandoned on
doorsteps. I wondered as I passed, was that a little girl—and was it alive? Were parents hoping someone
would take the baby and give it a better life? There were many beggars, and much insecurity and poverty
everywhere.
Our apartment overlooked a Chinese school, where children were being drilled daily, like soldiers, as one
voice, one stride. What were they being prepared for? Communism?
Frightened by increasing communist activity, we applied unsuccessfully for emigration to Australia or.
Canada. In 1948 we departed for Hong Kong, where once again, due to the Korean War embargo, my father
lost everything when his warehouses stood empty, and exorbitant rent drained his last resources.

MARCH - APRIL 2016

PAGE 6

WRITERS’ TRICKS OF THE TRADE