by Ian Buruma
I was asked some questions about the state of culture, and whether our message was getting through to the native people. I tried to be as positive as I could, but said that we needed more time. Various pet schemes of the Kanto Army were discussed, including, rather to my astonishment, a plan to assassinate Charlie Chaplin. Evidently the plan had been around for some time, for all the men were familiar with it. The aim was to demoralize the American people by killing one of their favorite idols. Unfortunately, it would have demoralized His Majesty Emperor Pu Yi as well. But Amakasu, who took a personal interest in this project, thought that could be handled. Certain practical obstacles were mentioned. The fact that Chaplin had not visited Japan since 1932, and did not seem inclined to do so again soon, was one of them. Then Kishi, I think it was him, casting a quick glance at me, changed the subject with a slight cough. I should have realized that one could never be too careful in Manchukuo.
Kishi calculated for us how much money was needed to keep the army in Manchukuo afloat, and explained that extra resources were an absolute necessity. Colonel Yoshioka, an expert on native affairs, added that Manchurians and Chinese were excitable races, who needed regular doses of opium to calm them down. Supplying them with the drug had several benefits. Apart from keeping the natives quiet, it would provide much-needed revenue for our troops. The problem was that Chinese gangsters in Harbin were trying to get a piece of the action. A Jewish businessman was also said to be involved. His flaw was his love for his only son, an artist of some kind. Perhaps some pressure could be applied by taking care of the son. All eyes were on Muramatsu, who gave an almost imperceptible nod and growled in a soft low voice, like a dog who has been tossed a meaty bone. Since there were no servants at these meetings, to avoid unnecessary gossip, Amakasu got up to change the record on the phonograph himself. I don’t recall what else was discussed, but I do have a distinct memory of hearing Ri’s sweet voice warbling “Spring Rain in Mukden” as we listened in silence. It was yet another demonstration that Amakasu was more than a martinet. He reached for his handkerchief, removed his glasses, and wiped a tear from his eye.
9
THE NEXT FILM pairing Ri with Hasegawa, called China Nights, was the one indisputable masterpiece to emerge from the Manchuria Motion Picture Association Studios. But for her it almost became a personal tragedy.
Ri plays a wild Chinese girl, named Ki Ran, whose village has been destroyed by the Japanese Imperial Army. Hasegawa plays Hase-san, a Japanese ship’s captain in Shanghai, who picks her up in the street, hoping to save her from destitution. She is treated with typical Japanese hospitality by the Captain and his friends in a Shanghai boardinghouse, but Ki Ran can’t forget that Japanese soldiers killed her parents. When she is offered a cup of tea by the Captain’s Japanese landlady, she knocks it out of her hands. That is when it happens, the scene that made Ri a detested figure in China: Hase-san slaps Ki Ran in the face—a shocking moment, but also an intensely moving one, for it shows the heart of a man in love. Hase-san’s slap is really a sign of his kindness. Ki Ran understands his true feelings, and falls into his arms.
To any Japanese, the scene makes total sense. But we are not all alike in this wide world of ours. Ri had tried to warn the director that this episode might not be properly understood in China. Alas, the director, a new arrival from Tokyo, wouldn’t listen. Ri turned out to be right, of course. This romantic encounter, which moved every Japanese to tears, had the opposite effect on the Chinese, who misunderstood totally, and regarded “the slap” as a blow to their pride. They couldn’t understand that we Japanese sometimes use force against women and children to show that we care about them. Ri was not forgiven. Henceforth she became notorious as the Chinese actress who collaborated in a deliberate insult to the Chinese race.
China Nights truly is a picture of endless riches, however. Every time I see this masterpiece, I notice yet another beautiful detail I missed before. “The slap” is followed by Hase-san and Ki Ran’s honeymoon trip to Suzhou, and China has never looked more ravishing; Suzhou is a vision of heaven, with its gorgeous canals, its ancient bridges, and classical Chinese gardens. It is here, in this paradise, worthy of a classical ink drawing, that the Sino-Japanese union is consummated. Then something astonishing happens. Those who have an eye for these things will note that the Chinese girl not only turns out to speak Japanese, but makes the coquettish moves of the traditional Japanese woman, the sidelong glances, the tilt of the head, just as Hasegawa had taught her. In this love scene, so full of tenderness, Ri Koran is the purest fusion of all that is best in the Chinese and Japanese races.
But that’s not the last of the picture’s many unforgettable moments. Ki Ran’s uncle is the leader of anti-Japanese bandits, who plan an attack on Hase-san’s ship. When the ship fails to return to Shanghai one day, Ki Ran knows that her husband must have been killed by her uncle’s men. In a scene of incomparable beauty, she returns to Suzhou to drown herself in the river where she had just spent her honeymoon. Whispering the words of a Japanese poem which her husband had taught her, she wades into the water and is slowly submerged, her silk Chinese dress billowing above the surface, the melody of “China Nights” softly playing in the background. I can never contain my tears at this point, and they don’t stop flowing until well after the picture has ended.
But for once the director listened to good advice. Although Ki Ran dies for her love in the Japanese version of China Nights, a different ending was contrived especially for the Chinese public. Instead of meeting an untimely death as she wades into the river, Ki Ran hears her name being called, over and over. It is him! He has survived. In the last scene, the most handsome man in Japan and the most beautiful woman in China sit side by side in a boat, gliding toward the rise of a new dawn. He pulls a cigarette from his case and she, in a moment of great feminine delicacy, lights it for him.
It isn’t simply the story that makes the picture so touching. The magic of cinema isn’t usually in the plot, but in the chemistry between the leading actors, which is conveyed through the eyes. The camera detects something the naked eye can’t see. I would almost call it magic— no wonder primitive people speak of the evil eye. Both Hasegawa and Ri look more gorgeous in each other’s presence, and through some mysterious process the camera manages to capture this. More than anything, it was China Nights that made the Japanese fall in love with China. And this was largely due to the purity of Ri Koran’s performance. Her eyes are like pools of light, filled with exquisite melancholy, as she faces her tragic death.
Shooting China Nights was not without its moments of danger. Suzhou was no problem, since we had secured the city a few years before, but getting there was another matter. One late afternoon, as we rattled across the northern plains in the train heading south, Ri suddenly cried out: “Look at all the red flowers! They’re gorgeous.” Bored with the bland scenery of northern China, we all peered out the window. At first I thought it was the setting sun that cast everything in a blood red glow. But as the train slowed down, we could make out people lying all over the place, like broken dolls. Some were huddled in small groups or sitting alone, but more were sprawled on the ground, and others still were rushing about, carrying white bundles stained in red. There must have been hundreds of men littering the landscape, dressed in bloody rags and brown uniforms. The train stopped with a jolt, as though it were shivering. I noticed Ri turning away from the window.
Orders were barked. The doors opened with a clanking noise. A wounded man—the first of many—passed by our window. All I could see of his bandaged face was his mouth, opened wide as if he were about to scream. Hasegawa, in a fit of anger, tugged at the curtain of our compartment, but didn’t manage to close it properly. The noise of men crying and moaning got steadily louder. Some were howling in pain, some begging for water. A harsh voice told them to shut up. I saw a man who had lost a leg and both his arms. Another was twitching uncontrollably, like a fish. A young doctor was trying to staunch a fresh wound by pressing a white rag
into the chest of a soldier, whose blood kept oozing through the cloth. A hand from a passing stretcher left a red smear on our window. The stench was unbelievable—rotting flesh, excrement, and filthy feet. One of the soldiers, staring into our compartment, suddenly became animated and pointed at Hasegawa. Others followed, pressing their blackened faces against the glass. At last, after frantically tugging at the curtain, Hasegawa managed to shut them out from our view.
An officer opened the door and sat down heavily. He removed his cap and stuck his finger under his collar to wipe the sweat off his neck. There were bloodstains on his boots and trousers, rather like a butcher’s. I asked him what had happened. He looked at me suspiciously. “Chink bandits,” he said, baring his crooked brown teeth. “Had to clean out the whole village. The way these savages fight . . . even a three-year-old kid is capable of murder. It’s either them or us.” Ri looked astonished. “Clean out?” Since she was dressed in Chinese clothes, the officer turned to us in disgust: “What the devil is this Chink bitch doing here?” Hasegawa introduced himself and politely explained that she was Ri Koran, the movie star. “Aah,” the officer replied. “ ‘Spring Rain in Mukden.’ Well, I never,” he said, scratching the back of his neck, bobbing his head up and down in the direction of Hasegawa. “Well, well! Hasegawa Kazuo! Ri Koran! Well, well.” Perhaps Hasegawa-san could say a few words to the troops, and Ri could sing a song: “That’ll cheer the boys up.”
Once more the door to the corridor was opened and another officer was pushed inside by a medical orderly. He was young and handsome, but seemed incapable of speech. The orderly pointed to his head and said: “Doesn’t even know who he is.” We tried to make him speak by asking his name and where he was from. All we got was a blank stare. “Your mother must miss you,” Hasegawa said, thinking this might provoke a response. It seemed to have some effect. The young officer’s mouth began to work. “M-O-TH-E-R,” he mumbled slowly, “m-o-th-er . . . mother . . . mother.” But that was all, the same word repeated over and over. His eyes were wide open, but they didn’t appear to see a thing.
It was dark outside when the train lurched into action. After a mile or so, we came to another halt. Several men got off the train. “Well,” said the officer, “this is it for the night. Better make ourselves comfortable.” Guards took up their positions along the side of the train. The smell inside was still overpowering. We opened the window, but the late autumn air was too chilly, so Ri asked us to close it. “Why the hell can’t we keep going?” asked Hasegawa, who was not used to being held up. “Bandits,” said the officer, who pulled a flask of saké from his tunic, took a swig, and slipped it back into his pocket.
“So what about a song, then?” the officer persisted. Ri told him that would be impossible. In the middle of the night, without a stage, or a microphone, or any light at all. “My, your Japanese is good,” said the officer and hissed politely through his teeth.
Soon all the lights were turned off inside the compartments and we were in the dark, with nothing but the sound of moaning and coughing men, and once in a while a disembodied scream. Sleep was impossible. Several officers came in with torches and asked for autographs. One of them insisted that Ri should sing. It would comfort the men, remind them of home, get them through the night. He would provide her with a torch, which she could shine on her face. Hasegawa instructed her that she should always think of her fans. At last, she shrugged her shoulders and relented.
But this was easier said than done, for there were bodies everywhere in the corridor, some barely alive. I followed Ri through the train to protect her. We kept treading on arms and legs, as she sang, eliciting soft moans and the occasional curse. At first she was almost inaudible. The sounds of distress, the bodies, and the darkness were unnerving. But as she slowly made her way, from compartment to compartment, her torchlit face the only visible spot in the entire train, something magical happened: her voice gained strength and the moaning stopped. It was as though an angel had stepped into this hellish place. “China nights, ah China nights . . . the junk floating upstream, the ship of dreams, China nights, nights of our dreams . . .” Then “If Only,” and the men sang softly with her, a ghostly chorus in the dark: “If only you would love me, if only you’d be true . . .” And then, the unforgettable sound of hundreds of grown men sobbing.
10
THERE WAS NOTHING wrong with the first part of our trip to Tokyo. Ri, Meng Hua, Menchukuo’s second biggest star, and myself boarded the train at Shinkyo Station, where the Manchurian studio staff gave us a wonderful send-off. All the actors and actresses were there, as well as the technical staff, dressed in their uniforms, waving little Japanese and Manchukuo flags, shouting words of encouragement, as a brass band played songs of farewell. In the middle of the station hall Amakasu stepped onto a wooden podium, festooned with the Manchukuo colors, and gave a speech, in that hoarse voice of his, which was difficult to hear over the din of hissing steam and people singing songs of farewell. I remember that he mentioned his great personal pride in sending the finest flowers of Manchukuo to our imperial homeland as “the ambassadresses of friendship.”
Ri was so excited about the prospect of visiting her ancestral country for the first time that she could barely sit still all the way to Pusan. The train was not as comfortable as the silver-clad Asia Express, and considerably slower, but unless it had to stop for snowdrifts or bandit raids, at least it was always on time. I tried to catch some sleep after we passed Ando and crossed the frozen Yalu River into the Korean peninsula. It was dark outside. All we saw of Ando were a few flickering lights far in the distance. The train’s whistle sounded lonely, like a wandering ghost. But Ri was wide awake, her eyes shining with anticipation. She couldn’t stop talking, about the Nichigeki Theater, where she would star in a gala performance celebrating Manchukuo-Japanese friendship, and the sights of Tokyo, and the various entertainments to be laid on by famous figures of the literary and cinematic worlds, whom she had met when they passed through Manchukuo. She asked me about the most fashionable restaurants and cafés, where the most stylish people were to be seen. A new word had entered her vocabulary: “knowable.” Whenever I mentioned some celebrated figure, her first question would be: “Is he knowable?” Even though she was a movie star herself, and knew many famous Japanese already, Ri was still like an overexcited child on the eve of her birthday. I had not been back to Tokyo for several years, and certainly didn’t know everyone who was “knowable.” I tried to answer her queries as best I could, but she wasn’t really listening. Her mind had already arrived at our destination before we even reached Pusan.
Amakasu, despite his rousing speech at Shinkyo Station, had not actually been in favor of this trip. He took a paternal view of his actresses and their personal lives were a constant worry to him. He regarded the artistic world in the metropolis as dangerously frivolous and bad for our morale. An added complication was that the Nichigeki gala concert was organized by the Oriental Peace Entertainment Company, and not by the Manchuria Motion Picture Association. Oriental Peace was backed by the Japanese Ministry of Foreign Affairs, which Amakasu despised as soft and buttery. But even the Kanto Army was powerless in this case. Amakasu warned me that I should be held responsible if anything should happen to the actresses that would reflect badly on the superior reputation of the Manchuria Motion Picture Association.
Sleep was impossible even on the second night of our voyage, aboard the ferry from Pusan to Shimonoseki. Meng Hua, a typical beauty of the north, tall and creamy, with a delightful beauty spot on her left knee, shared a cabin with Ri. I wouldn’t have minded a little fun with her, but business was business. I couldn’t afford any trouble on this trip. Like Yoshiko, she had never been to Japan before, but the prospect put her in a state of apprehension more than excitement, and she retired to her cabin alone, while Ri talked and talked in a wild mixture of Japanese and Chinese, determined to be awake at the first sight of the Japanese isles. When dawn finally broke, we were wrapped in a thick fog. The s
hip’s horn moaned like a wounded animal. Ri pressed her face to the window, trying to see through the dense gray soup. Nothing. And yet, at 7:30 a.m. sharp a woman’s voice announced through the ship’s loudspeaker that we were approaching our “beloved imperial homeland.” The voice continued: “If you look to the starboard side you will see the port of Shimonoseki, renamed as such in 1904, before which time it was known as Akamagasaki, a place famous for its natural beauty and redolent of our glorious national history, the site of the famous battle between Heike and Genji in 1185 . . .” On and on it went in this vein, as all faces turned to starboard, where dense fog was still all there was to be seen. Our national anthem was played through the loudspeaker, and everyone, including the Chinese and Koreans, jumped to attention.
It was only just before the ship berthed that we could make out the outlines of the city, an ugly jumble of godowns, cranes, and warehouses, hardly the glamorous introduction that Ri had been hoping for. The maritime police boarded our ship with an air of immense importance. A thick black rope was strung across the main lounge next to the gangway, and a plump little man with a Charlie Chaplin mustache sat down behind a desk, with an attendant behind his chair whose duty it was to breathe on the stamps before handing them to the mustachioed official, who pressed them onto our documents after careful and lengthy examination. How I loathed the officiousness of my fellow countrymen! Japanese nationals were ordered to line up in front of the rope and foreigners to stay behind. Ri was the first to rush into line. I could see a look of bewilderment on Meng Hua’s face. It was the first time she realized that Ri was a Japanese national, and not simply a half-breed, as was widely suspected among the native staff of the Manchurian studios.
