Escape from Shanghai (5 page)

Then he stood. “Come with me. I want to show you something.” He turned to a door behind his chair and opened it. “I want to introduce you to your great grandfather,” he said.

The room was dimly lit by two candles. The smell of incense hovered in the air. Thin lines of blue smoke curled up from the joss sticks. Two large portraits painted on silk hung majestically against one wall. My great grandfather and great grandmother’s pictures occupied the entire wall. The light from the two candles flickered over their faces.

Grandpa lowered his voice and spoke in a reverential tone: “You were meant to follow your great grandfather’s footsteps. Honor him. Never let the Japanese, or anyone outside of our family know what you are doing.”

Like all Chinese children, I had been raised to listen and obey, and speak only when spoken to. And when your revered grandfather speaks to you in this way, what else can you do but nod affirmatively?

Grandpa took all three generations of his family to the Bund to see us off. He had deliberately hired eight rickshaws to take us to the coastal steamer because the number eight means good luck. The long line of rickshaws crossed the wide waterfront area along the Huangpo River known as the Bund. The one-hundred-fifty foot steamer sat by the famous Shanghai dock peacefully waiting for her passengers. Japanese soldiers had roped off the area by the ship. Three long tables had been setup with two inspectors standing behind each table. Half a dozen guards with bayonets affixed to their rifles made sure that the passengers remained in a neat and orderly line. By the time we got there the inspection process had already begun. Suitcases and trunks had already been opened on the tables and the khaki-uniformed inspectors were digging through peoples’ belongings as if they were searching for treasure.

Grandpa, grandma, five uncles and aunts along with two young cousins came to see us off. It was a typical melee of a Chinese family saying goodbye. Exactly the image that grandpa wanted to show. He knew that the Japanese were watching. He wanted them to see us as a normal family with
nothing to hide. The goodbyes were subdued but busy. Everyone wanted to say a few words to Mom and me so the jockeying of bodies looked like bees in a beehive.

Finally, grandpa knelt down, looked me eye to eye and said: “Remember: you are the youngest soldier in China.” He smiled that gentle, good-humored smile of his as if this were just another ordinary day. Then he stood up and beckoned a waiting coolie. The goodbyes were officially over.

The coolie took our luggage and led us to the inspection tables. Mom took my hand and we followed. Her palm was damp.

The inspector reached out and said: “Papers.”

He looked at the papers, then at us, then back to the papers again. The soldier nodded with disdain as if he were doing us a favor, then with a contemptuous look on his face he held out our papers. Mom had to bow and lean across the table to retrieve the papers from his fingertips. He smirked as he watched her bow to him.

The coolie put our suitcases on the table. He opened them and waited. The inspector shuffled through our belongings, deliberately messing up what had been neatly packed clothing. Then, with a dismissive wave of the back of his hand, he haughtily sent us on our way.

Mom rushed to tuck the disheveled clothing back into the suitcases. The coolie reached over to help. Quickly they stuffed the loose clothing inside the suitcases then hurriedly closed them. It would not have been politic to test the patience of this particular Japanese. You never know what might set him off.

The coolie once again took our baggage and led the way. He asked to see our tickets, found the cabin number then led us right to it. Mom paid him and he left. Interestingly, I have a vivid visual memory of the ship’s cabin with its louvered doors and dark wood paneling. The events of that day still rolls through my mind like a movie.

We looked at each other thinking that the ordeal was over.

Just then, the loud speaker came on the air. The electrical voice ordered the passengers to line up on the promenade deck. Men in one line, women in another facing the men. Six feet separated the lines. “Don’t worry,” Mom said. “You stand in line with the men. I’ll be right across from you.”

She reached for my hand and put the roll of money in it. “You know what to do. Give it to the soldier when he gets to you,” she said. Then we dutifully walked out onto the promenade deck and obediently lined up for the inspection. Unfortunately, when we
lined up, I wasn’t right across from Mom. There were more males than females, so the line for the women was shorter. Mom ended up being some fifteen feet away from where I stood. Mom nodded and smiled at me, mouthing that everything would be OK. I nodded silently in reply.

Suddenly, there was a commotion. A woman screamed. I leaned forward and saw a group of soldiers take a struggling couple away.

“Stand still,” the man next to me volunteered. “The Japs do that just to see how the rest of us will react, so don’t move.”

Two officers casually sauntered down the line looking us over. One inspected the women, the other, the men. On they came. The soldier got to me, stopped and bent down to take a closer look. I was the only child on the ship.

Dutifully, I raised my hand and offered the money.

He smiled, took the money with one hand and patted the top of my head with the other, then he straightened and turned to the next person in line.

Years later, when we were reminiscing about the events of that day, I asked Mom whether she
had been scared or nervous because I remembered feeling the dampness on her palm.

“Of course I was scared,” she said. “But I knew we would come through it without any difficulties. You see, the Japanese have a very low opinion of us. It would never occur to them that a woman with a small child would dare disobey their rules. It would never occur to them that a little boy like you could do anything daring to outwit them.”

Naturally, I was proud of what I had done. Mom made sure of that by praising me to the skies. But more important than pride was the feeling of accomplishment. I had accomplished what grandpa had told me to do. I was the youngest soldier in China. I kept my mouth shut to protect the secret I was hiding. And, most importantly, I was doing what my great grandfather had done when he left home.

I wore my money belt throughout the entire war.

Perhaps the most significant epiphany occurred when I got to college. In a Greek Mythology class, I realized that Mom had told me the story of Achilles. His only weakness was on his heel where his mother had to hold him to dip him in the River Styx—only I liked my mother’s version better. Dipping him in the Dragon’s blood sounded Asian and more exotic.
When I asked her why she chose to tell me this particular story, she replied: “What little boy wouldn’t identify with Achilles’ invincibility?”

Canton is about a thousand miles south of Shanghai. Grandpa used to call Canton Province the “Florida of China.” The family owned a winter home there. The house wasn’t anything big or fancy, it was a utilitarian three-storied stucco located on the waterfront. Grandma used to go south during the cold winter months, but once the war started, she didn’t want to leave grandpa’s side. The family relied on our long-time caretaker to look after the property.

When we got to the house, Mom wasn’t surprised that the storm shutters had been removed and that the windows had been opened. She reasoned that the caretaker must have prepared the house for our arrival. She opened the door, but suddenly stopped before she could take a half step. The room was packed with people. Men, women and children occupied nearly every inch of the first floor. They stopped whatever they were doing and turned to look at us. We looked back at them in astonishment.

“There’s no more room here. Try upstairs,” a man’s voice said.

We went upstairs. All the rooms were occupied, even the hallways. We started to go up to the third floor but a fierce and angry-looking man glared down at us. “Try someplace else,” he said gruffly.

“Come,” Mom commanded as she grabbed my hand. We rushed out of the house. The squatters watched our every move with fearful, hostile eyes. (Canton had been occupied by the Japanese since October of 1938.)

“Mom, call the police,” I said.

“Where would they go? The Japanese destroyed their homes. They have no place to live,” she explained. “It wouldn’t be right to send them away, now would it?”

“Where will we live?” I asked with fear and concern. We had planned to stay there until arrangements could be made to move us further inland to unoccupied territory.

Mom knelt down and took me by my shoulders. “It is not houses or money that makes you who you are,” she said. “It is what you do with your life that matters. Do you understand? These people have no place to go. We do. I know you are scared, but try not to be. We will be all right, I promise you. We cannot throw these people out of our house.”

Mom hired a rickshaw and headed for the waterfront. Even though Canton was an occupied city, the Japanese allowed us to conduct life as normally as possible. Those who couldn’t or wouldn’t adjust to the new reality either left or died. There was no in-between. Perhaps the worst off were the displaced and homeless refugees with no jobs. The Japanese had not bothered to rebuild the homes that they had destroyed, nor did they try to create jobs. It made no difference to them whether the Chinese lived or died. All they cared about was taking the riches from the land. And in this part of the country, it was rice.