[87] D. P. Thomson, Scotland’s Greatest Athlete: The Eric Liddell Story (Barnoak, Crieff, Perthshire, Scotland: Research Unit, 1970), 192.
[88] Langdon Gilkey, Shantung Compound: The Story of Men and Women under Pressure (New York: HarperCollins, 1966), 35.
[89] Ibid., 111.
[90] Mary Taylor Previte, “A Song of Salvation at Weihsien Prison Camp,” Weihsien Picture Gallery, August 25, 1985, http://www.weihsien-paintings.org/Mprevite/inquirer/MPrevite.htm.
[91] David McCasland, Eric Liddell: Pure Gold: A New Biography of the Olympic Champion Who Inspired Chariots of Fire (Grand Rapids, MI: Discovery House, 2001), 285.
[92] Florence Liddell to Eric Liddell, unpublished letter, August 23, 1943.
[93] Ibid.
[94] David McCasland, Eric Liddell: Pure Gold: A New Biography of the Olympic Champion Who Inspired Chariots of Fire (Grand Rapids, MI: Discovery House, 2001), 265.
CHAPTER 23
DISCIPLESHIP
In everything set them an example by doing what is good. In your teaching show integrity, seriousness and soundness of speech that cannot be condemned, so that those who oppose you may be ashamed because they have nothing bad to say about us.
Titus 2:7-8, NIV
Early Winter 1943
Eric grinned in spite of the meaning behind the words the children sang—a song he knew they’d composed to help them deal with the facts of their lives.
“We might have been shipped to Timbuktu,” the song repeated into its second round.
“We might have been shipped to Kalamazoo. It’s not repatriation . . . nor is it yet stagnation . . . it’s only concentration . . . in Chefoo!”
They’re so young, he thought. Too young to spend their days of now-lost innocence within the electric fence of an internment camp. To go to bed and wake up hungry. To be forced to wear the threadbare hand-me-downs of the clothes the other students had outgrown.
Running barefoot over the dusty streets of Weihsien during the summer months was one thing, but seeing their feet red and swollen in the bitter chill of winter was another.
“My feet are so cold, Uncle Eric,” Sarah, a pretty girl in her mid-teens, had said to him. “Do you think they’ll ever be warm again?”
He assured her that they would, even as he thanked God he’d put his own children on a ship sailing away from Asia and toward North America. This was precisely the reason why. They were without their father, yes, but they went to bed with full stomachs. Their feet were never cold. Not like this.
Sarah pulled at her blouse. “And look, Uncle Eric. I’m sixteen years old, and I’m wearing an old tablecloth when I should be in a pretty frock,” she said. “How depressing.”
True. Sixteen and wearing a tablecloth could certainly be considered an awful fate. But it didn’t have to be. Eric stretched the hem of his shirt toward her. “My wife’s curtains,” he told her, smiling.
The words brought the relief he’d hoped for. The girl laughed with a merriment that, despite her circumstances, reached her eyes.
The children’s song changed, and Eric watched the line of them as they marched back to their barracks under the watchful eyes of their teachers, who reminded Eric of his old boarding school masters. The teachers at Weihsien would instruct the students to “sit up straight” and “eat with proper manners”; “being in prison doesn’t mean a loss of etiquette.” They would also say, “There aren’t two sets of rules, children—one for the outside world and one for in here. Learn this, and it will serve you well years from now.”
Eric shook his head as the children bellowed a new song. “God is still on the throne,” they sang. “And he will remember his own. . . . His promise is true. . . . He will not forget you. . . . God is still on the throne.”
ERIC TOOK TO THE ROUTINE of jogging around the camp’s perimeter—not only to keep in physical shape but also as a time to pray for the growing concerns of the people in Weihsien. As one of the “ambassadors of faith” within the camp, he continued to offer his best in the give-and-take of tough times. But complaints, low morale, and apathy constantly challenged his message of peace, hope, and the love of Christ.
In the face of antagonism, Eric perpetually pointed out some amusing incident to be happy about. He organized sporting events and competitions, wrote textbooks by hand (his self-created science book was titled The Bones of Inorganic Chemistry), and helped establish games to keep the children entertained and their minds focused not on the negatives of internment but on more positive things.
With an overabundance of rats in the camp, the adults fashioned a game to see who could kill the most. An infestation of bedbugs meant another contest to see who could kill the most.
But vermin and biting insects weren’t the only concerns. When they weren’t dealing with rats, bedbugs, or hunger, Eric and the other internees kept a watchful eye on the weather. Some days were excruciatingly hot, but—as Eric quickly pointed out—the weather would cool again. And when bitter cold nearly froze them to death and the detainees wondered if they’d ever feel the warmth of the sun on their skin again, Eric reminded them that, soon enough, they’d once again complain about the heat.
The hot weather meant more than being miserable; it brought dysentery and typhoid. And the cold weather meant more than the difficulty of keeping warm; with the chill came pneumonia and frostbite. Additionally, every morning in winter, when Eric and his fellow “campers” woke, they found the water in the wash buckets had frozen . . . but at least they could break the solid surface, wash up, and remind themselves that, come summer, they’d wish for a little ice.
To create a sense of community, the streets were given the names of well-known places such as Park Avenue and Wall Street. Then there was the dining room. If ever a location existed where the worst in human behavior could be observed, it was the kitchen and dining hall. The work was difficult. Often the cooks, once
