Escape from Shanghai (23 page)

The first things Mom bought at the concession stand were two bottles of Coca-Cola and a bright yellow pack of Juicy Fruit chewing gum.

“You are supposed to chew this candy, not swallow it,” she told me. She wanted to introduce me to the American way of life immediately and in the most pleasant way possible.

We walked out onto the forward deck and stood by the railing. Shanghai was just a half a mile away. I went to the tip of the bow and looked through the holes that the anchor chains pierced. It was a long way down to the water.

“Hey, get away from there,” an American sailor shouted.

I didn’t understand what the man said, but I bolted at the harshness of his voice.

The sailor had a fire hose in his hands and he was preparing to wash down the anchor chains as they were winched aboard. Just then, a junk floated alongside the railing where some steerage passengers
stood. A wicker basket attached to the end of a twenty-five-foot long bamboo pole waved in the air. The small junk bobbed and pitched in the water, but the man was able to keep his bamboo pole steady and the basket of goods a few feet from the passengers on deck. Mom waved away the basket full of trinkets and postcards. Not to be deterred, he persisted.

“It’s only a few pennies for a post card, ma’am. What’s a few pennies to a rich lady like you?” the salesman said. Anyone going to America was, by definition, rich

Mom turned away. The seaborne merchant continued to hawk his wares to another passenger. There were no buyers.

The American sailor saw what was happening and suddenly, he turned on the hose and shot a plume of water at the merchant. The man staggered from the force of the blow. He danced atop the high aft cabin of his boat trying to regain his balance and, at the same time, keep his merchandise from going overboard. “Dew naa ma goor hay,” he cursed when his feet were firmly on deck.

“Fuck your mother’s cunt, yourself,” the American sailor hurled the Chinese curse back at the man. The sailor hit him with another burst of water. This time the merchant was prepared for it. He dodged aside and quickly handed his bamboo pole to his wife. The merchant cupped his genitals with both hands
and thrust his hips in the sailor’s direction. “Fuck your mother’s cunt with this!” he yelled. “Dew naa ma goor hay” was the coolies’ favorite curse words in China.

Embarrassed by this performance, Mom grabbed me and led me away.

“The man is only trying to make a living,” Mom said in clear crisp perfect English, “leave him alone.”

The sailor looked around, unable to determine where those words came from or who said them. Puzzled and shocked by the emotionless Chinese faces around him, he did as he was told, glancing guiltily about as he returned to washing the salt from the ship’s anchor chains.

“Why is that man so mean?” I asked.

“That is the way some people are. Do not pay any attention to him. This is our last day here. Let us begin our new life joyfully, shall we?” she said.

“How about another Coke, Mom?” I responded opportunistically.

“O.K.!” she said enthusiastically.

We spent most of our time above decks. Mom was really disappointed that we were in steerage. But a ticket to America was hard to get. You get what you can, when you can. Everyone wanted to go to the land of the free and the home of the brave. We were one of the lucky ones. Apparently, only the super rich, the well-connected, or high government officials could get private cabins on these trans-pacific crossings.

The ship’s first port of call was Yokohama, Japan. The General Gordon docked and the crew unloaded cargo for the American occupation troops. On the gray concrete dock below, Japanese workers scurried about with straw sandals on their feet and a diaper-like loincloth around their crotches. They each wore a white towel around their foreheads. The towels draped over their shoulders thus protecting their bare backs against the wooden crates. The endless human chain of near-naked workers looked like a determined column of ants set on storing their winter’s supply. Mom and I watched them work and she begrudgingly gave them credit for their teamwork.

“See how they work together? They keep the same distance from each other, and they walk at the same pace. Not like the Chinese dock coolies who work at their own pace. The Japanese work like machines. No wonder they were so good at war,” she said.

The ship’s crew laid the cargo net flat on the deck and loaded the center of it with supplies. The winch operator pulled a lever and the net moved up and wrapped itself around a tall pallet of wooden crates. Slowly, the overloaded net separated from the ship’s deck. The operator pushed a long yellow handle and the boom swung the cargo to the dock. Suddenly
the clacking winch stopped and the boom jerked to a halt. The abrupt stop caused one of the wooden crates above the netting to tip onto its side and its momentum carried it into the air.

“Oh!” Mom exclaimed as her eyes darted between the falling crate and the dockworkers below. The wood splintered on impact and the glass bottles inside fractured into small sharp shards. A puddle of brown liquid appeared on the gray concrete. For an instant, the dockworkers stood frozen in place, uncertain of what had happened. Then, as if someone had given a signal, the men unhooked their metal drinking cups from their loincloths, converged on the puddle, dropped to their haunches and began feverishly scooping the liquid into their cups. They drank with total disregard for the broken glass.

“What are they drinking, Mom?”

“Whiskey,” she said. She didn’t feel sorry for our former enemies. She knew that the American occupation forces treated the Japanese with dignity and generosity. America gave these people jobs and fed them instead of looting their food and valuables. The U.S. government supported the Japanese currency and tried to create a working economy.

“Those supplies came from America,” Mom explained. “The Americans are not treating the
Japanese like slaves...like the way the Japanese treated us.”

(When we returned to Shanghai after the war, Mom’s steamer trunk full of antique scrolls had been confiscated. Her inheritance was gone. And grandpa’s favorite working, miniature steam locomotive along with his collection of Ming Dynasty porcelain had been confiscated as well. I wonder how many of our antiques are decorating Japanese homes today.)

The sight of the Japanese scurrying about desperately scooping up the liquid seemed only fair. In a way, it was closure to see our former conquerors demeaned to such a degree.

We turned our backs on the scene and walked away.

We had lived in fear of the Japanese for ten years. The pitiful sight of these once mighty conquerors scurrying like animals for a taste of the good life seemed appropriate.

For me, it was a just way to end WW II. But not for my Mom. For the remainder of her life, she refused to buy anything made in Japan. She wasn’t going to support their way of life.

In 1949, the Communists took China and Chiang Kai-shek fled to Taiwan with the remainder of his army and his friends and supporters. My grand uncle was one of them. Towards the end, entire armies switched sides and went over to the Communists.

In that same year, grandpa gave all of his properties to the People’s Republic of China. The ones in Shanghai and his winter home in Canton. Since his railroad had been nationalized, his stock was now worthless, so there was nothing more to give.

However, the new government was gracious enough to let grandpa live in his house. The Chef, his wife and our old Amah wanted to stay in grandpa’s employ. They had been with the Sun family most of their lives and now there were no jobs for them to go to and no place to live. The Communist Party agreed to let them stay because they wanted grandpa to continue to manage the railroad. They had no one who was qualified to do the job. When he retired, the government paid him a pension. They also paid pensions to the three who stayed.

Both grandpa and Bou Bou died peacefully of old age.

After their deaths, his house was converted into apartments. Until recently, my Sixth Aunt lived in one of them to maintain some semblance of our past ownership. There was a time when we thought we might get our properties back, but that hope has long been buried beneath the new high-rises of Shanghai.

The former Governor-General Li and his family stayed in New York. Chiang did not give Li his old job back. Taiwan was too small for the both of them. In the end, Li’s global tour benefited no one.

In 1951, Mr. and Mrs. Li opened a Chinese restaurant in the Bronx, but not without some controversy. A number of immigrant businessmen in Chinatown thought that the famous Governor-General would have an unfair advantage over other Chinese restaurants in the area. They thought that the Governor should go into some other business and not compete against ordinary, less-famous immigrants struggling for a living. The Chinatown newspapers covered the story, but the protests did not stop the Li’s.

Mom and I were invited to the opening, but we didn’t go. Mom didn’t want to see them. She had too many bad memories.

“Interesting, isn’t it,” she observed. “Here’s a man who has had no visible means of support for the last six years, who suddenly has to open a Chinese restaurant to survive. How poetic.”