by Virginia Pye
“But I must go with him,” she said, trying to regain her voice. “Please, General, help me.”
He lifted his legs off the desktop and set his boots on the floor with quiet finality.
“I will be your nurse now. I can tend to your officers.”
“It is too late for that. Your son will travel to Shanghai and board a ship out of China and away from his mother forever. He will make a new life in America and will be fine without you, probably better off. Americans are far too sentimental about such things.”
As she gripped the edge of his desk to catch her fall, her shirt came open, and she hunched over quickly to cover herself. The British mother had no longer cared, so Shirley had reached across to close the woman’s blouse and wiped the blood from her pale skin. The bodies, Shirley recalled, so many wounded bodies that she had helped, not once feeling squeamish or frightened. But she understood now that she had seen too much suffering. She had held the hands of Chinese boys as they took their final breaths, their own mothers far away. She could not bear to have it end like that for her and her son—to be separated and torn from one another like the women and soldiers she had tried to save.
“Please,” she said again, “I must go to him.”
General Shiga stood but remained behind the desk, and Shirley was grateful that he didn’t come closer. She feared she might faint if he did. Although he wasn’t threatening her, his presence filled her with the terrible dread and panic that she had held at bay for weeks.
“You will tell me the location of the Red Army camp and help us find Captain Hsu,” he said. “Then you may see your son.”
Shirley’s head throbbed, and she blinked several times. “Captain Hsu?” she asked. “I hardly know the man.”
The general slammed a hand on the desk, and Shirley flinched. “I give you one chance,” he said. “You lie to me again, and I no longer care what happens to you. Now, tell me, where is the Eighth Route Army camp?”
Her voice came out high and thin. “Your soldiers found me on the trail that leads to it.”
“We already know the location of that Red Army camp out on the plains to the east. We attacked it this afternoon.”
Out the window, the dust-clogged sky grew dimmer. Shirley realized that hours must have passed while she had slept in the storage room. Night was falling rapidly now. “You attacked there today?” she asked.
“We did away with it. Even the Reds with their unmanly guerrilla tactics are far inferior to us.” General Shiga strode to the window, and Shirley studied his unrelenting reflection in the glass. “But their leaders escaped. They are a wily bunch and know the countryside better than we do. We simply finished off the wounded. There is no point in taking prisoners. We have orders to destroy all.”
The general’s words cascaded over her as one thought drowned out all others. She needed to see her child and escape this madness together. She held the wicker chair to steady herself and brought forth the courage to ask, “What do you want me to do?”
He turned to her. “Tell us the location of their headquarters in the mountains. We could bomb the whole range, but that would be a waste of our resources. You will get me the coordinates of the Communist camp.”
“But I have no idea where it is, General. I’m not a Red Army soldier. This foolish uniform I wear is just a costume. You must know that.” She cleared her constricted throat and made herself continue. “You know me, General Shiga—Hal,” she added, with trepidation, but he didn’t seem to take offense. “My stepfather is a successful capitalist. He owns a chain of shoe stores in Ohio. I couldn’t possibly believe in all this Communist nonsense. You know my alma mater. You graduated with distinction from one of our brother schools.” She dared to let go of the chair and started toward him, as if finally making her way across the dance floor of her youth. “You know I am a Vassar girl. We attended that spring social together, you and I. Now, please, just let me find my son and go home. I have no business being here. It’s been an awful mistake. I should never have stayed so long.”
Sweat trickled down her sides as Shirley joined him at the window. “Come, now, help us return home to America, where we belong.”
“Vassar girl,” he said with a snarl.
The wind whipped great clouds of yellow dust across the gloaming sky, giving the air a deep ochre tint. The Japanese flag on the pole snapped frantically, the shutters of the old municipal building banged, and the windows rattled. Then, in an instant, the rain began. Shirley thought she heard the general let out a pleased sigh, as if hearing the opening chords of a concert he was fond of remembering. She wished that the initial gentleness of the rainfall would bring him back to his former self. She would have liked to reminisce about the band that night. The gay lanterns on the campus lawn. The girls in their springtime dresses. She would have liked to be her former self—a carefree young woman who thought the world was safe and hers for the taking.
“Get me the location of the Red Army camp in the mountains, and I will see that you join your son before he leaves Shanghai,” the general said as he continued to gaze at the storm that was starting to rage outside.
Torrents always marked the change of season here. Shirley remembered Charles playing in the sudden mud puddles with his dear friend, Han. Her husband would dash home so they could press their rocking chairs close together and watch the great, sweeping power of the storm as it rushed across the plains. For so many years, rain had made all things new. Shirley wished for that now, for them all. To wash away the sins of violence and misery.
But the rain would do nothing of the sort, especially not for her. Shirley understood in that moment that if she did what the general asked and betrayed her friend and his cause, nothing could wash her clean. No matter how empty or terrified she might feel, or desperate to be reunited with her son, nothing could justify such a decision. And yet she felt she had no choice.
“I will try,” she said.
“Don’t play games with me, Mrs. Carson. If you do not come through with this information, you will not see your son, and I will leave your fate to my men.”
The general called for his soldiers. They pushed her out of the office and through the maze of other soldiers, then left her on the steps of the municipal building to make her way home in the driving rain.
Twenty-four
Caleb watched the rain as Han and Cook conferred at the back of the cave. They had set it up so nicely, with a fire and two cots, his own and one for Cook. All summer, Caleb had been grateful for the dampness inside the cave as it had helped keep him cool through night sweats. He was coming back to life. He felt certain of that. But then he heard their voices, and despite the pounding rain and their quick tongues, the crucial information reached him. Han whispered to his father that an update had come over the radio: Mrs. Carson was missing, perhaps taken by the Japanese or simply lost in the countryside. The night before, she had visited a Red Army camp out on the plains with Captain Hsu. Early that morning, an unexpected Japanese attack had struck nearby, and in the confusion, Mrs. Carson had disappeared. She had not been seen since, and subsequently, Han explained, the camp had been destroyed, only the Eighth Route Army leaders and some of the troops escaping in time.
Caleb wanted to shout above the sound of the rain and beg them to tell him it wasn’t true that Shirley’s whereabouts were now unknown. But instead, he bit his bottom lip and squeezed his hands together in an exercise they had devised to help him regain strength in his arms. Cook had overseen his recovery so well, and Caleb understood that the older man was protecting him from any painful news that might impede his recovery. He listened intently for any further updates and heard Cook say that he would confirm Mrs. Carson’s absence with Captain Hsu.
They were all out there, Caleb thought: his wife, his son, and his friend and comrade Captain Hsu. They all existed beyond the veil of water that separated him from the rest of the world. As the rain fell, swirling him in its embrace, he shut his eyes and tried to appear as placid as he c
ould, though his mind roiled with worry and his body felt more infirm than ever.
“You have rested well,” Cook said. “But now you must sit up. The humors must move. Stir blood. Very important.”
For weeks now, Cook had tried to teach Caleb the Chinese understanding of the body. It was so foreign to him, and he was such a slow learner since the accident, unable to grasp the many rules and distinctions of his care. But he had come to believe that Cook’s approach was right: his blood had grown too still. Now, after overhearing the news of his missing wife, Caleb sensed that even his heart was slowing. Perhaps it would stop altogether. His tears started again, and Cook frowned.
“You feel much pain?” he asked.
“No, I’m just happy that my family is going home to America.”
At this, Cook nodded briskly and appeared satisfied. “It is best.”
He then stepped away and left Caleb to wonder how he could possibly go on living while she was out there alone in the countryside. He remembered the old phrases he had used to cheer his wife when she felt unhappy, which had been quite often here in China. Stiff upper lip, he had said. Carry on. How had he ever believed it possible to carry on, unscathed? He had thought he could come to China to make a difference, first with teaching at the mission and then with the Communist cause as well. He had wanted to help redirect the stream of history here, when in actuality, it had washed over him like the rain over the lip of the cave. How had he ever thought that he and his family could escape the shifting and slippery ground around them in a country not their own?
He fell asleep to the pounding of rain and awoke later to see the unmistakable silhouette of Captain Hsu by the mouth of the cave. Caleb sensed other men nearby, too. A great tiredness overcame him. He was not well. The rain had slowed to an even pace. Caleb knew it would go on like that for days. It made his bones ache even more than before. The pain seeped through him the way the water leaked from cracks in the cave walls. His wife was missing and he hurt all over. He raised a finger and tried to make his voice heard above the insistent rain.
“Captain,” he called.
It took several more tries before his comrade heard him and left the other men to come to his side. He knelt down and pressed Caleb’s hand.
“You are feeling better?” Captain Hsu asked.
Caleb wanted to smile but felt too feeble to do so. “I’m no better than I was,” he said.
“That is not what Cook tells me.” The Captain’s strong voice echoed off the watery walls.
What a vital man he was, Caleb thought. That scar over his eye and other marks on his face did not take away from his overall handsome and positive appearance. Captain Hsu would have stood out in any country but seemed especially unique in this setting, where hardship crushed the spirits of lesser souls.
“I have heard about my wife,” Caleb whispered. “Is she still missing?”
The captain bowed his head, his silver hair catching the lamplight. “I am sorry, my friend. We tried to spare you this news.”
“Don’t tell Cook that I know. He will worry about me.”
The captain looked out at the night. “We did not see the raid coming until it was almost too late. Our leaders barely escaped. And now, Imperial Army troops line the main roads and fill the town. Everyone who can has left. We are unable to return there without great risk. I have to assume that the Japanese took Mrs. Carson, though honestly I don’t know. But I will try to investigate.”
“Please don’t put yourself in danger, Captain,” Caleb said.
Captain Hsu patted the Reverend’s chest. “Danger is everywhere. It cannot be helped.” He stood and started to step away, but Caleb called him back.
“I’m sorry, Captain, but I have another favor to ask.”
“In addition to trying to find your wife?” The captain finally smiled. “Isn’t that enough?”
“Yes, and I’m eternally grateful to you.”
“I don’t believe in eternity, so don’t bother. What else do you want, old friend? Another blanket? The air is colder now with the rain.”
Caleb motioned for the captain to bend closer, and he did.
“I want you to shoot me,” he whispered. “Will you do that for me?”
The captain straightened up fast. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
With great effort, Caleb tried to reach for the captain’s hand, but Hsu did not take his.
“You should know I would never do such a thing,” he said. “We are not barbarians. I will ignore this insult because you are not yourself. Now, sleep. That is an order.”
Then the good man—a better man than Caleb thought himself to be—left the cave. Sleep came quickly and with it relief from the shame he felt for having asked his friend to commit a mortal sin, even if the captain did not believe in such a thing.
Twenty-five
Rain blotted out the night sky and made every surface slick. Shirley wove through the deserted streets and felt the dust turn to mud beneath her feet. A Japanese soldier followed a short distance behind, and she wondered if he was rogue and would attack her, although the longer he did not, the more she allowed herself to believe that he had been sent to protect her instead. When she glanced around again, he was gone. But then he reappeared in the destroyed market and later by the compound wall. She didn’t know if she could do what she had been asked to do, but for now, she simply walked, one cut and bruised footstep after the next.
The gates to the compound had been left open, and a pack of emaciated dogs stood over the body of the blind grandfather who had guarded the entrance. Shirley looked away quickly but had already seen too much. Though soaked through, she did not hurry or seek shelter. She wandered up the brick pathways in a daze as rain cascaded down her hair and fell in a wall around her face. At her home, she stumbled through the moon gate and up the wide wooden steps of the porch. The rocking chairs were gone from their usual places, and Shirley had no idea how long ago they had been taken. There was so much she had not noticed. The screen door had been stolen, and the handsome carved front door stood open, the small statue of the door god no longer keeping watch. She stepped over the threshold and nearly let out a cry at the familiar sight of her piano. It stood exactly as before, though the bench was missing. She longed to play it now, to hurl herself into a sad and stirring piece, but didn’t dare make noise or draw attention to the house. She had seen no one since entering the compound, though she had sensed movement in the dark.
She wandered into the clinic, where only a few cots remained. The supply station had been tipped over, the medical instruments taken. Used bandages and other debris lay tossed on the wooden floor. Hanging on the coat tree, along with several aprons, she found a rumpled sweater that had belonged to Charles when he was a younger boy. She pulled it over her head and breathed in the scent of him—neither sweet nor unpleasant but simply his. With the wind up and the season changing, she was chilled all the way through but began to feel warmer, sensing her son with her.
She hung a white apron around her neck and tied the sash at her waist. She had come to feel such purpose when putting on her nursing garb and entering the clinic. She stepped into the former parlor now. The cots and chairs had been taken, too. Only the wicker sofa remained, tipped on its side, the cushions gone. Dry newspapers and other rubbish littered the corners. Ashes from a recent fire glowed in the hearth, and she wondered if any Chinese people were hiding out in her home, a thought that would have once terrified her but now seemed almost a comfort.
She pressed her bare toes into the faded coral cherry blossoms on the sea of blue carpet. The gold screen painted with the image of the rising phoenix no longer stood in the corner. She had complained to Caleb that all the decorations in their formal rooms should be as fine as that elegant piece, one of her prized possessions. By having high-quality Chinese antiques and Oriental bric-a-brac, she had hoped to convince herself, as well as the Chinese, that she knew them and their world. She understood now that she had hardly known them
at all.
“Oh, Caleb,” she whispered to the barren room, “you tried to tell me, but I wouldn’t listen.”
Outside, the rain continued, insistent and hard. It would go on like that for days, mesmerizing and casting a spell over everything. Shirley wondered how she would manage without her husband here to light a fire as he always had. How would she manage anywhere without him, and without her son, too? Without them, her life was as empty and eviscerated as this house. She needed to leave China, and not alone. She didn’t belong here any longer. She didn’t know where she belonged. But she understood that she must find Captain Hsu and do what needed to be done in order to join Charles, no matter the cost.
Light-headed and exhausted, she stepped outside and folded herself down onto the porch floorboards, leaning against the yellow-brick exterior. Out of the corner of her eye, she sensed the Japanese soldier at the side of the porch, hidden behind a post and a shrub the name of which she had never learned, its delicate yellow blooms just ending. Some part of her assumed the Japanese soldier would kill her whether she did General Shiga’s bidding or not. But as she started to drift off to sleep, she let herself consider that the presence of the soldier might actually mean Shiga intended to keep his word. With that conflicted and yet dimly promising thought, Shirley shut her eyes, tipped back her head, and within moments was asleep.
Some time later, she felt tugging at her arm and tried to knock whomever it was away. Her mind filled with an image of the dogs standing over the old man at the entrance to the mission, their teeth bared and growling. Shirley awoke with a shriek and scrambled to her feet. No dogs surrounded her, but before her stood Captain Hsu. She threw her arms around him and said, “You’re alive!”
He pushed her away gently and took her hand. “We have to get inside. It’s not safe out here.”
