Alice

by MockingJayFlyingFree

It's 1942, and the world is at war. English typist Katniss Everdeen meets Australian Peeta Mellark under the most unusual of circumstances – on a dirt road in Malaya, where they are both prisoners of war. When Peeta steals bread from Japanese Captain Snow to help her, he has to pay for his crime with his life. Or so Katniss thinks. Based on A Town Like Alice by Nevil Shute

1. Chapter 1

I know, I know… When I finished The miner's wife, I said that I wouldn't write any more multi-chapter fanfics, but, you know… This fic just happened.

I first read Nevil Shute's classic 1950 book 'A Town Like Alice' when I was in my early teens. When I went to Australia, many years later, I reread it (because how can you not read 'A Town Like Alice' when you go to Australia, right?), and I couldn't help but think that it would make the perfect Everlark fic!

When reading 'A Town Like Alice' as an adult, I noticed new aspects of the book. First of all, I appreciated Jean's extraordinary courage much more than I did when I was 13 or 14. It was also very obvious to me that the book was written by a man nearly 70 years ago. As a woman in 2015, I felt it was necessary to make quite a few changes when adapting the story into an Everlark fanfic. Although I've done my best to modify certain aspects of the story, especially when dealing with race/ethnicity and gender roles/sexuality, the extent to which I can do that is somewhat limited by the time period and the places the story is set in. If some passages in this story come across as offensive, I apologize in advance.

This story was written on three different continents, and was alpha'd on a fourth continent. Which I think is kind of cool! In a way, aside from that fourth continent, it resembles the book, which takes the reader from England, via Malaya, to the Australian outback. When I wrote this story, I traveled in the opposite direction. I started in Australia, then I went to Asia, and finally I returned home to Europe. I was even able to go to Green Island (those of you who have read the 'A Town Like Alice' know what happened there!) and call it "research". Fanfiction for the win!

Thank you to Lbug84 for alphaing – because I recently learned that we're not each other's betas, we work far too closely together for that - and generally for being one of my best friends, even though you're half the world away. You say that I'm always in your pocket – well, you're always in mine, too. And a big thank you to otrascosasseries for making the beautiful banner!

I don't own anything - neither the Hunger Games trilogy nor 'A Town Like Alice'. I'm just borrowing the characters and stories for a while, because I love and admire them.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox

Chapter 1

London, 1948

I feel small sitting in Mr. Flickerman's office. Maybe it's because of the massive mahogany desk that separates us. Did he choose such an intimidating piece of furniture on purpose? I wonder. Maybe to show his clients that he, through his profession, has power that they don't?

I look around the room. It's not just the mahogany desk; everything about this space is intimidating and over the top. The windows are framed by heavy curtains in bright red velvet. Marble statuettes line the fireplace mantel. There are paintings on the walls. I can't tell what they are of, they are neither of humans, landscapes nor anything else I can recognize. They are just shapes in vivid colors: gold, black, purple, all almost too bright.

I suppose the office matches its owner.

After I received the letter, I discreetly asked a few people at work if they knew anything about a man named Mr. Caesar Flickerman. Surprisingly, everyone I spoke with immediately knew who he was. Their descriptions were all variations of the same eccentric theme, but the consensus was clear; Mr. Flickerman is one of the best lawyers in London. No one said anything specific about what made Mr. Flickerman eccentric, though, and I didn't really worry about it. I mostly just focused on the "good lawyer" part.

I understand the chatter now, though. Mr. Flickerman is even more extraordinary than his office. Everything about him makes him stand out. He smiles too much, showing teeth which look so white and perfect that I can't help but wonder whether they are real. He moves almost as if he were an actor on a stage, his every move choreographed. His suit looks expensive, definitely tailored. The color is midnight blue with tiny white dots that appear to sparkle when he moves, an odd choice for a lawyer. His hair even has a bluish hue to it, matching his suit.

I don't know what to expect from this meeting. The letter Mr. Flickerman sent me was short. My granduncle Woodrow Everdeen passed away six months ago and, apparently, he has left me an inheritance. I didn't know my granduncle. In fact, I didn't even know that he had passed away until I received Mr. Flickerman's letter. I only have a vague memory of my family visiting him once when I was a child. My younger sister, Primrose, couldn't pronounce his name, so she called him "Woof." He found it hilarious and, just that easily, she wrapped him around her little finger. In the letter, Mr. Flickerman wrote that were several other beneficiaries in the will, including Prim. Sadly, I am the only one who is still alive.

Now, Mr. Flickerman is explaining the details of the situation to me. He's friendly. It's clear he's trying to make me feel at ease, but his explanation is still a bit hard to follow. It could be because I'm not familiar with legal jargon. He's kept it to a minimum, though, to make his words understandable. Maybe I'm just too tired. I didn't get much sleep last night. The nightmares kept me up.

I stifle a yawn and force myself to focus on Mr. Flickerman. "There are, however, certain terms in the will," he stipulates. Thankfully, it doesn't look like he noticed my almost yawning. Or maybe his brilliantly white smile is a sign that he did, but he's simply too professional to let me know that he thinks I'm rude. "Your granduncle was… well, he was a bit of an eccentric in some ways. I'm afraid he did not quite trust the judgment of young women, especially when it came to managing money." I furrow my brow. Mr. Flickerman chuckles and rolls his eyes dramatically. "I know, I know. The judgment of young men is just as questionable as that of young women, possibly even more so. That said, what you or I think about the matter is irrelevant, I'm afraid. The terms of Mr. Everdeen's will clearly state that the residue of the estate will remain in a trust until you are 35 years old. The will also names my partner Mr. Claudius Templesmith and myself as the trustees."

"What does that mean, exactly?" I feel like an idiot.

"It means that until you turn 35, you will receive a monthly payment, consisting of the interest of the trust fund. If I remember correctly, you are 27 years old now, yes?" I nod. "The trust fund will be managed by Mr. Templesmith and myself for the next eight years, until your 35th birthday. After that, you are free to do with your inheritance as you wish." I'm still not quite sure if I understand what he's talking about. Mr. Flickerman must see my confusion. "Do you have any questions, Miss Everdeen?" he asks.

I clear my throat. "If I may ask, exactly how much money did my granduncle leave me?"

Mr. Flickerman leans back in his black leather chair. He doesn't answer right away, and something in his eyes makes me think that he's pausing for dramatic effect.

"Fifthy-three thousand pounds."

My mouth opens in shock, but I can't get a sound out. My mother never talked much about my granduncle, but what little she did say never gave me any reason to believe that Uncle Woof was rich.

"It is a sizable sum," Mr. Flickerman says. I immediately close my mouth, feeling ashamed I'm unable to hide my emotions. "The interest, provided the stock market stays relatively stable, will be around 900 pounds a year, after income taxes. If you budget well, the interest alone could be enough for you to live in comfort. No diamonds or fur coats though," Mr. Flickerman chuckles.

As if I would ever buy luxury items like that. Is he making fun of me? He probably sized me up the minute I walked into the room. My cheap shoes. My plain, gray dress. He already knows my address, a neighborhood in the East End known as the Seam, which is telling in itself. I find it provoking that Mr. Flickerman clearly thinks that any young, poor woman who suddenly comes into money will immediately go on a wild shopping spree simply because she can.

Mr. Flickerman must realize that he's made me uncomfortable, because he clears his throat and quickly continues. "The overall goal of the trust is that your inheritance will be handed over to you at the age of 35, as intact as possible. However, there is a clause which gives the trustees – Mr. Templesmith and myself – certain powers to realize capital for the benefit of the legatee – you – if we are satisfied it is truly to your advantage."

"I understand," I say. I'm not quite sure I do, though. The sum of money he's talking about… It's too large for me to fully grasp. And what does he mean by something being 'truly to my advantage'?

"I understand this is a lot to take in, Miss Everdeen," Mr. Flickerman says. "It's going to be quite a change for you."

"Yes. Yes, it will be," I answer. That's the only thing I'm certain of right now.

"Why don't you look over these documents, and we can schedule another meeting in, say, a week?" He pushes a thick stack of documents across the desk to me. "It will give you a chance to read the will and the clauses. I'll answer any questions you might have."

On the way home, with the documents wrapped in thick, brown paper to protect them from the rain, I try to understand what this all means.

Nine hundred pounds a year.

Growing up, my family was never poor, but we were certainly not wealthy. When my family lived in Malaya before the war, we would have been considered rich compared to the majority of the population. That was mainly because they were so desperately poor, and we, as expats, were privileged.

After the war, finding myself all alone in the world and without any financial security to fall back on, I've made a living working as a secretary at the Ministry of Forestry and Agriculture. I barely make enough money to scrape by. I reside in a tiny one-room flat in the Seam.

I won't have to work at the Ministry anymore, though. What would it be like to wake up in the morning, and not have to go anywhere? Would I even get out of my flat at all?

If I don't get out of my flat, if I just disappear, no one would notice.

I pull my thin coat tighter around my body to protect myself from the weather.

xoxoxoxox

I drag myself out of a nightmare, gasping for breath.

It takes me a few seconds to realize where I am, thankfully safe in my own narrow bed. I switch on the light and blink my eyes quickly to focus. My heart is still racing. I'm sweaty and my nightgown is sticking to my skin.

I get out of bed and move over to the kitchen, which is technically just a sink and a small oven in a corner by the window. I force myself to breathe slowly while I pour myself a glass of water. The floor is cold against my bare feet and a breeze slips in from under the front door, causing me to shiver. I close my eyes while I gulp down a few mouthfuls of water.

His screams are still ringing in my ears.

He tried to stay silent at first, I suppose he didn't want to give Captain Snow the satisfaction. But when his back had been turned into an almost unrecognizable mass of bare, torn flesh, long after his blood had pooled on the dirt by the whipping post, he couldn't keep quiet anymore.

It's been six years, but I still hear Peeta's screams every night.

My nightmares are a confusing jumble of real and not real. His screams mingle with images of emaciated, dying children, and the pain of Sergeant Cato's heavy boots hitting my shin. All of those things are real. While disturbing, I can at least make sense of them. My being chased by horrific animals through a forest, though, is more difficult to understand. The animals look like overgrown wolves, but somehow, in my dream, I know these monsters are not of this world. Strangely, the worst thing about the monsters, is the one thing about them that is real - their eyes. They have human eyes – I recognize them as the eyes of people I have lost. Prim. My parents. Madge. Rory and Vick.

Strangely, Peeta is not one of them.

But tonight, there was something else in my nightmare. Something that is worse than the screams, or the mutts, or Posy's terrified sobbing as she hid her face against my neck. I heard the hammer, hitting the heads of thick, coarse nails. One through each palm, nailing Peeta to the tree.

I steady myself by gripping the kitchen counter firmly. My brain is so successful at shutting that particular memory away in a dark, hidden corner of my mind that I hardly ever even think about it. When the memory does resurface, always in the form of a nightmare, it is usually triggered by something stressful or upsetting.

There is little relief in waking, because it was real, and it was my fault.

I open my eyes. The moon outside of my window is almost full. A quick glance at the clock on the wall tells me it's 4 a.m. Finishing my glass of water, I curl up under a blanket on the sofa and wait for sunrise.

Xoxoxoxoxox

A week after our first meeting, I find myself back in Mr. Flickerman's office. I've read all of the documents. There are a lot of legalities in them, and I still don't fully grasp the situation, but I think that I have a better understanding of what this all means than I did last week.

"Miss Everdeen," Mr. Flickerman greets me with a smile that makes him resemble a Hollywood star. "How are you doing?" He's not wearing the same midnight blue, sparkly suit today. This one is dark brown and it has an unusual purple shimmer to it when he moves. His hair is pulled back in a pony tail.

"I'm well," I tell him. "No diamond or fur coat shopping as of yet."

Mr. Flickerman tilts his head back and laughs. "I didn't expect you to," he confesses with a wink. "You don't quite seem the type."

I wonder what kind of type he thinks that I am, but I'm not quite sure I want to hear what that may be, so I choose not to ask.

"I don't think I am, Mr. Flickerman," I say quietly.

He folds his hand on the mahogany desk and leans forward. "Our meeting last week must have been overwhelming for you." His voice has an almost comforting tone.

"It was," I acknowledge. "I have spent the last week wondering what to do with my life now that money is apparently no longer a concern."

"And what did you decide?"

I've thought about this a lot. How to tell him, how to make him understand. Our cultural references are different. Mr. Flickerman is a lawyer. Everything in this room oozes money, he is most likely from a very wealthy family. I'm quite certain he does not know how it feels when an unexpectedly high electricity bill means you won't have supper for a week. I'm absolutely convinced he does not know what it's like to grow rice, or to carry water every day.

"I have decided to quit my job," I begin. It's not quite what I had planned to open with, but it's too late now. Mr. Flickerman furrows his brow and opens his mouth. I can tell he doesn't approve, but I continue before he has the chance to object. "I am planning to go on a journey which I expect will take at least three or four months, and I doubt my boss would give me that much time off."

"Are you planning to go on a long holiday?" Mr. Flickerman asks. He taps his pen on the sheet of paper lying in front of him on his desk, as if he's impatient, but his smile is wide as ever. I'm sure this is exactly what he was expecting from a poor young woman who suddenly inherited a small fortune. Granted, I claim that I'm not going to buy fur and diamonds, but instead, he thinks I want to spend my newfound wealth on a holiday.

"Not exactly, I answer. "I want to travel to Malaya."

"I know from your papers that you and your family used to live there. Are you planning to visit friends there, perhaps?"

"Well, that too. Sort of. I want to go to Lagu Burung." Flickerman's eyes narrow. "It's a small village in Malaya."

I have Flickerman's full attention now. "There was nothing in your papers about Lagu… What was the name of the place again?"

"Burung. Lagu Burung. I'm not surprised it's not in my papers, because officially, I was never there. There are no records of my whereabouts between 1942 and 1945 at all, are there?"

"No, there aren't," Mr. Flickerman admits. "I thought the records had been lost because of the war."

I shake my head. "No. You can't find any records because they were never made. But to answer your question about visiting friends: I do have dear friends in Lagu Burung, one in particular, but this is not a social visit. I'm going there because I'd like to dig a well for the community."

"A well? In Malaya?" Mr. Flickerman is clearly unable to hide his shock at my words, and for the first time, it looks as if he slips out of his part. My digging a well in a Malay village he can't even pronounce the name of was not in his script. He stares at me, wordlessly. Something passes over his face, and for a split second, I think that he's going to laugh at the absurdity of my request. But then his professional mask comes back on. "That's certainly unexpected news," he finally says, his voice neutral.

"I'm afraid I would need some extra money from my inheritance to finance my travels, I don't think the yearly interest would be sufficient. I wouldn't need a lot extra," I say quickly, when Mr. Flickerman impatiently starts to tap his pen again. "I think 50 pounds should be more than enough to dig a well. I do of course realize that traveling to Malaya will cost far more than 50 pounds, but if I travel by boat, the price that is far more reasonable than flying." I'm rambling, but I can't stop. "If I run out of money while I'm there, I can take a job as a typist in Kuala Lumpur or Singapore for a few months. I have excellent references. I'm quite certain finding a job would be feasible."

"Why would you want to dig a well in Malaya?" Mr. Flickerman asks.

I look down. I was hoping that talking about the trust, tickets, money and other practicalities would distract him from asking that question, but it's as if Mr. Flickerman sees right through me.

I didn't stay in touch with any of the other survivors after the war. At first, handling the situation with Posy and Gale, while trying to find Prim, took all the energy I had. Later, when I was on my own, I realized that meeting any of the other survivors - or even just sending them a letter now and then - would be a reminder of so many things I just wanted to forget. Instead, I chose to live my life as if those three years never happened. I never talk about my time in Malaya, to anyone. My colleagues at the Ministry of Forestry and Agriculture don't even know that I've ever lived outside London.

But if I am to convince Mr. Flickerman to give me the money I need to dig that well, for Rue and for all the other women in the village, I need to tell him the whole story. If I don't, he'll almost certainly say no to my request. He needs to understand why this is not insane, but absolutely necessary.

"During the war, I stayed in Lagu Burung for three years," I start, somewhat hesitantly. "I'm not surprised you've never heard of it, even most Malays in Kuala Lumpur don't know where it is. It's just a tiny village by the sea, where the villagers survive by fishing, planting rice and foraging in the woods. It's an idyllic place, even though I was a prisoner of war of sorts."

"You were a prisoner of war in a Malay village?" Mr. Flickerman has stopped tapping his pen now. He's studying my face closely. His bright smile from before is gone, but his eyebrows are still unnaturally high.

His surprise is understandable. As far as I know, we were the only westerners in Malaya who survived the war by living and working alongside the local villagers in a small, rural community. Of course Mr. Flickerman, living in England, would never have heard of our ordeal. He's probably heard very little of the war in Malaya, period. "Our official status wasn't clear," I admit. "After the Japanese invaded Malaya, obviously the English expats living there were considered possible dangers by the Japanese. The men were all sent to prisoner of war camps, but the Japanese didn't really know what to do with the women and children. We were essentially a nuisance to the Japanese. But the people of Lagu Burung took us in, even though they didn't have to, and they were so very kind to us."

"Us?" Mr. Flickerman asks.

"Yes, us. 17 women and children. We were 34 when we first started out, but in the end…" I clear my throat before I continue. "It took more than six months for us to reach Lagu Burung. By then there were only 17 of us left." Mr. Flickerman has leaned forward in his chair now, his eyes wide and attentive. "The villagers saved our lives. They didn't have much, but what little they did have, they shared with us. They taught us to plant rice too, enabling us to feed ourselves. We never went hungry again."

"I'm not sure I'm following you. Are you telling me that you planted rice? That you fed yourselves for three years?"

"We did. In fact, we even came to enjoy the work." I smile, but it quickly fades. "We were safe and had full stomachs every night, but life in the village was difficult, particularly for the women. We had to carry water from a spring that was almost a mile away for drinking and cooking. There was a river nearby, but the water was brackish, so it could only be used for cleaning. Every day, two times a day, we would walk nearly four miles in total. Carrying water is a fearful job, and traditionally, it's women's work."

"I imagine that must be very hard," Mr. Flickerman says, but I know that he can't. Not really. Everything in this room, everything about him, convinces me of that.

I take a deep breath. "I have unpaid debts." For the first time, I hold his gaze. "I always pay my debts, Mr. Flickerman, and this is one way that I can repay at least a little part of it. I have so much money now, more than I will ever need, and they have so very little. A well would make their lives easier. The lives of the women, I mean. And I…" I realize that there is no way Mr. Flickerman can follow my story. I blink quickly, trying to bring the room back into focus. My eyes must have filled with tears without me realizing it.

"Miss Everdeen," Mr. Flickerman says, surprisingly softly. "Are you alright?"

"Yes." My lips are dry. My nails are digging into my palms.

"I can tell that this is difficult for you, but," Mr. Flickerman says softly. "If you would kindly regale me with the story in its entirety, it would be easier for me to determine whether your request is within the realms of the will."

I nod my head in agreement and force myself to unclench my fisted hands. There are red, angry marks inside my palms where my nails have dug into my skin. "It's a long story. In fact, I don't quite know where to start."

"The beginning is usually a good place," Mr. Flickerman says cautiously. There is a long silence. "Would you like a cup of tea?" he asks. He interprets my sad smile as acceptance of his offer and calls for his secretary, Atala. I gather my thoughts silently while we wait for her; she brings us tea and biscuits just a few short minutes later. I'm grateful for some extra time to contemplate how to best explain all the things that must be so difficult to understand for an Englishman who has probably never been to Asia, never been a prisoner of war. Perhaps he went to bed hungry at times during the war, but I'd bet my entire newfound fortune that he has never been on a death march.

He's an Englishman who has led a privileged life. A man who has never caused death. Certainly not the death of a man as kind, brave and honorable as Peeta Mellark.

I too quickly take a sip of the tea, and it burns the tip of my tongue. "What I just told you, about how we stayed in Lagu Burung, it wasn't the beginning of the story," I finally admit. "Actually, it was the end."

"I figured as much," Mr. Flickerman says. "The real question is how a young English woman ends up in a Malay village during the war, isn't it? Not what she does while she is there."

"You are correct," I say. There is a long silence. I take a deep breath and then I collect my thoughts. Outside the window, I hear engines roar as automobiles weave through the roads, horseshoes clip and clip as horses tug carriages along cobblestoned streets, and paperboys shout the latest news at the top of their lungs. London is never quiet. Day or night, there is always sound. It took some getting used to, when I returned home after so many years.

Mr. Flickerman is patient. He simply waits until I am ready to speak.

"I had already lived in Malaya for eight years when the war began," I begin. "My father worked in a mining corporation. When I was 11, he was relocated to Kuala Lumpur, and my family moved there from London."

"How did he get into the mining business?" Mr. Flickerman asks.

"He was born into a coal miner family in Northumberland," I explain. Mr. Flickerman's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Apparently that's not something he found out when he did research on my family, but I am in no way ashamed of our father's humble origins. "My grandfather vowed that his only son would never go into the mines, and he earned the funds to send my father to university."

"Your grandfather must have been so proud of him."

"My grandfather died in a mining accident one month before my father's graduation," I answer.

"I'm sorry to hear that." He bows his head in respect, his voice is perfectly sympathetic. Again, he makes me wonder whether what he says is real, or whether it's just an act.

"After burying my grandfather, my father married my mother – a girl from a very wealthy family who he had met at university. Her family promptly disowned her for marrying a coal miner's son. My father got a job in a mining company. He felt that the best way to honor his father, was to improve the working conditions for the miners from within. My father was a hard worker and a very intelligent man, and worked his way up. When he was offered the job in Kuala Lumpur, my father said yes because he knew the tin mines in Malaysia were very dangerous, and he was determined to make them safer."

"He sounds like a remarkable man."

"He was." I have to swallow hard a couple of times before I continue. "Moving to another continent was a shock at first. Kuala Lumpur was so different from London. But it helped tremendously that I had my sister Primrose there to share every experience. We started at the English school. Primrose was only one year younger than me. I've always been reserved by nature, and I dreaded going to a new school, but my sister got along with everyone, and thanks to her, I made new friends. It didn't take long for us to feel at home." I pause. "Have you been to any of the colonies in Asia, Mr. Flickerman?"

"Unfortunately not," he admits. I'm not surprised. That means I'll have to paint a more vivid picture to him, so he can understand.

I think back to those carefree, sunshine-filled days, before everything changed. "Expat life in the tropics was good," I say with a small smile. "My father's salary, which would have been considered modest in England, stretched much further, allowing us to live comfortably in Malaya. We had a maid, a cook, and a gardener; we enjoyed luxuries which would be unthinkable for us in England."

In London, we always had food on the table, but we lived in a one-bedroom flat. My parents slept on the fold-out sofa in the living room at night while Prim and I shared the bedroom. Our house in Malaya was a mansion in comparison. Mr. Flickerman has probably had maids, cooks, and gardeners all his life. Perhaps he's even had butlers. If so, I'm sure he takes their services for granted. I take a sip of tea to buy some time.

"Life was hard in Kuala Lumpur, especially in the slums, but as expats, we were sheltered. Many of our English friends lived their lives separated from the Malay community, aside from their servants of course. But my family made it a point to have contact with the locals. My mother and sister volunteered at the local hospital, but it… Well, it wasn't really for me." I swallow. Caring for sick people came naturally to Prim and Mother, but blood, disease and injury have always only made me feel nauseous. "Instead, I volunteered at the orphanage every Tuesday and Saturday after school, playing with the children. Within a few years, Mother, Primrose and I were all fluent in Malay, unlike our friends and, later, our coworkers."

Speaking about my pre-war life in Malaya isn't hard. We were happy there. Until...

"Then the war broke out in Europe. We read about the Blitz, and constant food shortages and rationing. We felt so helpless, living so far away. England was our real home after all, but my mother said that she was happy we were all safe, half a world away from the war."

"Your mother was right," Mr. Flickerman agrees. "It was awful to be in England at the time. In London in particular, of course, with the bombing." His eyes darken, and there is a glimpse of something in his eyes. Pain? When I asked around for information about him, no one said anything about his personal life. Whether or not he has a family. There are no indications of him having a family in his office. No photos of a wife or children, no drawings saying 'To Father' or 'To Grandfather' in a child's unsteady handwriting. Only dizzying and somewhat disturbing oil paintings.

"Well, then I suppose you can imagine my mother's horror when, shortly after, my father was ordered back to England." Mr. Flickerman nods, but doesn't say anything. "I was 21 at the time, and Primrose was 20. I had graduated from school and worked as a typist at my father's mining corporation. Primrose worked as an assistant at the children's hospital. My parents urged me and my sister to stay behind. They felt we'd be safer in Kuala Lumpur than in London."

Given how events would come to pass, I know now that none of us were safe. Very soon, all of our lives would be in danger. I would be the only one to survive the war.

"Although I do understand your parents' reasoning at the time," Mr. Flickerman says, "As a father, I don't think I'd approve of my daughters, both barely adults, living on their own in Asia." So, he does have a family.

"The expat community was closely knit," I explain, "and we had a wide circle of friends. My parents were relieved when my boss, Gale Hawthorne, suggested that Primrose and I share a small flat in his mansion." My mouth suddenly feels dry, and I have to swallow a few times before I can continue. "My father was the cousin of Mr. Hawthorne's father, and they'd known each other all their lives. Mr. Hawthorne's father came from a humble background too, but his career in the mining company was stellar, and so was his son's. Mr. Hawthorne was quite a few years older than me, but we had been acquainted all my life and my family got along very well with him and his wife, Madge. They had three adorable young children – Rory, Vick, and Posy. My parents felt it would be quite safe to leave us in Malaya. After all, the Hawthornes were family."

Mr. Flickerman nods. "I understand. I have to say that does seem reassuring."

I sigh. "I should've known it wouldn't work, though. Not with Primrose. She quickly became restless and her frustration grew. She would spend hours every night, combing through newspapers, listening to the news on the radio. The more she heard, the more convinced she became that she had to go home. She had always dreamt of becoming a nurse, and now her dream made perfect sense. 'My place is in England now,' she said. 'I want to get a job at a hospital to help the wounded.'"

"That's very admirable."

"Yes." I have to quickly blink my tears away. "That's typical of Primrose, though. She always thought of everyone else first, what she could do to help them, she never thought of herself. She had such a way with people, everyone loved her. Many of the children at the hospital where she volunteered thought she was an English princess, with her big smile, blue eyes and blonde hair." It's important for me to tell him about my sister. Prim was one of the heirs too, so Mr. Flickerman must have some information on her, but they are just words on a paper. A photograph at most. None of those things can truly convey who my sister was. So many of the people who used to know her are dead now. I don't want her to be forgotten. "I knew she would become the perfect nurse," I continue. "And even though I was scared because she was going back to a Europe that was in war, I supported her decision."

"So you did not follow her back to England?"

"I was going to," I explain to him. "When Primrose left, there would be little reason for me to stay in Malaya. However, Mr. Hawthorne begged me to stay just a few more months, until they could find a replacement for me, and I agreed."

I take another sip of tea, to hide that I'm not sure if my voice would be quite clear if I were to continue right away.

I remember waving goodbye to Prim when her ship left for England. She stood on deck, dressed in a light blue summer dress, her blond hair shining in the sun. I watched her becoming smaller and smaller, waving continuously until she was out of sight. Then I returned to what used to be our flat, which suddenly seemed empty without her.

I never saw my sister again.

I was so worried about her when she left. That her ship would be sunk on long voyage home. That if she did make it back to London, she would die in a German bomb raid. I was so focused on her safety that it never really occurred to me that I would be in danger, too, but before I knew it, I was. That I lived to see the end of the war was nothing short of a miracle. Lagu Burung was part of that miracle. Peeta was another.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox

Malaya, 1942

"It is a sign," Effie says. Her eyes are distant, as if she's looking at something far away, but there is a light in her face, a serenity, that I've never seen before. "Like Jesus, Mr. Mellark died to save us. He was sent us from God. It is a sign that we will survive. We must have faith."

I register her words, but I can't think of a single thing to answer. Faith? How can Effie talk about faith, with the sounds of the whip still fresh in her mind?

I haven't slept in days. I'm afraid to close my eyes, because when I do, I hear Peeta's screams, they are still ringing in my ears. I prefer the day, when other, real sounds drown the screams. At night, it's too quiet. The border between real and not real becomes blurred.

The others seem full of hope when they speak of Peeta. They believe it, I think to myself, when I notice how Effie helps Wiress to her feet after she's tripped and fallen. I overhear Effie's whispered words of God and how He holds his hand over us. I see Wiress's small smile. She must be exhausted and in pain, but she not only finds the strength to keep going, she even holds her head higher.

They truly believe that Peeta Mellark was sent from God to save us.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox

London, 1948

Pushing my thoughts away, I continue my story. "Before Mr. Hawthorne could find a replacement, before we all realized what was happening, the Japanese invaded Malaya in December of 1941. By then it was of course too late to leave. As citizens of a country that was at war with Japan, all Englishmen became prisoners. The men were sent to a prison camp in Singapore, but the women and children, all 34 of us, well… the Japanese simply didn't know what to do with us."

"I've heard stories of how Japanese soldiers treated civilians," Mr. Flickerman says. He's leaned back in his chair, his fingertips poised together.

"I don't know what you have heard, but based on my own experience, there is a good chance some of those stories were true." I pause. "War is cruel. Regardless of which nations are at war, women and children – on both sides - suffer the most."

Mr. Flickerman leans forward in his chair. "It's admirable that you are able to say that," he says. "After what you must have gone through. I'm not sure if I can ever forgive the Germans."

"I never spoke of forgiveness, Mr. Flickerman," I answer slowly.

"So what you are saying is… Remember who the enemy is?"

"Yes," I agree immediately and my eyes widen. I hadn't expected Mr. Flickerman to so perfectly put words to what I meant. Perhaps better than I was able to myself. "I came to realize that the nation of Japan wasn't really my enemy. On many occasions, I witnessed, or was on the receiving end of, acts of kindness from Japanese soldiers. They weren't necessarily my enemies just because of their nationality." I remember Sergeant Darius's slumped shoulders when we buried a child, the devastation in his eyes. "People became my enemies because of the crimes they committed. My war was personal. My enemies all had names and faces."

And the face of the worst of them haunts my nightmares.

He seems to contemplate my answer before a few seconds before he speaks again. "Were you sent to a prison camp?"

"No. Not exactly," I say slowly.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox

Malaya, 1942

"There is no camp," Madge whispers one night, in the darkness. We are lying on straw mats on the dirt floor of the local school, our home for the night. At first, when the Japanese prison guards tried to talk to them, the village elders flatly refused to take us in. There are many of us, and even though we are starving, we would still eat a substantial proportion of their meagre reserves. The Malay of our Japanese guards is rudimentary at best, and Sergeant Cato made it worse by being arrogant and rude, as usual. It was clear we weren't getting anywhere. Fortunately, Sergeant Darius finally allowed me to try to reason with the elders. The village elders were stunned that a white woman was fluent in Malay. So stunned they were willing to listen to me. After some contemplation, we were allowed to stay here tonight. I even managed to bargain for some rice and vegetables, but only enough for one meal.

We have walked from one village to the next for weeks now. The sun has burned our delicate, too pale skin. Our English clothes have been traded for sarongs. We walk, and we starve. We get sick, and we die. Four children and two women have already been lost. We dig graves by the road, graves that are shallow because we are too exhausted to dig them deep. Afterwards, we make a simple cross with a name and a date, and sing psalms.

Then we keep walking.

I know Madge has much more to worry about than I do. She is responsible for three children, and she's also desperately worried about Gale. Vick, Rory and Posy fell asleep almost instantly, exhausted from the day. It sounds like everyone else is asleep, too. Madge and I are the only ones who are still awake.

Madge is right. There is no camp. I've known it for a while. But I don't answer her. I'm not sure this is a conversation I can bear to have right now. A tear rolls down my cheek, but I know it's too dark for her to see it. If I stay very still, maybe she'll think that I'm asleep too, so that I don't have to answer.

"I'm right, Katniss," she whispers. "You know that I am. And I know that you're awake."

"Yes," I finally whisper. But whether I agree with her last statement or both of them, isn't necessarily clear.

"I need you to promise me something," she says, her voice more insistent now.

I know what she is going to ask, but don't really want to hear the words. They make the situation all too real. Still, I ask: "What is it?"

"I need you to protect my children if I die."

"Madge…"

"Promise me," she insists.

"You're not going to die, Madge."

"Six people have already died." I know that if it weren't so dark, I'd see the tears streaming down her cheeks. I'd also see how pale and gaunt she is. "Who knows which of us will be next. I need you to promise me that you'll protect my children if I die. You're strong, Katniss, you're clever, and you speak Malay. Everyone respects you. If anyone's going to survive this, it's you." When I still don't answer, she pleads. "Please."

There's a long silence while I fight back tears. I don't trust my voice to hold. "I promise," I finally say. "I'll protect your children. Always." I reach out to lightly touch Vick's jet black curls. The four-year-old is sleeping next to me. The words seem to calm her, because not long after, I can hear from her breathing that Madge is asleep.

I, however, can't sleep. I have somehow ended up as an unofficial leader of the group. Sometimes, the responsibility is almost too much to bear. Juggling the needs of the weakest members of our group with the overall wellness of the group, encouraging people to walk on, even when they want to give up, trying to please our guards, making relations to the local villagers so they allow us to stay an extra day when we desperately need it…

Still, people wither away in front of my eyes or in my arms, despite my best efforts.

I can't save them.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox

We march every second day, because the children need a day of rest. It's not enough.

It's not just the marching though, it's the tropical diseases, too. The malnourishment makes us vulnerable, and the diarrhea is the worst of them all. It drains the children, and it threatens the strongest of the adults, as well.

Madge is suffering. She is weak, weaker than most of the other surviving adults, and she often needs my help to carry her youngest, little Posy. Posy is only eight months old, but thankfully, she seems robust and healthy. I know that could change quickly, though. She's so young, her body so little. She has virtually no reserves.

Sadly, Vick is the first of the Hawthornes to go. One day he is relatively healthy. The next day, the diarrhea sets in. Just after midday on the following day, in the shade of a Rain tree, he passes away. We bury him there, and two hours later, we are back on the road.

Something in Madge breaks that day. I carry Posy almost all day now, on my hip like the local women do, because Madge is too weak to carry any extra weight. She seems distant, and some nights I have to force her to eat. Sometimes she talks to Gale, even though he isn't there.

Rory, who is almost six, gets malaria. He is drenched in sweat throughout a terrible, terrible night, in which Madge holds him tight as he slips in and out of consciousness.

In the morning, he is dead.

Losing two children is more than most people can bear, and when the deaths happen only days apart, it must be even worse. She has one child alive, who needs her. But still, the will to live has disappeared from Madge's eyes.

When we bury Rory, Madge says a prayer for her son, and those are the last coherent words she speaks. She seems catatonic after that.

Five days later, I find myself responsible for a baby, as I watch the others fill Madge's shallow grave with dirt. She's buried under a Rain tree, too. Even though it is of course not the same tree that we buried Vick under, I think she'd like that.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox

London, 1948

"The soldiers forced you to walk on like that? Even though you were dying in front of them?" Mr. Flickerman voice is low. I can't tell whether he's angry or saddened...or worse.

"Yes."

"Surely life in a prisoner of war camp must be preferable to walking from village to village," he mutters.

I shrug tiredly. "I suppose. The camps were horrible, too. They were overfilled, teeming with mosquitoes, flees and rats, and the hygienic conditions were appalling. We later discovered that many of the men died, too, of hunger, diarrhea and tropical diseases, same as we did."

"You've spoken of Mr. Hawthorne several times. He was in one of those camps, was he not?" I nod. "Did he survive the war?"

"Yes." I don't really want to get onto the subject of Gale. I don't want to talk of his hopes, his expectations, that I couldn't meet.

"What happened to little Posy after her mother died?"

"I took her as my own, of course," I say. "What else was I to do? I had given Madge my word. But it wasn't a difficult thing to do," I say with a smile. The first smile, I suppose, since I started telling my story. "I love Posy. I would do anything for her."

"So, Posy survived, too?"

"Yes, she did."

"Good. I'm glad." It's as if he sinks back in his chair, and for a split second, it doesn't feel as if everything he says or does is choreographed. I think he's genuinely relieved that Posy lives. But then he snaps back into his part. "You said that you stayed in that village for three years," Mr. Flickerman says. "When did you stop wandering?"

"We were allowed to settle down in Lagu Burung, the village I told you about, after around half a year. But before we got that far…" My voice trails off.

I meet Mr. Flickerman's eyes, and for a fleeting second, I think it's odd that I can't tell what color they are. Something between gray and blue, maybe.

Peeta's eyes were definitely blue, though. Blue like the sky on a clear summer day. Sometimes, when I close my eyes when I try to sleep at night, I can still see them.

I take a deep breath before I'm able to continue. "Before we got that far, something terrible happened."

xoxoxoxoxoxoxox

This chapter was difficult to write because I needed to do a lot of world building! Now we can actually get on with the story. The next chapter is set in 1942 – which is when Katniss meets Peeta.

53,000 pounds may not seem like it's *that* much money, at least not enough to completely change someone's life. But Lbug84 and her husband figured out that when you do the currency conversion and take inflation into account, it's actually more than USD 2,000 000.