cast-offs, and saved his shoesfor the winter months. In the summers he wore a pair ofwooden clogs with the heels completely worn away, leavingtwo slivers of wood that ended in his insteps.
Bobby was a close friend, though I never really liked him,and found something threatening about his tough and self-reliant mind. I sensed that circumstances had forced him tofight too hard to survive, and that this had made him ruthlessnot only with others, but with himself. He allowed me totag along with him, but regarded my endless curiosity androaming around the camp as a waste of time and energy, andmy interest in chess, bridge and kite building, and in thecomplex skipping games that some of the girls brought intocamp with them, as frivolous and distracting. His parentswere interned in Peking, but he never spoke about them,which baffled me at the time, and I suspect that he had forgottenwhat they were like. Thinking of him now, I realisethat part of him had died, and I hope that he never went onto have children of his own.
On the whole, however, Lunghua seemed full of easygoingand agreeable characters. What I liked most was thateveryone, of almost any age, could talk to anyone else.Striding around E Block or the assembly hall with mychessboard, I would be affably hailed as ‘Shanghai Jim’ (forconstantly telling anyone who would listen about somestrange Hardoon temple I had found on my cycle rides). Iwould then settle down to a game of chess with a man of myfather’s age who might be an architect or cinema manager,Cathay Hotel bartender or a former jockey. At the end ofthe game, which generally involved the transfer from myopponent of a goodly amount of internment camp wisdom, I might be lent an old copy of the Saturday Evening Post ,which I understood, or Punch , with its incomprehensiblehumour that my tired mother would have to explain.
During the first year a host of camp activities took place –amateur dramatics, with full-scale performances in thedining hall of Noël Coward and Shakespeare plays, lightheartedrevues (‘We’re the Lunghua sophomores, we’re thegirls every boy adores, CAC don’t mean a thing to me, forevery Tuesday evening we go on a spree…’). I forget whathappened on Tuesday evenings, and there may have beendances from which all children were excluded. CAC stoodfor ‘Civilian Assembly Centre’, an exalted term for ourcollection of run-down and half-ruined buildings.
Generally I would be somewhere in the audience, fascinatedby a lecture on Roman roads or airship design. Myfather once delivered a lecture on ‘Science and the Idea ofGod’, a tactful dismissal of the Almighty from human affairs,which drew many of the English missionaries in the camp.Until the day we left Lunghua I was frequently stopped byone or other of the up-country parsons and told what anexcellent lecture it was, so interesting , and I wonder if any ofthem or their high-minded wives had seen the point.
Since there were so many professionally trained menin the camp – engineers, architects, bankers, industrialchemists, dentists and doctors – there was no shortage oflecturers. And, alas, no shortage of teachers for the campschool that soon opened. A full-scale syllabus was set out, which met the requirements of the then School Certificate,and we were taught maths, French, English and Latin, historyand general science. Since there were few books ourtuition was largely blackboard-driven, but I don’t think thatany of us fell behind our counterparts at school in wartimeEngland, and in some cases we were well ahead. I find itdifficult to explain this, but my guess is that there were farfewer distractions in Lunghua than I imagined at the time,for either teachers or pupils, and that we progressed rapidlyin the way that long-term convicted prisoners pass oneuniversity degree after another.
Lunghua Camp held some 2000 internees, of whom 300were children. Most of them were British, Dutch andBelgian, but there was a group of thirty
Bobby was a close friend, though I never really liked him,and found something threatening about his tough and self-reliant mind. I sensed that circumstances had forced him tofight too hard to survive, and that this had made him ruthlessnot only with others, but with himself. He allowed me totag along with him, but regarded my endless curiosity androaming around the camp as a waste of time and energy, andmy interest in chess, bridge and kite building, and in thecomplex skipping games that some of the girls brought intocamp with them, as frivolous and distracting. His parentswere interned in Peking, but he never spoke about them,which baffled me at the time, and I suspect that he had forgottenwhat they were like. Thinking of him now, I realisethat part of him had died, and I hope that he never went onto have children of his own.
On the whole, however, Lunghua seemed full of easygoingand agreeable characters. What I liked most was thateveryone, of almost any age, could talk to anyone else.Striding around E Block or the assembly hall with mychessboard, I would be affably hailed as ‘Shanghai Jim’ (forconstantly telling anyone who would listen about somestrange Hardoon temple I had found on my cycle rides). Iwould then settle down to a game of chess with a man of myfather’s age who might be an architect or cinema manager,Cathay Hotel bartender or a former jockey. At the end ofthe game, which generally involved the transfer from myopponent of a goodly amount of internment camp wisdom, I might be lent an old copy of the Saturday Evening Post ,which I understood, or Punch , with its incomprehensiblehumour that my tired mother would have to explain.
During the first year a host of camp activities took place –amateur dramatics, with full-scale performances in thedining hall of Noël Coward and Shakespeare plays, lightheartedrevues (‘We’re the Lunghua sophomores, we’re thegirls every boy adores, CAC don’t mean a thing to me, forevery Tuesday evening we go on a spree…’). I forget whathappened on Tuesday evenings, and there may have beendances from which all children were excluded. CAC stoodfor ‘Civilian Assembly Centre’, an exalted term for ourcollection of run-down and half-ruined buildings.
Generally I would be somewhere in the audience, fascinatedby a lecture on Roman roads or airship design. Myfather once delivered a lecture on ‘Science and the Idea ofGod’, a tactful dismissal of the Almighty from human affairs,which drew many of the English missionaries in the camp.Until the day we left Lunghua I was frequently stopped byone or other of the up-country parsons and told what anexcellent lecture it was, so interesting , and I wonder if any ofthem or their high-minded wives had seen the point.
Since there were so many professionally trained menin the camp – engineers, architects, bankers, industrialchemists, dentists and doctors – there was no shortage oflecturers. And, alas, no shortage of teachers for the campschool that soon opened. A full-scale syllabus was set out, which met the requirements of the then School Certificate,and we were taught maths, French, English and Latin, historyand general science. Since there were few books ourtuition was largely blackboard-driven, but I don’t think thatany of us fell behind our counterparts at school in wartimeEngland, and in some cases we were well ahead. I find itdifficult to explain this, but my guess is that there were farfewer distractions in Lunghua than I imagined at the time,for either teachers or pupils, and that we progressed rapidlyin the way that long-term convicted prisoners pass oneuniversity degree after another.
Lunghua Camp held some 2000 internees, of whom 300were children. Most of them were British, Dutch andBelgian, but there was a group of thirty
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