The Distant Land of My Father (41 page)

In the fall Jack started teaching and my job at the Huntington was extended to full time. The weather finally turned cool in mid-October, the prettiest fall I’d ever seen, with beautiful clear days and nights, and all of Los Angeles was a place I never wanted to leave. We spent our first Thanksgiving alone in a cabin in Lake Arrowhead, and in December, to make up for it, we hosted Christmas Eve dinner for both families, a baker’s dozen of guests. Jack wore a chef ‘s hat and apron and cooked a fourteen-pound turkey, and though it was a little dry, nobody really noticed, thanks to the martinis he’d perfected. I made cornbread dressing and green beans and mashed potatoes and gravy that had only a few flour lumps floating on the top, and I didn’t burn a thing, a first.

At Midnight Mass, surrounded by both our families, I prayed silently for the one who wasn’t there, the one who was always somewhere in my mind, and for a few moments, I let my feelings of love for him win out over the anger and frustration and hurt.
Keep him safe,
I prayed, the same words I’d used in Shanghai so long ago.
Protect him, guard him, keep him safe.

In January of 1954, on the first Monday of the new year, the phone rang too early to be anything but news. Jack and I were lying in bed, listening to the sound of the rain. He reached for the phone and said hello, then handed it to me, and I knew from his proper tone it was my mother.

“Good morning,” she said quickly. “I know it’s early, but I wanted to get you before you left the house. Look at the
Times,
Anna. There’s something about your father on page five. He’s been released and he’s in Hong Kong. You can read the rest.”

“Thank you,” I said, as though she’d held a door open for me.

“We’ll talk later, if you want,” she said, and then she hung up.

I pulled on a robe and went outside for the paper, which I spread out on the kitchen table. I turned to page five and found what I was looking for in the top right corner:
AMERICAN FREE AFTER 3 YEARS IN SHANGHAI JAIL
. “A 47-year-old China-born American businessman, lame and nearsighted from beriberi, arrived in Hong Kong yesterday after spending three years in a Shanghai jail,” the article read. “Joseph Schoene told newsmen he was released without explanation last Monday from Shanghai’s notorious Ward Road Jail.”

The article went on to say that Schoene had been released with five other prisoners, three Russians and two Italians. He said that other Americans were still held in Shanghai, but that he didn’t know how many; that death and suffering were rampant in the jail; that new prisoners were being brought in at the rate of six to eight a day; and that firing squads were shooting them.

Mr. Schoene, the article said, had been arrested in April of 1951 on what he said was a trumped-up charge of owning illegal firearms. He had not been tortured, though he had spent most of the past year in solitary confinement, where he had subsisted on a diet of watery rice. His weight had dropped from two hundred to eighty-five, and he had suffered from beriberi, although he had gradually recovered the use of his legs.

He did not know the reason for his sudden release. “I was just rolled out of Red China,” he was quoted as saying, “I have no idea why.” The day of his release he had been taken from his cell to the warden, who told him that he was to appear in the People’s Court at noon that day. At the courthouse, the judge informed Schoene that he had three days to leave China, that he could take only minor personal effects, that any funds he’d had in Chinese banks now belonged to the People’s Republic, and that he was expelled from China for the rest of his life. Schoene said he left the jail and walked to the British Consulate, where he was given passage on the SS
Fernside
to Hong Kong. Then he went to what had once been his office, where he gathered the few possessions he still had, several account ledgers from his business and a few personal items. He left Shanghai the next day.

Jack had come in while I was reading. I had finally told him about my father a few months before we were married, and now he stood next to me, looking over my shoulder. When I finished reading I said, “He’s all right.”

Jack put his arms around me and held me and asked, “Are you?”

I nodded. “Relieved,” I said. “I’m glad he’s safe, and I’m glad I won’t be hearing about him again.”

But I was wrong. That article was only the first of many over the next four months. My father apparently caught the interest of the
Los Angeles Times,
which printed the AP accounts of his situation and kept us posted about his life with the regularity of a soap opera serial. All that winter and spring, I opened the morning paper with an unpleasant mix of fear and anticipation—
What has he done now?
—a feeling that was familiar where my father was concerned, as I pieced together what had happened.

When my father was released from prison in Shanghai, the British Consulate there issued him a visa for a seven-day stay in Hong Kong. The authorities in Hong Kong admitted him on humanitarian grounds, and he then applied for and received a six-month restricted passport from the United States Consulate. He intended to stay in Hong Kong for good. Once he regained his health and strength, he borrowed some money and bought the Glenbrook Poultry Farm in Aberdeen, on the south part of Hong Kong Island, a few miles south of Victoria.

But just a few weeks after that, he received unwelcome news: he was ordered to be expelled from the colony and deported for life. The only reason the government would give was that his presence “was not conducive to the public good.”

My father was outraged. It was a great injustice against him, he said, as well as an infringement of his human rights as set out in the Charter of the United Nations. He had not violated any of the laws of Hong Kong, he had committed no crimes to warrant deportation, he would be unable to earn a living in the United States. And, he said, why should Hong Kong object to his presence? The U.S. Consulate had no objection to his remaining in Hong Kong. (“I’ll
bet
they didn’t,” my grandmother commented dryly when she read that piece of news. “
They’re
in no hurry to get him home.”)

When he received no satisfactory answer to his question, he fought the deportation order. He hired a lawyer and contested the validity of the order. He went so far as to petition Queen Elizabeth to stay the deportation order, but, he said, he “had no reason to believe she would help me out.” His attempts were unsuccessful, and finally, on March 5, he lost his action before the Supreme Court, and the government ruled that the deportation order was valid and final.

But he wouldn’t leave.

His lawyers informed him that everything had been tried and that there was no recourse for objecting, but still he wouldn’t leave, and when, by the end of the month, he was still in Hong Kong, he was arrested and taken to the Upper Level Police Station.
AMERICAN BUSINESSMAN JAILED IN HONG KONG
was the headline this time. The next day there was more:
SCHOENE REFUSES TO EAT
, it said. The day after his arrest, he had begun a hunger strike. Five days after that, he was taken to Queen Mary Hospital.

There was a photograph this time. There was my father, casual as Saturday morning, wearing a dark-colored sport shirt and light-colored trousers and reclining on a cot. A glass of water and a radio were on the table next to the bed. The caption read, “Schoene is little the worse from 6-day fast.” As I stared at the photograph, all I could think was,
He’s crazy.
And even though by that time my name had been twice changed—from Schoene to Shoen, and then from Shoen to my married name, Bradley—a part of me still wanted to wear a sandwich board around town, or to publish something in the paper that said,
He’s not my father. I don’t even know him.

The government had made arrangements for my father to travel on the same ship that had taken him to Hong Kong, the Norwegian vessel
Fernside,
which was to sail for the U.S. three days later. But luck was with my father: the ship developed engine trouble and had to be taken to the docks for repairs, and when it sailed, my father was still not on board because the government felt he should be on a ship with medical care, and the
Fernside
had none. He would be deported as soon as a proper ship was available.

Then, just as suddenly as he’d begun his fast, he broke it. The paper did not say why, only that there were rumors of a visit from a friend recently arrived from Shanghai, but there was another photograph. This time my father was sitting up and eating congee and chicken soup.

Finally, on April 30, 1954, the last article:

SCHOENE LEAVES QUIETLY, OUSTED BY HONG KONG

An unheralded departure from Hong Kong was made by American Joseph Schoene, 47, aboard the Swedish American Lines vessel
Wangaratta,
bound for Vancouver, B.C., and Seattle. Schoene boarded the ship at 5:30
P.M.
yesterday. “He left quietly and of his own accord,” a U.S. Consulate official stated. Schoene said that he had “run out of legal options in trying to offset the Hong Kong government’s decision” that he must leave the colony. He called the actions of Hong Kong’s government “a shame, a disgrace, and a gross injustice. I tried to pick up the threads of my life, breaking no laws and endeavoring to make a living. But I found out democracy is only preached, not practiced.”

Schoene said he will be visiting relatives in the United States. He will not pursue any further legal action. He has left his share of the Glenbrook Poultry Farm in Aberdeen to Miss Leung Mancheung, a longtime friend from Shanghai, who arrived in Hong Kong last week.

I knew from experience that if my father had left Hong Kong on April 29, he would be arriving in Seattle three weeks later, somewhere around May 20. As that day drew closer, I found myself as nervous as if I expected him to show up on my doorstep. Though I knew it was irrational, sharing a continent with him made me anxious, and the only thing I could do was try not to think of him, and, when I did, to change the subject in my mind as easily as I changed it in conversation on those rare occasions when his name was mentioned.

My mother insisted on having a party for Jack and me for our first wedding anniversary. She said we’d had everyone over to our house far too many times for newlyweds, and that it was only right for someone else to play host once in a while. And so on the eighth of July, Jack and I went to her house for dinner. It was supposed to be a barbecue, and my mother had said to dress casually, but “casual” to my mother usually meant “dressy” to everyone else. Jack wore khaki trousers and a white shirt and plaid bow tie, and looked like he was nineteen. I wore a navy blue sundress that I loved, never mind the fact that it was a little tight in the waist.

We walked from our apartment to my mother’s house, Jack carrying half a dozen roses he’d picked from our backyard for my mother. When she met us at the door, I was speechless, for she wore a fitted dress of pink and gold brocade and she looked beautiful.
Cheongsam,
I thought when I saw her, the word a surprise, for I had not thought of it for years. The dress was familiar, though from long ago. When my mother saw my look, she shrugged.

“It’s from Shanghai days,” she said. “I’ve lost a little weight, and I was curious about whether or not it still fit.” She looked down and smoothed her dress and seemed shy and almost girlish for a moment. “It was my favorite dress, a long time ago. Does it look silly?”

I shook my head. “No, it’s beautiful,” I said. “
You’re
beautiful. You look like a movie star.” And I was surprised to see her blush. My mother had never been one to need compliments.

Jack nodded. “That’s some dress. You look great, simple as that. And you sure don’t look like a mother-in-law.”

My mother beamed like a schoolgirl, and I squeezed Jack’s hand, grateful that he’d made her smile, for there was a frailty about her that worried me.

When everyone was there, Jack and I were toasted with my grandmother’s sangria. Jack’s father grilled hamburgers on the patio and there was sweet corn on the cob and more fruit than anyone could eat—watermelon and peaches and Bing cherries and strawberries, all bought from a fruit stand at Farmer’s Market that my grandmother insisted had the best fruit in Southern California. It was the kind of party where the guests were like a big family. People wandered in and out of the house the way they wandered in and out of each other’s conversations, and the sound of talking and laughter was constant, always to a backdrop of whatever record Jack had put on—“Mr. Sandman” by the Chordettes, “Hey There” by Rosemary Clooney, “That’s Amore” by Dean Martin. Everyone knew each other, at least from our wedding if not before, and when Heather, in the middle of conversation with Peter Shelton, a friend of Jack’s from UCLA, called to me, “Anna, when did you and your mother move to South Pasadena?” I had to think for a minute, for it seemed I’d been there all of my life. Shanghai was like something imagined.