But how to marry? There were no more visits from matchmakers. She had had many marriage proposals in the past and turned them all down. It appeared that she was fated to teach at the missionary school alongside the nuns. She was known in the village as the lady scholar. Prospective mother-in-law was leery of young women like her.
It did not help that Wei Jen was not considered a beauty. Her face was unpainted and her gaze direct. She had a well-defined chin, prominent cheekbones, and full lips. She wore her shoulder length hair tied at the nape of her neck with dark red strings. She dressed simply in a white man-tailored shirt with a gently fitted navy blue skirt that nearly reached her ankles. A wide leather belt cinched her small waist, her only physical asset. She wore sensible low- heeled leather shoes.
Then, one day, a matchmaker knocked on the door of the house of Chang. The Su matriarch had heard about the lady scholar in the family. She was interested in making a match with her son, the young master Su. The Su family was from the north, where it was customary to marry older girls to younger boys. The young master Su was eighteen and Wei Jen was only four years older—a small difference according to the northern custom. Sometimes the difference of age between the older bride and the young groom could be as much as ten years. The young master Su was applying to Peking University. The Su family would agree to let the new bride attend the university with her husband so that she could take care of him.
Wei Jen’s prayers were answered. She had secretly converted to Catholicism under the encouragement of the nuns. She had been praying every night for a chance to attend the university—to get away from her home and from the circle of people she had known all her life. When her mother discussed the marriage offer with Wei Jen, she agreed at once and her parents were overjoyed and very much relieved. It was such a simple solution to a long drawn-out impasse. Wei Jen was sure that the Virgin Mary had heard her prayers. Wei Jen’s mother was sure that Buddha had finally heard her prayers and granted her only wish. She thanked Buddha for finding a home for her daughter. No longer did she need to fear that Wei Jen would become a ghost nun, a nun of the Catholic order.
During their first meeting, arranged by the families at a restaurant, Wei Jen had studied An Ling from across the crowded, round dinner table. He was a tall youth with searching eyes and a shy smile. Wei Jen did not exchange one word with An Ling, but at least they knew what the other looked like. It was better to marry someone not much younger than someone very much older. Both families were agreeable and a date for the wedding was set.
Unlike other educated young women of that era, Wei Jen did not enjoy reading romantic novels—not even the famous classic, The Dream of the Red Chamber. She did not harbor any illusion about romantic love. She observed her parents’ marriage and the marriages of her older brothers. She was familiar with the petty bickering, the moments of affection, and the big fights over money and children. She was aware of the grinding, incremental existence of a man and a woman in close quarters, sharing meals, sharing a bed, and sharing their intimate selves.
An Ling had been an overly sheltered youth. He had grown up without a father. His mother hovered over him taking care of his every need. Wei Jen found An Ling immature and indecisive. It was his mother’s idea for him to leave home to attend the university. An Ling’s mother felt that her son needed to get out into society to gain some experience and harden his gentle ways. An Ling’s mother had bargained for Wei Jen to help him with his schoolwork and with everything that he might need. She never thought that one day she would be out-smarted by the lady scholar daughter-in-law.
At her wedding, Wei Jen sat in the satin chair and was carried into the Su household with great ceremony. At nearly twenty-three, she felt much older than the young man who blushed when she looked his way. When they were alone together, he was like an eager child, and she was a compliant, indulgent wife. Wei Jen was much more excited about the prospect of traveling to Peking and enrolling in the university than she was about sharing intimacy with An Ling. Her new life was about to begin.
After the wedding, they went to the university and settled into an apartment next to the campus. He studied literature while she studied economics. Wei Jen soaked up the wide-open world of Peking University. She especially enjoyed participating in student discussions in classrooms. She pored over economic textbooks in English. An Ling and Wei Jen both made many friends. Wei Jen was one of the few female students on campus. She excelled in her classes and attracted much attention. She was happier than she had ever been until she found out that she was pregnant during the second semester. An Ling and Wei Jen went home to the Su family estate during the semester break in spring of 1934. It was there that Wei Jen gave birth to Little Jade. As soon as she was well enough, she wanted to return to the university. She had had a taste of university life, and there were no turning back for her. The red- faced infant sleeping quietly in her arms would not deter her from her goal—the goal she had set her sights on for as long as she could remember. Once she knew what it was like, she could choose no other life. She was addicted to the debates in the classroom, and the endless discussions over tea on the future of China. Everything was changing around her. She recognized that a great transformation was on the verge of taking place, though no one knew precisely what would happen. Wei Jen knew only that she had to return to her studies in Peking no matter what. She would not let the world move on without her. She would not be left behind in the countryside where women’s roles had been codified for centuries, and where nothing ever changed. The following fall, she left Little Jade with her mother-in-law and returned to the university with her husband.
Because Wei Jen did not want to get pregnant again she encouraged An Ling to study in Japan, a nation that was occupying Manchuria and determined to present a friendly front to the Chinese public.
In the spring of 1935, An Ling went to Tokyo University for a year-long program in modern literature. Wei Jen’s in-law pressed her to return to the Su household to care for her daughter. But Wei Jen insisted on finishing the semester. Her mothering consisted of knitting sweaters in gradually increasing sizes and sending them home to Little Jade.
An Ling visited Wei Jen in Peking during summer break in 1936. Soon afterward, Wei Jen became pregnant again. She did not tell An Ling or her in-laws. She knew that if the Su clan found out, they would demand that she give up her studies. She wanted to continue with her degree. She kept her pregnancy a secret from her own family as well. Wei Jen gave birth to another daughter in the summer of 1937. An Ling didn’t know about the second child until much later when he was told of the birth by a mutual friend at Peking University. While Wei Jen was recovering from the birth, the Japanese invaded deep into China. With that, she never saw An Ling again.
Wei Jen found herself alone with an infant. She was quickly running out of money. Transportation and communication with home were cut off. She moved to a friend’s apartment and pawned a few pieces of wedding jewelry to get by. In desperate need of funds, Wei Jen started submitting articles to local newspapers and magazines which earned her a meager living. She used one of the characters of her name as her pen name, Jen, which means truth. It was both mysterious and modern to use one character as her identity. It gave Wei Jen a new persona. She wrote about her life as a female student at the university. As Jen, she began to build a name for herself and soon had a small following of readers. Her fees were doubled, and she was given a regular column in a local newspaper.
Jen named her new daughter Mary, the name of the American nun who had taught her English in the missionary school. She paid her landlady a small fee to care for her daughter. She still knew many classmates and professors in the university, but she was no longer a registered student. With her reputation as a writer, she was invited to many gatherings at the university.
Inevitably, some of these gatherings were political. Communist elements were infiltrating into the university even as the Nationalist government sought to gain student loyalty. Jen’s notoriety attr
acted the attention of the Nationalist government. She was contacted by a certain General Tung, who, asked her to write favorable articles about the Nationalist Army.
Jen was a great find for the Nationalists, for she represented the new generation of China. One day, the writer Jen was invited to a government-sponsored event. It was a dinner party for representatives from the academies, industries, and government to get to know each other. Madam Chiang, who had started the New Life Movement in the 1930s, was going to be the keynote speaker. The government was trying to promote a renewed morality and a healthy attitude toward life among the young people of China.
Out of curiosity, Jen decided to attend. She arrived at the great hall in her usual white shirt and long navy skirt. Her chin length hair was smoothed behind her ears and fastened with simple clips. It was a warm, late spring day. Her sleeves were rolled passed her elbows, and she dabbed her forehead with a handkerchief as an attendant soldier looked for her name on a list. Women in sleeveless mandarin gowns and glittering jewelry walked past her on the arms of men in starched uniforms. The sound of high heels clicking on the marble floor mingled with the people’s greetings.
Jen smiled at the young soldier who checked her name off the list and handed her a pink ribbon with her name on it attached to a safety pin. She was ushered into the great hall. She glanced about her. She shouldn’t have come. She didn’t know anyone here. Jen was already looking for ways to leave as she was led to a round table covered with a white tablecloth and laden with arrangements of place settings. There were about twenty tables in the hall, each with an ice sculpture depicting plum blossoms as a centerpiece.
She sat down on the plush red velvet chair and took a deep breath. She was thinking about her infant daughter. She wondered whether the landlady had fed Mary her bottle. Nodding at her politely, people started to sit down around her. Then a tall man introduced himself. He was General Tung who had organized the evening’s event and was the leader of the Nationalist Army’s northern unit. He extended his hand, Western-style, to shake Jen’s hand. Her slender fingers were gently squeezed in General Tung’s warm, firm grip. He leaned over to listen to her attentively in the noisy hall as they exchanged polite conversation. He continued holding her hand as he sat down beside her.
General Tung was an exceedingly handsome man in his late thirties. He had deeply set eyes and a bright smile that showed off his even, white teeth—a rarity among the heavy-smoking military ranks. He told Jen that he was a faithful reader of her column. They talked mostly about the student movement and current worldviews. He lavished attention on her throughout the evening. He excused himself a few times to shake hands with various important-looking people, but always returned to her side. At the end of the evening he accompanied her home in his black, private sedan.
She bid the general farewell in front of her apartment and returned to her room and to her crying, infant daughter. There, thinking about the evening, she did not remember much about Madam Chiang’s speech. All of her thoughts swirled around the charismatic general. The next day a soldier delivered a case of powdered milk and a box of American chocolate to her apartment.
She couldn’t quite discern what the general might want from her beyond writing a few articles praising the New Life Movement. The general’s supply of women must be long. What could she offer to such a man of power? She took stock of herself. She was just beginning to have a taste of independence and freedom. Her writing was providing a modest, but steady, stream of income. She no longer felt on the verge of losing everything. Yet, she could not dare to be complacent about her circumstances. The world around her was changing fast, and she knew that she must keep pace with it.
The Nationalist government, already well known for cronyism and rampant corruption, had appointed the youthful, charismatic General Tung to take charge of the anti-Communist propaganda campaign. It was a significant undertaking, for The Nationalists were battling the Communists for the critical allegiance of the students.
General Tung’s refined manner distinguished him from his peers. He found himself attracted to this quietly confident, woman writer who was, unbeknownst to her, the rare embodiment of an ideal modern Chinese woman. Jen was outspoken, confident, and fearless, and she had the audacity to think of herself as an equal to any man, should he be a general or a husband. On the evening that she and the general met, she stood out from the crowd of women with powdered faces and red lips in their colorful silk gowns. The general was accustomed to beguiling socialites and coy dancing hostesses. At nearly forty, he had had his share of temperamental opera singers and clinging concubines. Jen’s plain style and direct ways were irresistible to him. He was impressed by her fluency in English just as he was fascinated by her intellect. He could not help but pursue her. Cases of powdered milk and boxes of chocolate continued to arrive at Jen’s apartment along with bolts of fabric and boxes of canned goods.
During the 1930s, Chinese society was just beginning to adapt to the modern notion of marriage between one man and one woman. For thousands of years, it had been customary for a respectable man to have three wives and four concubines. A man with only one wife was to be pitied. The purpose of marriage was to produce sons—the more wives, the more chances of having male heirs. In the early years of the Republic, it was common for married men to propose to single women with offers of becoming a second wife or a third wife. The founding father of China, Sun Yat-Sen, had three wives. Generalissimo Chiang had had two wives and two concubines before he met the final Madam Chiang.
General Tung was a powerful man. He grew up near the northern border of Russia and was of Manchurian stock. He was from a family that valued learning and was well-versed in the classics. He had chosen to attend Bao Ding Military School during the late Qing Dynasty. He worked his way up to becoming a three-star general under the northern warlord Chang Tso Ling. When the Nationalist Army took over Chang’s force, he came under Chiang Kei Shek’s command.
Although he was twelve years older than Jen and had a wife and grown children back home, he pursued her for a year. But she was not about to become a fling for him, nor a kept concubine set up in her own apartment whose job was to entertain his ego and satisfy his lust. She intended to be his wife, not another wife, but the only wife. Jen did not consider herself a poor match for the general just because she was married already and had a child in tow. After all, it was he who had pursued her. She was not entirely unmoved by the ardent pursuit of the handsome general. But she had no illusion about the constancy of a man’s declaration of undying love, especially from someone with as much experience in handling women as General Tung. She returned his blazing gaze and caressing touches with a request that he declare to the world that she would be his legal wife by having a formal Catholic wedding and inviting all of his superiors and the officers of the Nationalist government. This way, there would be no turning back for him. Once again, her keen instinct to weigh risk against reward served her well. The general decided to forsake his first wife and children. He adopted Mary, who was two when he married Jen in 1939 in the presence of the most important members of the Nationalist military and government. Jen was never sure whether she actually loved General Tung. At times she convinced herself that she was in love with him. What could not be denied was that marrying the general had been a good move. She soon joined the ranks of Soong Mei Ling, also known as Madam Chiang Kai Shek. Jen’s Catholic faith was fashionable in military circles. General Tung converted to Catholicism. Both Jen and the general had their previous marriages annulled by the Church. It was a new beginning for both of them.
There was a photograph of Jen from this period. She wore a khaki military uniform with a narrow straight skirt past her knees, her waist cinched with a wide leather belt. She stood erect and was looking far away, smiling proudly and defiantly. She was beginning to sense the vast possibilities of her life ahead. She had struck another bargain with fate and moved ahead with her life.
***
The Nationalist government
lost Nanking during the fall of 1937 and hastily withdrew to the land-locked western province of Sichuan. The university moved with the Nationalist government and settled into a monastery compound in Mount Lu. It took eight years of fighting and the dropping of atomic bombs on the Japanese cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki which forced the Japanese surrender to Allied forces and end the Sino-Japanese War.
After the victory over Japan on August 15, 1945, Chiang Kai-Shek ordered General Tung to hurry up north to take over the military equipment from the surrendering Japanese Imperial army. The Russian army was crossing the border to reap the spoils of war in the northern territories. The Chinese Communists were mobilizing their troops up north.
Jen followed her husband north to reunite with her family. She was thirty-four and was pregnant again. She had been married to the general for nine years. She yearned for a son. In addition to the two daughters, Little Jade and Mary, from her marriage with An Ling, she now had three daughters with the general—ages six, three and two. A fortuneteller once told her that only after five phoenixes would she bear dragons. She hoped that the fortuneteller was right.
As the Japanese were surrendering across the northern provinces, General Tung had to beat out the Communists and reach the Japanese supplies of guns and military vehicles first. The forces of the Nationalist government intended to fill the power vacuum left by the imperial Japanese army, but things were not working out as planned. The Communists were gaining strength and had successfully infiltrated at the grass-root levels. It would be difficult for the Nationalists to secure the nine provinces after such a long absence.
As the fighting went on, Jen was making her own plans. Being a good daughter, Jen made sure that her extended family was well protected. She had settled them into a compound near her own residence. Distant relatives were dropping in almost daily—aunts and uncles, cousins, nieces and nephews. She did not turn anyone away. As she rushed to get ready to move her entire clan, she felt an empty space within her. She had not seen Little Jade since leaving her behind with her mother-in-law years ago. Little Jade should be twelve by now. Jen remembered her only as a soft, newborn infant. She could not envision her first child’s face.
Daughter of the Bamboo Forest Page 17
