Shanghai Story

by Alexa Kang

  Clark put down his chopsticks. “If you believe that, then there’s no point in us discussing this idea of a Co-Prosperity Sphere anymore. I’m Chinese. Clearly, I’m too weak in your eyes to do anything to elevate the Asian people.”

  “Please, don’t take offense.” Konoe changed to an appeasing tone of voice. “I’m only trying to speak true to the facts. I do not think you’re too weak at all. On one level, people of the same ethnicity have certain general traits that define them, for better or for worse. On another level, there are people who, by their very own nature, can transcend race, ethnicity, and the like. Extend themselves beyond the mundane. They’re the true superiors. They’re exceptional. They’re the ones who can break through the boundaries of their own desires to reach a higher plane of existence, and focus all their energies on the completion of a cause that would create a universe of balance and peace.”

  “The state of no self.”

  “The state of no self.” Konoe held up his cup with a deep smile.

  Clark raised his cup in return and emptied it in one chug. Not to endorse Konoe’s wild theories, but to bolster his fortitude to bear it. “What makes you think I am one of the exceptional?”

  “It takes one to know one. Do you know? You’re the first Chinese guest to enter my home. The only Chinese person I’ve met to this date who is worthy of being invited to my tea ceremony.” He pushed his empty rice bowl aside. “Join our mission. You can be so much more.”

  “Join your mission? How?”

  “Collaborate with us. Help the Empire of Japan and lead the Asian sphere into an era of everlasting prosperity.”

  Clark’s breath nearly stopped. Was Konoe serious? “You’re asking me to commit treason.”

  “I’m making a suggestion. An idea, if you will. I certainly wouldn’t want to impose upon you to do anything you deem morally offensive. Consider it an alternate pathway to a great destiny you can help achieve. Something to muse on if you ever decide the seams of the KMT are falling apart.”

  Clark watched the houseboy take away the empty dishes. He wished he hadn’t eaten so much. The food wasn’t sitting well inside him anymore.

  “Come on.” Konoe got up and slid open the bamboo shoji sliding door to the next room. “Let’s begin our tea ceremony.” He invited Clark to the table where the tea ware and utensils were already laid out.

  Clark sat down and waited for Konoe to begin the cleansing ritual. Methodically, Konoe folded the chakin cloth and wiped it slowly around the tea bowl and scoop. The exact, precise motions soon washed away the tensions spurred by their conversation. Watching the hypnotic stirring of the whisk, Clark could feel a new clarity in his mind. In the silence of the room, with the soothing sound of water pouring from the ladle to the tea bowl, his strain and worries vanished. The rotation of the tea bowl carried him into a never-known dimension of void.

  Konoe handed him the tea. Clark drank the first sips. The matcha, prepared to perfection, seeped through every vein of his body.

  “You can feel it, can you?” Konoe asked. “The sensation of purity?”

  Yes, Clark had to admit. The ritual had an unexpected purifying effect.

  “The actions you take—even if they defy the rules, morals, and logic of the mundane—are of no consequences. If you can leave yourself behind and let go of that which belongs to the earth, your soul will be cleansed. Your body will be purified. In the realm of no self, only glory will remain.”

  Clark said nothing. He raised the tea bowl to his mouth. He wanted to ask, if there would be no consequences, then why did the matcha have a bitter aftertaste?

  Out of respect, he did not ask the question. He finished the tea, and thanked his host. Konoe was right about something else. The ritual had helped him see clearly. He had no wish to enter the realm of no self.

  21

  Workers’ Uprising

  Of all the people Clark had to work with, the American pilot Greg Dawson was the one he favored most. Despite his mercenary streak, the man was uncomplicated. With Dawson, what you saw was what you got. When talking to him, Clark never had to worry about double-speak and hidden motives the way he would with the Chinese or the Japanese. Nor did he have to engage in incessant bargaining back and forth as he would with Joseph Whitman and his people at the American consulate. Dawson’s intentions were plain and simple. To make money and to seek thrills.

  The KMT had no choice but to give him money. Until this year, China had no real air force to speak of. The last time they engaged in air combat was in 1932, when the Japanese instigated a skirmish near Shanghai between several local Chinese and Japanese monks that led to the local boycott of Japanese goods. The vastly superior Japanese air force destroyed whatever semblance of a fleet the National Revolutionary Army had pulled together with the two hundred or so volunteers from Britain, France, Italy, and America. Since then, nothing had improved. Chinese air defense consisted of just a few hundred native Chinese military pilots, and a mishmash of bombers the KMT could procure from whichever country was willing to sell. The Chinese Air Force, known also as the CAF, sorely needed modernization and upgrades to its fleet.

  The shortage of resources wasn’t limited to pilots and planes. The CAF desperately needed mechanics, riggers, armorers, and engineers, not to mention medical personnel. It lacked even proper medical equipment, facilities, and competent doctors to treat what otherwise would’ve been insignificant wounds suffered by their pilot trainees. If battle ever broke out with the Japanese again, China would never be able to defend itself against the enemy’s fully modernized air force.

  All hopes now rested on those like Greg Dawson, whose knowledge and expertise might turn things around. And until the CAF became a real fighting force, it would pretend to the world that it was one. With Chiang Kai-shek’s birthday in October coming up, the KMT leadership had decided to hold a flight demonstration in Shanghai as part of a series of celebratory events that month. The Autumn Air Show would not only be a vehicle to rally excitement and support to help raise funds for the CAF, it would also be a direct display of Chinese air capabilities to the Japanese and to the Communists, which had no air force of its own.

  Who better to head up the Autumn Air Show than Greg Dawson, now an official colonel of the CAF?

  “Wait till you see what my boys and I’ve got planned,” Greg said. He put down his coffee, which clearly didn’t agree with him as he made a face after taking a sip. The KMT Foreign Affairs Bureau served better tea, but Greg wasn’t a tea drinker. “It’ll be the most spectacular aerobatics show you’ll ever see.” He weaved his arm through the air with a loud whistle. “When the Japanese see those Boeing P-26As zooming through the sky, they’re going the pee in their pants.”

  “I can’t wait.” Clark smiled. The CAF planned to acquire ten of these “Peashooters” from the United States, and the Air Show was intended to entice people to donate money to fund the purchase. With Greg in charge, Clark felt assured the event would be a great success.

  Too bad their meeting could not end with this. The Autumn Air Show was good fun. What he needed to ask Greg next was something Clark himself never liked doing. “So, have you given more thought to what we discussed last time? Could you help us make the delivery next time you fly to Chungking?” Greg was one of the foreign pilots charged with flying money to the western part of the country to pay the National Revolutionary Army troops.

  Scowling, Greg threw up his hands. Two weeks ago, Clark had asked him to bring along two loads of artillery and ammunition to the military units in Yunnan on his cash delivery mission. “Clark, you know I can’t say yes to that. I want to help, I really do, but I can’t.”

  Greg had good reasons to refuse. The American Neutrality Act prohibited U.S. pilots from engaging in any act of war on behalf of the KMT. Transporting weapons for the KMT would put Greg at risk of being stripped of his citizenship.

  “No one needs to know. It’s a confidential assignment.”

  “Confidential? Nothing here is
confidential. Even if it is, it never stays that way. Look, I’m sorry. I’ve said no to you. I’ve said no to Secretary Sītu. If Madam Chiang was here herself, I would say no to her.”

  Clark tapped his finger on his desk. Further talk would not lead anywhere. For Dawson, no meant no. It didn’t mean no but this, or no if that. The pilot from Kansas didn’t know how to be anything other than a law-abiding citizen. And while he might be straight, he wasn’t stupid. He knew that no amount of guarantee of confidentiality would save him if the word ever got out. To convince Dawson, Clark would have to appeal to him with something higher than the law.

  “I received this yesterday.” Clark opened his drawer, took out a photo, and handed it to Greg. “This is the Reverend Pilsner and his wife, Margaret. They’re American missionaries in Yunnan. The little Chinese girl there is their daughter, Henrietta. They adopted her two years ago. We’ve confirmed the Red Army is holding all three of them hostage along with some of the Chinese soldiers they’ve captured. Our troops are planning a rescue mission, but they can’t act until they receive our weapons.” He paused to let Greg absorb the news. The pilot’s hands tensed as he held the picture closer. “The Communists will behead them if we don’t get to them in time.”

  Greg winced. Clark could see from his face he was wavering. He pulled out a small stack of newspaper clippings and placed them in front of Greg. “The Communists have decapitated missionaries before. These are the ones they killed this year. They wouldn’t hesitate to get rid of another pastor and his wife, or their child.” He made sure to emphasize the word “child.”

  His face all scrunched, Greg glanced at the clippings, then back at the photo.

  “Their lives are in your hands,” Clark said. “Are you going to let them die?”

  “All right, all right.” Greg finally gave in. “Only this once. I will not be an arms runner, okay? I really can’t do that.”

  “Of course not. I absolutely understand.”

  Greg put the photo down on top of the desk. “Let me know who I’m to talk to when I drop off the loads. And make sure nobody, and I mean nobody, ever finds out about this.” He got up and tugged his uniform straight, ready to leave.

  “One more thing,” Clark said.

  “What?”

  “Are you flying to Peking next week?”

  “Yes. I’ll be attending a meeting with the U.S. Marines. Why?”

  “Can you take General Zhang Zhi-zhong with you? He has an important matter to attend to up there.”

  “Again?” Greg rolled his eyes. “I’m starting to feel like his personal pilot the way you all keep asking me to haul him around.”

  “We would very much appreciate it. And of course, you’ll be paid for your service.”

  “Yeah well, I’m wondering if I should raise my rates.”

  “I’ll take you out for a beer when you get back.”

  “I’m holding you to that.” Greg shook his finger before leaving and closing the door.

  Alone in his office, Clark fell back into his seat and put his palms over his face. He exhaled a deep breath, relieved the meeting was over. He might not like crooks, hoodlums, thieves, tyrants, and rats, but he had no problem doing whatever it took to get something out of them. As long as he was driving them to do something that benefited the KMT’s causes, he could rest his mind easily. Greg Dawson was a different story. He hated manipulating someone so all-around nice and with a good heart. How would he ever live with himself if anything went wrong and Greg got into trouble with the American government?

  He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again. He needed to work harder. If he could persuade Joseph Whitman and the American government to provide arms support, even if it were covert and behind the scenes, they wouldn’t have to put people like Greg Dawson at risk.

  The phone rang. He picked it up.

  “Yuan Guo-Hui?” the voice said on the other end. Who would address him directly by his name at work? “It’s Shen Hong-Jie.”

  Shen Yi’s father? Clark sat up in his seat. “Yes, Shen Daye.”

  “You have to help me out. My workers have gone on strike.”

  “Gone on strike? Why?”

  “I haven’t been able to pay them. They’re demanding a raise. I can’t give it to them. I already took out a large loan to pay for extra materials and equipment. Nanking and the Mayor keep pressuring me to speed up with building that bridge crossing over to Pootung,” Shen said. He made his money building roads and bridges when the Nationalist government adopted the Greater Shanghai Plan in 1927 to develop the city and enable geographic expansion, economic growth, and modernization. The bridge to Pootung was his latest big project.

  “My entire crew was working overtime trying to meet Nanking’s crazy deadline,” Shen said. “Now the workers want a raise and overtime pay. I’d give it to them if I could, but I can’t until the next phase of the construction is complete and Nanking pays me. I sent all the excess funds I’ve set aside to the KMT after you asked.”

  No. Clark threw his head back and stared up at the ceiling. Why did it keep happening that a new problem would arise each time something was resolved?

  “You have to help me deal with this,” Shen said. “I bought those government bonds because I couldn’t let my future son-in-law lose face at work. It didn’t sound like I had a choice anyhow. I’m in a bind now. The project is stalled. My workers are making outrageous demands. They’re threatening me. I received a new delivery of equipment and they won’t let the drivers unload the loads. They said they’ll burn the trucks if I don’t pay them what they ask. You’re in the government. Please, save me.”

  This sounded serious. The situation could quickly get out of control. “I understand. I’m coming over now.”

  Clark hung up the phone, grabbed his suit jacket, and hurried out the door.

  At the construction site at Nantao near the Whangpoo River, Clark got out of his car. Outside the shanty set up as the temporary office, Shen and his managers quarreled with three of the workers. The worker in a grease-smeared white top and pants rolled up to the knee appeared to be the ringleader. He waved his hands wildly every time he made his point. His two cohorts glared and snorted whenever Shen spoke. Behind them, laborers sat or squatted on the ground. Others milled about, airing their grievances furiously to all the random strangers who had come to watch the spectacle.

  Not too far away, another group of workers surrounded three trucks filled with equipment. A heated argument ensued when the truck drivers who had come to make their deliveries tried to enter their trucks. One of the drivers lost his temper and pushed a worker back. The worker lunged at the driver and a fight nearly broke out but for the other workers and drivers physically holding them back.

  Clark quickened his steps. The scene could explode any moment. A riot would erupt if something wasn’t done soon.

  Adding fuel to the fire, a group of young people holding signs with slogans shouting “Protect Laborers,” “Respect Workers’ Rights,” and “Take Down the Capitalists,” came marching toward the site. Some of them had the audacity to wear a red flower on their shirts.

  They’ve gone mad, Clark thought. These people, most likely students, had no real memories of Chiang Kai-shek’s troops opening fire on thousands of protesting union workers and students ten years ago when he purged the Communists from Shanghai.

  “Shen Daye.” Clark finally reached the man he had come to help.

  “Guo-Hui,” Shen said. Relief washed over his face. “Good, good, you’ve come.”

  Clark himself had no idea how to placate the workers. He watched the three workers leading the negotiation and those behind them, trying to assess the situation.

  The worker who Shen was talking to didn’t give Clark a second look. “You pay each of us what we’re due by tomorrow. This is our final offer.”

  “We told you, we don’t have that kind of cash on hand,” one of Shen’s managers said.

  The worker would not budge. He glowered at Shen. �
�Stop lying to us anymore. You’re the boss. You have money for sure. Tomorrow.” He turned around and went to join the others idled on the ground. His two cohorts followed him. One cursed and spat on the ground.

  “Guo-Hui.” Shen turned to Clark again, but Clark couldn’t answer him. Among the crowd of student protestors, one pushed through to the front, pumping his fist into the air as they chanted their slogans. It was Liu Zi-Hong.

  What was this yellow-hair little imp doing?

  No time to sort things out now. He had to get him out of here before something really bad happened. “Shen Daye, excuse me. I’ll be back immediately. I promise.”

  “What?” Shen said. “You can’t leave.”

  “I’ll be back. I’m sorry,” Clark apologized and went toward the protestors. He found Zi-Hong shouting at the top of his lungs. Clark grabbed him by his shirt and pulled him away from the crowd.

  Caught by surprise, Zi-Hong stumbled along. “Let go of me. Hey! Hey!”

  Clark ignored him. With all his strength, he pulled Zi-Hong toward his car, opened the door, and threw him into the backseat. Quickly, he climbed inside himself, slammed the door shut, and told Huang Shifu to start driving.

  “Go to his home,” he said to the chauffeur, meaning Zi-Hong’s home.

  “What are you doing taking me away?” the idiot demanded.

  “Are you out of your mind?” Clark yelled. “What did you think you were doing? You could get arrested.”

  “I’m standing up for the poor. Those workers are being abused.”

  “It’s none of your business. Shen Daye is an old friend of my family. How could you pick a fight with him?”

  “Who he is doesn’t matter. No one should be above fairness and justice. I judge each matter according to its own merit.”