Chinese Cinderella and the Secret Dragon Society (19 page)

It was foggy, cold and wet, and the wind was biting. We could hardly see anything in front of us. No one mentioned it, but all of us knew that the American pilots would have a terrible time landing anywhere in this weather.

Grandma Wu built a fire with straw and charcoal. She made soup noodles with salted fish, brought to us by the fishermen. We wolfed it down. Afterwards, we huddled around the warm
stove with our radio transmitters clamped to our ears, hoping to intercept signals from die pilots, but we heard nothing.

Marat, who was fastidious about cleanliness, insisted on washing even though he had to get water from the well outside. The rest of us sat on the floor riddling with the knobs, bent on listening. Despite our best efforts, Marat was the only one who successfully decoded any more messages. As soon as he rejoined us, he reported that Japanese naval units were swarming into the East China Sea in search of US aircraft carriers and abandoned planes. He also located a radio station from Chungking, which declared that the people were celebrating Doolittle’s successful raid on the streets there. Chiang Kai-shek’s war minister announced that the ‘nightmare of Japan’s invasion of China has been shattered by American bombs. The Americans will soon bring justice and freedom to us Chinese people.’

Suddenly we heard an insistent pounding on the door. Grandma Wu sprang up to see who it was. A guttural male voice repeated the password and Grandma Wu responded, opening the door. A fisherman stood there dripping, dressed in a raincoat made of palm fibres and straw sandals. He closed the door carefully arid stared at us.

‘So many children…’ he began hesitantly.

‘
Wang Qin bi Chu!
’ Grandma interrupted, holding her hand over her heart and making a fist ‘Speak freely! You can trust these children.’

‘My name is Ii Cha (
),’ said the fisherman, ‘and I am the leader of the Nan Tian guerrillas. An American plane has just crashed on to the beach half a mile away. There are five crew members on board. They are alive, but four are injured.’

‘Where are the Japanese?’ asked Grandma Wu.

Li Gha looked around fearfully. ‘There are no Japanese troops on this island at the moment. But their boats patrol the area. They are bound to spot the American plane sooner or later. We need to put the airmen on a boat and sail for the mainland as quickly as possible.’

‘Then we have no time to waste!’ Grandma Wu decided. ‘Children! Go with Li Cha at once and bring the Americans here for the night. I have some herbs in my bag that will provide pain relief if they are hurt. I’ll stay here and prepare for them.’

The four of us rushed out into the pouring rain with Li Cha, and made our way along the beach. It was pitch black outside, with no moon or stars to guide us. Li Cha led the way holding a small flashlight, with us following behind in a single file. At first I saw nothing and heard only the boom, hiss and roar of waves rolling onto the sand. We
rounded some rocks and then, lit grotesquely by the flickering flames of their burning plane, there were the shapes of five tall figures sprawled on the seashore. A pungent odour of petrol and burning metal permeated the air. As we approached, one of the airmen struggled to his feet, clutching a pistol fearfully.

All the men were in great pain, but the pilot,
Ted Lawson, seemed to have suffered the worst injury. He had lost many of his teeth. His face was bruised and filthy. A gash on his leg was so deep that I could see the bone beneath the muscle and gristle. Charles McClure, the navigator, had dislocated both of his shoulders. They were swollen down to his elbows and he could hardly move his fingers. Robert Clever, the bombardier, had blood around his eyes and on top of his head. Dean Davenport, the co-pilot, had cut his lower leg but could still walk.

Li Cha had been standing back, but now he whistled sharply and eight other men appeared from the shadows. Together, we helped the Americans limp back to the hut.

Grandma Wu placed Lawson on the only bed in the outer room, covered him with a quilt and gave each American a bowl of hot herbal soup that she had brewed. While we tended to the injured airmen, Marat and Sam accompanied Thatcher back to the beach to salvage first-aid supplies from the plane.

They came back soaking wet. The plane had broken into several pieces and incinerated on impact. Now, only the tail was left sticking up from the sand. Instead of bandages, morphine and iodine, they had found only a carton of cigarettes. David tore off the Cellophane and lit one for
Lawson, who seemed more comfortable after drinking the warm medicinal soup. He inhaled deeply with satisfaction.

‘Hey, kids! What are your names?’ Lawson asked.

There were introductions all around. But when it came to Li Cha, Lawson kept forgetting his name.

Finally, Sam suggested, ‘Li Cha’s surname is Li and his given name is Cha, which means “tea” in Chinese. In China, the surname comes before the given name. Why don’t you call him Cha Li, or Charlie? This way you’ll remember.’

‘Great idea!’ Lawson agreed. ‘I’ll call him Charlie from now on.’

Li Cha gave a wry smile. Turning to Sam, he said, ‘Tell the Americans I’m leaving now to arrange for a boat. We’ll take them to the mainland first thing tomorrow morning, so I’ll be back at dawn. Meanwhile, you should all get some rest. Tomorrow will be tough.’

Grandma Wu nodded. She was exhausted. But the three boys and I were much too excited. We decided to stay up and keep the airmen company.

Lawson, Davenport, McClure and Thatcher sat on the bed with their backs against the wall. Robert Clever lay quietly in an opposite corner
and appeared to have fallen asleep. The boys and I squatted on a mat next to the airmen, while they smoked their cigarettes and sipped cups of hot water.

Lawson was not used to drinking hot water. His injuries were severe and he had lost a lot of blood. He kept saying he was thirsty. I volunteered to keep up his supply of hot water, but he begged for cold water.

‘It’s not safe to drink cold water in China,’ Sam informed him firmly. ‘My mother said I must only drink water that has been freshly boiled. We call boiled water
kai shui
(
), opened water, or
gun shui
(
), rolling water. Water “opens” and “begins to roll” when it comes to a boil. Only then is it safe to drink. Cold water is full of germs and will give you all sorts of diseases.’

‘Tell you what,’ I proposed. ‘I’ll boil a pot of water and keep it in bowls until it cools. Cold water that’s been boiled is safe for you to drink.’

‘Thanks, kid!’ Lawson said, ‘Let me give you something! Here are three American coins, one for each of you boys. CC, you can have my pilot’s badge as a souvenir. Let this be a symbol of friendship between America and China. Pass this to your girlfriend, will you, Sam?’ He unpinned the flying wings from his shirt and handed the badge to Sam.

‘She’s
not
his girlfriend,’ David objected in an irritated voice.

‘I am no one’s girlfriend,’ I said, looking eagerly at the shiny emblem.

‘David!’ Thatcher interrupted. ‘Isn’t it a co-incidence that the two of us have the same first name? You don’t look Chinese. In fact, except for CC, none of you look Chinese.’

I cringed when I heard him. I knew how sensitive the three boys were about
this
subject. ‘So we are half-castes. What’s so bad about that?’ David answered defensively, bracing himself for an insult.

‘Who said anything about it being bad?’ Thatcher asked with a smile. ‘The ancestors of practically everyone in America came from some place else. Diversity is what makes our country great.’

‘Sorry!’ David said. ‘It’s just that I’ve been insulted so many times before. Over here, people of mixed blood are called
za zhongs
. We’re the lowest of the low.’

‘And we have no parents,’ Marat added. ‘Children with parents look down on us. They treat us like oddballs. A boy at school told me the other day that normal children have parents who love them, whereas orphans turn weird because nobody wants us.’

‘Shanghai is not half as bad as Berlin,’ Sam said. ‘I was scared of everybody at school over there. My classmates used to gang up and play practical jokes on me. Someone would cough or spit in my face, squirt water on my head or put insects down the back of my shirt.’

‘You’re from Berlin?’ Thatcher asked in astonishment.

‘Yes! I’m supposed to be a German boy!’ Sam replied with a trace of bitterness. ‘But my father was Jewish and my mother Chinese. A true mongrel, that’s me! Now my father and mother are both gone. Double jeopardy!’

‘How come you ended up in Shanghai all by yourself?’ Davenport asked.

‘Because I had nowhere else to go. Shanghai is the only city in the world that doesn’t require a visa to enter. It’s the last place on earth that would accept a Jewish boy like me. The final refuge.’

‘Surely you didn’t have to leave Germany because your mother was Chinese?’ Thatcher asked.

‘No!’ Sam replied sadly. ‘Because my father was Jewish. You know how the Nazis hate Jews. They arrested my father and sent him to a concentration camp. I think he’s dead.’

The airmen exchanged looks.

‘Are the Nazis killing Jewish children too?’ Thatcher sounded horrified.

‘Jews of any age. There is a boy called Hans Friedman at my school, who is about eighteen. I met him on the boat coming to Shanghai. He and his whole family were arrested in Berlin and packed like cattle into a train going to Auschwitz. The only reason he survived was because he had a Boy Scout’s knife that included a small hacksaw. There was a window in the train with a steel bar. He worked on that bar the whole time he was on the train, until he sawed through and escaped. Except for him, everyone on that train was killed.’

‘As a Christian I’d say it was the will of God that Hans Friedman survived, while the rest of his family died,’ Thatcher commented.

‘My father was a Jew and my mother a Buddhist,’ Sam replied. ‘Both of them would have agreed with you. I think differently. To me, Hans survived because he made a decision at a crucial moment to do something about his fate. I believe you can guide the course of your own future by stringing events together like that.’

‘How brave you all are!’ Davenport remarked. ‘To be risking your lives for strangers like us. I’m sure you know that you’ll be in dire trouble if the Japanese find out what you’re doing. Aren’t you afraid?’

‘Not really,’ Sam said. ‘My mother is dead. My father was arrested by the Nazis four years ago
and I haven’t heard from him since. Why should I fear death? Sometimes I think about it and wonder what comes afterwards. The end came to my mother as peacefully as sleep. Where did she go? Did she turn into something else? Is she living in a quieter, darker and more peaceful place? Will I see her again when my time comes? I want to find out what happens next.’

‘I’d feel the same way if I knew for sure I’d come back to life again after I die,’ I said. ‘The problem with death is that it’s so final. But perhaps that’s what makes life wonderful – knowing it only happens once.’

‘I still don’t know why you kids are helping us,’ McClure said. ‘What’s in it for you?’

‘I can only speak for myself,’ I said. ‘My mother died when I was five. My stepmother hates me. My father just wants to be left alone so he can make more money. For a long time now, I’ve yearned for things to be different so I won’t feel left out. Finally, I’ve been given this chance of being included in a fight for a cause that I believe in.’