by Ian Buruma
Kawamura’s parties were legendary in Shanghai. He lived in a large comfortable villa just off the Avenue Joffre, furnished in the European style. Many people had passed through those rooms, including Marlene Dietrich, with whom he was rumored to have had an affair, even though her Jewish lover, Josef von Sternberg, had been his guest in the same house. Kawamura worshipped von Sternberg. He pointed at the chair in his study on which the great director had once sat. Before lowering himself on that hallowed seat himself, Kawamura lovingly polished the shiny leather surface with his handkerchief. “The master,” he murmured, like a priest in prayer.
So when Kawamura invited me to a party when Ri was in town, it seemed like a good opportunity to introduce them. The sitting room was already full of Chinese when we arrived. Zhang Shequan, head of the Ming Xing Studios, was there with his latest mistress, a young hussy named Jiang Qing, who later joined the Communists in the caves of Yanan. Bu Wancang, the famous director, was talking to Ding Ling, the novelist. And Xu Yen, the playwright who had been cautioned by our censors on many occasions, was in a corner, laughing at Zhao Dan’s jokes. Zhao, surrounded by a group of admirers, did an imitation of a typical Japanese army officer, barking orders in mock Japanese. The one who laughed loudest was Kawamura. But I noticed how the laughter died on everyone’s lips as soon as I approached with Ri. Memories of the “slapping scene” had not yet faded. It was highly awkward, not because I felt embarrassed by the malicious mimicry, but because of Ri. Politics always confused her. And she took rejection so badly.
People were openly complaining about the pettifogging ways of Japanese censors and the many restrictions on life in the city under Japanese control. None of this fazed Kawamura as he went about the room, beaming at his guests, making sure everyone was comfortable. It seemed to me that he was actually encouraging this kind of talk. I had heard Chinese speak like this before, of course, and couldn’t help agreeing with some of their complaints, but I didn’t think it was advisable to expose Ri to this kind of thing. She had suffered enough as a student in Peking. Besides, she might be compromised. I decided that we should leave, despite Kawamura’s offer of more champagne and assurances that “we are among friends.” When I insisted, he leaned toward me, with a faint odor of alcohol and cigar smoke on his breath, and said: “My dear fellow, our people have no idea how much we Japanese are loathed here. It’s all our own fault, you know.”
I was startled by Kawamura’s cynicism. Not that he was entirely wrong. But I still believed in our ideals. Without faith in what is right, life becomes as meaningless as a permanent cocktail party. So I dragged Ri away from Zhao Dan and Zhang Shequan, who seemed to have overcome their reservations and were crowding her into a corner, like two tomcats waiting to jump on their prey. She was enjoying the attention too much, the poor child. For her own sake, I had to bring this to a close.
I never said anything to Amakasu about the party, or about Kawamura’s behavior, because he was a good man, who genuinely cared about China. Every basket of peaches contains some rotten ones, and it’s those few who spoil everything for the rest. So it was in China. I felt this keenly whenever I saw a bunch of Kempeitei officers swagger into a Chinese shop and take what they wanted without paying. I felt it every time I crossed the Garden Bridge to Broadway Mansions, and saw the natives being forced to stand in long lines for hours and hours on frosty winter days, in the pouring rain or steaming summer heat, only to be beaten up for the smallest infringement of rules they barely understood. When an old man was slapped in the face in front of his own family for failing to bow deeply enough to one of our soldiers, the Chinese said nothing, but I could see the loathing in their eyes. I saw a small boy in rags being whipped by two soldiers because he tried to hide a sweet potato, just one, to feed his hunger. He was just an urchin, no more than five years old. A few Japanese civilians hurried along the bridge, pretending not to see anything. I could hear the pitiful screams of the boy’s mother, but I did nothing, for I too hurried along to the other side.
It was at moments like this that I tried to think of the many good Japanese who loved China as dearly as I did. Men like Kawamura, whose films were the building bricks for a new Asian civilization. Or Ri’s father, the old gambler, whose heart was still in the right place, despite his vice. Or even Amakasu, who may have had iron running through his veins, but whose dedication to a New Asia I never doubted. And of course Ri herself, whose trust in humanity could still lift my heart. She didn’t know this, but in moments of despair just thinking about her gave me the courage to carry on. For she had a pure heart, this young Japanese woman who lived and performed under a Chinese name. She restored my faith in Japan, and in our mission in Asia. But love needs to be reciprocated if it is to bear fruit. We badly needed the trust of our Chinese friends. And here I have to say that Kawamura was right. Their trust was constantly undermined by the stupidity of our own people.
And yet, for a brief and blissful time, I thought that all would turn out well after all. In the early morning of December 8, 1941, as I came down from breakfast, I noticed immediately that something was up. A Japanese businessman living at Broadway Mansions asked me whether I had heard the news. Someone told the Chinese receptionist to turn up the volume of the wireless. It was a special news bulletin on our military broadcasting station, repeated every fifteen minutes. Even the announcer sounded excited. I can still recall his exact words: “Early this morning our Imperial Army and Navy launched an attack in the western Pacific. From this morning we are at war with the United States and Britain.” I couldn’t believe my ears. But there was more. “Our Imperial Navy destroyed five enemy battleships, three destroyers, and three cruisers. No loss has been reported on our side . . .”
Over the sound of the wireless I could hear loud explosions coming from the direction of the Bund. Surely it was too early for fireworks. Rushing outside, I was just in time to see a British gunboat go up in flames. It was a typically crisp Shanghai morning, but to me it was as though the wintry clouds that darkened our hearts for so long had been driven away by warm rays of sunlight. The arrogant white man had been given a bloody nose at last. Now we were fighting the war we should have been fighting from the beginning. I knew it wouldn’t be easy, but I felt sure that victory would be ours in the end, for we were fighting for justice and freedom, while the imperialists were just defending their selfish interests, like thieves trespassing on a continent that wasn’t theirs. No longer would we bow to their self-serving treaties. This was the moment that marked the end of the white man’s rule in Asia, and it was good to be alive to see it. You might say, in hindsight, that we should have been more cautious. But that’s not the point. This was not a question of cold strategy. We did the right thing. That is why we rejoiced on December 8, 1941, which will remain a glorious date in our history.
You should have seen the faces of the Europeans when we booted them out of their Shanghai Club. They couldn’t believe what was happening to them. It was as if the world had been turned upside down. No longer would the famous Long Bar be closed to Asians. No longer would we have to put up with signs on Asian territory barring “dogs and Chinese.” Shanghai now belonged to us. I choked back my tears when I watched the British flag come down and our flag rise over the Hongkong & Shanghai Bank. What a splendid sight! What a glorious moment! Later that night, when fireworks lit up the sky from the roof of the Cathay Hotel, I cheered and cheered, like a madman. The Bund was filled with Chinese crowds. Perhaps they were still shell-shocked from all the fighting, and not quite sure of what lay in store. Some even looked fearful. I went over to a group of men in long winter gowns and told them not to be afraid. This wasn’t gunfire, but a celebration. Even though they were too shy to share my joy, I knew that one day they would understand that this was the moment of their liberation.
18
THE ANNUAL DINNER celebrating the friendship between Japan and the Jewish people at the Hotel Moderne in Harbin was always held in March. Who knows why? But it had become a tradi
tion. In the year 1942 it happened to fall on March 8. I never cared much for Harbin, with its Russian Orthodox churches, horse carriages, and beggars. Harbin was a treacherous place. One always felt spied upon. The one-eyed Greek, skulking in the lobby of the Hotel Moderne, was a spy, though exactly for whom was not clear. That was the thing about Harbin. You never knew who your friends were. The Bolsheviks had spies everywhere. So did the Chinese Reds and Chiang Kai-shek’s rebels. We had our own spies, of course. But we weren’t very good at it. To be effective, a spy has to be able to blend in, speak more languages than one, be omnipresent and invisible. The Jews are natural spies. We Japanese stick out like sore thumbs in foreign company.
But we were not stupid. Of course we knew very well that the Jews owned the world’s biggest banks, that they had infiltrated the British government, and ran Washington like their own puppet show. It was no coincidence that Roosevelt was a Jew, and that Rothschild was his banker. We were also aware that no outsider could possibly penetrate the international Jewish networks. But attacking them with force was as useless as hitting at cobwebs; you destroyed one and another was built just as fast. No, unlike the Germans, we Japanese had the wit to understand that we should keep the Jews on our side.
The Hotel Moderne was owned by a Russian Jew named Ellinger. The former owner, another Jew, had gone mad. One of his children had been snatched away, by Russian Bolsheviks most likely. This was as common in Harbin as snowstorms in winter. Even after the establishment of Manchukuo, kidnappings were accepted as an inevitable part of life. Golfers in Harbin would not set foot on the links without armed guards. Every restaurant aspiring to attract a decent class of people had guards. You couldn’t enter the Harbin Opera, or a public park, without several armed men to protect you. Most rich Chinese had their private armies. The victims of the kidnappers were very often rich Jews, for they were usually too stingy to pay for their own protection and, besides, the Russians hated the Jews. At any rate, Ellinger was a very rich and influential man, who owned several theaters in town. Music was his passion, especially music by the great German composers. In the course of my duties, I became quite close to Ellinger, even though I knew I could never totally trust him.
Ellinger had one weakness: his son, an opera singer trained in Paris, whom he treasured above anything else in this world. This boy, named Max, was a handsome tenor, with the melancholy eyes and hooked nose typical of his race. He wore a monocle, which often popped out of his eye when he became excited. Large, pink, sensitive ears were his other prominent feature.
On the occasion of our annual friendship dinner, Max was back in town to visit his father. Max too had a weakness: girls, especially tall Russian girls. His indulgent father tolerated this. A young buck must have his pleasures, and so forth. But the old man was worried about his son’s carelessness. Max would be out in the streets after dark without bodyguards, carousing in this nightclub or that, as if he were in Paris. I often came upon father and son in the midst of a terrible row. They shouted so much that even the opera music booming from the phonograph couldn’t drown out the noise.
Since the boy wouldn’t listen to his father, Ellinger, sick with worry, asked me to talk sense to him. Much though I liked my friend, this was an imposition I could have done without. I was not disposed to like Max. As far as I was concerned, he was a spoiled young man, whose Chinese was worse than his father’s. But Ellinger begged me to see him, so, rather against my better judgment, I agreed.
They say that first impressions are usually right. Perhaps I am a bad judge of character, for this is not my experience. Once I got to know Max, I realized that he was a sweet, gentle soul, who lived for his music. The girls were a hobby, an outlet, and his behavior could hardly be described as wild. He just liked to watch them, walking by, parading naked at brothels, making love to other men. He watched, open-mouthed, softly whimpering like a young dog. “Father worries about me too much,” he said to me, when we had our first little tête-à-tête. He smiled: “Jewish fathers. They always worry too much.”
“But he is right to worry,” I said. “You must be careful. This is a dangerous town.”
“Why would anyone want to harm me?” he replied.
“Your father is a very wealthy man,” I said. “Just be careful. Don’t go out without a guard.”
“What about you?” he said.
“I don’t need a guard.”
“No, I mean why don’t you come out with me?”
The best way to make friends with a man is to visit a brothel together. We must have visited at least a dozen, Max and I. He watched and watched, through peepholes specially provided for men of his taste, while I gave a proper account of myself. Russian brothels, Chinese brothels, and even on one occasion an establishment stocked with mature Jewesses, who had the reputation of being the hottest lovers in town. Though I prefer Asians, a man needs a change of diet once in a while. Max was not so keen on this place, however. I think he felt embarrassed.
He told me about his mother, who had died when he was still a child. He carried a picture of her in a locket around his neck. He took it off once to show me. A small, round face, with Max’s sweet smile. He told me more: about his music, and his life in Paris, and his loneliness. It was my turn to feel embarrassed. I don’t normally like hearing confessions from men. And yet Max moved me. I felt a tenderness I had never felt before for a man, especially a white man. I had never known a white man like him before. In fact, I’d never known anyone like him before. He was too gentle for this world, and most certainly for the rough and tumble of Harbin. And so I adopted him, as it were, as my charge.
On the occasion of the dinner celebrating Japanese-Jewish friendship, Ellinger glowed with paternal pride as he introduced his son to the various Japanese dignitaries. Among them were Kobayashi Tetsu, chairman of the Yokohama Specie Bank; Honda Chozo, adviser to the mayor of Harbin; and Nakamura Shunji, chief of the Kempeitai. I also noticed among the Japanese guests the pockmarked face of Muramatsu Seiji, boss of the Muramatsu gang, whom I had met only once before at my first Ri Koran Fan Club meeting in Shinkyo. His face betrayed no knowledge of me when I made a polite bow in his direction. I hadn’t much liked the look of him the first time. I liked him even less now. A sinister fellow.
Though food was becoming scarce in 1943, Ellinger had managed to rustle up some excellent Russian caviar, superb beef, and fine French wines to wash it all down. The banquet hall was nicely decorated with banners printed with the Jewish star linked in fraternal love to the colors of Japan and Manchukuo. Speeches were made and toasts to our deep and enduring friendship exchanged. The banker, Kobayashi, spoke eloquently about the many things we shared: our ancient cultures, our love of hard work, and the sad necessity for both our peoples to fight for our survival in a hostile world. Ellinger then rose to thank the Japanese for protecting the Jews at a time of great peril. And to top off the evening, Max agreed to sing for us. His first song was in Russian. Then parts of Schubert’s Winterreise, and finally, as a surprise, Ri Koran’s “Spring Rain Over Mukden,” which moved us all to tears. Even Muramatsu, not a demonstrative man, applauded vigorously.
Ellinger’s banquet, however, splendid though it was, would not have been a sufficient reason to keep me in Harbin. There was another reason for my extended visit. In the spring, Ri’s latest picture was slated to be made on location there. It was a highly unusual work, entitled My Nightingale, produced by Manchuria Motion Pictures, despite Amakasu’s reservations about the project. The background to this picture is complicated and requires some explanation.
Ri was more than a little infatuated with the man who planned the movie, a former Tokyo movie critic named Hotta Nobuo. I blamed myself for this unfortunate affair, for I had actually introduced them. Ri was easily impressed by bookish intellectuals with a gift for the gab and fine-sounding ideals. Hotta was of that type: a thin fellow with long hair, who wrote flowery essays about “people’s art” and “proletarian culture.” He was one of those Russophiles one use
d to find in Ginza cafés, reading difficult novels, and quoting Soviet theories about the cinema. This kind of mumbo-jumbo deeply impressed Ri, who thought it all very profound. And Hotta was no less taken by Ri. Apparently, while he served time in a Japanese prison for spouting anti-patriotic propaganda, he heard Ri singing “China Nights” on the wireless, which helped him to get through his ordeal. This, at any rate, is how he related his experience to Ri.
In fact, Hotta grossly exaggerated his hardships. What actually happened was far less heroic. He was arrested by the Thought Police, that much is true. Having refused at first to renounce his Marxist views, he spent some time in a solitary cell, and eventually came to his senses. I was never a Marxist myself, but found it impossible to trust these spoiled young men who renounced their opinions after a few days of bad food and cold baths. To be sure, he got knocked about a bit. What can you expect? But he looked a little too pleased with himself when he showed the scar on his face, as though he were some kind of resistance hero. One might well wonder how such a man ended up producing films in Manchukuo. But Amakasu liked idealists, even ones with a Red past. He was strange that way. Or perhaps he was shrewder than many thought. Employing these rascals was the best way to control them. So he offered Hotta a job as producer at the Manchuria Motion Picture Company in Shinkyo.
Somewhat miraculously, Hotta had managed to persuade Amakasu to back a musical film shot almost entirely in Russian. Ri played the part of a Japanese girl who was adopted by a Russian opera singer. So she had to learn to speak Russian, sing in Russian, and act like a young Russian woman. Her model, she told me, was Masha, her Jewish friend in Mukden. Despite my misgivings about this project, I was fascinated by the way she acquired the mannerisms of a typical Russian girl by practicing in front of a mirror in her room at the Hotel Moderne: how to pour tea from a samovar, how to greet her Russian stepfather, how to walk and talk and dance and sleep, just like a damned Russian. It was an extraordinary and to me rather nauseating spectacle. One had to admire her skill and dedication, though, if not the end to which these were put.
