House of Kwa

by Mimi Kwa

  ‘Perhaps they have forgotten us,’ Ying Kam says hopefully, knowing full well the Kwas are not forgotten.

  ‘Collaborate or die’ is the clear message everywhere, on the streets and at kitchen tables. Ying Kam has endured countless ‘meetings’ with senior Japanese soldiers over the handover of his factories, and he must bow to them as though they are royalty before and after they meet. But the occupiers are careful not to antagonise or kill a golden goose. Kwa factories produce embroidered fabrics sold the world over, and the Japanese understand they must tread delicately so as not to compromise production any more than they already have – a maimed or dead director of enterprise is not in the interest of Imperialism.

  Before the occupation, Hong Kong’s population was 1.6 million, but there are fewer than half that number now. The Kwas can provide value to the Japanese, and this might be their only way to survive. ‘Collaborate or die,’ Tak Lau hears his mother mutter as she picks at a pale-yellow stalk floating in grey broth. She has been feeding most of her share of rice to her sons for weeks and is growing thinner.

  With no school to attend, Tak Lau fixates on finding a job. He is tall and well built for his age. His mother and older sisters give him and his brother bigger portions to keep them robust enough to support the family. Apart from visiting the blessed rooftop, Theresa and Clara haven’t been outside in sunlight for years; they cannot work, so Ng Yuk orders that they give part of their meals to those who can. If only First Son were here to help, but he is twenty-five and long married, so Ng Yuk must rely on her two younger boys to supplement whatever Ying Kam can bring in. His brother Eng Lee has been stranded with three of his children in Shanghai since the occupation began and Eng Lee’s wife has been holding the fort – looking after their own remaining sons and daughters, as well as the Swatow Lace shop when it’s open.

  ‘The Japanese are taking girls and raping them. Mrs Wong down the street is dying of sorrow.’ It is another day, and Ng Yuk is worrying into another bowl of grey broth. ‘She rubbed dirt on her daughter’s cheeks. She told them that little Yip Niya was stained and dirty and a horrid child, that taking her would curse them.’ Her voice becomes desperate. ‘Mrs Wong held Yip Niya so tight. Then they dragged her away from her mother.’ There is horror in Ng Yuk’s eyes. ‘She was only ten. We must not let them find our girls.’

  Lately Ng Yuk has taken to rocking back and forth muttering worries, mostly to herself or to Ying Kam if he is there, or just into her soup. She slaps a maid who rises from massaging her gnarled feet. ‘If you so much as breathe a word about my girls,’ she says with a scowl.

  The maid is provided with just enough food to stay of service. Where would she go anyway? It hadn’t crossed her mind to disclose the location of the children to the occupiers; she has barely the strength to think, let alone to conspire. The mistress is growing madder, she realises.

  ‘Now take me to relieve myself,’ Ng Yuk orders.

  Tak Lau has an opportunity to join his family at work in the factory, but constant military surveillance at the business makes it far less enticing than his dream occupation of working with metal. He begs the local blacksmith, Mr Soon Tun, for a job. The man’s business remains intact: he repairs carriage wheel fixtures and household iron decorations, as well as carrying out industrial repairs, and soldering, pressing, bending and folding iron under extreme heat then hammering it into shape. He doubles as a pawnbroker of metal, either selling it on as is to a factory, where it’s melted down and repurposed, or refashioning it for wholesale to one of the many trinket shop owners with whom he regularly does business.

  Since the occupation, under duress, Soon Tun has expanded his business to include work on gun barrels, axe heads and bayonet spikes. The original Kwa family name is Ke, which is written with the same character as Kwa. It’s pronounced Ke by Mandarin speakers in the north of China and Kwa by Cantonese speakers in the south. Ke and Kwa both mean ‘handle of an axe’. Tak Lau’s fascination with flattening and folding iron is therefore connected to the legacy of his family name.

  ‘I’m strong,’ the boy says, flexing a scrawny arm, ‘I can follow instruction’ – he does a mock salute – ‘and I am a hard worker.’ He screws up his face in a fiercely determined expression. ‘Please.’

  ‘I can only pay you in rice.’ Soon Tun places his large calloused hands on the crevassed benchtop and examines the neatly dressed boy before him. ‘The soldiers take all my Hong Kong dollars and give me back half the value in yen.’ The blacksmith pulls on his right earlobe out of habit. ‘Then they tax what’s left.’

  His hair is greyer than the last time Tak Lau saw him, before the occupation, during one of the boy’s missions to appraise hardware stores in the area. He would always stop at the blacksmith shop and sit on the step at the broad front entrance, watching customers come and go with all manner of iron and other metal for repair. It was thrilling to see.

  ‘How much rice?’ Tak Lau asks astutely.

  ‘I have an extra ration card. I can pay you 2.4 ounces of rice per day.’

  Tak Lau can’t contain his excitement – a broad grin emerges with the marvellous realisation he has a job. A whole extra allowance of rice, every day!

  ‘You can start tomorrow,’ Soon Tun says. ‘Tell your parents you won’t be touching the furnace.’

  Tak Lau is a little disappointed about that last point, but he skips home anyway, and the next day he flies over the cobblestones leading to Soon Tun’s workshop. Excitement courses through him; he can finally take his obsession with twisting and bending wire and tin to the next level. He is a working boy now.

  Mr Soon Tun looks up from a bayonet he is working on to see Tak Lau bound in. The blacksmith waves a muscular arm in greeting. His hand is like a steak, the boy thinks. His fingers are sausages.

  Tak Lau hangs a small lunch satchel and a hat on a black iron hook. The rough timber wall is covered in hooks; opposite, a grey brick wall holds hundreds of smaller ones pressed into the mortar, laden with tools and loops of wire and rope. Tak Lau’s lunch stays warm in a round tin container tucked in his bag; it is his umpteenth day in a row of cooked rice and a few vegetables. No wonder Soon Tun’s blackened, greasy hand looks delectable.

  By day three Tak Lau has learned the names of all Soon Tun’s tools, and he quickly develops the ability to predict which instrument is needed before the master reaches for it. When the crew of adult workers are forging by the dozen with sledgehammers on anvils, Tak Lau manages to assist everyone. He is becoming indispensable. Weeks of metalwork bliss bring extra rice for Mother and the girls to eat their complete share again, and Tak Lau’s heart is full at the knowledge they are returning to health thanks to him. On occasion Ng Yuk sends a few morsels upstairs to Happy Shadow, who returns the favour when she can.

  Flames from the furnace reflect in Tak Lau’s eyes, and for a moment he is mesmerised as he imagines taking over the blacksmith business one day, standing at the helm, his own large, calloused hands on the counter. There’s often talk of succession in the House of Kwa, as naturally boys will inherit the Swatow Lace family business. There will be more than enough contenders to take over. Although Ying Kam founded the shop, Eng Lee took charge before leaving for Shanghai, coinciding with President Sun Yat-sen himself appointing the Kwa to a committee overseeing the entire Chinese districts of Chiuchow and Mei-hsien. ‘A significant honour,’ the adults tell Tak Lau. ‘Your uncle, very important man.’ He is the arbiter for the business now. But silk and embroidery are not Tak Lau’s thing anyway so he pays no mind to these grown-up concepts – he’s much more at home here with tools and fire.

  While the boy’s mind wanders, Soon Tun holds out a meaty hand in search of the axe he needs. Tak Lau is meant to be standing by. He snaps out of his daydream and hastily reaches for the handle, knocking the axe off the wall. The blade slices his hand, and he yelps then bites the inside of his lip to hold back tears.

  A worker wraps a filthy rag around the bloody wound. To Tak Lau, the shame of his misc
alculation far outweighs the pain. Embarrassed, he leaves without his portion of rice and walks home nursing his pride.

  Ng Yuk is furious their food supply has been compromised, and Tak Lau cries as Theresa cleans the cut, winds cloth around it and whispers – so as not to upset Mother further – reassurances to him. ‘It will need stitches, Mother,’ Theresa looks up to say, so Ng Yuk sends Elder Brother to find a doctor.

  All the British doctors are imprisoned in internment camps. They surface only to work in military hospitals to operate on Japanese soldiers injured in accidents or Japanese naval workers who’ve caught the fire of an air raid, but they don’t tend to the local population anymore. Elder Brother returns with a Chinese man, Dr Huang.

  ‘Bite this.’ He hands Tak Lau a dry cotton washcloth, rolled up so the boy can fit his mouth around it. Theresa moves her chair closer and places an arm tightly around her little brother’s shoulders as Dr Huang disinfects the wound with alcohol. He begins stitching as calmly as if the skin were a swathe of silk at a Kwa factory.

  Tak Lau is delirious with pain. He can’t tell which is worse: the burning alcohol or the sting each time the needle punctures his skin. Then, of course, there’s the drag and cut of Dr Huang pulling the thread taut.

  ‘Leave it a week at least,’ he tells Ng Yuk. ‘After that he can return to usual duties.’ The doctor shakes his head to refuse the small bag of rice she offers him before he leaves.

  The next day Ng Yuk makes the short journey, on her tiny lotus feet, to the blacksmith shop. Her traditional silk-draped elegance is striking amid the blackened, greasy men in filthy singlets.

  ‘Thank you for employing my son.’ Ng Yuk flashes a bewitching smile at Soon Tun who takes one hand off the counter to pull on his earlobe.

  She notices a boy behind him trying to reach a tool high above. Stupid boy, she thinks. Why doesn’t he just use the stool next to him to climb up?

  She faces Soon Tun, who has noticed her noticing his new employee. ‘It would be terrible’ – she lowers her gaze – ‘if anyone were to find out you deliberately harmed a child. Punishing him like that with an axe.’ Ng Yuk is living up to her reputation: she is not a woman to be messed with. ‘Tak Lau looks forward to returning to work with you once he has recovered.’ The diminutive woman stares the large sooty man squarely in the eye.

  Everyone knows Ng Yuk is a flagrant collaborator. Soon Tun has heard stories about her welcoming Japanese soldiers into her home – inviting them! He nods, and she turns to leave. Then he takes a parting shot. ‘You’d send your son down a coalmine if it meant more food for you.’

  ‘Isn’t that exactly what this is?’ Ng Yuk asks, casting her eyes theatrically around the grimy workshop before exiting as elegantly as she entered.

  MAHJONG AND BARRELS

  ON HER WAY HOME NG YUK RUNS INTO MR CHUNG, THE Japanese warrant officer in charge of the Kwas’ borough. He picked up some Cantonese during his time as a Japanese spy in Hong Kong pre-occupation, and Ng Yuk has been helping him to improve his fluency. Knowledge of Cantonese is an advantage when communicating with the Chinese population, though few occupiers will admit it; the political line is to use English and Japanese only.

  ‘I will see you upon the hour for mahjong,’ Mr Chung says, nodding respectfully as Ng Yuk bows as low as her balance will allow.

  ‘I very much look forward to seeing you and any other warrant officers or sergeants who wish to play today.’ She smiles, taking her leave.

  Mr Chung is most respectful and bows his head again, rather taken with Ng Yuk and her graceful ways. She gestures like a Chinese opera singer, her silks making every movement more dramatic. He watches her disappear around a corner.

  Once she’s out of sight, Ng Yuk leans against a wall – her feet are killing her. She looks up at the clear blue sky and hopes her good mahjong skills will help save her family.

  Her Hanfu silks conceal a swelling belly. Another baby grows inside her: a child to be born into the occupation.

  That afternoon, Tak Lau is at the kitchen table nursing his stitches when three soldiers enter without knocking. Mr Chung greets the boy in Cantonese, and the other two nod before all three make their way out onto the large tiled balcony. A round table has been set up for mahjong with branch chairs at its north, east, south and west. The officers remove pistols from their holsters and place them on spare branch chairs at the balcony’s edge, then lean their rifles against a wall. A maid pours Chinese tea.

  Ng Yuk emerges looking every bit the lady of the house, having changed her outfit since that morning. She and Mr Chung conduct a serious mahjong conversation in Cantonese, while the two other officers find it difficult to keep up.

  ‘Our army is on a recruitment drive,’ Mr Chung mentions just as, at Ng Yuk’s behest, all four pairs of hands reach in to shuffle the 144 tiles in the middle of the table. ‘Will you be dealer?’ he asks her.

  She nods. ‘Help me build the walls.’ She gently raises the sleeve of her garment to reveal her dainty wrist, a tantalising gesture of Japanese geishas. As they stack the tiles into four walls, Ng Yuk continues in Cantonese, ‘Now choose thirteen tiles.’ Mr Chung has played many times with Ng Yuk; her explanation is for the benefit of the other officers, who are here to learn the language as they play the game.

  To begin, she turns over an extra tile. She starts to explain the chow, pung and kong suits to the bewildered men when Mr Chung interrupts. ‘Might your son be interested in joining our ranks? He can begin by helping out in the army barracks.’

  Ng Yuk looks over at the kitchen table, but Tak Lau is no longer there. Mr Chung gestures with his head to the corner of the balcony behind her; the boy is crouched over a rifle, running his hand across the cool metal barrel. ‘You’ll be able to have one of those when we’re finished with you, boy.’ Mr Chung directs this at Tak Lau but smiles at Ng Yuk.

  Collaborate or die, she thinks as she returns the smile with a nod.

  On Tak Lau’s first day there are none of the formalities one might expect of a military induction. He simply fronts up to the old cinema building as Mr Chung has instructed. The boy waits on his own for only a few minutes before the warrant officer arrives and appraises him, nodding with approval. The boy is turned out in the miniature uniform delivered to the House of Kwa last night, and to Mr Chung’s great satisfaction, Tak Lau remembers to bow low. The boy learns fast, Mr Chung thinks.

  Tak Lau follows the warrant officer into the barracks. What strikes the boy at first is the almost convivial atmosphere: calm, relaxed and so very unlike the chaos wreaked by these soldiers in the streets and homes of Hong Kong – beatings, executions, rapes and humiliations. It’s not always like that, of course, but when it’s all that people speak of, it feels as though the terror never rests. Here, the soldiers smile and give almost imperceptible nods, acknowledging Tak Lau as Mr Chung leads him down a corridor. The boy has seen what these men are capable of, but despite the horror they have visited upon his life, he puts his fear aside. He is a spy on a mission: a child in a classified domain with access to all areas. Fascinated by how the new ruling class lives, he is thrilled to be taken under its wing.

  ‘You can begin by polishing the boots,’ Mr Chung says.

  Tak Lau takes in a huge hall containing rows of stretcher beds and tatami mats, some with sleeping bodies in them, presumably the night shift. Hoarded items of furniture and art are stacked along the walls, and stolen personal items such as coats and scarves are stuffed into crevices. This is the theatre complex Tak Lau used to sneak into with Elder Brother to watch national defence films about China resisting Japan’s invasion, and now he is joining that very enemy. Rows of chairs are piled against a long wall to the right of the cavernous hall, the decorative vaulted ceiling making the barrack beds seem diminutive.

  Mr Chung asks a subordinate to help Tak Lau set up a place to shine shoes. Once word circulates, the boy is polishing boots all day.

  ‘The barracks even have a sauna, Mama,’ he tells Ng Yuk excitedly a
s he walks in the door. He dumps a parcel of fish on the kitchen table, puffing out his chest.

  Mother acts disinterested. ‘Go clean yourself, you make the whole house smell like boot polish.’

  When Tak Lau is gone, she unwraps the fish. It stinks. She is about to shout something about rotten fish, but a maid slides the package to the other side of the table. ‘Shall I cook it now?’ she asks, and Ng Yuk gives a brusque nod.

  After dark the family gathers round to hear about Tak Lau’s adventure. There is an ongoing curfew for the Hong Kong Chinese. White bankers are still locked up in a hotel, while civilian expats who haven’t been killed remain in the internment camp at St Stephen’s College in Stanley, at the southern end of the Island: 2800 men, women and children.

  Theresa and Clara join the others around the table. Mother puts a bowl of grey broth under Theresa’s nose, and she crinkles it up at the smell – something unfamiliar is floating in it. ‘Fish,’ says Mother. Like the rest of the family, Theresa hasn’t eaten meat, let alone fish, in months. She scoops up the rancid morsel cautiously in an embellished green ceramic spoon, then brings it to her lips.

  ‘And Mr Chung says he’ll have other jobs for me tomorrow,’ Tak Lau says, chewing enthusiastically.

  Soon enough, Tak Lau is a trusted messenger for the Japanese officers as well as their shoe-shiner. He returns to his position at the blacksmith shop as well. With no school to attend, he works hard juggling his two jobs. Each day he slaps a parcel of rotten fish and an extra cup of rice on the kitchen table. He watches his mother’s face glow with pride, then almost instantly she appears disinterested again. He has seen her vote of confidence, though, and it makes him feel like a man of the house. Father is gone long hours at the factories, which he says are no longer his, and Tak Lau daydreams about rising through the ranks of the Japanese Army, taking back Swatow Lace and bringing the enemy to its knees.