Taken from "I Was Among The Captives"
by G. C. Willis
A Silent Witness-Chapter 14
We had not been in [the concentration] camp many days before it was apparent that in all this great company of British, there was scarcely a trace of any recognition or acknowledgment of God. The vast majority appeared to have little or no care for their Maker. Amongst those who took upon themselves the Name of Christ, there was a great dividing line, separating a little remnant who believed implicitly in the Word of God, from the large majority who seemed more occupied with what they did not believe than anything else.
Included in that little remnant, who were drawn so closely together, were Mr. and Mrs. P., and their daughter C., about fourteen, but even at that age taller than either of her parents. Mr. P. was an old friend, whom we had known and loved for many years. Then there was Mrs. S., a stranger to us, who was on her way home to retirement, when she was caught by the war; how thankful many were that God had so ordered her pathway! She and her husband had done noble pioneer work in North China. He had died many years before from a heart attack, after baptizing a number of new converts. He had suffered much for Christ's sake, so breaking down his health, and Mrs. S. herself knew what it meant to be beaten for His Name! There were few to whom we were all so greatly drawn as to this dear saint, and one of the joys and compensations for those years in camp was to learn to know her. There were others whom I would gladly name, but from the beginning the few mentioned, met each Saturday evening in our room, and there we poured out our hearts together, telling our Lord of the things about us that grieved us so very much.
In the old days, before the war, one of our interests in the Book Room was to make illuminated Scripture texts. This part of our business had grown to such an extent that our artist was kept busy all the time. When Japan attacked the British and Americans, and we had to let our men go, the artist went to his home in Cashing, a hundred miles or so from Shanghai. We still had a few orders for texts come through, and the work of preparing them fell to me. We had about half a roll of drawing paper on hand, but one day on my way home from work, it seemed as though a Voice said: "Go and buy drawing paper." I was not disobedient to the call and immediately went to the supply shop where I always dealt. I purchased two rolls, twenty yards each, for a little less than $80.00. Not many weeks later the same shop was asking $600.00 a roll. I also was compelled to buy more paints, which rather vexed me, as money was generally short. We only used British-made paints, as they stood the sun better than those made in China. The only British paints available were in large tubes, and cost a lot of money. As these tubes were so hard to sell, the shop kindly gave them to me at a very low figure. A few weeks later they were almost priceless. I bought several slabs of an excellent quality Chinese ink, specially wrapped, and printed "For export." But as there was no export then, these were also being sold at a very low price. I bought a supply of the best Chinese brushes I could get, and so was ready to do the odd text in place of our artist. I did not know that all this was God's provision for life in Camp. But all these things I brought with me, except one roll of paper which I left with a Chinese friend, and had forwarded a year or so later to the Camp.
As we grieved and prayed over the conditions of the Camp, the thought came to me that a text might speak, even though there was no opportunity for our lips to speak for Christ in public, and with an utter lack of privacy anywhere, it was hard to carry on a serious conversation even with an individual. The dining room seemed the best place for such a text to be displayed. There was a large Gothic window in the end of the room, high up off the floor. Just below this window, facing the whole room, seemed the ideal place to put it. I well knew the storm it would raise, and for that reason we made it a special matter of prayer that just the right words might be given us. The text selected read:
OUR FATHER
which art in heaven
Hallowed be Thy Name
* * * *
Give us this day our daily bread
The text was, as I recall, almost five feet long, and not quite three feet deep. It was done in blue, crimson and gold, with the letters shaded in gray or brown. The letters were Old English, and the capitals Gothic. The only place to work was on my bed, but I had an old drawing board, and that was a great help.
We knew that it was useless to ask permission from the Camp Committee to put up such a text. They would never have granted it. So night by night as the work on the text progressed, done in secret as far as possible, the little company of believers met for prayer that their Lord would undertake and overrule so that the text might go up in the place selected, and that none might be able to move it. And how God abundantly answered those prayers, in a way more than we could ask or think, the rest of the story will tell.
It took a little over three weeks to finish the text. I was anxious that it should first appear on Sunday morning. By Saturday evening, at supper time, there was only two or three hours' work left, so, as our chairman, Mr. Grant, was eating his supper, I asked him what time he got up in the morning. I think he thought me very impertinent, but graciously replied that he was up every morning by six, so I asked him if he could meet me in the dining room the next day a few minutes after six. He agreed, and I hastened back to try and have my text ready in time. The little company gathered as usual to specially commend it to the Lord's own care as it started out on what we knew would be a stormy course. Just as I put the last strokes to the text, suddenly I spilled two great smears of black ink right across one end, on top of quite a few of the letters. It was just roll-call time, and then all lights were out.
I was almost in despair, but knew that my drawing paper was extremely good, and would stand a lot of rubbing. We lit a candle, and for an hour or more worked at it, until the damage was repaired, and the mess could not be detected. We occasionally tried to light a candle for special need at night after that, but always the guards shouted at us, and turned their searchlights into our room. Indeed, one night they came up with their heavy boots and their guns, and I don't know what they would have done to us, only they missed the room, and went to our neighbor's door. They kept their door locked, and were so sound asleep that the guards gave it up as a bad job. There was of course no light then to be seen anywhere. But on the night we had to fix the text, we had no trouble at all, nor indeed did we know we were not supposed to have a light if we needed it.
The next morning about half-past five I was down in the dining room and got the text well pinned up with thumb tacks. Mr. Grant came in shortly afterward, and I watched to see what the verdict would be. I knew he was a fair and honorable man, and I knew I would get a much more sympathetic hearing from him than from the Camp Council. He did not speak for a few minutes, looking with care at it. At last I asked: "May it stay?" He waited again, and then replied: "Why not? Yes, it may stay. It is reverent, and it is well done. It may stay." I decided to strike while the iron was hot, and asked: "May I do one for the other end of the room as well?" "Yes," he replied. "do one for there also. And come into the office where you will have room and a table to work on, and do it there." I could only bow in thanksgiving as Mr. Grant returned to his room.
My duties included cutting the bread for breakfast, which often meant a start at five-thirty, and then pouring water and tea for breakfast. The new text was just over our heads. It was intensely interesting to hear the comments as we poured. "What's this?" "Who's done this?" "Take it down!" "Oh, its only up because today's Sunday, it'll be down tomorrow; don't bother with it." "Who put that up without permission?" "We'll soon see about that." And very occasionally a remark of appreciation by someone who loved or honored the Word of God.
One person said: "You can't have a text like that up in this camp; there's too much swearing." It is true the foul language in every direction was terrible, but I could only remark that I could not see that this was a sound reason for taking down the text. If it was true that the text and the swearing did not go together, why not give up the swearing?
I had asked Mr. Grant not to mention who had done it, and for several days it remained a secret. As anticipated, it caused a great commotion. The Camp Committee discussed it, and disapproved of it because of the offense it would give to the Catholics and the Jews. The Catholics replied by their leader coming to me. He said: "There's just one thing wrong with that text." "What is that?" I asked. "It needs a frame. If you'll find the wood, I'm a carpenter and will make the frame, and then they'll know it's not the Catholics who object to the text." The only wood available was a slice off the frame of my bed, but it was very hard wood and polished quite nicely. The Jews sent over a little committee of three with their prayer book to show that every word in the text is in their prayer book and to say that they liked the text and hoped it might stay. So the "reasons" of the Council faded out. Again the question came up in the committee and very strong words against it were uttered trying to force it to be taken down. Mr. Grant was about to try and defend it when a business lady on the Council took the floor. 1 was not present but was told that by the time she had finished telling the opposers what she thought of them there was not one who dared to say another word. And once again we bowed in thanksgiving. But a text for the other end of the room was prohibited.
It might have been several months after this, and everybody had grown used to the text, when it was decided to have a play. This was held in the dining room with the tables from the bakery (good heavy ones) arranged as a stage just under the text. Somehow they felt this did not fit in very well with the play, so they took it down and stuck it in a corner of the room. Next morning the room was cleared up, the tables taken back to the bakery, but the text was left in the corner of the room. When I came to cut the morning bread that day, the sad reply was: "No bread ration today; the bakery's failed us." (I think the flour had failed.) The bread was truly our staff of life, and with nothing as a substitute, we were hungry indeed. Many a night even before that I had waked with hunger and was unable to get to sleep for hours, but now it was worse. Everybody felt it, and the next day was the same. When the third day came and still no bread, the murmurings broke out, and all over the camp one might hear: "It's because of that text. They've taken down the text, 'Give us this day our daily bread,' and since then we haven't had any bread." Another was heard to say, "That text is our mascot. We must get it up again.”
The feeling in Camp was running so high, and we were all so hungry, that finally the very ones who took down the text were compelled to put it back again.
Several months went by, and once more the Camp held a play. The arrangement was as before, but this time heavy curtains were draped in front of the text, and on the curtains was pinned a very well-drawn picture of a Pair of Balances, and a Sword, representing "Justice." The day following, everything was cleared up except the curtains with the picture of The Balances and the Sword still pinned to them, so that the text did not appear.
Again, there was no bread. I think this time the yeast failed to come, but when we came for our usual daily ration, we were met with the sad news: "No bread today." During the course of that day, as we were compelled to be occupied with the Balances and Sword, my wife remarked that the picture presented a remarkably good opportunity that we ought not to let pass. So the next morning when we came down for breakfast rations (but without any bread), there appeared above the Balances and Sword, two lines:
I saw Mr. Grant chuckle as he went up to get his breakfast, and he whispered to me as he passed: "I see you are an opportunist." I replied, "You understand it?" "O yes, I understand it perfectly," he replied. But as you can guess, most of the Camp was not as well pleased as Mr. Grant. The whole Camp was angry that once more they were without bread, and the demand came on every side, "Take down the curtain!" Once again the enemies of the Truth were compelled to surrender, and the curtains came down, leaving the old text with full possession, and the bread came to us once more.
Some months later, for a third time, the text was again taken down, and this time it was thrown behind the piano. Again, the same day, the bread failed, and finally a gentleman in the Camp who had been a manager of a large brewery came to me with the suggestion: "That text should be nailed up so they cannot take it down." I replied: "I know you are handy with tools, suppose you nail it up?" "Gladly," he replied, and with great long nails the text was finally nailed up so that nobody again ventured to touch it, and it was still there until Camp was broken up, ever uttering its silent prayer:
GIVE US THIS DAY OUR DAILY BREAD
And the bread never failed again. G. C. Willis