Hours later, I stood inside the shack, beaten and bleeding, and I thought about my mother. Through all the torture and abuse, I’d done like Gunny said. I dug deep and endured it. Memories of her were the most pleasant ones I had, so I concentrated on them. I remembered her reading to me every night. How she made gingerbread at Christmas. When I was five she took me by train to Minneapolis. We walked all over the city, and she bought me a toy train to remember the trip.

She always insisted that I use proper speech. She’d spoken English with a slight Norwegian accent, and she would tell me, “Right or wrong, people will judge you by how you speak, Henry. You must do your reading and lessons and learn the right way to pronounce words and practice your vocabulary.” I always tried to do what I could to please her.

I recalled how different my dad had been when she was alive. We were almost like a normal family. And I never thought about the car accident that had taken her. That night everything changed, but I couldn’t dwell on it. Only the happy memories would see me through now.

The Japanese were enthusiastic and inventive in their cruelty toward me. At first it was simple beatings. They used four-foot lengths of bamboo about an inch in diameter. They hit me in the stomach, the chest, back, sides, neck, and shoulders—everywhere except my legs and head, because they wanted me conscious and able to stand. A couple of times I passed out from the pain. When that happened I got buckets of water in the face until I was awake. Then the beatings started again.

Scarface volunteered to work me over when he found out it was me in the guardhouse. Pleasure danced in his eyes as he stood back and leered at me. He would take a swing, stepping into it with all his weight and force behind it, then stand back and smile at me, his crooked teeth and scar mocking me.

“Didn’t eat your oatmeal this morning, did you, Scarface? I hardly felt that one,” I said.

He’d stare at me with narrow eyes. As if he didn’t understand. Then he’d wind up and take another whack.

“Now you’re getting it, buddy. Maybe you need to warm up a little before you start. Do some calisthenics. Get good and stretched out.”

My back talk drove him crazy. My hands were bound to a rafter over my head, giving him full access to my midsection. He stepped into position and swung the bamboo repeatedly into my right side. I thought I would die, and I tried to bend away from each blow to lessen the impact. But after a while my strength failed and I couldn’t move. So he just kept hitting me over and over.

Another bucket of water washed over my head. The water was actually a relief from the heat and the pain, but I kept that information to myself. I wondered where the water had come from and if it would make me sick. Knowing Scarface, he probably brought it from the latrine. I hung from the rafter while he worked me over until the rope made my wrists raw and my legs could not support my weight.

Scarface threw the bucket in the corner of the room and walked out, muttering to himself.

“You have yourself a real nice day now, Scarface,” I sputtered.

I’m not sure how long I hung there. I drifted in and out of consciousness. Eventually someone jerked me awake. It was another guard—I called him Big Ears—who cut my hands loose. I fell to the ground.

He was having none of that. Big Ears pulled me to my feet. Then he dumped a can of dry rice on the floor. I had no idea what was happening. Was he going to make me eat rice off the floor? It turned out to be much worse than that. He hit me in the back of the legs with his bamboo club, and I crumpled to my knees. Landing on the rice kernels hurt more than I could possibly imagine. Big Ears poked at me with his stick until I was kneeling straight up on my knees. He tied my hands behind my back. Hundreds of rice kernels dug into my skin. I tried to sit back on my haunches to relieve some of the pressure, but he blasted me in the lower back with the bamboo. A few minutes later I collapsed backward again, and he hit me much harder this time. Apparently sitting back on my lower legs was not allowed. Kneeling straight up put all of my weight on my knees. And it was torture.

“Are we going to have a tea party?” I wheezed.

Big Ears was not the talker Scarface was. Whenever I started to waver and sink to my haunches, he would spring forward brandishing the big stick. I usually rose up before he could hit me.

“I don’t suppose this hotel has a room service menu, does it? A fellow gets awful hungry enjoying all the activities at this resort,” I asked. He said nothing. His face was frozen in a surly, impassive mask.

“If there is room service, I’d love a club sandwich and iced tea,” I said, mostly trying to keep myself awake, and my focus off the pain. He just stared at me.

“No? How about some bread and water?”

Big Ears leaned in the corner watching me. Eventually he fell asleep. When he did I sat back on my haunches. It helped a little. But by then the grains of rice had burrowed into my skin like leeches. I tried to think of a way I could rise up and clear a space on the floor. If Big Ears didn’t wake up, I could get the rice off my knees, sweep away a spot with my feet, and kneel on the floor. He’d be none the wiser.

I raised myself up, but with my hands bound behind me, and probably a dozen broken or bruised ribs, I couldn’t get myself into the right position. When I tried to stand I let out a yelp of pain, and Big Ears jerked awake. I tried to recover, but I couldn’t move fast enough, and he caught me.

“Sorry to wake you, Mr. Ears. I had a cramp,” I said. He crossed the small space in a heartbeat and the bamboo cane whistled through the air, connecting with the top of my shoulder. There was no bearing that one. I crumpled to the ground, screaming. I was sure he’d broken my shoulder or my collarbone. I faded in and out as he jerked me back to my knees, then returned to the corner.

The sun told me that twilight would be here soon. I was starving, but there were worse things to worry about.

An announcement came over the camp’s loudspeaker. I didn’t know what was said, but with a glare Big Ears abruptly left the room. As soon as he did, I keeled over on my side. My knees nearly screamed in relief. But there was still rice all over the floor, and it dug into every part of me. I tried to move, to roll over or stand. But I couldn’t. The damp floor had puffed up some of the rice kernels. I licked them off the floor like a dog. It was the first food I’d had in my stomach since the mango the Aussies had given me. I figured it wasn’t going to be nearly enough. I’ll never leave this room alive, I thought to myself.

But that night I got my first indication that the world wasn’t finished with me yet.