Escape from Shanghai (22 page)

The bureaucrat kept us waiting for forty-five minutes, even though we had arrived late. Obviously, this man held an important position because he was so busy that he could keep us waiting for as long as he
wanted. At least that was the unspoken message he wanted to convey. This was a standard tactic because the payoffs got bigger as you went up the line. Finally, the bureaucrat welcomed us into his office.

“Please, have a seat,” he said with a polite bow.

“Thank you, sir,” Mom said respectfully as she sat down.

The bureaucrat sat down after he saw that Mom and I had taken our seats. He smiled as he picked up his lit cigarette from the ashtray. He took a drag as he studied the papers on his desk. The genial-looking civil servant glanced up from a file folder and flashed an insincere smile. He leaned back in his chair then tapped his cigarette in the ashtray. “Ah, let me see,” he said coyly, “you and your son wish to go to America, is that not so?”

Mom nodded and smiled warmly at him. “My son is an American citizen, you know,” she said with a hint of pride. “According to American law, the mother of an American citizen has the right to accompany her under-aged son to the United States.”

The bureaucrat smiled benignly at her, nodding his head as she spoke. “Yes, yes. You are one of the lucky ones,” he said with a hint of impatience. “Do you realize how many applicants we have?” He pointed at a long row of four-drawer, gray-metal file cabinets against the wall. He leaned forward for
emphasis. “Hundreds of thousands!” he lied. “Yes, that many. It would appear that all of China wants to go to America.” He sat back. He wasn’t smiling anymore. “Clearly, that is impossible, is it not, Madame?” He did not utter Mom’s name though it was right in front of him. Using her name would have meant that she was an individual, and he wasn’t ready, as yet, to recognize her in that particular way.

“Of course,” Mom agreed somberly. Judging from his strident tone, she wondered whether she had brought enough of a bribe.

The man shifted in his chair as he dragged on his cigarette. He exhaled and blew two thick columns of blue smoke through his nostrils. The civil servant lifted then dropped his pack of Camels in an impatient manner. At that time, a pack of American cigarettes was better than Chinese money. People used it as currency. Mom understood the significance of those cigarettes. “Now, then, considering our backlog, how may we help you?”

“Ah, you are so kind for asking, Mr. Director,” Mom said obsequiously. She made a minor event out of opening the flap to her purse, then looked up at him and smiled. “My husband is in New York,” she said as she reached into her wallet and removed the letter that she had so carefully placed there. “He has written you a personal appeal. I believe it
would be worth your while to read this.” She leaned forward, the envelope clasped delicately between two fingers.

“Ah, so,” the bureaucrat said with interest. He dropped his pack of cigarettes for the last time.

He took the envelope and opened the flap as he sat back in his chair. He blinked at the small portrait of President Jackson. That was all he needed to see. He opened his drawer and tucked the envelope inside. Slowly, deliberately, he slid the drawer shut.

Mom nervously watched his every move.

The bureaucrat reached across his desk, picked up a rubber stamp and pressed it firmly on the black ink pad. His deft fingers moved like a money-counter’s as he flipped officiously through a series of pages, stamping each page in rapid succession as he did so. Then, as if it were beneath him to look directly at her, or because he felt some slight sense of guilt, he held out the papers to her.

Mom reached over and took it. She quickly studied the pages, knowing that to do so in front of him is an insult to his integrity. But she didn’t care because she had paid dearly for them. The niceties of normal social behavior no longer applied. Mom looked up and smiled.

“Thank you,” she said, after making certain that all the appropriate pages had been stamped. He
didn’t look happy at her performance. He knew Mom had insulted him on purpose.

It had taken her about a year to get permission from the Chinese government to leave the country. During that time, the bureaucracy moved her file from one civil servant’s office to another. Each time she had to give the new civil servant money. And it was always in American dollars. At first, she gave dollar bills just to get the proper forms. And as she went up the bureaucratic chain, the bribes became more expensive. Ten dollars was equivalent to roughly two weeks’ salary for some civil servants. With each step along the way, she had been assured that progress was being made. The procedure was complex they told her. We went there nearly every other week to follow the path of our papers, leaving a trail of dollars behind.

She often wondered whether the money she had spent would make a difference, or whether they would deny her permission anyway. There was no telling what these government officials might do. What if they claimed to have lost the papers? She had heard such horror stories. People had to start all over again.

Fortunately, Mom had been smart from the start. From day one, Mom used American money. She wanted to establish a reputation. In time, the bureaucrats expected dollars from her. Consequently, her
papers exchanged more hands than was necessary. While this procedure cost more, it also guaranteed progress. Everybody got a piece of the action.

That’s how the government worked in China.

My granduncle’s house, or better yet, residence, was a huge courtyard home. There were three large, independent structures designed along the traditional Chinese lines with the curved roofs and glazed-roof tiles. The compound looked like three smaller structures from the Forbidden City had been moved and plunked down in the middle of Shanghai. In the center of two of the buildings was a square, formal garden. There was a goldfish pond fed by a running brook; various and numerous exotic plants and trees; and one octagonal gazebo with a jade-green roof. Under the center of this roof was a large, round white marble table capable of seating twelve people.

My granduncle wanted to treat me to a special Sunday brunch—just the two of us.

It was a warm spring day and a soft breeze danced its way between the green columns of the gazebo. Tea was served first in a glazed green teapot—and
green cups—both designed to match the green tiles of the gazebo roof.

We sat opposite each other. He was a rotund man who obviously enjoyed food. This was probably why he ran the food portion of the grocery business, while my grandfather ran the real estate portion. This division of labor suited both men. The two brothers got along extremely well. The only thing that separated the two of them was their individual lifestyles. Grandpa was a practical engineer, while granduncle was a larger-than-life salesman with a touch of the showman brimming around his waist. His banquets were famous and usually bigger than anyone else’s.

And then the servants proceeded to serve dumplings, or dim sum, in small white porcelain plates. Naturally, they matched the white marble table. There were thirty varieties of dumplings, three to a plate. It took the chef and his three helpers all morning to prepare the brunch.

Most of this food went uneaten. My granduncle didn’t want me to forget him or Chinese food while I was in America. He told me that I would most likely never see the likes of such a spread again. And I haven’t.

The night before our departure for America, grandpa took the whole family, his children and grandchildren, out to dinner. Dinner for eleven people cost two large suitcases packed full of large denomination bills. The owner of the restaurant didn’t even bother to count the money. He just counted the bundles of bills. That’s how absurd life was in Shanghai.

Mom had booked passage to America on one of the ships in the President Line, the General Gordon. The last time we saw this ship had been at the Li’s bon voyage party. They had occupied a spacious suite on the upper deck of the luxury liner. Now, anchored in Shanghai bay, the ship once again received its passengers from motorized junks. Large luxury junks ferried the first-class passengers to a grand stairway that angled up to the promenade deck. Small ordinary junks shipped the steerage passengers to a big black gaping hole that was ten feet or so above the waterline of the ship.

The junk bobbed up and down in the waves as two crew members, one on each side of Mom, held her by the arms and hoisted her onto the teak platform at the foot of the ladder. Then the sailors hoisted me over. We climbed the short angled stairway onto the ship. Bits and pieces of lettuce, cabbage and broken eggshells littered the steerage reception area. The stink of wet rotten garbage wafted from the steel deck. Mom wasn’t sure whether this was where the
ship discharged its garbage or took on its fresh food supplies. Anyway, it really didn’t matter. What was important was not the accommodations, but that she had found a way for us to leave.

The ship’s crew tossed our bags onto the wet, filthy metal deck. Large wet stains mingled with bits of lettuce stuck to the leather. We picked up our belongings and followed the directions of the American crew. They inspected the green, four-by-five tag that hung around each passenger’s neck. They pointed us to the forward section of the ship. Mom led me down the dark, dank passageway. Gradually, the damp smell disappeared only to be replaced by the odor of human bodies. The smell reminded me of the gym at the Y.

The forward cargo hold was a large cavernous space that had been outfitted with bunk beds stacked four deep. Two stacks were mounted side by side with khaki canvas separators between them. Row after row of these bunks stretched across the hold. Two people could pass each other on the narrow aisles but only if both turned sideways, and even then it was a squeeze. This luxury liner had been converted into a troop ship during the war. Now, the shipping company used its carrying capacity to haul Chinese immigrants.

“Come on, Mom! Let’s go upstairs,” I said the moment we had located our bunks.

“Let’s put our things away first,” she said.

“Do we have to?”

She glanced around pointedly at our surroundings and I knew what she meant. Mom unpacked our clothing and placed them into our assigned footlockers under the bottom bunk. Then she stored and locked her valuables in the metal lockers that lined the walls. She made sure that her belongings were secure before we went topside.