by Amy Kwei
The boom of big guns was now everywhere. The crashing sounds of tank treads and whirring engine warned him of the approaching tanks. In the short intervals between explosions, he peered out from his crouched position and watched the tanks approach in a rough V-formation. The lead tank advancing on his left would be about ten yards away and slightly to his back, he surmised. He would have just enough time to turn and lob another grenade on the second tank coming to his right. He rushed out, a grenade already in the cradle of his sling. Pulling the pin with his teeth, he swung the grenade expertly on target, hitting the lead tank. There was no time to savor his success. He sprang around, cradled another grenade in his sling, pulled another pin with his teeth, and swung the grenade at the second advancing tank. The grenade fell short of its mark as the tank growled past him. He took cover behind the brick wall and waited for the third tank to come from the left.
Meanwhile, the second tank turned. A cloud of dust and smoke from the battlefield shielded its action. The soldier in the turret trained his sights directly on the brick wall where the grenade swinger had been hiding. He fired. Incredibly, the grenade swinger emerged from the cloud of smoke like an apparition. He was whistling as he moved toward the tank.
“This one is for you, my Crystal!” Glorious Dragon shouted as he marched jauntily forward. He broke into the most popular patriotic tune of the time:
“Arise, those who would not be slaves,*
Use our blood and flesh
To build a new great wall.”
Perhaps the enemy soldier paused in his turret because he was surprised. When Glorious Dragon stood still to reload his slingshot, the blast from the big gun sent him rolling onto the ground, but again it had missed him. He was already too close to the tank. The man in the gun turret had lost sight of him. The soldier from the tank would have to emerge to shoot him. Glorious Dragon crawled painfully forward.
“Arise, arise,” he sang as loudly as he could to obliterate his pain. “We are united . . . go forward, forward . . .”
Coming in close, he pulled the pins on two grenades with his teeth, and holding them against his chest, he rolled under the tank.
A deafening explosion filled the air.
In November 1938, the Huangs learned that the Imperial Army of Japan had confiscated their uniform factory. Instead of regret, both Righteous Virtue and Purple Jade felt only relief. The guilt of war profiteering had ended.
Iris wrote to say that Glorious Dragon and Bright Crystal had disappeared, leaving everyone to wonder where they were hiding. General Chin still held sway in Chungking, so the Huangs secretly hoped to see the lovers in Hong Kong.
In January 1939, Tall Man Wu sent Purple Jade a letter and a plaque from the Nationalist government, commemorating her brother’s bravery and announcing his death. Not only had he donated large supplies of arms, he had destroyed two tanks all by himself. His feat of valor so stirred the soldiers on the battlefield that they rose from the security of their trenches, held their caps in their hands, and silently paid tribute.
Among the personal effects returned was an American high school ring, which Golden Bell remembered seeing on the small finger of Iris’s husband.
The entire household grieved for Glorious Dragon. Comely Brook made a black armband for Righteous Virtue. The female members, including Little Jade, wore small, white, button-shaped yarn flowers in their hair to denote a family in mourning.
Purple Jade slipped into delirium. In her crazed howling, she told the winds that Glorious Dragon had been more than a younger half-brother. She had nurtured him like her first-born child, and her only son. She thanked his spirit and wailed that in recent years he had cared for her and her family, much as she would expect a son to do. “Yes, Glorious Dragon, my precious little brother, my baby” she cried, “you are more, far, far more than a filial son. Whenever you came, you brought laughter with your wit,” she keened with torrents of tears. “Oh sunshine, sunshine, your generosity is the sunshine for our family!” No one could calm her. She stumbled around the room, thrashed and moaned. “Your warm affection intoxicated our hearts, and your playfulness was my youthful renewal! Oh, why, oh why are you taken away from me?” She shoved everyone away, and no one dared interrupt her ranting, even though she scared the children and they had to be kept out of her range. After almost a week of drinking the herbal brew Comely Brook prepared, Purple Jade lapsed into silent bouts of depression. She stared into the void and refused to be fed and bathed. In time, Purple Jade was able to weep together with Comely Brook, Golden Bell, Silver Bell and Righteous Virtue. They proclaimed Glorious Dragon a modern patriot. He was a quintessential Chinese in his resourceful struggle for survival. He had used native cunning to maintain his independence. With his dedication, he had more than fulfilled his filial duties toward his family. He chose death and honor rather than a life of servitude or cowardly escape. Why was fate so blind? Purple Jade’s mind could not fathom a reason; nor would her heart yield its pain.
One day she announced that she was ready to return to her work. Comely Brook quickly notified the boat people. Soon, the demands of her work restored her equilibrium. She carried on, hiding her silent tears every night, not wishing to burden her family with her special loss. Once again, Tu Fu’s poem gave voice to her grief.
Sounds of anguish— hush, hush.
You entangle the loving strands of my heart.
Is there regret or lament when a man of valor pledges his life to his country?
Deeds of renown are emblazoned in the unicorn pavilion,
Bones of soldiers decay into oblivion.
NINE MONTHS PASSED as life settled into a steady rhythm for the Huang family in Hong Kong. Purple Jade regularly attended to the medical needs of the boat people in Aberdeen. The choicest seafood was her tangible reward.
Their house had been furnished with the practical simplicity of the tropics — tables and chairs of bamboo and rattan. The only touches of luxury were potted plants and embroidered silk cushions. The walls sweated in the damp, torpid air, forcing Purple Jade to remove the ancient calligraphy and paintings during the summer months. Nothing brightened the bare plastered walls of the living room then.
In early September 1939, the girls began another school year in the Catholic convent school, where the nuns wore hats with flaps that flared out like butterfly wings. They spoke French in the convent, and English in the convent school.
At first, the new Catholic environment confused the girls. Silver Bell often had questions for her mother. “Sister Felicie said there is only one God, and the Catholic Church is the only true church.” She fidgeted in her rattan chair, which squeaked and rustled as she moved.
“The Jade Emperor in heaven has many courtiers. Naturally, the followers of each courtier will want to claim they are the true, loyal ones,” Purple Jade explained as best she could. “The Catholics and the Protestants must be behaving like rival factions in the heavenly court.” She sat very still. The noise of Silver Bell’s flimsy chair annoyed her. The ever-oppressive humidity threatened to ignite all her nameless anger. She forced herself to be calm, refusing to criticize her children’s teachers. Teachers were spiritual parents. She had witnessed the destruction of her home and hearth, but she would not demolish her remaining values — however lifeless they might have become in this strange land. She had tried valiantly to make this her home. She lifted her palm-leafed fan and heaved a heavy sigh.
“But Sister Felicie said that the Jade Emperor is an idol. The Catholic God is the only true one,” exclaimed Silver Bell. “What I can’t understand is why Sister Felicie’s Catholic God is the same Christian one as Mrs. Curtis’s Protestant God in Shanghai, but somehow the Catholic Church can claim to be the true one.” She continued to twist and turn in her chair and began picking at a loose cane.
“Don’t pick at the chair, Silver Bell,” her mother chided. “The sage said: we must be generous and benign of heart.” She fanned herself. “By cultivating oneself, we can regulate the family
; by regulating the family, we can govern the state; by governing the state, we can bring peace on earth. When order and kindness direct the world, heaven will be pleased. All the intrigue in the Jade Emperor’s court is really none of our concern.”
“Oh, M-ma.” Golden Bell rolled her eyes. “You’re still quoting from the old books!”
Purple Jade nodded. Indeed, her answer would have sufficed in Hangzhou, but her home had become an ancient stage set that tumbled. She must tell her daughter something that made sense in these changing times. “I remember Miss Tyler telling you about their freedom of religion. Like us, the Americans want to take the best from all religions and look for harmony.”
“But M-ma.” Golden Bell shook her head. “You two are talking about two different things. Confucian scholars are concerned only with proper behavior on earth, but the Christians want to go to heaven.”
“M-ma, Golden Bell is right.” Silver Bell pulled a splinter from the chair, making it creak even more. “Sister Felicie said life on earth is not important. We must become like the Chinese bamboo, so that God may use us to build houses, furniture, carry loads, and be messengers of Christ, like . . . like . . . water pipes.”
“I have read that bamboo is a symbol of the Chinese.” Purple Jade sighed, remembering the cool breezes, the fresh scent, and the rustling melody of her bamboo groves by the river. Then the sight of black, sooty lengths of popping bamboo entered her mind. She closed her eyes firmly as she drew herself upright in her chair with a deep breath. She fanned herself in agitation. “I think it is a poetic symbol. Like the bamboo, we are a people who will bend but will not break. We are resilient. We have a natural thirst for life and family; that is what brings us peace.”
“I shall remember your comparison, M-ma.” Over the years, Golden Bell had learned to appreciate her mother’s patient, steadfast virtues. She also grew to understand her mother’s suffering, her strength, and her service to the boat people. Instinctively, she knew her mother’s classical learning was the steel in her gentle soul, and somehow the family would prevail under her guidance. She gave her sister a reproachful look with a motion of her hand and changed the subject.
“Look M-ma, I’m doing some sketches of the many types of plants in our garden. I still don’t know their names. The books in school are useless.” Golden Bell took out her sketchbook to show her mother.
“Why can’t your biology teacher help you?” asked her mother.
“Our school books all come from England, so they describe the plants of the temperate zone. Hong Kong is tropical. Father will have to take me to the Chinese Correspondents’ Club library. I will compare my drawings to the pictures in the books and find out their names.” Golden Bell held up a watercolor sketch of a Royal Poinciana tree that shaded most of their front garden. “Isn’t this the most exquisite tree you’ve ever seen? The blanket of red blossoms on top is like a huge umbrella. It is so dramatic!”
“What a lovely sketch!” Her mother was delighted with the diversion. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you had practiced calligraphy and Chinese painting all your life. We’ll frame this after you’ve found out the name of the tree.”
“M-ma, you’re so appreciative. Somehow my teachers always find faults.”
“Are you having trouble in school? Didn’t we give you a good foundation in English?”
“Well, my writing is all right, but my pronunciation of English is ‘so American’ as my teacher, Miss McCarthy, says.” Golden Bell lifted her chin, imitating Miss McCarthy’s haughty pose.
“American missionaries run the McTyeire School. Perhaps you also have seen too many American movies.” Her mother shook her head. “Is there really such a big difference in pronunciation? You’ll be graduating next summer. Will this affect your grades?”
“I hope Miss McCarthy doesn’t hold it against me, but she does make a fuss about it. Yesterday, we had to dramatize a poem by Longfellow.” Golden Bell stood up. She stretched out one arm and held an imaginary bow in the other. She drew on the invisible bow and arrow. “This is how Miss McCarthy sounds:
I shought an arrow into the ai--are,
It fell to earth I knew not wher-ah.”
Silver Bell rolled her eyeballs skyward. She giggled and clasped her hands to her chest, and collapsed onto the rattan sofa, as if stricken by the arrow. Little Jade toddled over. Imitating her half-sister, she rolled her large dark eyes and tumbled to the ground, giggling and squealing with joy. Everyone laughed, and Comely Brook clapped.
“Perhaps you should give up some American movies!” Purple Jade said. “If you want to graduate with honors.”
“I may not have to.” Golden Bell sighed. “The English cannot continue their snobbish ways once they are at war in Europe. England has . . .” The news from school was that England had declared war on Germany. She did not want to be the bearer of bad news. Her father would know best how to tell her fragile mother. She quickly continued, “England may declare war on Germany. There is talk in school that many English families are preparing to evacuate.”
Purple Jade felt a chill at the news of coming war. A sudden fog swirled in her head, but with the children around she was able to maintain her equilibrium. “Your father and I have talked about sending you to America.” She took a deep breath. “We have written to Miss Tyler and she has suggested Syracuse, New York, where she came from.”
“I don’t want to leave you!” Golden Bell answered, blinking back tears. She turned away to pick up Little Jade and tickle her belly. She smiled and cooed at the baby as she tried to regain control.
“Golden Bell still has another year before she matriculates!” Silver Bell chimed in.
“I’ll cut down on the movies, M-ma.” Golden Bell smiled for her mother. “The theaters here have to play ‘God Save the King’ before each film. All this colonial stuff kills half the fun of seeing Loretta Young anyway.” She shrugged and gave a nervous laugh.
“What is the name of that actor, the one who played the lover of that Camellia Flower Girl?” Comely Brook was ready to be distracted.
“Oh, that’s Robert Taylor.” Silver Bell rattled up from her sofa.
“Lo-bar-tai-la!” Purple Jade translated. “Oh, this one is Turnip Too Hot!”
The girls began laughing uproariously. “Oh, M-ma, if only Miss McCarthy could hear you!”
“Come to think of it, do you think our own Miss Spicy Too Hot might be related to this Turnip Too Hot?”
“M-ma.” Golden Bell laughed so hard she could barely answer. “Miss Tyler and Mr. Taylor are as different as our Miss Chen and Mr. Chang!”
“Well, well, the foreign devils have their confusion too.” Purple Jade smiled. She knew she could always create a jovial mood whenever she gave a ridiculous translation of an English name. “Girls, go finish your homework. Tonight is your father’s night off. He wants to take us out for a ride and let Golden Bell practice her driving.”
Purple Jade felt better when the children’s concerns occupied her mind. It was important that she always appear strong. Also, her strenuous work among the boat people often obliterated all her thoughts of “that other life” in Hangzhou. But in the bosom of her family, she sometimes thought the incredible pain of losing Glorious Dragon and her home would overwhelm her. The shadows of war and separation hung around her. She gasped for breath and steadied her voice: “It’s been stifling all day; we’ll enjoy the evening cool. Later, we’ll stop by the Chinese Correspondents’ Club. Golden Bell will work in the library while we take tea.”
IN THE AFTERNOON, peals of laughter and song awoke Righteous Virtue. He looked out the window and saw Silver Bell, followed by Little Jade, each hefting a small tree branch over her right shoulder. Their right palms cradled the branches like a rifle butt. Their left arms swung smartly by their sides while they marched around and around under the Royal Poinciana tree, singing at the top of their lungs:
“Some talk of Alexander,
and some of Hercules.
Wit
h a tra-la-la-la-la,
To the British grenadiers!”
Little Jade strutted resolutely behind Silver Bell on her short legs. Her hair was bunched together in the center of her crown like a small sprouting fountain over her white flower barrette. Her splayed walk made the fountain sway and bounce to loud squeals of “tra-la-la, tra-la-la.”
Righteous Virtue could not help chuckling. He went downstairs and called to the girls. When they came running, he squatted down and scooped up Little Jade.
“Oh Father, Father, M-ma said you’re taking us for a ride tonight!” Silver Bell skipped beside her father as they walked toward the house.
“Yes, I am. Do you know what you are singing, Silver Bell?”
“Tra-la-la, tra-la-la,” said Little Jade, licking her fingers.
“Oh Father, it’s such a rousing song. I learned it in school. Don’t you think Little Jade and I march ever so smartly?”
“Yes, but isn’t it strange that Chinese girls should imitate British soldiers?”
“Evening peace, my lord.” Purple Jade bowed. “What are you talking about — British soldiers?”
“Silver Bell sang a song of the British grenadiers. I thought it might not be appropriate.”
“Perhaps it is now.” Purple Jade handed her husband a hot towel. “After all, the British Empire protects us.”
“Ah, yes, if only I could have more faith in their might.” He let Little Jade squirm out of his arms. Seated on a cane chair, he wiped his face. “The English are only interested in their homeland. They won’t send more troops, and they’re counting on that obsolete fleet in the harbor to deter the Japanese.” He returned the towel to his wife and banged one fist into an open hand. “They think only the white man can fight. Why, the Hong Kong Defense Force has hardly any Chinese in it! They think it is a waste of time to give arms to the Chinese and train them!”
“The Chinese are too smart. We’ll leave the fighting to those with the firepower.”
