Shanghai Girls (7 page)

“I want to go home now,” May says as the van pulls away. “Mama and Baba will be worried. And I don’t want to be out when the Generalissimo puts more of our planes back in the air.”

She’s right. Our air force has already proven it’s inept, and we won’t be safe on the streets tonight if they take to the skies again. So we walk home. We’re both splattered with blood and plaster dust. Passersby pull away from us as though we’re bringing death with every step we take. I know Mama will lose control when she sees us, but I long for her concern and tears, followed by her inevitable anger that we placed ourselves in such danger.

We walk in the door and turn in to the salon. The dark green foreign-style drapes fringed with little velvet balls have been pulled shut. The bombing has disrupted the power lines, and the room is lit by soft, warm, and comforting candlelight. In the craziness of the day, I forgot about our boarders, but they haven’t forgotten about us. The cobbler sits on his haunches next to my father. The student hovers over Mama’s chair, trying to look reassuring. The two dancers stand with their backs against the wall nervously twisting their fingers. The policeman’s wife and two daughters perch on the stairs.

When Mama sees us, she covers her face and begins to cry. Baba pushes his way across the room, puts his arms around May, and half carries her to his chair. People cluster around her, pawing at her to make sure she’s unhurt—touching her face and patting her thighs and arms. Everyone chatters at once.

“Are you injured?”

“What happened?”

“We heard it was an enemy plane. Those monkey people are worse than turtles’ egg abortions!”

With all attention on May, the policeman’s wife and daughters come to me. I see dread in the woman’s eyes. The older girl pulls on my blouse. “Our baba hasn’t come home yet.” Her voice is hopeful and brave. “Tell us you saw him.”

I shake my head. The girl takes her little sister’s hand and skulks back to the stairs. Their mother’s eyes close in fear and worry.

Now that May and I are safe, the day’s events tumble through me. My sister’s fine and we made it home. The fear and excitement that kept me strong disappear. I feel empty, weak, and dizzy. The others must have noticed, because all of a sudden I feel hands on me, leading me to a chair. I let myself sink into the cushions. Someone brings a cup to my lips, and I sip lukewarm tea.

May, now standing, proudly lists what she considers to be my accomplishments. “Pearl didn’t cry. She didn’t give up. She looked for me and she found me. She took care of me. She brought me home. She—”

Someone or something pounds on the front door. Baba bunches his hands into balls, as if he knows what’s coming. We no longer have a houseboy to answer the door, but no one moves. We’re all afraid. Is it refugees begging for help? Have the dwarf bandits already marched into the city? Has the looting begun? Or have some clever souls already figured out they can get rich during the war by demanding protection money? We watch as May walks to the door—her hips swaying lightly—opens it, and then slowly takes several steps backward, her hands held before her as if in surrender.

The three men who enter are not in military uniform, but they’re immediately recognizable as dangerous nevertheless. They wear pointed leather shoes, the better to inflict damage with their kicks. Their shirts are made from fine black cotton, the better to hide bloodstains. They wear felt fedoras pulled low to shadow their features. One holds a pistol; another grips a club of some sort. The third carries his menace in his body, which is short but solid. I’ve lived in Shanghai almost my entire life and can spot—and then avoid—a member of the Green Gang on the street or in a club, but I never expected to see one, let alone three, in our home. I’ll say this: You’ve never seen a room empty faster. Our boarders—from the policeman’s daughters to the student and the dancing girls—scatter like leaves.

The three toughs ignore May and casually stroll into the salon. As warm as it is, I shiver.

“Mr. Chin?” the stocky man asks as he plants his feet in front of my father.

Baba—and I’ll never forget this—gulps and swallows, gulps and swallows again, like a fish gasping for air on a slab of hot concrete.

“You have a growth in your throat or what?”

The intruder’s mocking tone causes me to avert my eyes from my father’s face, and I see worse. His pants darken as his bladder lets go. The stocky man, the apparent leader of this small group, spits on the floor in disgust.

“You have failed to pay your debt to Pockmarked Huang. You cannot borrow money from him over many years to provide an extravagant life for your family and not pay it back. You cannot gamble in his establishments and not pay for your losses.”

This couldn’t be worse news. Pockmarked Huang’s control is so great that it’s said if a watch is stolen anywhere in the city, his minions will make sure it’s restored to its rightful owner within twenty-four hours—for a price, of course. He’s known to deliver coffins to people who have displeased him. He usually kills those who have cheated him in some way. We’re lucky we received this visit instead.

“Pockmarked Huang made a good arrangement for you to pay him back,” the gangster goes on. “It was complicated, but he was amenable. You had a debt and he was trying to decide what to do with you.” The thug pauses and stares at my father. “Are you going to explain this to them”—he motions to us casually, but somehow it still feels threatening—“or shall I?”

We wait for Baba to speak. When he doesn’t, the thug shifts his attention to the rest of us.

“There was an outstanding debt that needed to be paid,” he explains. “At the same moment, a merchant from America came to us looking to buy rickshaws for his business and wives for his sons. So Pockmarked Huang put together a three-way deal to benefit everyone.”

I don’t know about Mama and May, but I’m still hoping Baba will do or say something to make this horrible man and his sidekicks leave our home. Shouldn’t Baba do that—as a man, a father, and a husband?

The leader leans over Baba menacingly. “Our boss ordered you to fill Mr. Louie’s procurement needs by giving him your rickshaws and your daughters. No money would be paid by you, and you and your wife would be allowed to stay in your house. Mr. Louie would pay your debt to us with American dollars. Everyone would get what they needed, and everyone would live.”

I’m furious with my father for not telling us the truth, but that’s insignificant compared with the terror I feel, because now it’s not just my father who didn’t do what he was supposed to do. May and I were part of the deal. We too have crossed Pockmarked Huang. The gangster wastes no time getting to that point.

“While it’s true that our boss has profited nicely, there remains a problem,” he says. “Your daughters didn’t get on the boat. What kind of message will this send to others who owe Pockmarked Huang if he lets you get away with this?” The thug takes his eyes from my father and scans the room. He gestures first to me and then to May. “These are your daughters, yes?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “They were supposed to meet their husbands in Hong Kong. Why didn’t that happen, Mr. Chin?”

“I—”

It’s a sad thing to know your father is weak, but it’s terrible to realize he’s pathetic.

Without thinking, I blurt, “It’s not his fault.”

The man’s cruel eyes turn to me. He comes to my chair, squats before me, puts his hands on my knees, and squeezes them hard. “How can this be, little girl?”

I hold my breath, petrified.

May darts across the room to my side. She begins to speak. Every statement of fact comes out as a question. “We didn’t know our father owed money to the Green Gang? We thought he only owed money to an Overseas Chinese? We thought Old Man Louie was unimportant, just a visitor?”

“Good daughters to a worthless man are a waste,” the leader declares conversationally. He stands and strides to the middle of the room. His helpers come to his side. To Baba, he says, “You were allowed to stay in this house as long as you sent your daughters to their new homes. Since you have not done so, this is no longer your home. You must leave. And you must pay your debt. Shall I take your daughters with me now? We will find a good use for them.”

Afraid of what Baba will say, I jump in. “It’s not too late for us to go to America. There are other ships.”

“Pockmarked Huang doesn’t like liars. You have already been dishonest, and you are probably lying to me now.”

“We promise we’ll do what you say,” May mutters.

Like a cobra, the leader’s hand strikes out, grabs May’s hair, and yanks her to him. He brings her face close to his. He smiles and says, “Your family is broke. You should be living on the street. Please, I ask you again, wouldn’t it be better to come with us now? We like beautiful girls.”

“I have their tickets” comes a small voice. “I’ll make sure they leave and the deal you arranged for my husband to honor his debts is completed.”

At first I’m not even sure who spoke. None of us are. We all look around until we come to my mother, who has not said a word since the men entered our home. I see hardness in her that I’ve never seen before. Maybe we’re all like that with our mothers. They seem ordinary until one day they’re extraordinary.

“I have the tickets,” she repeats. She has to be lying. I threw them out, along with our immigration papers and the coaching book Sam gave me.

“What good are those tickets now? Your daughters missed their boat.”

“We will exchange them and the girls will go to their husbands.” Mama wrings a handkerchief in her hands. “I will see to it. And then my husband and I will leave this house. You tell that to Pockmarked Huang. If he doesn’t like it, then let him come here and discuss it with me, a woman—”

The sickening sound of a pistol being cocked stops my mother’s words. The leader holds up a hand, alerting his men to be ready. Silence hangs like a shroud over the room. Outside, ambulances scream and machine guns rattle and cough.

Then he snorts lightly. “Madame Chin, you know what will happen if we find you’re lying to us.”

When neither of our parents says anything, May finds the courage to ask, “How long do we have?”

“Until tomorrow,” he growls. Then he laughs roughly as he realizes the near impossibility of his demand. “It won’t be easy to leave the city though. If one good thing has come from today’s disaster, it is that many of the foreign devils will leave us. They will have first priority on the ships.”

His men begin to move toward May and me. This is it. We’re going to be the Green Gang’s property now. May grabs my hand. Then a miracle: the leader grinds out a new offer.

“I will give you three days. Be on your way to America by then, even if you have to swim. We will return tomorrow—and every day—to make sure you don’t forget what you must do.”

With the threat laid down and a deadline given, the three men leave, but not before they tip over a couple of lamps and use the club to smash Mama’s few vases and trinkets that have not yet been taken to the pawnshop.

As soon as they’re gone, May sinks to the floor. None of us move to help her.

“You lied to us,” I say to Baba. “You lied to us about Old Man Louie and the reason for our marriages—”

“I didn’t want you to worry about the Green Gang,” he admits feebly.

This response maddens and exasperates me. “You didn’t want us to worry?”

He flinches, but then he deflects my anger with a question of his own. “What difference does it make now?”

There’s a long moment of silence as we think about that. I don’t know what goes through Mama’s and May’s minds, but I can think of many things we might have done differently if we’d known the truth. I still believe that May and I wouldn’t have gotten on the ship to take us to our husbands, but we would have done
something:
run away, hidden ourselves at the mission, begged Z.G. until he agreed to help us …

“I’ve had to carry this burden too long.” Baba turns to my mother and asks pitiably, “What will we do now?”

Mama looks at him with scathing contempt. “We’re going to do what we can to save our lives,” she says, looping her handkerchief through her jade bracelet.

“Are you going to send us to Los Angeles?” May’s voice quavers.

“She can’t,” I say. “I threw away the tickets.”

“I pulled them out of the trash,” Mama announces.

I slip down next to May. I can’t believe Mama is willing to ship us to America to cure my father’s and her problems. But then isn’t that the kind of thing Chinese parents have done with worthless daughters for thousands of years—abandoned them, sold them, used them?

Seeing the looks of betrayal and fear on our faces, Mama hurries on. “We’re going to trade in your tickets to America and buy passage to Hong Kong for all of us. We’ve got three days to find a ship. Hong Kong is a British colony, so we don’t have to worry about the Japanese attacking there. If we decide it’s safe to come back onto the mainland, we’ll take the ferry or train to Canton. Then we’ll go to Yin Bo, your father’s home village.” Her jade bracelet hits the side table with a resolute
thunk
. “The Green Gang won’t find us there.”

Moon Sisters

THE NEXT MORNING
, May and I start out for the Dollar Steamship Line’s office, hoping to exchange our tickets—from Shanghai to Hong Kong, from Hong Kong to San Francisco, and from San Francisco to Los Angeles—for just four tickets to Hong Kong. Nanking Road and the area around the racecourse remain closed so workers can clear away the mangled corpses and body parts, but this is the least of the city’s concerns. Thousands upon thousands of refugees continue to arrive, trying to stay ahead of the advancing Japanese. So many infants have been left to die on the streets by desperate parents that the Chinese Benevolent Association has established a special “baby patrol” to pick up the forsaken remains, pile them onto trucks, and take them to the countryside to be burned.

But for all the people coming into the city, thousands more try to leave. Many of my countrymen take trains back to their home villages in the interior. Friends we’ve known in the cafés—writers, artists, and intellectuals—make choices that will determine the rest of their lives: to go to Chungking, where Chiang Kai-shek has established his wartime capital, or to Yunnan to join the Communists. The wealthiest families—foreign and Chinese—leave by international steamers, which chug defiantly past the Japanese warships anchored off the Bund.

We wait for hours in a long queue. By five o’clock, we’ve moved perhaps ten feet. We return home with nothing resolved. I’m worn out; May looks distraught and depleted. Baba spent the day visiting friends, hoping to borrow money to help with our escape, but in these suddenly uncertain times, who can afford to be generous to an ill-fated man? The trio of toughs isn’t surprised by our lack of progress, but they’re hardly happy. Even they seem unnerved by the chaos surrounding us.

That night the house jumps from explosions in Chapei and Hongkew. Billowing ashes from these neighborhoods mingle with the smoke from the baby fires and the great pyres the Japanese use to burn their own dead.

IN THE MORNING
, I get up quietly so I won’t disturb my sister. Yesterday she accompanied me without complaint. But a few times, when she thought I wasn’t looking, I’d caught her rubbing her temples. Last night she’d taken some aspirin and promptly thrown them up. She must have a concussion. I hope it’s mild, but how can I know for sure? At the very least, after everything that’s happened the last two days, she needs to sleep, because today is going to be another hard one. Tommy Hu’s funeral is at ten.

I go downstairs and find Mama in the salon. She motions for me to join her. “Here’s a little money.” An unusual steeliness has taken over her voice. “Go out and bring back some sesame cakes and dough sticks.” This is more than we’ve eaten for breakfast since the morning our lives changed. “We should eat well. The funeral—”

I take the money and leave the house. I hear the din from naval guns bombarding our shore positions, the incessant rattle of machine-gun and rifle fire, explosions in Chapei, and battles raging in outlying districts. Pungent ashes from last night’s funerary fires blanket the city so clothes that were hung out to dry will need to be rewashed, stoops swept, and cars doused. My throat chokes on the taste. Plenty of people crowd the street. War may be happening, but we all have things we need to do. I walk to the corner, but instead of doing Mama’s errands I board a wheelbarrow to take me to Z.G.’s apartment. I may have acted girlishly before, but that was one moment out of years of friendship. He has to have some affection for May and me. Surely he’ll help us find a way to put our lives back together.

I knock on his door. When no one answers, I go back downstairs and find his landlady in the central courtyard.

“He’s gone,” she says. “But what do you care? Your beautiful-girl days are over. Do you think we can hold back the monkey people forever?

Once they have control, no one will need or want your beautiful-girl calendars.” Her hysteria grows. “Those monkey people might want you for something else though. Is that what you want for you and your sister?”

“Just tell me where he is,” I say wearily.

“He left to join the Communists,” she yaps, each syllable coming out like a bullet.

“He wouldn’t leave without saying good-bye,” I say, doubtful.

The old woman cackles. “What a stupid girl you are! He left without paying his rent. He left behind his paints and brushes. He left without taking a single thing.”

I bite my lip to keep from crying. I have to focus on my own survival now.

Still mindful of my money, I hire a wheelbarrow to take me home, squeezing on with three other riders. As we bump along the road, I make a mental list of people who might help us. The men we dance with? Betsy? One of the other artists we pose for? But everyone has their own worries.

I return to an empty house. I’ve been gone so long I missed going to Tommy’s funeral.

May and Mama come home a couple of hours later. They’re both dressed in funeral white. May’s eyes are as swollen as overripe peaches from crying, and Mama looks old and tired, but they don’t ask where I was or why I didn’t go to the memorial. Baba isn’t with them. He must have lingered with the other fathers at the funeral banquet.

“How was it?” I ask.

May shrugs, and I don’t press. She leans against the doorjamb, crosses her arms, and stares at her feet. “We have to go back to the docks.”

I don’t want to go out. I’m heartsick over Z.G. I want to tell May he’s gone, but what good will it do? I despair over what’s happening to us. I want to be rescued. If not that, then I want to go back to bed, lie under the covers, and sob until I have no tears left. But I’m May’s older sister. I have to be braver than my emotions. I have to help us fight our bad fates. I take a deep breath and stand. “Let’s go. I’m ready.”

We return to the Dollar Steamship Line. The queue moves today, and when we get to the front we understand why. The clerk is useless. We show him our tickets, but exhaustion has robbed him of grammar and his temper.

“What you want me do with these?” he demands loudly.

“Can we exchange them for four tickets to Hong Kong?” I ask, sure that he’ll see this as a good deal for the company.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he waves to the people behind us. “Next!”

I don’t move.

“Can we get on a new ship?” I ask.

He hits the grate that separates us. “You stupid!” It seems everyone feels the same way about me today. Then he grabs the grate and shakes it. “No tickets left! All gone! Next! Next!”

I see in him the same frustration and hysteria I saw in Z.G.’s landlady. May reaches out and puts her fingers on his. Touching between sexes—strangers!—is frowned upon. Her act stuns him into silence. Or maybe he’s suddenly calmed by the beautiful girl who speaks to him in a mellifluous voice.

“I know you can help us.” She tilts her head and lets a small smile transform her face from desperation to serenity. The effect is immediate.

“Let me see your tickets,” the clerk says. He studies them intently and checks a couple of logbooks. “I’m sorry, but these won’t help you leave Shanghai,” he says at last. He pulls out a pad, fills in a form, and then passes it and our tickets back to May. “If you can get to Hong Kong, go to our office there and give them this. You’ll be able to trade your tickets for new berths to San Francisco.” After a long pause, he repeats,
“If
you can get to Hong Kong.”

We thank him, but he hasn’t helped us at all. We don’t want to go to San Francisco. We want to go south to escape the Green Gang’s reach.

Feeling defeated, we start home. Never has the traffic noise, the smell of exhaust, and the stink of perfume seemed so oppressive. Never has the unscratchable itch for money, the flagrant openness of criminal behavior, and the dissolution of the spirit seemed so forlorn and futile.

We find Mama sitting on the front steps, where once our servants pridefully ate their meals.

“Did they come back?” I ask. I don’t have to specify who. The only people we’re truly afraid of are the Green Gang thugs. Mama nods. May and I let that sink in. What Mama says next sends a ripple of dread down my spine.

“And your father still hasn’t returned.”

We sit on either side of our mother. We wait, searching both ends of the street, hoping to see Baba turn the corner. But he doesn’t come home. Darkness falls and with it intensified bombardment. The night glows from fires raging in Chapei. Searchlights streak across the sky. Whatever happens, the International Settlement and the French Concession, as foreign territories, will be safe.

“Did he say if he was going somewhere after the funeral?” May asks, her voice as tiny as a girl’s.

Mama shakes her head. “Maybe he’s looking for a job. Maybe he’s gambling. Maybe he’s seeing a woman.”

Other options flash through my mind, and when I look over Mama’s head to May, I see she shares them with me. Has he deserted us, leaving his wife and daughters to deal with the consequences? Has the Green Gang decided to kill Baba before the deadline as a warning to us? Or has antiaircraft fire or shrapnel fallen to earth and found him?

At about two in the morning, Mama pats her thighs decisively. “We should get some sleep. If your father doesn’t come home—” Her voice catches. She takes a deep breath. “If he doesn’t come home, then we’ll still go ahead with my plan. Your father’s family will take us in. We belong to them now.”

“But how are we going to get there? We can’t change our tickets.”

Desperation grips Mama’s features as she hastily tosses out an idea. “We could go to Woosong. That’s only a few miles from here. I could walk it if I had to. Standard Oil has a wharf there. With your marriage papers, maybe they’ll give us space on one of their launches to some other city. From there we could go south.”

“I don’t think that will work,” I say. “Why would the oil company want to help us?”

Mama comes back with another proposal. “We could try to find a boat to take us up the Yangtze—”

“What about the monkey people?” May asks. “There are a lot of them on the river. Even the
lo fan
are leaving the interior to come here.”

“We could go north to Tientsin and look for passage on a ship,” Mama tries again, but this time she holds up a hand to keep my sister and me from speaking. “I know. The monkey people are there already. We could go east, but how long before those areas are invaded?” She pauses to think. It’s as though I can see through her skull and into her brain as she anticipates the dangers of different ways out of Shanghai. Finally, she leans forward and confides in a low but steady voice, “Let’s go southwest to the Grand Canal. Once we reach the canal, we ought to be able to get a boat—a sampan, anything—and continue on to Hangchow. From there we can hire a fishing boat to take us to Hong Kong or Canton.” She looks from me to May and then back. “Do you agree?”

My head swims. I have no idea what we should do.

“Thank you, Mama,” May whispers. “Thank you for taking such good care of us.”

We go inside. Moonlight streams through the windows. Only when we say good night does Mama’s voice break, but then she goes into her room and shuts the door.

In the darkness, May looks at me. “What are we going to do?”

I think the better question is, What’s going to happen to us? But I don’t ask it. As May’s
jie jie
, I have to hide my fears.

The next morning, we hurriedly pack what we consider to be practical and useful: sanitary supplies, three pounds of rice per person, a pot and eating utensils, sheets, dresses, and shoes. At the last minute, Mama calls me to her room. From a dresser drawer she pulls out some papers, including our coaching book and marriage certificates. On her vanity, she’s gathered together our photo albums. They’ll be too heavy to carry so I think Mama’s going to take a few photos as memories. She pulls one from the black paper. Behind it is a folded bill. She repeats the process again and again until she’s put together a small stack of bills. She tucks the cash in her pocket, then asks me to help her move the dresser away from the wall. Hanging from a nail is a small bag, which she takes. “This is all that remains of my bride-price,” she tells me.

“How could you have kept these things hidden?” I ask indignantly. “Why didn’t you offer to pay off the Green Gang?”

“It wouldn’t have been enough.”

“But it might have helped.”

“My mother always said, ‘Keep something for yourself,’” Mama explains. “I knew I might have to use these things one day. Now that day is here.”

She leaves the room. I linger, staring at the photos: May as a baby, the two of us dressed for a party, Mama and Baba’s wedding photo. Happy memories, silly memories, dance before me. My eyes blur, and I blink back tears. I grab a couple photos, put them in my bag, and go downstairs. Mama and May wait for me on the front steps.

“Pearl, find us a wheelbarrow man,” Mama orders. Because she’s my mother and we don’t have any other options, I obey her—a bound-footed woman who never before had a plan for anything beyond her mah-jongg strategy.

I wait on the corner, watching for a wheelbarrow pusher who looks strong and whose cart appears sturdy and large. Wheelbarrow pushers are below rickshaw pullers and just slightly above nightsoil men. They’re considered part of the coolie class—poor enough that they’ll do anything to make a little money or receive a few bowls of rice. After several attempts, I find a pusher, so thin the skin on his belly seems to meet his spine, willing to enter serious negotiations.