by Bo Caldwell
This happens with Will now. He has been gone for twenty-seven days, and I frequently I think I see him striding across the courtyard or coming into the house or sitting at his desk, only to realize that I’m seeing a shadow or a tree or a man who actually looks nothing like Will. Then the torment begins. What if he has not returned by next week? By next month? What if he never returns?
At times my fear overwhelms me. Last night I woke in the dark and the panic seemed unbearable. All sorts of horrible possibilities presented themselves in my mind, fantasies that I would not entertain in the daytime but that took hold of me in the dark of our bedroom and seemed completely real. As I lay there alone, I became convinced that Will had been killed, and my breathing quickened and my heart began to beat so hard that it was all I could do not to cry out.
I heard the door open. Then I heard soft footsteps and knew it was Mo Yun; I smelled the ocher-colored sesame oil that she massages into her long braid each night. I heard her move toward the bed and I felt her leaning over me. I was ashamed of my lack of faith, but I whispered, “I am so afraid.”
Mo Yun didn’t speak; she just rested her hand on my back then began to trace circles with her fingers—across my shoulders and down my spine, back and forth, up and down, again and again. As she did, my heartbeat slowed and my chest relaxed, and I began to feel calmer. When my breathing was normal, Mo Yun lay down next to me on our bed and I heard her inhale deeply, then exhale. She did it again, and her breathing was like an instruction: Do this, she seemed to be saying, breathe. So I did, and as I matched my breathing to hers, my fears subsided and I fell asleep.
When twenty-four days had passed and I felt I’d examined every bandit several times, the bandit chief himself came to my small cell, a first, and escorted me to his son. I had checked the boy each day, and each day there had been indications that he was healing, or at least that there was no infection: his color was good, his eyes were alert, and he had no fever, each a small miracle. Another miracle: the plaster remained just as I had applied it.
I congratulated the boy. “You have taken good care of yourself,” I said. “It has greatly helped your healing.”
He glared at me.
I asked for boiled water, and when it was delivered I began to wet the adhesive, my fingers shaking under Hsiao Lao’s scrutiny. Finally I removed the plaster and saw yet another miracle: the cut had healed, not perfectly but adequately, leaving a bumpy and fairly prominent pink scar.
Hsiao Lao was pleased. He let out his breath and examined his son closely, then looked at me. “Mu shih, you are indeed a healer. From this time forward you are also my friend, and I am releasing you. In the future, you need not fear any harm; you have my protection. I have saved your life twice; you have saved the life of my son. These things are equal, and our fates are now linked.” He looked at me intently for a moment then, as if seeing the future. “It is said that in times of peace one should not forget danger. I am certain that one day you will value my help. We will meet again.”
I bowed slightly, from sarcasm more than respect, for I was tired of him and worn down inside. “Something to look forward to,” I said.
My bandit gazed at me for another moment. Then he turned his back to me, and I was free to go.
I was made to walk blindfolded for several hours with two bandits, the three of us walking single file, so that I was continually tripping on the heels of one and being shoved by the other. There were so many turns in the road that I wondered if we were going in circles; perhaps it was a trick and I was to be killed after all. But finally we passed through what felt like a narrow gorge; I felt walls of rock on either side of me and the air became cool. Not long after that, one of the men removed my blindfold. I shielded my eyes with my hand, waiting for them to adjust to the daylight, and when they had, I looked out on a long narrow valley I had never seen before. Hsiao Lao had made a great show of returning my compass as a parting gift, and I took it from my pocket and saw that I was facing slightly southeast. One of the bandits pointed due south, then the two of them turned and left me standing alone on the narrow path. For a moment I didn’t move; I couldn’t believe I was truly free. Then I started for home.
As the bandit chief had kept my watch, I had no idea what time it was when I was released; I guessed it was mid-morning. I walked until late in the day, when the sun had dissolved and the sky was drained of its color. On another day, I would have stopped for the night then, but I kept walking, certain that I was close enough to make it safely to Kuang P’ing Ch’eng and unwilling to rest until I was home. I walked longer and farther than I ever had in one day, stopping only at village inns along the way for a drink of weak tea.
I estimated I had been walking for twelve hours by the time I saw the outline of Kuang P’ing Ch’eng’s wall against the horizon, and out of joy I ran until my strength failed me. When I couldn’t run anymore I walked, more and more slowly, but I made progress and at last I reached the wall and made my way to East Gate.
The city’s four gates were locked at sundown, after which there was no way in or out of the city except by permit or special favor from the magistrate. But East Gate had a smaller gate within it that had a peephole and was guarded all night by armed soldiers. It could be opened after the large main gate had been closed, and when I finally reached it, I leaned heavily against it, the wood rough against my face. “I am Kung P’ei Te,” I called weakly. “My home is on Ch’ien Chia Chieh, just inside East Gate.” Nothing. “I am Kung P’ei Te,” I said again. “This is my home.”
I heard hurried conversation, and I was asked if I was alone. I answered yes and said the magistrate was my friend and that he would give them permission to open the gate.
I was amazed then to hear Chung Hao’s voice, telling the guards to let me in. More conversation followed, words I couldn’t make out, and finally the smaller gate was opened, and I was allowed to enter the city.
Chung Hao was waiting for me. “Each night I have been keeping watch,” he said quietly. “My heart has been gray, mu shih.”
I could only nod. With Chung Hao supporting me, we walked the short distance from East Gate to our street, and soon our home was in view.
It was by then very late at night, and when we reached the house I was surprised to find Katherine in the kitchen, her back to me. I was extremely weak, but the sight of her gave me strength and I remained standing instead of collapsing on a chair, which was what I had looked forward to doing for several hours.
Katherine turned when she heard my steps and dropped the wooden spoon she was holding when she saw me. Her face was thin and drawn, her eyes wide and anxious, and she looked very thin. For a moment we stared at each other without speaking, and I saw in her expression the same fear that had lived in my heart: that we would never see each other again. Then she ran to me and nearly knocked me over, and I held her close and breathed in the scent of soap and something else that was only her, and I felt her tremble in my arms. She whispered, “Chu liao fan mu yu?”—Have you eaten?—and I laughed and felt delight and relief, for it is the first thing the Chinese ask, a sign of hospitality, and it meant that I was home.
Late that night, after my first bath and real meal in thirty-one days, I lay in bed next to Katherine, grateful for her embrace and the welcome of her body. I was exhausted in every way and was sure sleep would quickly overtake me.
But it didn’t; something kept me awake, and I realized it was the stillness. The quality of the silence in our home was different; there was a feeling of absence in it that until then I had not allowed myself to register. As I lay there in the dark, I began to fathom the permanence of our daughter’s death, and I felt as though I had been struck. I said something or moaned, I don’t know which, and I was afraid I had disturbed Katherine. But she was awake, and I felt her turn toward me. She put her arms around me, and for a moment all I heard was the sound of her breathing. Then she said, “I know.”
Something inside me gave way and I could no longer ignore the sad
ness I had been carrying with me like a stone every day since April 11. Katherine held me to her, and for the first time since burying our child I surrendered to my grief, and to my wife’s consolation.
Famine
1918–1922
My wife was the kindest and most generous person I have ever known, devoted to helping the people around her. She worked long hours during the day, and at night she read medical texts and pored over pharmaceutical catalogs, carefully choosing which supplies we could afford, knowing that some or all of what she ordered would never reach us due to banditry. She was also one of the most stubborn people I’ve ever met, often determined to do things her own way, regardless of the toll it took on her health.
Once at the end of a long day of seeing patients, when I could see she was exhausted, I suggested that perhaps those remaining could wait until the next day for her help. She regarded me sternly.
“Which of these would you send home?” she asked, and she motioned to three men sitting in front of us. “Him?” She pointed to a man whose eyes were so inflamed they were nearly swollen shut. “Or perhaps him?” The next man was coughing hoarsely. “Or him?” The third man was bent over in pain, holding his stomach. She faced me again. “Will, would you have us care for their souls and ignore their bodies?”
I had no reply, for she was right; we communicated our faith less by preaching than by acting, less through our words than through the work of our hands. I abandoned my argument and made myself useful.
But as Katherine worried over her patients, I worried over her, for I had begun to understand that, if we were to stay in Kuang P’ing Ch’eng as long as I hoped, she would have to learn to spend her energy more carefully. The threat of overwork was a concern for anyone in the mission field in China, for the simple reason that there was always so much need. But the life was particularly hard on women, and especially on those with Katherine’s temperament, for while others rested when the work began to take its physical toll, she did not. She pushed herself until she finally collapsed from sickness or fatigue.
January of 1918 was one of those times. Her illness started with her old headache accompanied by abdominal pain and a high fever, with chills so severe her teeth chattered. Her symptoms led her to believe that she was experiencing a worse-than-usual episode of malaria, which she had contracted during her first year in China and of which she was never completely cured; she suffered repeated attacks over the years. This time, despite treating herself with quinine, she continued to run a fever and became weaker by the day. One morning she said she felt a bit faint and a moment later her legs gave out underneath her, leaving her unable to walk. Still, she wouldn’t stay in bed; she wanted to lie on the couch in the sitting room so that she could see through the large window that looked out on the courtyard. There she would stay until I carried her back to bed later in the day. She had always been small, but with the illness she lost weight, so that picking her up was like lifting a child.
She tried to diagnose herself and wondered aloud in a matter-of-fact way about typhoid or some type of bacterial infection. She prescribed for herself various pills and tonics, which concerned me a great deal as I was not convinced that her mind was clear. But I also knew there was no point in arguing with her; doing so when her mind was set only made us both unhappy.
It seemed that to fully recuperate and regain her strength she would need an extended period of rest. Because I could not imagine this happening in China, I suggested to her that when she was well enough to travel, we return to the United States for a furlough. By then we had been in China for nearly twelve years, twice the time missionaries typically spent in the field without furlough. We had not planned it this way; we had simply never wanted to leave, even briefly. But a furlough was now a good idea for several reasons, I told her: we could see our families, and we could visit American Mennonite churches and tell them of our work and perhaps increase our financial support. While we were gone, we could leave our work and our home in the care of Chung Hao and Mo Yun. The only argument I didn’t make was the real one, the one that kept me awake at night: my fears about her health.
Katherine didn’t like this plan when I brought it up, but I was persistent and eventually she agreed. The next problem was money: we couldn’t afford the tickets to the United States. Over the next month she began to regain her strength, and around that time a businessman from Tsinan heard from mutual friends of our plans. This man offered to advance us the money for the journey, saying that his wife was in the United States and that we could repay her there. With his loan we had enough for overland travel to the coast, steerage passage across the Pacific, and train fare from Seattle to Oklahoma.
We left Kuang P’ing Ch’eng in March of 1918, and arrived two months later in Clinton, nine miles from my family’s farm on the Washita River in Bessie. I had written to my family that we were coming, but my letter had not arrived, so that when I telephoned home from the station, they were shocked to hear from me. My mother said my brother Henry was in the fields but was expected home with the wagon soon and would come for us then. When he finally did, he drove the same spring wagon my father had used to plow the fields for many years. He looked distressed when he saw us, and I apologized for the lack of warning. Henry forgave me but I felt him thinking You are still the same slow negligent old Will that you always were, which was exactly how I felt. In Kuang P’ing Ch’eng, I shouldered responsibilities I had never imagined I could, but the moment I returned home, I felt like my old self, doubtful and insecure.
When I stepped through the door of my family’s house, the fact that I was home hit me as abruptly as if I had been awakened from a dream. I smelled coffee and freshly baked bread and my mother’s lavender talc, and the spring afternoon light fell in through the windows and made the inside of the house glow. From the kitchen I heard my older sisters laughing and talking together as they prepared a dinner I’d grown up on and that now seemed an extravagance—baked ham and green beans, candied sweet potatoes, cucumbers with vinegar and sour cream. My sisters, slender girls when I left home, were now stout wives and mothers.
My mother was in the living room, sitting in the bentwood rocker my father had made when they were first married. The room had not changed: the sewing machine and a basket of mending were by the window where the light was good, the rocker was near the fireplace for warmth, and the curtains were as crisp and white as if they had been washed and ironed that morning. When my mother heard me enter, she stood with difficulty and I saw how frail she had become. I had tried to warn myself that she would have aged while I had been gone, but I was still shocked by her appearance. She was a widow and an old woman; her hair was white and her eyes were cloudy, and her hands shook as she reached out to me. When we embraced she whispered, “Mein lieber Junge”—my dear boy—and I was overcome with missing home and being there at the same time, and the fact of my father’s passing years earlier was suddenly painful and new again.
We had arrived at the start of the winter wheat harvest, and because there was a shortage of labor I took a job working in the field. When the harvesting was complete, there was more work to be done; some of the large fields in the area had never been cleared of their shrubs and small trees, and I worked at cutting down blackjack oaks, using our wagon and horses to haul the wood home, which made me feel I was earning our keep.
In late August, after spending three months with my family, we left to travel to Katherine’s family farm in South Dakota. As my eldest brother drove us to the train station, Katherine asked him to stop in the apple orchard. The trees had been almost completely stripped of fruit; all that remained were the apples in the highest branches, out of reach. “The best ones are the hardest to get,” Katherine said. She got out of the wagon and, with her long skirt hiked up, climbed tree after tree as easily as a boy, adding a dozen ripe apples to our stash. The sight of her high in the branches warmed my heart; I had not seen her so healthy since our first years in China. In South Dakota, Katherine’s family w
elcomed us and we stayed with them for another few months, and with familiar food and more rest than she’d had in years, my wife’s health continued to improve.
When we left Katherine’s family, we traveled across the central United States, visiting the Mennonite churches and communities who supported us, as well as others we hoped might become interested. Our mission organization, the China Mennonite Missionary Society, drew its recruits and supporters from three of the Mennonite church’s many branches: the Krimmer Mennonite Brethren (Edward’s church), the Mennonite Brethren (my family’s church), and the Evangelical Mennonite Brethren (Naomi and Katherine’s family’s church). We spoke to one community after another about our work and the needs of the people of China, just as Edward Geisler had done years before, and we had moderate success: some churches pledged ongoing support, others took offerings for us, and a few individuals promised us aid in the future.
Our furlough had a bittersweetness I had not anticipated. I had expected to feel at home the second we stepped onto American soil, but instead I felt out of place. The farm I had grown up on felt familiar but also foreign, the abundance of food and goods uncomfortable. Every meal was a feast—pot roast and new potatoes, spareribs and sauerkraut, fried chicken and dressing, spice cake, rhubarb pie, cherry cobbler—and while I had never thought of my family as wealthy, we certainly were compared to the way Katherine and I lived in China. But the longer we stayed in our old home, the more I longed for our new one.
April 30, 1919
We left Seattle nearly six weeks ago and arrived in Kuang P’ing Ch’eng late last night. As we neared the city, people we met along the way greeted us and accompanied us on our way, and by the time we reached East Gate word of our return had outdistanced our cart and we found a hundred people waiting for us. When we could finally see the city wall it was nearly dark, and I worried the guards wouldn’t open the gate for us. But when we reached it we found it open, with Chung Hao and Mo Yun and so many friends waiting for us that it took nearly an hour to reach our home.
