I stop talking. She has risen up, she is looking straight at me.
‘He is a worm and a traitor of the first order. You don’t even like him, do you? In fact, I’d venture, you despise him every bit as much as I do.’
After that, there isn’t much else to say. For the first time I look her straight in her eye. What a brave little girl! Honesty is the least she deserves.
‘Yes. I do not like him very much.’ I pause. ‘But this is war we are in. One has to do what is necessary.’
There is a long pause. A wave of emotion overcomes me.
‘Do you mind if I tell you about my wife?’
‘Please do,’ she says icily.
‘I too was asked by the nationalists and by the communists to come here to write for them for the war effort. I was very torn. I too love China. I desire above all else to see China become once again a strong and a decent country, in which all citizens, especially the poorest, are treated with respect, are lifted out of their terrible poverty. And – and I know this will make you think I am the most despicable of hypocrites – I have always felt that those who need the most liberating are the women of China. Their slavery, their forced marriages, their bound feet.
‘Myself and my family were living in Jinan, a long way from here. And the Japanese were advancing on us fast, and the telegrams kept arriving for me from Wuhan – “Come here! Come to Wuhan!” I am a Confucian, a Christian, a socialist – a terrible mess. In my writings I have continually attacked the Confucian morality of family above all things, said it was paralyzing China, holding it back. But in the moment of crisis I became totally a Confucian. I had a wife, three young children, an aged mother who could not be moved, had to be nursed all the time. So, as the father, the head of the family, the servant of every other member of the family, I could not abandon my mother. I decided I must stay. Do my best somehow to protect my family from Japanese bayonets. I would forget Wuhan.’
‘And what happened?’
‘My wife. My wife came to me and in the strongest possible terms told me that China needed me, that I was to get on the train, and she would defend and feed our family. She could quietly get work – she is a graphic designer – I must abandon her and my family, I must go and do my duty to the new China.’
‘And so you did your duty? You came to Wuhan?’
‘My wife did my duty.’
‘Is your wife, your family safe?’
‘I do not know.’
‘And what is it like living here in Wuhan?’
‘Hell. It is darkness and desolation.’
Now I am the one slumping back in my chair while she looks at me straight-backed.
‘Your wife loves you?’
‘I think so.’
‘Good. Then I will follow your wife’s judgement of you. And do what you ask me to do.’
I look at her. She gives me a saucy smile in return.
‘Your wife’s duty means she’s got to live alone and defenceless in Japanese territory and somehow protect and support her family and nurse her mother-in-law. While I only have to marry an old roué. I think I’ve been very lucky.’
I do not know whether to sing Hosannah or vomit.
An unhostile silence follows. I move to reassure her.
‘Your marriage will probably not be too onerous. I’m sure you will be able to pursue your career. He will require a certain amount of time away for work and – other interests.’
‘I think I will have “other interests” too. I shall come and see you…’
I turn bright red.
‘…and your wife, when she arrives.’
‘I doubt if Guo Morou will come with you. He and I are not the best of friends.’
‘Good. My visits will be an irritant for him and a joy for me.’
‘And for us.’
19
And yet they split apart mountains and streams,
And carved up the empire,
How could a hundred myriad loyal troops
All at once discard their armour
To be moved away and chopped down
Like grass and trees?
…{How could Heaven have been so drunk?}
Yu Xin, ‘The Lament for the South’
Wei slept deep inside the rock. Entombed, embedded within the comforting black granite of Taierzhuang.
He lay sleeping on a shelf of stone dug into the side of the trench in which his company was posted. Rock above him, rock beside him, rock beneath him. He was safe, guarded. Ever since he’d been driven off his land, all through the terrible loss of his family, Wei had felt estranged and abandoned by his god. Tudeh, god of earth, had given them no protection. But now, fighting in Taierzhuang, sheltering among the god of earth’s rocks, shielded by his stone and rubble, sleeping in his earth, Wei once more felt sustained, guarded by his god.
He was roused and another soldier took his place. Evening was drawing in – though you could hardly tell it. Black smoke hung in the air, peoples’ faces were black, everything was cast in gloom.
Some fifty yards behind them lay the south wall of the city. Behind it lay the waters of the Grand Canal – uncrossable since the wooden pontoon bridge linking Taierzhuang to the southern shore had been destroyed. These fighters were here til they were either killed by the Japanese or drove the Japanese northwards and out of the city.
The men snatched moments to eat, their strips of white pork fat immediately turning black in the dust and smoke. They were huddled only yards from the nearest Japanese dug-out and trenches. (‘Get as close as you can to your enemy so he can’t bomb and shell and gas you without also destroying his own troops! Be intimate with him – cheek by jowl. Don’t let him sleep, keep him on edge at all times. Talk loudly to each other to let him know you’re here, throw occasional grenades at him to keep him awake and shivering, sing coarse and vulgar songs to grate his nerves, always sound cheerful and positive.’)
But tonight a strange, profound silence had fallen all across the battlefield. Both sides knew tomorrow would be the final bloodshed. Both sides rested, reflected upon it. At midday the Chinese were to charge, to pre-empt the Japanese attack at three in the afternoon.
Wei hardly knew the people he was wedged in among, who he would die with. Men from every part of China. Strangers. The sole survivors of a hundred different outfits and regiments from a hundred different armies Every one with a different accent, a different dialect. But the exigencies of battle had, of necessity, forged among the soldiers of Taierzhuang a common understanding – through looks, grunts, certain key words common to all dialects, new words they’d had to learn in double quick time in the chaos of battle. And those had, of necessity, grown and evolved into a common dialect, a universal tongue capable of expressing just not actions, but feelings and emotion.
They could understand each other, but they were still all as strangers to each other.
In the dark before their final battle they chatted among themselves. Started to talk about the villages they were brought up in. Where they were the local kids, the rascals and ne’er-do-wells before the wars snatched them away. Someone had found wine in a cellar. They passed it round. Someone else had found cartons of cigarettes the Japanese, desperate to resupply their troops, had parachuted into the city. The parachute had fallen among Chinese troops. They passed them around.
They began to reminisce about the celebrations, the festivals their villages had held every year.
One soldier was from the far north province of Heilongjiang.
‘In our village, Fenjiatun, so we could bring down the gods from heaven to be among us, we would hire spirit masters to summon them. Six spirit masters there always were. On the first evening there’d be lots of drumming and the spirit masters would fall on the ground and go into trances. As a kid my hair used to stand on end when they did. They’d writhe about. Then they’d stand up, all strange, and they’d become like horses – neighing, stamping their feet, tossing their heads back and forth. They were the horses that c
ome down from heaven with the gods riding on their backs! Oh what joy! What shouting! The gods were among us. Through the spirit masters the gods spoke to us, we told them how joyous we were to see them, the gods asked, through the spirit masters, for wine and cigarettes – we gave them to them and then had some ourselves. Then them and us, gods and people, all started dancing and dancing, singing songs. Then, the evening over, we helped each god to step into their statues, which we had put up on a platform. The gods were on their thrones – we could start our festival.’
Another soldier, from Shandong Province, took up the story.
‘In my village we paraded our gods in their statues around the village. All around the neighbouring villages. Singing, shouting. As we passed people crowded up to the statues to thank the gods for having cured their illnesses, women prayed to them asking to bear male children, everyone they passed greeted them and begged them for good fortune in the coming year – plentiful crops, many children, few deaths. “May our pigs be as large as oxen!”
‘People garlanded their statues with flowers and blossoms. Put out offerings to them of our finest food and choicest wines. Then – the food and wine tasted by the gods – we’d all carry it into the village temple and everyone feasted and drank. We ate the food of the gods. Then we danced. And danced. And danced. And then, the festival over, we burnt paper images of the gods to show that they had returned up to heaven. Because they had left we all wept and lamented.’
A strong voice from Gansu Province spoke out.
‘Sometimes it wasn’t as easy as that, though, was it? One year we had this terrible drought. It went on and on. Not a drop of rain. And the heat from the sun was terrible. So everyone in the village decided we should ask for help from our ancestors. We burnt them incense and paper money and offered them the choicest pork and chicken. But no rain. By now we were really suffering from the drought. Our old people were getting ill. Two children died. So, to show our rain god what a lousy job he was doing we dragged his statue out and dumped him in the middle of a parched field so he could feel what it was like to have that burning sun on his bald head all day.’
Everyone burst out laughing at this.
‘But still no rain. Every field was yellow with dying crops. We would all starve to death. So we held this meeting. At it we all decided to behead the Drought Demon who was causing it. We built a straw body of the Drought Demon and made his head out of a large gourd. We cut the insides out of the gourd and put them in a large tub of water so all the water turned blood red. Then, bareheaded and barefoot, we dragged the Drought Demon out into the field – everyone striking and cursing him – and right in front of the statue of the rain god we cut off the head of the Drought Demon and poured all the red juice all over his body to stand for his blood and everyone cheered crazily and we laid his remains at the feet of the rain god and shouted at the god, ‘Bring us our rain!!! Where is our rain???’ Within half an hour it was raining, it was pouring with rain the like of which you’re never seen. We left the rain god outside so he could enjoy it too and then afterwards, to thank him for his wonderful bounty, we put on an opera specially for him.’
Someone shouted out to the sleepless Japanese in their next-door trench that this proved Chinese rain gods were superior to Japanese rain gods. He followed it with a grenade, just to keep them nerve-wracked and fearful.
A voice from Anhui spoke next.
‘I never liked festivals, because of all the dancing and noise,’ he said – which met with some jeering. ‘But I do like that you can meet up with all your family and relatives who you haven’t seen for ages and catch up on things. Have a good chat. And also you can usually pick up cheap bargains in the market.’
‘You tight-fisted Anhui bastard,’ said another voice.
‘I heard that, you Zhejiang bastard,’ responded the Anhui bastard, to laughter.
Someone had rescued an ancient wind-up gramophone from a ruined house and a cracked recording of Marlene Dietrich’s ‘Lili Marleen’ ground out across tomorrow’s battlefield.
‘I’m from Zhangzi in the province of Shanxi,’ announced an older voice. ‘One year I was elected to be the Grand Marshall of the parade at our festival.’
This announcement was met with some ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’. Being chosen as a Grand Marshall meant this soldier must once have been quite an important person.
‘It’s a real worry being the Grand Marshall, a real responsibility. Everything must be done exactly right. Once the gods have arrived down from heaven and stepped into their statues, then every god must be lifted gently and reverently into their sedan chairs. If a god were to fall out of their sedan chair then they could get really tetchy. Once they’re in their sedan chairs and happy, you then have to get everyone else all lined up behind them and in precisely the right order and position, all the banners and flags and costumes must be bright and clean, all the music played at the right time, all the dancing done exactly and no steps missed out or muddled up or the gods would get upset. Finally, when everything is right, the sacred musket is fired and the procession can move off. Everything must be exactly right. I used to worry about it all the time.’
‘Excuse me, father,’ asked a polite voice with a Guanxi accent, ‘but how could a man like you, who must have been quite prosperous to be Grand Marshall, why did you end up in the army?’
‘In our civil wars,’ said the older voice from Shanxi, ‘two warlords had a war and chose our village as their battlefield. It was totally destroyed. All my family was dead. I was penniless. So what could I do? I joined the army of the warlord who won.’
This story made the men sigh and shake their heads with distress. Wei particularly felt very sad.
The next voice did not cheer things up.
‘I’m from a village in north Shaanxi,’ he said. ‘In our festival we had to dance a ritual dance which was very dangerous. Not joyful at all. If we did not dance it precisely correctly it could bring all sorts of misfortunes on our village.’
This caused great interest among everyone,
‘What was it?’
‘Why was it so dangerous?’
‘Well, each year we had to build this maze. It was a very powerful maze. And we could only process through it on the darkest of nights. It was made from 367 lanterns. And as we, the whole village, went through it one by one, at every lantern, we had to remember which was the right way to go – left or right. And if we did not get it right, as soon as we made a wrong step, the gods would snatch our souls down into hell. The whole village, one by one, every year, had to get it exactly right.’
‘No!’ said some voices.
‘That sounds terrible!’
‘Did you all get through?’
‘We spent months beforehand,’ said the man from north Shaanxi, ‘the whole village, learning the turnings one by one, rehearsing them. Over and over again. So we got this walk through the darkness correct.’
‘Did you always get around safely?’
‘While I was there, yes. We were guided by our elders – who knew the way. But I always remember looking out into that blackness, thinking it could snatch me away at any second. But it was worth it. If we did it properly it would bring us a year of fertility and blessings, being spared droughts and floods. And it always brought the village together. People who’d quarreled tended to make up after it, people helped each other out, everyone smiled at each other.’
But the listeners were not cheered by this. The whole group seemed downcast by the story. It reminded them too much of what they themselves were about to go through.
Wei stepped into the breach.
‘What I always liked best about our village’s festivals,’ said Wei positively, ‘was how they brought everyone together. The whole village. We all had to work as one. Decide which musicians we wanted, what dancers and spirit masters and actors would be best for our plays and operas and ceremonies. We’d work together as teams to build the stages, make the costumes and decorations, cook the food exactly s
o the gods would love it, prepare our finest wines. Everyone had something to do, problems to work out. We all had to reach agreements with each other and then keep them. People who didn’t know each other had to work together, help each other out, and in doing that they became friends, it brought trust and fellowship into the village.
‘And the dances and all the complex rituals and ceremonies? They were the most difficult thing we had to do – and the most joyful. When, after all the rehearsing our moves in which each member had to trust each other member to know exactly where they had to be, precisely what they had to be doing at precisely that moment – that was the moment when the whole village harmonized, meshed together, became as one in the sacred dance…’
There was silence. Each one remembering their own particular moment.
Their own brief festival now over, the Chinese soldiers threw all their empty wine bottles into the Japanese trench, followed by oaths and grenades. Then everyone fell asleep in the deep night except for Wei and a few others who were on guard.
*
Spider Girl was very worried about her father. She wanted to know what was happening to him.
Each morning she religiously read the newspapers pasted on the walls on the Bund, but they seemed to say less and less about the war, about who was fighting who and where. (This was because, very wisely, the military censors did not want news of the cataclysmic Battle of Taierzhuang to come out until its outcome was decided.)
So to find out what was happening in the world, rather than reading the newspapers, Spider Girl adopted the revolutionary technique of talking to people. And the even more revolutionary technique of listening to them. The Bund was awash with rumours of an almighty battle being fought near Xuzhou.
Spider Girl required more details.
So she tapped into the traditional network by which news had always been disseminated through China. Through the market traders. All sorts of stall holders hawked ‘reliable news’, gleaned from the travelling merchants they bought their wares from, to their customers. Buy three pounds of spuds and ‘get the news free’. But such news was not always reliable.
Wuhan Page 47
