The China Lover (14 page)

I decided to agree to Taneguchi’s proposition. Anything to get out of that hellish place. I’d figure out what to do once I was out, breathing fresh air, thinking more clearly. I might disguise myself as a Chinese, and slip away into the unoccupied zones. My Chinese was good enough to survive, I thought. Taneguchi was pleased with my decision. He knew I’d come to my senses. I’d done the right thing, he said, smiling as though he had just wanted the best for me.

   22   

A
FTER MY RELEASE
, Amakasu organized a dinner party for Taneguchi at the South Lake Pavilion. If truth be told, I no longer knew whether he was my friend or my enemy. I’d try to find out. All the regulars of the Ri Koran Fan Club were there, but Ri’s name was never mentioned. She no longer existed for Amakasu, who was drinking heavily—whiskey, beer, saké. Jokes were made about my weight loss, and I was encouraged to eat more food. Amakasu stood up unsteadily, clutching the table for support, and proposed a toast to our final victory. His eyes were bloodshot and unfocused. Taneguchi wrapped a napkin around his head and did a country dance, while the others sang and banged their saké cups with their chopsticks. I pretended to be drunk and sang along, praying for the evening to come to an end.

Kishi, whose political star had risen even faster than Amakasu predicted, never missed a Ri Koran Fan Club meeting, even now that he was a cabinet minister in the imperial capital and unable to spend much time in Manchukuo anymore. The club was one place where he could relax among trusted friends. His eyes bulging as though he had a fever, he held forth about the final showdown with the white race. We might even have to fight the Germans, he said, for the pull of blood would prove to be stronger than any temporary alliances. We were lucky to be alive at this historic moment, for the fate of the world
lay in our hands. Amakasu nodded, splashing whiskey on the table as he aimed for his glass. After acknowledging Amakasu, Kishi resumed his discourse. It would be a hard struggle, he said, but we Japanese would prevail because of our superior fighting spirit. Look at the brave people of Tokyo. Much of the city had been destroyed in one night by the cowardly American bombers. But would the Japanese people give up? “Never,” cried Amakasu. “We will fight to the end,” said Kishi, staring like a mad rabbit. “To the end,” we all agreed, and lurched to our feet to give three cheers to our Imperial Majesty. Amakasu started a song I hadn’t heard since my primary school days: “If you’re a happy little boy, Then clap your hands . . .” We all clapped. “If you’re a happy little boy, Then sing a song . . .” I closed my eyes and pretended to fall asleep. But a sharp prod from a chopstick in my side made me sit up instantly. I was gazing into the florid face of Taneguchi: “Don’t shirk your duty this time, Sato, my friend. And don’t try to escape, for we will find you, and when we do, you’ll regret still being alive.” He patted me on the shoulder, and smiled. “Cheer up, my friend. Life isn’t so bad. After all, you’ll be doing your bit for our victory and the future glory of Asia.” Soon after that, mercifully, the party was over.

   23   

I
WOULDN’T HAVE
thought it possible, but Shanghai was looking even more battered than the last time I saw it. The Americans had bombed Honkew, where the European Jews had found refuge under our protection. The roof had been blown off Broadway Cinema on Wayside Road. Ripped movie posters were strewn across the street. And there was a gaping hole, filled with waterlogged rubbish, where Siegfried’s Bakery had been. Unsightly sandbags and wire mesh fences were packed around the Cathay Hotel and other buildings on the Bund. Even Broadway Mansions resembled a military fortress more than an apartment building. I was relieved to hear that Kawamura was on business in Peking. At least that would give me some respite. I was less pleased to hear that Ri had moved into his apartment on Ferry Road. Not that I suspected anything untoward. Kawamura was a gentleman. But the last thing I wanted was for the Special Higher Police to get on her tail as well.

The heat was insufferable, even for a Shanghai summer. No sooner did I step outside my building than I felt like dashing back in for a bath and a change of linen. But even to get a decent bar of soap you needed special contacts now. A foul-smelling vapor hung over Suzhou Creek. The smell of death and decay was so strong it seeped into one’s clothes. I called some of my Chinese friends, but failed to get hold of any of them. They were out of town, or busy, or made some other excuse
. Even my old friend Zhang Songren, editor of
New Horizons
, who had always welcomed me with a Chinese meal at the Park Hotel, left a message that he was indisposed and couldn’t meet me this time. Old Zhou’s bar, my usual refuge in the old French Concession, was closed. Old Zhou, I was told, had gone back to his hometown in Shandong.

The Good Friend on Yuyuen Road was still open. I attended a party there for “Count” Takami’s latest mistress, an Indian princess, or so she claimed. People claimed all kinds of things in Shanghai. Rumor had it that she was in fact a bar girl from Bombay, picked up one night by a drunken English merchant, who was so taken by her charms that he married her on the spot, and took her to Shanghai, where, after six months of conjugal life, she linked up with a Russian aristocrat who ran a gambling joint on Jessfield Road. “Count” Takami, whose title was as bogus as his girlfriend’s, was an old rogue from Hawaii who made his money selling drugs of dubious quality to the Chinese.

People were dancing to American Negro music, forbidden in Japan, but played on our English-language radio stations to make the Americans feel homesick, one of those absurd ideas cooked up by our propaganda people. Takami, dressed in a white suit, was lurching around the dance floor with his “Indian princess.” Perhaps it was the opium, or the bootleg vodka, or too many nights in Badlands nightclubs, but she looked a fright. Her face was bloated and splotched with gray. I waved at her. She looked in my direction, fluttering her hands to the rhythm of the music, without appearing to see me.

The music was intolerably loud. I never understood this American love for jungle drums. Negroes are treated like savages, yet the whites dance to their music. Captain Pick, the Russian expert on Jewish affairs, had lipstick smudged all over his mouth and chin and was dressed in a woman’s ballgown. His eyes gleamed, as though he was in a trance. I noticed the same glazed look on the faces of other people at the party. Four of the five Japanese military officers had taken their jackets off
and were sitting around a table with some Russian girls. One of the soldiers had a thick wad of what looked like old Russian money sticking from his waistband. The girl on his knee shrieked and threw back her head as one of his companions pulled down the top of her dress and splashed drink all over her naked breasts, as if watering a flowerbed. I tried to talk to Takami, but couldn’t get a sensible word out of him. “Hot Peanuts!” he shouted. “Hot Peanuts!” I had no idea what he was talking about, and I shouldn’t think that he did either.

The news got worse by the day. Even though people were not allowed to listen to enemy stations, they all did, and I noticed a change in the Chinese, who no longer cowered like dogs about to get a beating whenever they saw a Japanese uniform. They knew that our game was up. I could understand their feelings. Who could blame them? I would have felt the same way if I had been Chinese. I sometimes wished that I were, but I was Japanese, and there was nothing I could do about that. Native blood, like the lines on one’s hand, cannot be faked. The Chinese had suffered for too long. It was time to make peace. We should never have been at war with China in the first place. That was our great historical error. If we had done a better job of convincing the Chinese that we were on their side, we might still have salvaged something from our common dreams; but our military leaders thought they knew better. They had decided to fight on to the last man, woman, and child. And we Japanese have always been bad at explaining ourselves, part of being frogs in a well, I guess. Kawamura was right. The Chinese hated us now, and it was our own fault.

What can I say about August 6? Murdering all those innocent people of Hiroshima, who had no part in the war, was the single worst act of inhumanity ever committed by man. This was not a battle but a massacre, as though Japanese humans were no better than rats. The American pilots never even saw their victims. Only a rootless nation without a shred of humanity could have committed such an atrocity.
Our soldiers did many bad things in the war, but never anything remotely as base as that.

On that terrible night of August 6, Ri gave a concert at the Grand Theater.
A Musical Fantasia
was the title. It was to be her last performance, though we didn’t know this at the time. The hall was packed, mostly with Chinese, who had come to see the star from
Opium War
. Even the most patriotic Chinese had forgiven Ri for her Manchukuo past. To them, she was just the Candy Girl now.

The sight of Ri, looking so small and vulnerable in the silvery spotlight, dressed in a beautiful white
qi pao
printed with lotus flowers, was like a magic potion that made us forget, for an hour or two, about all the horrors going on outside. The Shanghai Symphony Orchestra, a motley group of Russians, Jews, Germans, and Chinese, had never sounded better. Ri sang a selection of Chinese songs: “Orchids Are Sweet,” “The Fragrant Garden,” “Moon Over the West Lake.” The applause was like thunder. For the second part of the concert Ri changed into a red evening gown and sang jazz numbers, wriggling her behind like a Negress. I don’t know how she got away with it. This was clearly “enemy music,” which would never have passed our censors before. I guess it was as good a sign as any that the end of our dreams was near.

Ri changed yet again for the third and final part of the concert. When the red velvet curtain rose, she appeared in a Chinese dress of shimmering blue silk with a pattern of silver birds. She sang a song from
The Merry Widow
. There was a pause, as the conductor prepared the orchestra for the second number. It was hot under the spotlights. Little pearls of perspiration were clearly visible on Ri’s brow, despite her thick makeup. She had sung the first bars of the next song when the sound of an air-raid siren cut in. Perhaps she couldn’t hear it over the noise of the orchestra, for she carried on singing. The American bombers must have been flying directly overhead, for there was a loud
rumble like a thunderstorm. The crowd cheered, even though we could all have been killed. This time Ri stopped, startled by the noise. Ushers rushed into the hall ordering us to run for the air-raid shelter.

To steady our nerves after the raid she and I had a drink in her dressing room. We spoke softly in Japanese. I insisted that she should leave the city at once. There was no telling what the Americans might do once they reached Shanghai. No Japanese woman would be safe. I told her to join her parents in the north. There would still be enough time to get out through Manchukuo. I would accompany her, if she wished. But for once she absolutely refused to listen to my advice. She had done enough for her parents, she said. Almost every penny she earned had gone to her hopeless father. She would wait in Shanghai for Kawamura to come back. He would protect her. I told her not to rely on that. The Americans would surely arrest him. But nothing I said could change her mind. Her face was set in a look of total resolve. “I will stay here,” she said, switching to Chinese. “This is where I belong. Didn’t you see how much the audience loved me tonight? This is my home.”

Tears still spring to my eyes when I think of her, so alone and helpless in that stuffy dressing room, smelling of greasepaint and perspiration. Several times the room went dark, when the electricity cut out. I felt that she was slipping away, beyond my reach. Because of the war, and the circumstances of our birth, a gulf had opened up between us, which I could no longer bridge. I wasn’t Chinese, not even born in China. But there was nothing waiting for me in Japan either. I, too, would stay in China, but not in Shanghai or Peking. I would go back to Manchuria, where my adventures began. I would confess the failure of my mission to Amakasu. I doubt whether anything would happen to me. What could they do? Kill me? Put me in prison again? It was too late for that. I knew it was all over for us Japanese, as soon as the clumsy agent sent by Taneguchi to spy on me disappeared one
day, probably to be out of harm’s way when the Americans came. No, I would put myself at the mercy of my Chinese friends. I had never done anything to harm the Chinese. I had always been on their side. I knew that they would understand my feelings.

Now I realize that we were both foolish dreamers, Ri and I. What could my Chinese friends possibly have done for me? It took some time to sink into our hearts, even after we knew it in our minds. We were defeated. And those who had been our friends were rounded up by the victors, or else they made sure to keep their heads down. None of them would have anything to do with me. And Ri, poor sweet innocent Ri, was granted her wish. She did become a Chinese, and she shared their fate. As soon as the Americans took Shanghai, the Chinese Nationalists charged her with treason. Like the other Yoshiko, more foolish even than we were, returning to China in the last days of the war, hoping to join the partisans, she was awaiting her trial in a Shanghai jail, and her inevitable execution.

I arrived in Shinkyo, exhausted, after I don’t know how many hours on a train that was subject to constant delays. “Troop movements” was the usual explanation from harassed railway officials. In Shinkyo, I saw what those troop movements were. Every carriage of the Asia Express was filled with Japanese military brass and their loot; one compartment stuffed with Chinese lacquer, another with valuable paintings, yet another with gold, and bags of rice, or crates filled with precious porcelain. Men I recognized as Kempeitai officers were feasting on saké and food inside the train, while a Kanto Army colonel, looking very annoyed, pulled down the blinds of his compartment to block out the tumult on the platform. Japanese civilians with bundles strapped to their backs fought to get near the train, hoping against hope for a place on board. Low-ranking soldiers held them off using their rifles as clubs. I saw Japanese children being trampled underfoot, as their parents pleaded with the soldiers. A loudspeaker announced in
Japanese that there would be no more trains to Dairen, due to necessary troop movements. This message was repeated several times, until the Asia Express slowly slunk out of the station in a cloud of steam. Some civilians, in a fit of rage, attacked the soldiers, but they were clubbed to the ground and left bleeding on the platform. Most just milled around the station, immobilized by panic, not knowing where to turn.

I walked to the Yamato Hotel, only to be told by the receptionist, Old Chen, whom I had known for years, that there was no more room. The lobby was filled with trunks waiting to be shipped off to Japan. Ozaki, the surgeon, whom I had always detested, was frantically trying to arrange transport for himself and his family. He was screaming at another Japanese, a bureaucrat of some kind, that he, Ozaki, as the chairman of the Japanese-Manchukuo Friendship Association, should be the first in line. Both men fell silent, however, when a Kanto Army colonel pushed them both aside and ordered a soldier to load up his luggage in the car claimed by Ozaki, who, his face turned almost scarlet with anger, sputtered in protest. The colonel turned round and roared: “Don’t you dare address an officer of the Imperial Japanese Army like that, you insolent bastard!” I decided it was time to leave.