Last Princess of Manchuria

by Lilian Lee

  "When you go before the firing squad, the bullets will be blanks, but no one there will know. When you hear the shots, you must pretend to be hit and collapse to the ground. I'll take it from there. I owe you a life, and I came to repay my debt."

  Repay a debt? For a moment, she didn't know what he was talking about, but then she remembered. Years ago he stood in the sights of her gun—she could have killed him, but in the end she merely grazed his hair. She let him live. And now he sat before her, the only thing that stood between her and certain death. Experience taught her the importance of playing it cool when the stakes were high. She mustn't give anything away.

  She heard him out; while they reached a silent understanding, her face remained immobile—but her eyes spoke volumes as she fixed him with a brief, penetrating gaze. She looked down at the necklace.

  "Of course I'll cooperate with the government, but—" She hesitated, searching Yun Kai's face and stealing a brief glance at the guard standing just outside the room. "You have confiscated all of my personal property," she intoned loudly, as though making a public pronouncement. "Please allow me one final concession. I would like a kimono, made of white silk—in exchange for all of my worldly goods. Would that be possible, sir?

  Her eyes were filled with worried tears. There was nothing more she could say. Her heart pounded, and her stomach was tying itself in knots.

  Yun Kai gave her hand a tight squeeze, squeezing so hard that his knuckles went white, and she felt the pain all the way to her heart. Neither of them spoke—a thousand words and a thousand feelings all came together in that one brief contact. In a moment, they would have to let go.

  A bittersweet sensation washed over Yoshiko, and she had to fight back the tears. She couldn't allow herself to show any weakness.

  Nodding officiously, he gathered up his things, giving her once last glance. Her lips trembled, and though no sound escaped them, he could read them clearly:

  "Ah-fu!"

  She dropped her head and went out. This time she wanted to be the first to leave. She never wanted to watch a man walk away from her again.

  Did he mean what he said? She kept her doubts at bay. She had been disappointed before, but she wanted so much to believe in this last glimmer of hope. Nonetheless, she faced her future with equanimity. She was over forty years old, and the best years of her life were behind her. Her days of power and influence were but memories. All that awaited her was a slow decline and public humiliation. She had been a fighter, a commander—to die by the gun would be heroic, she told herself. What was more, all of her old associates were in the same situation. They were a politically ambitious crowd of Japanese officers, spies, and war criminals. All of them were guilty of something, and with the UN forces after them, it was only a matter of time before their pasts caught up with them. Why should she be any different?

  She wondered sometimes if her trial hadn't been just a staged spectacle, the ending written before the action even started, her death sentence an inevitability. She had lost that round. Yun Kai's appearance would be the last round in this high-stakes game of chance. She was impatient for the players to show their hands. She wanted it over soon—the wait was excruciating.

  It was still dark out. March 25, 1948, was about to dawn. Yoshiko's time had come, but no trace of fear clouded her expression, and no lines of worry furrowed her brow. Turning from the white silk kimono she was laying out, she saw the warden glowering down at her.

  "I don't want to die in these prison rags—" she started to explain.

  But he simply shook his head. She didn't protest—she knew she couldn't expect any special favors from him, so she might as well just do as he wished. Sighing with regret, she swept aside the soft, insubstantial garment.

  A white silk kimono. She was only seven years old when she put on her first kimono. The memory was bittersweet. She cried and complained, trying with all her might to tear it off—it was like a straitjacket. She couldn't get it off, no matter how hard she fought, but she would learn to love it. On that day, they had remade her.

  "I am Chinese!" she had cried. She really didn't want to be Japanese. Still, in the end, it was the Chinese who sentenced her to death. She was only seven years old.

  "If you won't let me wear it, then so be it. I don't really care, anymore. There's plenty of honor in dying before a firing squad—it's a privilege, like attending a banquet. I'll just be a little underdressed, that's all."

  Yoshiko turned again to the warden.

  "May I write my will?"

  He watched in silence as she hurriedly gathered up every last bank note she had.

  "It's not even enough to buy a piece of paper," she sobbed, knowing that the big stack of bills she offered was practically worthless. But the warden handed her a blank scrap of paper. With pen raised over the blank sheet, she hesitated for a moment, lost in thought.

  "Hurry up!" the warden barked. "You're out of time!" It was a just hazy recollection, the poem she was trying to remember. She had to hurry. It was too late. She was out of time.

  And then she remembered.

  I have a home I can't return to, I'm full of tears I cannot cry. The only law here is injustice, Who will listen to my story?

  Carefully and reverently, Yoshiko folded the paper into four, so that it would fit into the palm of her hand.

  "I'm sure China will be better off without me!" she said bitterly. "I've never wanted anything but the best for China—it's a shame I won't live to see it!"

  The warden glanced at his watch, and Yoshiko knew it was time. There was no point in putting it off, even if she could. As much as she loved her life, she knew she couldn't cling to it forever. As these thoughts raced through her mind, an enigmatic smile that she alone understood formed on her lips—it was time for the dealer to show his hand.

  She strode out of her cell, tall and undaunted. There was a chill in the air that made the prisoners shiver. A shudder ran through Yoshiko's body, but she remained composed. With her proud bearing, she looked more like an empress reviewing her troops than a convict about to be executed.

  As the guards let her out, she became aware of someone humming a song. Sad and shrill, it sent a shiver down her spine.

  The fairest flowers rarely bloom,

  The finest days give way to clouds,

  Sorrow fills the brightest smiles,

  And teardrops mar the clearest skin.

  After we part tonight,

  Will we ever meet again?

  Let's drain this glass

  And have another round.

  Let's laugh together while we can,

  Who knows what tomorrow will bring?

  Yoshiko sang along dreamily:

  After we part tonight, Will we ever meet again?

  Tenderness and despair filled her heart. Oh, China, she mused, someday you will understand, someday you will feel as I do. She clutched the poem tightly in her fist.

  In a dark corner of the prison, a white silk kimono lay discarded in a heap.

  The people of Peking were still adrift in the sweetness of sleep as Yoshiko was led to the execution ground in the first pale light of dawn. She stood facing the wall while the executioner read out the sentence:

  "Yoshiko Kawashima, born Princess Hsien-tzu, fourteenth daughter of the Manchu prince Su, sometimes known as Eastern Jewel, also known as Chin Pi-hui, forty-two years of age, has been convicted of the crime of treason. All appeals have been denied, and she has been sentenced to death, with the sentence to be carried out on this morning, the twenty-fifth day of March, 1948."

  They made her kneel.

  There was a sharp click as the executioner released the safety catch on his gun. Yoshiko moved almost imperceptibly, the piece of paper clutched tight in her hand.

  A sudden flash of realization coursed through her body like an electric shock: She was standing on that narrow precipice between life and death, and she was afraid. No man or woman, no matter how brave, no matter how committed to a cause, could help but fee
l a jolt of apprehension before the barrel of the executioner's gun.

  23

  A shot rang out. Outside the prison gates, a rumble of disapproval rose up from the throng of reporters who were gathered there to cover the story. They had just been cheated out of seeing this execution firsthand. Rumor originally had it that the execution was to take place at Municipal Prison Number Two on the previous day; at the last minute, the time and place were changed. The press was out in full force this early morning. There was even a film crew from the Central Film Studio, hoping for footage for a documentary on Yoshiko's life. They were extremely disappointed that the final, and most dramatic, scene would be missing. Why had everything been so hastily arranged, they all wondered?

  Everybody was in an uproar, but the soldiers standing guard didn't give an inch, answering every entreaty from the press with the same stern directive: Under no circumstances were the prison gates to be opened without the explicit permission of the head warden. Nor were they, the guards, permitted to answer any questions. Reporters crowded forward, thrusting their calling cards into the guards' faces, but they might as well have been dealing with a brick wall.

  It was while the press was negotiating with the prison authorities that the muffled report of a gunshot reached their ears. At first they weren't sure what they had heard—had the execution been carried out in secret? What had happened?

  Just then, day broke. As the first rays of sunlight fell upon the land, the people of Peking began another day, just like any other. But for the executed, this day was different—for her there would be no more dawns, no more tomorrows.

  The warden was escorting a Japanese monk to the west gate of the prison, where a body lay atop a plain white casket. The body was that of a woman, her face covered by an old straw mat that was anchored in place with a couple of broken bricks—to keep the wind from blowing the straw mat off. The corpse was clothed in a gray prison uniform and blue cloth shoes. The monk, Master Furukawa, stepped forward to identify the body.

  Yoshiko never knew Master Furukawa, although he was a prominent and highly regarded Buddhist monk, former abbot, and president of the North China Buddhist Federation. Many of his seventy-eight years had been spent roaming far and wide and spreading the faith. He had followed Yoshiko's case with great interest. He also knew that her friends, relatives, and other associates were reluctant to identify her body in public, lest the stain of her crimes contaminate them, as well. When none of them proved willing to step forward, Master Furukawa took the teachings of his Mahayana Buddhism to heart. Remembering that one should despise the crime but not the criminal, he petitioned the court for permission to verify the identity of the executed.

  Stepping up to the coffin, he lifted the mat covering the face. The bullet had entered at the back of the head, emerging from the right side of the face. The shot was fired at close range, leaving the face an unrecognizable mass of blood and bone, with a purplish stain around the entry wound.

  Furukawa mumbled a sutra as he wiped away some of the blood with a cotton rag; but it was still impossible to tell what the face had looked like in life. A clutch of reporters rushed up while he was wrapping the body in a white wool blanket. They busily snapped pictures in a flurry of shouting as they jostled for a better view. After all, she was a legend.

  Everybody was talking at once.

  "Was she shot?"

  "What's the point of just getting a picture of the body?"

  "All that detailed groundwork—for this?"

  "How did you find out about it? Who told you?"

  "Is it really Yoshiko Kawashima?"

  "I can't tell! The face is a bloody mess—I can't make out a damn thing!"

  "Don't you think there's something strange about the way they handled this—not letting us reporters in to see the execution?"

  "I thought she had short hair. How come the hair on this corpse is so long?"

  "Maybe it isn't really Yoshiko."

  In the midst of this hubbub, Master Furukawa calmly continued to wrap the body, first in a fresh blanket and last in a multicolored quilt—a fitting end to a colorful life. He droned on, chanting funeral sutras, his robes stained with blood, while a pair of young acolytes helped carry the body to a waiting truck, right past the disgruntled band of journalists. The journalists remained rooted to the spot, their discussion raging long after the truck had left for the crematorium. Meanwhile, an urgent call reached the newspaper office, demanding an investigation, but the body was long gone.

  When the truck reached the crematorium, the monks and the crematorium employees moved the body into a room. They did so without reverence or ceremony—it was a just a job to them. They saw death every day. They didn't care whose body it was. As far as they were concerned, a corpse was a corpse, incapable of feeling, incapable of breathing—just plain dead. Rich or poor, high or low, good or bad, beautiful or ugly—they were all the same here. All were destined to be turned to ash in a moment's time.

  As the corpse was carried in, one of its hands fell limply out, and a slip of paper fluttered to the floor. But nobody noticed. Nobody ever knew.

  The monks read a final blessing, the kindling was readied, and the men withdrew. Several hours later, the roaring flames had transformed the entire body to ash. The cremation was complete by one-thirty in the afternoon. Master Furukawa and his attendants took the ashes and divided them. Half would be sent to Mr. Kawashima to enshrine; the other half would be given a proper burial in the crematorium graveyard.

  As the monks interred the box of ashes, they gave Yoshiko a Buddhist name—Sister Aisin of the Blue Moss and Wondrous Fragrance. She was nobody's wife, none of her family would acknowledge her, and her foster father was in another country— so the monks settled for "Sister." A large crowd gathered around to watch the ceremony, but none of them had come to mourn. The only mourners were the monks, a handful of strangers burning offerings of incense for her in the chill wind. This was how Sister Aisin of the Blue Moss and Wondrous Fragrance left the world. Born in 1907. Died in 1948. A life.

  Epilogue

  The caller who demanded an inquiry refused to give up, and soon the Attorney General's Office received a letter of complaint. The dead woman was not Yoshiko Kawashima, it claimed, but rather the writer's sister, Liu Feng-ling! The matter was blown wide open, and indignant public opinion spread quickly to the courts. According to the complainant, one Liu Feng-chen, the "truth" was this:

  Her sister, Liu Feng-ling, bore a close resemblance to Yoshiko Kawashima and had also been sentenced to death. Furthermore, Feng-ling happened to be seriously ill. When someone came from the prison and offered to give the family ten gold ingots if they would let her be executed as a stand-in, the family (namely the mother and husband of the condemned) accepted. But after the execution, they only received four ingots; when they tried to get the rest of their gold, the people they had made the deal with had them thrown out. Then the mother went to demand an explanation—and she disappeared!

  There was a great public outcry, with the newspapers printing one sensational story after another and the authorities ordering an official inquiry. The controversy raged for several months, with no sign of abating, as everyone wondered: Is Yoshiko Kawashima still alive? The investigation got under way, accompanied by bold headlines in all the dailies. But the complainant didn't give a complete address, nor did she name the parties she accused of making the trade. The inquiry stalled. Meanwhile, the elderly monk, Furukawa, testified in court that the body was indeed Yoshiko's, and not that of a stand-in. But the issue was by no means settled.

  Some time afterward, Master Furukawa went back to Japan, arriving at Kawashima's lakeside lodge in the mountains of Honshu with an urn tucked under his arm. The seventy-eight-year-old monk was greeted by the eighty-five-year-old Kawashima. Together, the two frail old men went out to bury Yoshiko's ashes. They placed several articles she once used in the ground along with the urn: an old velvet coverlet, a hot-water bottle, and a white kimono.

&n
bsp; "Even if it isn't Yoshiko," Kawashima offered, "don't you suppose we'd better say a blessing over her just in case?"

  To this day, the mystery surrounding the details of her death has remained unsolved.

  Nine months after receiving Yoshiko's ashes, Naniwa Kawashima was having his temperature taken by the nurse who visited him every day at dusk. She had just inserted the thermometer under his armpit when she noticed he had stopped breathing. Never again would he see the sky filled with snowflakes. The exuberant camaraderie of his youth was but a distant echo. He hadn't even lasted until nightfall.

  His tombstone, bearing the Buddhist name of Grand Hermit of Sokutsufugai, Shosoin Monastery, sits in a silent row with those of his dead wife, Fukuko, and his foster daughter, Yoshiko, in the Kawashima family plot.

  That year saw the execution of vast numbers of war criminals in Peking. Loaded onto the backs of trucks, their hands tied behind their backs, the condemned were paraded around the city on their way to the execution ground. Large characters painted on the sides of the trucks announced their crimes: murder and mayhem, abuse of power, extortion, and other atrocities. The crowds of spectators lining the roads became inflamed and started hurling bricks at the prisoners in the trucks, shouting out epithets all the while: