People are crying, shouting and wailing in terror. It is no longer clear who is advancing towards the government guards and who is dropping back to try and escape. A human tide carries me towards the gates of the town hall where the gunfire is intensifying. I struggle, but the men’s blood is up and they hardly notice me. I trip on a body and fall. My fumbling hands come across a cold, wet jacket: a policeman lies there stabbed, staring at me with his blank, upturned eyes. I get back to my feet, but one of the peasants brandishing his rifle jabs me with his elbow and I fall back onto the body. I scream in horror.
A young man leans over and offers me his hand. He heaves me up. He is a student with a swarthy complexion. He smiles at me.
“Come on,” he says. He gives a quick nod and another student appears, casts a contemptuous eye over me and takes hold of my other arm. They raise me up between the two of them as they forge a path through the crowd.
There are fierce, noisy battles in the streets, and the two students flee, dragging me with them. As if they already know which police positions have been attacked by the rebels, they avoid these sites of bloodshed and eventually come to a stop by the gates to an impressive property. One of them opens the door to reveal an abandoned garden where crocuses peep up through the snow. The house is European in style with half-moon archways and diamond-shaped window panes.
“This is Jing’s house,” says the swarthy-faced student, indicating his friend. “My name is Min.”
Min explains that the owner of this property, an aunt of Jing’s, has moved to Nanking, and that Jing has willingly taken on the post of overseer. His deep, youthful voice sounds not unlike the man who was singing earlier.
“And you?”
I introduce myself and ask if I can use the telephone.
“The rebels have almost certainly cut the telephone lines,”
Jing tells me rather impatiently, but when Min sees the look of despair on my face he offers to try for me.
The bare walls in the sitting room still bear marks where pictures must have hung, and the red lacquered floorboards are scratched and scored where furniture has been moved. In the library hundreds of books still stand in neat lines on the shelves, while others have been thrown haphazardly on the floor. The low tables are cluttered with full ashtrays, dirty cups and plates and crumpled newspapers. It looks as if a meeting was held here last night.
Min opens a door to reveal the bedroom and a bed draped in crimson silk dotted with chrysanthemums. He picks up the telephone on a side table, but can’t get a line.
“I’ll take you home when everything’s calmed down,” he says in his warm, friendly voice. “You’re safe here. Are you hungry? Come and help me make something to eat.”
While Min prepares the noodles, peels the vegetables and cuts up the meat, Jing sits on a stool by the window listening to the commotion outside. There are occasional gunshots, and with every shot a mocking smile appears on the corners of his lips. I don’t know what will happen to my town, I think that these pseudo-peasants are members of the Resistance Movement against the Japanese army. The newspapers say they are bandits who pillage, burn, take citizens hostage and then use the ransom money to buy arms from the Russians. Anxious about my parents and about Moon Pearl lost in the streets in her rickshaw, I sit down, get back up again, pace up and down the room, leaf through books and then slump down onto a stool next to Jing.
Like him, I listen to every sound. Only Min seems to be calm, whistling an opera tune as he works. A delicious smell wafts over from the cooking pot and it isn’t long before Min proudly presents me with a bowl of noodles with beef and sweet-and-sour cabbage. He hands me a pair of chopsticks.
That is when I remember that they are waiting for me at home to celebrate my sixteenth birthday.
22
At Ha Rebin the sunlight pierces the eyes.
In springtime, there is a constant thundering as the great debris of ice is buffeted, thrown up and submerged in the foaming torrents of the River Love.
A rich salesman has just set up a lottery stand in the town center, and he is announcing the results of the draw from a raised platform. Beggars with hardly a shred of clothing shiver beside men in thick furs. The whole town is here, the thieves and the thankless, the military and the students, the rich housewives and the prostitutes, all waiting impatiently. The long-awaited announcement is greeted with groans of despair and some cries of joy from the crowd. Fights break out, husbands beat their wives because they changed their numbers, and those who have just gambled their last few coins are threatening to commit suicide. There are also creditors claiming their dues, and winners who can no longer find their tickets.
I have never known a place where the wealthy are so conscious of their riches while the poor struggle so desperately. The lack of purpose in this population confirms my opinion: the Chinese Empire has sunk irretrievably into chaos. This ancient civilization has imploded under the reign of the Manchurians, who refused openness, science and modernization. Today, as the chosen prey of the Western powers, it survives by relinquishing land and autonomy. Only the Japanese, who have inherited a pure, unhybridized version of Chinese culture, [7] have made it their vocation to liberate the Empire from the European yoke. We will give her people back their peace and dignity.
We are their saviors.
23
Jing has gone to find out what is going on and he tells us that rebels have occupied the town hall and thrown the mayor’s body over the balcony. In the space of a few hours, hatred has spread through the town, and the people, stirred up by the bloodshed, are massacring collaborators and Japanese immigrants. Some Chinese soldiers who were enrolled into the Manchurian army have turned against the Japanese and are now surrounding the enemy division in their barracks.
Min puts a ladder up against the wall and we climb onto the roof. The town spreads out before our eyes, an infinity of serried rooftops, gray fish scales glinting silver. Sinuous roads cut deep, dark furrows. The naked plane trees spell out their arid calligraphy, and columns of black smoke rise from the town center, piercing the violet and yellow sky where thousands of sparrows circle in panic.
We can hear shots among the shouting, the cheering and the celebratory drumming. Some areas look deserted and mournful, others jubilant and full of life. In the distance the ramparts of the town meander through a thick mist.
Will they be strong enough to withstand the Japanese reinforcements?
24
During our brief exchange of courtesies I discover that Madame Violette, Masayo’s employer, is also originally from Tokyo. Meeting compatriots on foreign soil produces a melancholy happiness and turns complete strangers into close friends. Within moments she is offering me some sake and bombarding me with questions about my life. I then ask her about her family, and she says that her husband and children were killed in the earthquake. From the sleeve of her kimono she produces a tiny child’s sandal, the only reminder she has of her son. Fourteen years have elapsed and I have managed to banish the images of that seismic disaster to the farthest recesses of my memory, but Madame Violette’s tears bring back those scenes of devastation.
[7] From the sixth century Buddhism and Chinese culture infiltrated the Yamato Imperial court of Japan. In 604 Prince Shotoku sent an official embassy to the court of Chang’an (now Xian) in China. In 645 the Yamato court decided to turn Japan into a copy of Tang China, and Japanese calligraphy adopted Chinese ideograms. The political problems within the Tang court, and the Tatar invasion, persuaded the Japanese to withdraw their embassy in 838. From then on Japanese culture has evolved independently from that on the Chinese mainland.