“Girls like you need to join the embargo against Japan by no longer wearing silk stockings.” Monroe’s hair blew in the wind and his eyes shone with fervor. “But everyone can help by keeping scrap metal out of the Japs’ mitts so they can’t turn it into bombs and bullets to use against China.”
Monroe and I grabbed signs, then he boldly took my hand and squeezed it. Together we joined the picket line before the pier. “Victory! Victory! Victory!” Word traveled. More people streamed down the hill from Chinatown to the Embarcadero. Mothers sent drinks, sandwiches, oranges, Chinese buns, and dumplings. One family delivered an entire roast pig! Soon people carried their placards in one hand and roast pork in the other. It was the largest demonstration of Chinese the United States had ever seen. I’d never experienced anything like it, and I guess no one else had either. Monroe had given me this once-in-a-lifetime event. I was glad he’d brought me.
At the climax, the gathering was five thousand people strong. Lieutenant Governor-elect Ellis Patterson, whom Monroe called a liberal and a statesman, addressed the crowd: “Speeches have been made, the press has denounced the shipment of war materials to Japan, all the progressives have expressed themselves for democracy against the aggressor, but you are doing something about it!”
Two hours later, after the demonstration ended, Monroe and I decided to stroll along the Embarcadero rather than get on one of the trucks to go back to Chinatown. He led me onto one of the piers. We silently-nervously-stared into each other’s faces until he finally got up the nerve to kiss me. His lips felt thin on mine. For so long I’d dreamed of my first romantic moment with a boy I liked, but this kiss didn’t light a fire in me like I had expected it would. Maybe it was unsatisfying for Monroe too, because he didn’t try to do it again. He put his hands in his pockets and looked out at the water. I stood there awkwardly, searching for the right thing to say.
“Will you come to opening night?” I asked.
He shook his head and said he wouldn’t come-not for Helen, not for me. After a long pause, he added, “I guess I’d better get you home.” All the zest he’d exhibited during the demonstration had gone out of him.
So, it was an exciting and adventurous day but a disappointing first date. I felt miserable because I’d failed to please him when I’d let myself hope for so much. I couldn’t talk to Ruby about it, because I would have had to tell her that Monroe and I had spent most of our time together at an anti-Japanese rally. I couldn’t tell Helen about it either, because he was her brother. All I could hope to do was be a better date next time, if there was a next time, because I wanted to get kissing right.
HELEN: White Snow Blossoms
Mama often liked to recite one of her favorite sayings-Reshape one’s foot to fit a new shoe-and she expected me to follow her wishes for my life by accepting whatever fate brought me. The peasants in our home village in China lived close to the earth and the cycles of seasons and crops. They believed that age and time do not wait for people. And then there was Buddha, who taught May all that have life be delivered from suffering. By getting hired at the Forbidden City, I had managed to adhere to all these aphorisms. It was December 22, 1938, and the club would have its grand opening in just a few hours. When I left the compound, Mama and my sisters-in-law were decorating a Christmas tree-an American concession to the little ones in our household. I carried a small bag in which I’d packed a floor-length cheongsam that Mama had commissioned for me from one of the finest tailors in Shanghai. I didn’t know if I’d have a chance to wear the dress tonight, but you can never be too prepared.
When I arrived at the club, the neon sign that trickled down the face of the building glowed red, gold, and green in lettering that looked like chopsticks: FORBIDDEN CITY. I hurried upstairs. Ornate silk hangings and embroidered tapestries decorated the walls. Chinese urns stuffed shelves and idle corners. Hexagonal lanterns hung from the ceiling. To the left stood the bar, with stools upholstered in red leather and walls covered in bamboo paneling. Just ahead, the main room offered a large open space for our floor show and for customers to dance. Tables-with sparkling place settings lit by little lamps with red glass shades shaped like coolie hats-surrounded the dance floor on three sides.
I pushed through the kitchen’s swinging doors into total chaos. The cooks all knew each other, having worked together previously in clubs and cafés in the area, and it showed in their bickering and bantering. Plates and bowls clattered, cleavers clack-clacked against chopping blocks, and cooking utensils slapped the sides of woks. Steam billowed in the air. All this, and not a single meal had been ordered yet.
“Get out! Get out!” one of the cooks shouted. “We don’t want you in here.” He held up a cleaver. “I’ll chop you up if you don’t get out!”
I passed through the kitchen to backstage and up a few steps to the dressing rooms. The early birds had secured spots in front of the mirror. I saw Grace, who was extending a leg to slip on opera hose-fishnet stockings so thick they left marks if you sat in them too long. She waved me over, and I waded through other girls patting powder on their cheeks, gluing on false eyelashes, applying lipstick. Irene and May had already changed into their first costumes: long red satin off-the-shoulder Gay Nineties gowns with a slit up the thigh. The necklines and hems were edged with ruffles, which matched the ruffles on the oversize hats.
“I saved you a place next to me,” Grace said in greeting. “We can get ready together.”
I wished I could change in private, but that wasn’t possible, so I began getting into my costume from the bottom up. I slipped on my opera hose under my skirt, then pulled up the corset until it bunched just under my waistband. I unzipped my skirt, let it fall to the floor, and took off my sweater and blouse. I didn’t own a brassiere-my mother would have died on the spot if she found one in my bureau, and my sisters-in-law would have gossiped until my brothers condemned me for wearing such an indecent lo fan garment-so I wore an undershirt. I turned to the wall and drew it over my head, hoping to avoid prying eyes. Impossible.
“Waaaa! What is that?” Ida squealed.
The chatter instantly silenced, and everyone stopped what they were doing to stare. I turned crimson and folded my arms over my breasts.
“Mind your own business,” I said.
“But what happened? What is that?” Ida repeated.
“It’s a scar. You’ve seen a scar before, haven’t you?”
“But on your tittie? It’s so red!”
Ida was the coarsest person-man or woman-I’d ever encountered, in addition to being the nosiest. She had piqued everyone else’s interest. Even Grace looked at me questioningly.
“I was in a car accident a year ago,” I said with a casual shrug.
Fortunately, that seemed to satisfy them, and they went back to getting ready. I kept the scar covered with one hand and used my other to pull my costume up and over my breasts. A second later, somebody called, “Everyone!” followed by a loud knock at the door. Then again, “Everyone”-only this time it must have been addressed to the men’s dressing room across the hall. “Charlie wants to see everyone out on the floor.”