Chapter 5 Four Hertens

I never knew electricity could be so wasteful.In my hometown, there is only one light bulb that flickers on and off with the cloudy and cloudy weather.A single light bulb could have every annoying insect in the district buzzing and flapping its wings obsessively in a faint halo (and stupid Eugene would walk barefoot from the fields long distances to stand in our yard Waiting for the lights to turn on with a gaping mouth).The lights illuminated the two-story university building brilliantly enough to blind a blind man.The car attracted by this brilliance brought beautifully dressed girls to the school gate, and they also turned around under the lights, giggling, chattering, and hugging old friends.

I was tired and hungry after taking the van of The Gleaners Daily all the way down.The seat I'm sitting on looks like an upside-down bucket.Driver Justi.White had somehow secured the appliance to the floor for the passengers to sit on.The battered van hadn't left Savannah Lame and I had lost all feeling in my buttocks.When I complain about numbness in the back, Eustace.White told me bluntly that he shouldn't be carrying passengers in his newspaper delivery van, that he was doing so to supplement his income so that he could pay for his mother's eye treatment.For the rest of the long journey, he went on to explain in overly detailed terms the past, present and future of the eye disease.By the time I arrived in Kingston, my eternity had been spent listening to this man, and I was convinced that I had spent my life sitting on the overturned bucket of the Gleaner van and no other life.The winding path from the highway to the hinterland of the university was extremely bumpy and swaying. This brightly lit fairy tale world shone like a savior in front of my eyes.

Mr. Phillips and Miss M. did not react much to my leaving home, as if I were only their domestic animal to be slaughtered in due time.They forgot my father was Lovie.Roberts yet?People whose photos are pinned to the walls of every house in the area.It was their cousin, still famous somewhere, still somewhat noble enough to be a legend.Those years of hard upbringing that fed me from their plates, dressed me in cotton lace dresses, taught me English manners and Christianity, was it just like fattening chickens with the best coconuts, and fattening the carcasses? Do you throw away like trash after you have a feast and strip away all the good things on your body?And their son, Michael, could be anywhere in the world: flying across the English Channel, sipping coffee in a café in Paris, drinking tea in London.The only thing I'm sure of is that he won't be in a joyless home.There are only tamarind trees, chicken coops and dusty roads out of the city in my hometown, and I will whisper to me that I miss him.

Miss Bao was the only one waving goodbye to me as I set off for Teachers College in Kingston.She was wearing her best blouse, her legs were so bent that the hem of her skirt almost touched the ground.The van came to pick me up, crunching along the gravel road as usual, and she handed me a small package. Little charm?I asked. It contained folded pounds and shiny two shillings, tied up in a white handkerchief with my initials crookedly embroidered in blue and red.You don't need little charms, my sweetheart.God is taking care of you. We new girls, in pink lace dresses, white gloves and pretty hats, dazzled like butterflies.They are all girls from good families on the island. They have the necessary knowledge of long division and quadratic equations. They can use grammar to analyze sentences, subjects, verbs, objects, and nominative cases, and they can tell five verb tenses.The girl who could recite the capitals of the world and the names of all the books of the Bible in the king's perfect English accent.We freshmen are going to be trained as teachers, and after three years of living in school, we will be distributed to schools in Jamaica.

On the first night, the waiting hall was filled with fearful silence.Small movements are kept to a minimum, and movement is only necessary when someone smoothes the hem to avoid creases, or to shake off sweat from the heat.Only one girl coughed. There was a lot of activity outside the hall.The older students were like parrots on a branch, shrieking and noisily going about their business.The moment the uproar stopped, the whole group of parrots seemed to die or flee: the headmaster was about to enter, and like Moses crossing the Red Sea, separated the girls to the left and right.Tall and muscular, with a mass of dark hair on her upper lip, she gave the impression of a poorly disguised man.She walks elegantly but clumsily, full of feminine grace yet making the floor vibrate beneath her feet.She strode a little distance behind her, and behind her were five teachers.In the shadow of the burly woman, the entourage looked as weak and insignificant as a leaf blown by the wind.Those teachers stood on the podium and faced us new girls.They are Caucasian women of all shades of white who tend to have this tendency, taking on various shades of pink depending on how long they have been on the island.The Headmaster's cheeks had the rosy sheen of the seasoned, while others had the striking red bumps characteristic of newcomers.

A smile should lighten the face and show friendliness and kindness to the person smiling.Unfortunately, the smile on the face of the headmistress, Miss Morgan, is so rare that it backfires like a squinting cathedral gargoyle, making her appear evil.She smiled for the first time after she finished speaking: Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Normal School.There will be a difficult but inspiring three-year study period ahead.If every student pays attention to their studies, works diligently and has the courage to learn, then I am sure that everyone will get along very well.Her voice had a soft, gentle vivacious tone, as if it would burst into song soon, but her smile turned me off.As she grinned for the second time, I swore I would never do anything to make her smile at me.

Unlike other teachers, Miss Morgan is from England. Her motherland is Wales, which is located in a corner of Britain. It is famous for its coal mines and the capital Cardiff. Then move to the pastures of England.The other five teachers sat gracefully in the chairs on the podium, and the principal walked solemnly to the piano, sitting on the precarious piano chair with his thick buttocks.For a moment she stood still in prayer, her hands arched over the keys, and then, with a small firm movement of her eyebrows, she commanded the new schoolgirl to stand.She began to play the piano, bursting out the chords of the hymn "Immortal, Formless, God Only Wisdom".As the thrashing instrument played the precise tune, her hair, which was neat and fixed in resin, gradually began to fall out in locks.Mischievous hair swayed looser and looser with each note, until the eager playing finally let her hair hang completely on her forehead.The holiest, most glorious, days of the past.The new female student sang in unison with a sonorous voice, and the emotion of her performance and the passionate vibration of her hanging locks stirred us up.Almighty, triumphant, we praise the name of the Lord.

Michel reached out to me with a clenched fist.The grown man, the stubble piercing the skin of his chin, grinned at me like a schoolboy.He opened his hand, revealing the jet-black scorpion lying on his palm, the scorpion's tail curled up.I wanted to warn him of the mortal danger of the scorpion's sting, but I couldn't say it.I moved a little, trying to shake the scorpion out of his grasp, but my arm was pulled away.Someone wrapped their hands around my wrists like vines around a tree. I've never woken up so violently.The quilt on the bed was pulled back, and I couldn't remember for a moment where I put my head to sleep.I lay half naked on the mattress, my pajamas rolled up to my waist in a mess from the movement in my dream.I was pulled hard by someone, and I had no other choice but to run.My feet fumbled awkwardly for solid floor, and I straightened my pajamas to hide my shame.Before I could confirm whether I was in a dream, I ran like hell.My captor was ahead of me, still clasping my wrist.She turned to look at me and just said: Hurry up.The other girls ran beside us, the rushing door slamming behind them like a bullet.The crackling of bare feet echoed off the stone floor of the corridor we ran through before I was ushered into a doorway where other girls scrambled to push me through the opening, each trying to get ahead of the others.The door was filled with bright daylight, blinding my eyes for a moment, then I noticed a shower head above my head and the soles of my feet felt wet.Only then did my captor let go of his wrist, pulled the pajamas over his head with skillful movements, and stood naked in front of me like an Eve.She gestured for me to follow her example, and she sighed annoyedly when she saw that I had to undo the buttons and bow tie sewn on the neck of the pajamas out of modesty first.

The girl said yes, come on, slap my useless hands away and rummage through my buttons.She pulled my pajamas up and I clung to them, not wanting to be naked in front of so many strangers.She hit my hand again, so I hit back.She was so surprised that she stopped for a second before hitting my hand hard again to stop me from fighting back.I stood with the other girls, elbows clasped naked, trying to cover boobs, crotches, buttocks, ugly knees.The water came and icy water rushed over us.The girls all screamed.The deafening sound drowned out other sounds.The mouths were wide open enough for me to see the pink throats hidden deep within, the girls with their necks protruding like ropes, howling like wild beasts.I watched my captor naked, trembling and screaming, glistening water pouring down from her dark skin, and I sensed a trace of pure indulgence on her face through her bullet-like nipples.So I closed my eyes, opened my mouth and let my lungs let out the loudest screams of my life.The noise brought blessed relief, cleansing me like a silent prayer.I screamed until I realized the water was no longer flowing, the bathroom was quiet, and my captor shook me gently and whispered to me: You can stop.

It was Celia who pulled me out of bed early the first morning.Langley.She believed it was the responsibility of a third grader like herself to teach untrained freshmen (like me) to shower early in the morning.The first person to come out of the shower, dressed and smelling of fragrant soap, goes to the restaurant for breakfast and gets a cup of hot cocoa.If it's the second, third, or leisurely mixed into the fourth, the hot cocoa will not only be cold, but will have a membrane on it thick enough to sew a hat on.Celia.Langley took me by the wrist that first morning (I was lying in the next bed to hers) and not only put me in the shower, but secured me under her wing.

Celia would come to my bed every night after assembly, roll call, and prayers.She smelled of jasmine and sat next to me an hour before lights out.Every word Celia said, even if it was just telling me the time or commenting on the heat, would put her lips next to my ear, as if she was about to reveal something unspeakable.These intimate whispers were always accompanied by the soft click of the needles as she knitted socks for men who, like Michael, went to war in England.During those dim evening hours, Celia, who was a year older than me, guided me on what I could learn from the classroom. She told me: Miss Wei Jinsun is the one who teaches geography.She'll try to teach you about glaciation or something like that, but if you bring up the Pennines, even if it's just by accident, it's only about the Pennines, so she'll get cloudy-eyed and focus on what only she can see At this point, geography is no longer taught, but stories of her childhood in Yorkshire are told.These stories are not particularly pleasant, but you can look at the trees outside the window. Celia whispered Oliver.Cromwell had a big ugly wart on his face when she found me struggling to write about his accomplishments.She put her slender hand on my shoulder and told me that Miss Newman, who taught history, had a theory that Mr. Cromwell's warts were a clear sign that he had been sent by the devil to destroy the British monarchy.At the mention of this wart, Celia silences: Miss Newman believes that girls of color are less civilized and closer to nature, and therefore better aware of such things, so write in the margins of my composition that I am perceptive.All keen girls have the honor of reading to everyone in the evening assembly. I can't decide between Henry V's speech before Argencot and Tennyson's Heroes.Both require exciting and dramatic interpretations.On the other hand, <Narcissus>, Silia thought it was too simple, and there wasn't a single girl in the school who couldn't read aloud. Good friends, make persistent efforts and rush to the gap. [Annotation: "Henry V", taken from Zhu Shenghao's Chinese translation. 】Silia taught me how to use my body to express the words in the original text. If the tendons are tense and the blood is rushing, you have to straighten your shoulders, keep your head high, and your chin can be raised with the dignity of the speech. A shout of good manners, but not too loud, for Harry, England, and St. George. I was the talk of the school for weeks.Just when I thought my mood was at its peak, home economics teacher Miss Plunchoy announced that my elf cake (with yellow cream and fluffy wings) was not made by anyone but tea cake shops in South England better than me. The first class I'm going to teach has sixty students.Sixty kids who couldn't sit still like vermin behind rows of wooden tables, sixty silly, snotty, stinking filth.Sixty black faces.Some stared at me, gaping like idiots.Some people look out the window, some people talk freely, like resting under the lemon tree. I am used to teaching children from good families.At the Ryders' school, the rich, light-skinned, upper-class kids sat down and waited for my instructions before bowing their heads to complete satisfactory work.In that school, no one would wipe their nose with their sleeves first, and then raise their hands half the sky high, waving like a flag.Nobody would miss Miss Roberts, and Miss Roberts kept barking until I couldn't make out my own name at the end.No one would turn ten minus five into fifty-one. In order to let the group of cattle herders concentrate on looking at the blackboard, Job also cried bitterly; Percival.Where the hell that bad boy Brown got those pencils, even Solomon would scratch his head and wonder.This light-skinned, green-eyed Percival.Brown originally seemed the most dependable person in charge of distributing pencils to everyone in the class.But halfway through, he came to tell me that there were not enough pencils. How could it not be enough?I'll give you sixty pencils.I asked him, did someone take too much?I ask the whole class.Those ignorant students suddenly all knew to concentrate on shaking their heads.I'll ask Percival again.Brown: What happened to your pencil?And this thief kid just looked at me coldly with rogue eyes and shrugged his shoulders.I searched his pockets, searched his desk, and the whole class of seven-year-old punks stared at me and snickered. Miss Clariant saw the whole mockery.She sits in the back of the room, glasses on the tip of her nose, writing on a report with a probationary teacher progress chart.After every class, when the children flocked out to play games, she would come to me, turn her head to one side, and look at her notebook as if reading.She would say: Miss Roberts, you must find a way to strengthen the discipline of the students.Or: Miss Roberts, I'm afraid you've got a student on your head.Or: You can't ask your child to respect and obey a teacher who can't control order.And I nodded helplessly, vaguely saying that I would start to improve. I long to have the children look up to me as I look up to the headmaster and lecturers of the college.The superiority of those white women surrounds them like a halo, and all raucous gatherings can be silenced by putting a finger to their lips.Their regular speech, their superior intellect, and their commanding demeanor demanded and received obedience from those in front of them.As I prepared for the next day's class, I resolved to summon every ounce of purpose in me to command the respect of my class. But in the morning, their dirty little faces would file past me again.Percival.Brown grinned and scratched at the mange on his elbow before offering me a brown star apple as a gift.Each day begins with a prayer of clasped hands, and these sixty black children look at me eagerly.But when the prayer ceremony was over, as soon as they raised their heads, their uncertain thoughts began to wander again, wandering around the classroom and floating around the courtyard.Their eyes wandered everywhere except me and the lessons I was about to teach. One afternoon, Celia was waiting to meet me after a practical session.She stood beautifully at the school gate, wearing a light yellow and blue dress, with her feet elegantly closed together, like a flower that emerges from the mud but is not stained.In the increasingly loathsome rogue school, I was so happy to see a familiar face that I turned a blind eye to her tears.Tears streamed down the dust on the cheeks and gathered in the hollow below the chin.She smiled so brightly.I have no reason to think she would be unhappy.She said eagerly: People from the Royal Air Force are parading on the plane and will leave for the UK soon. We must wave goodbye to them. When I was hanging out with Celia one weekend, a few weeks after I arrived at the Academy, I discovered that somewhere just by climbing to the highest branch of a citrus tree, I could get a bird's-eye view of the barracks and see the men being trained for battle.At first we only heard the thunderous and resounding passwords, and we could almost see the movements of those people: turn left, walk quickly, stand at attention and take a rest.It was Celia's idea to lift up the skirt and climb to the top of the tree.She wished she could see the instructions in action, just by glancing at them.Our line of sight is farther than the roaring orders, and we can clearly see the drill drill of the parade formation, like a bird dancing a ballet.But even at that distance, we can see that those who fought bravely carried wooden broomsticks on their shoulders, rather than guns. Afterwards, I decided to join Celia’s combat power backup, and started knitting the monochrome long scarf, which is the only thing I’m good at and always useful, and Silia, who was tired of socks, added hats to her portfolio.We put as much money as we could into the donation tube by the door leading to the dining hall.The photos of fighter jets bought with our money were cut from the Gleaner Daily and posted on the bulletin board.Whenever Celia and I passed by, we would point to a certain part, sometimes a wheel, sometimes a window, and agree that it was something to buy with our change. That afternoon, those people marched across the street in a well-disciplined team, all dressed in thick blue cloth, which looked as neat and strong as a machine.Each wore strange tricornered hats, tilted at impossible angles.I followed Celia pushing and pushing through the staring crowd.The crowd, mostly women, pushed us back again.The streets are filled with wives, mothers, sisters, and aunts.Some are there just to watch the action, others look around just to catch a glimpse of a loved one.However, the vicinity of this fighting machine is only composed of row after row of familiar strangers: teenagers who have just stopped to play among the trees; people with skin as thick as tanned leather and hands used to breaking ground; A potbellied man with a Jamaican pie; a man with a straight back and shoes that shine even in wartime.It seemed that all the fashionable and daring people on the island, some crazy and ignorant, were walking before my eyes. A lot of men. Why do so many people have to go? I thought I could only tell myself these words in my heart, but Celia turned to me solemnly and replied: You have to understand that if Hitler wins this war, slavery will be restored.We'll be in shackles again, or working without pay. Thinking of my penniless class, I said: Celia, I'm working without pay right now. Maybe she didn't understand my joke because she wasn't laughing, not even a smile.A feeling of disgust crossed her features apprehensively.I had no intention of appeasing her.I can see why not restoring slavery was so important to her.Her skin is so dark, but my skin is not that color, but a warm honey color.Nobody wants to put a guy like me in shackles.The whole world knows the impassioned national anthem declaring: The British people will not, will not, will not be slaves. A potbellied woman recognized a man on the march and yelled, "Where are you going, Franklin?"She sobbed loudly, opening her arms like a child waiting to be held.Her companion hugged her big belly tightly to prevent her from running towards the man.Franklin turned his eyes to her as he passed, staggered as if attacked, stumbled forward, regained his soldierly composure, and continued on. Celia seemed to be troubled by the trouble this woman caused, she turned around and asked me: I don't know who is wearing my socks? Glad to see her change of mood, I replied: Celia, it is likely that every soldier and most of the people are wearing your socks.She smiled at the joke, put her arm around mine, leaned closer and whispered: Hortens, I'll tell you a secret.When I'm older I'm leaving Jamaica and I'm going to live in England.I would have a big house with a doorbell at the front door, and I would ring the bell, jingle jingle.Her black hair was shining in golden strands in the sunlight.When I live in England, I'll be ringing the doorbell of that house.It will come true when I'm a little older. Another jolt halted Celia's dream.A woman's voice was louder than marching footsteps, shriller than the tumult of the crowd.Everyone turned to hear the approaching cry, and the eyes of the airmen turned to the source of the noise.It was only later that I heard a woman's voice shouting the name Celia.Everyone who isn't called Celia is eager to see whoever is calling.The only person standing still was Celia herself, standing lifeless like a corpse. Walking towards Celia was a tall, dark but elegant woman, with a straight back, raised head, and the proud impetuosity of a white woman.As she approached, the crowd parted, with some almost jumping out of the way to make way for her, and others looking at her with pity as the elegant woman was clearly wearing two dresses.A floor-length black dress with sleeves buttoned up to the wrists.The dress alone just makes people comment that she is a little too old-fashioned.But she was outside this dress, wearing a blouse that looked beautiful from a distance, but up close was a pink lace dress worn by a little girl.The puffy sleeves were forcibly pulled over the sleeves of the other dress, and the tiny upper body of the dress was ripped apart on her adult body.She raised her hand, waved a white handkerchief, and shouted: Celia!Shouting, it sounded like a god, not from a mortal like her.I looked to Celia for an explanation: why this strange woman wanted her attention. But Celia's eyes were tightly closed, and her lips murmured oh, no, tears flowed down her face and slid into the crowd. The woman approached Celia and chattered as if she had been with her all afternoon.Celia, you'll see that he's leaving soon.You must wait, dear, and I will show him to you.You will see in a moment You will see in a moment. She waved her handkerchief before her nose.Oh, the heat, the heat, I'll never get used to the heat.Her perfume was so pungent that it made me sick, and all I coughed out of my throat was that smell.Her hair, which at first appeared to be elegant gray, turned out to be a dusty, dirty brown wig.The wig tilted slightly to one side, revealing a tangle of black hair that was trying to hide.Unaware of the spectacle she had caused, she stood proudly fanning the wind like a nobleman.But her eyes were glazed, the doll-like expressionless and nonchalant. Xilia gently held the woman's hand, and said close to her ear: Mom, be quiet. Even so, the woman kept talking loudly: Where is the man now?Where did he go?He was always missing.But she stopped suddenly, as if turning off the remote control. I don't have to ask if this weird woman is Celia's mother, the truth is right in front of me.People with dark skin on once beautiful faces and lips with the same highlights.Silia avoided my eyes and said to her mother intimately: Mom, you shouldn't have come here with me.Now we must go home.I will take you back.They will worry about you. Her mother seemed to be in a daze, paying attention to Celia, and asked her to leave the crowd gently holding her elbow.Then he woke up again without warning.Here he is, Celia, here he is!you see. The crowd immediately responded to her yell. Some people watched her crazy behavior, and some people were more curious and looked in the direction she pointed.Celia's soft hand on her mother's arm became a sullen, tense knuckle, and her mother struggled to free herself.Unfortunately, the parade of pilots stopped temporarily, and Celia's mother ran to one of the pilots, pointed at him like a dress in a shop window, and shouted: Celia, this is your father.I just said he would come.The pilot had apparently never seen her, and the teenager was even younger than Celia.He looked around in bewilderment, and his comrades laughed. winston.Celia's mother examines his face, don't you know me?The pilot would have shook his head and said, well, no, madam, no.But before he could answer, Celia's mother threw her arms around his chest and clasped him in a hug that would suffocate a bear.He seemed out of breath, not sure if he should fight the crazy woman away, or let her hug her tightly. Celia approached, and her mother, afraid of losing the treasure, hugged the poor creature even tighter.Celia leaned over to her mother and said: Mom, let him go.But her mother fell on deaf ears to her pleas.Celia raised the volume in a shrill voice I had never heard before.She said it again: Mom.Some people began to see this as a farce: a young man was about to fly away from his country, and a crazy woman threw himself on his chest and stopped him.But Celia was ashamed.She began to pull her mother away from the man, humiliation flowing through every troubled expression, her mother punching and kicking her, constantly saying: Winston, don't you know me?I'm Evelyn. A pilot breaks off to defuse the commotion.And then another and another.Three burly men in uniform tried to pull the writhing woman away while refraining from touching specific parts so as not to offend her.The little pink dress she was wearing tore apart as she tried to hold it firmly, and the wig slipped in front of her eyes and fell to the floor.I salvaged the wig from under one of the large boots, and Celia, in a practiced gesture, began to wrenches the mother's arms away from the trapped man. The pilot's comrades taunted him: Hey, what did you do to him?You are too young.Are you a crowd lover?A sergeant stepped forward to check the obstruction of the march.Finally, in calm despair, the young man whispered to the top of Celia's mother's head: Ma'am, my name is not Winston, I am Douglas.Celia's mother released him as quickly as she had grabbed him.The wandering woman ran away, the pink and black fluttering on her body disappeared, and dispersed the crowd. A student who was seen dragging a hysterical woman in a two-piece dress away from the chest of an airman on the march has violated multiple school rules.Eating, running, singing, spitting, and loud noises are not allowed in public places.As teachers in training, our behavior outside the campus wall seems to be under the supervision of the principal, so we should serve as role models.True, I didn't eat, and Celia and I didn't sing in this fight, but we ran after her mother.We yelled at her to wait, come back, stop; we pulled her away from the bus and blocked traffic; I spat on the road when a dirty wig I was holding was accidentally stuffed in my mouth.The list of rules on the school is listed: eating, running, singing, spitting, and loud noise are not allowed. The principal recites it every day in the assembly like a mantra.When Miss Morgan sent me to her office, I was afraid that the commotion had already reached her ears, because Ivy.May has heard that she smiled at me as she passed and said Hortens, I think you met Celia's mother before leaving, giggling.Well, I have an excuse, it's all Celia!It was she who made an appointment with me at school; it was she who took me to the parade; it was she who spent the morning with her crazy mother and forgot to close the door for her to come out; Back to school again.These inappropriate behaviors are Xilia.Lan Li's fault.It was she who was like a devil standing on my shoulders, leading me astray. For fifteen minutes I paced outside the headmaster's office, assuming Celia would arrive soon to join me.But she was not with me when the voice came.I was relieved that she wasn't there.She wouldn't be there to hear me say her name as an excuse for breaking every school rule.She doesn't stare at me like I've betrayed her, or retort that she didn't ask me to follow her, that I did because I was curious about her deranged mother. The desk where the principal sat was not big enough, like an adult sitting on a child's school desk.I was afraid that when she got up, the table would get stuck in front of her like an apron.What table could contain the majesty of this Welsh woman? Holtens.Roberts?asked the principal. Yes, Miss Morgan.I said stupidly as if answering roll call.She looked up at me, and I noticed that her eyes weren't all blue as I usually thought, only the right eye was blue; the left eye was half blue, half light brown.I took a sharp breath, causing her to ask if I was okay.All right, thank you, Miss Morgan, I'm fine.I answered, avoiding staring into her peculiar eye. Holtens.roberts.That attitude, she repeated, had me ready for an excuse.It's all Silia, Silia, Silia, I'm going to blurt out and beg.But the headmaster didn't scold me, instead he handed me a letter.This is for you.I'm afraid the letter has already been opened, since it was addressed to the principal.But it must mean a lot more to you than to me.Please read this letter. It's a letter from Miss Ma.At the beginning, I expressed my five-line apology for taking up the time of such a busy and important person as the principal.However, the letter stated that if it is convenient for you, you may be able to send a message to He Tansi in the way you think is appropriate.Miss Roberts, then me and my husband Philip.Mr. Roberts will be grateful.I believe she is still currently a trainee teacher in the first grade at your school. The top of the h is circled, the bottom of the g is curved, and I recognize the delicate handwriting.This message concerns Michael.Mr. Roberts, our eldest and only son, and the above-mentioned Hortens.Miss Roberts knew.It's precious information about Michael!Seeing his name made my legs go limp.I haven't heard from him since he left for England.And on this small folded white piece of paper, his life was brought up in front of me again.He was originally sent to Canada to receive training in the Royal Air Force.As expected of Michael, he got the highest score and was immediately dispatched to England to join the squadron as a shooter. You can sit down if you want.The principal told me.I sat down.It is a rare privilege to sit in this upholstered chair reserved for dignitaries.The chair, which had been shipped all the way from England, seemed the most suitable throne for reading Michael's news. The letter also wrote: ◇◇◇ Our son Michael.Roberts, with his squadron, was dispatched for military operations, and he therefore had to survey the air over French territory, with the enemy below.Mr. Roberts and I have recently received an official letter from the London Operations Service.The authorities informed us that our son Michael.When Roberts was serving his motherland, the plane he was on disappeared for no reason. The neat handwriting began to be scribbled, and the original quietness turned into children's scribbles while writing these words: Mr. Roberts and I have been notified by the above-mentioned London Operations Service that at this stage of the procedure, our son Michael ．Roberts is considered officially missing in combat. After reading the letter, I raised my head, and the headmaster looked at me intently with strange eyes.I said: Miss Morgan, thank you. Do you know this young man? Oh, yes, we grew up together. She nodded wisely, a gesture I've long known.It's good to see you taking this news with the proper attitude.In this case, being too emotional doesn't help either.True grief is silent. Oh, Miss Morgan, Michael.Any news from Roberts is good news to me. She coughed politely into her hands and moved a piece of paper from one side of the table to the other.I think you may not fully understand the significance of this letter.As the young man said, she put the paper back on its original side. I said: His name is Michael.roberts. Yes, Mike.roberts.The young man has been officially reported missing.She spoke slowly, emphasizing each word with her index finger and her thumb. Oh, he'll be there soon.I promise her.I know Michael, he's always out of sight, running off to mischief. She closed her eyes and leaned her head forward on her hands, clasped together as if in prayer.Miss Roberts, it's at war now.Families of service members who have reported their relatives missing in combat are meant to prepare them that the young man may be dead. I said: The letter did not say that he was dead.The ominous premonition made my hands tremble. God bless him not dead.But you have to be prepared and you can take comfort in the fact that many people, including me, believe that no matter the color of the skin, no matter what the religion, whether it is life or death, as long as it is fighting to defend Great Britain from the German invasion People are brave heroes. She held out her hand to me, beckoning to return the letter to her.But before the letter had passed from my grip to her, she did what I dreaded and smiled directly at me.剎那間，這個女人在我眼裡顯得邪惡。邪惡得讓我呆若木雞，張大鬆開的嘴，像受到驚嚇的嬰孩般顫抖，盡力不要悲泣。