The Communist's Daughter

by Dennis Bock

It shall be only days now before I am working again. I’m feeling better this morning, bright and alert. I have sent Ho off for another handful of Aspirin and a pot of coffee to help thin my blood. This should speed my recovery. Also he carries another message to the staff that I must be informed of any abdominal or skull cases. When I’m recovered I will catch up with Capa, wherever he’s gone, snapping photographs to send out to the world, to tell him he cannot have the boy. The boy is mine. I have decided he will come with me to America. The face of Chinese youth. The innocence, the purity. He will be worth more to the cause there, in Bethune’s Travelling Circus, than here. You shall meet the boy, my dear. You’ll see what a noble youth he is. Perhaps he’ll hold you in his arms. Perhaps he’ll recite a poem for you. You will love him, surely. The abandoned children united. You see, we all have this in common. Behold this child, for you are he. Forgotten by all who loved him, then taken up in the great fraternal arms of this noble cause. How pleased the poster boy of the Chinese Revolution will be.

  I have decided to talk with him. I will warn him that he must not be immortalized like one of his poems, by that photographer. I’ll tell him to keep close to Mr. Tung until I’m well.

  What could Capa do with little Ho? He prefers the Spanish face, after all, and I have never seen a more Chinese face! Under my arm and protection Ho will be an inspiration to future generations. Do you want to be worth more to the cause dead than alive? Your life’s worth far more than that. You shall come to America! America awaits! The youth of the West shall learn from your example.

  But not before I have an opportunity to ask some questions of him. Of course, my questions. I saw him studying my drawings again, last night after I finally blew out my lamp.

  I must be informed of skull and abdominal cases.

  *

  I have been working on your portrait as I while away this sick time. I am inspired, electrified. How my energy has returned to me, for brief moments, at least. You are my tonic, my hope. Does that sound desperate? It is the truth. Now I shall go back in time and cross out all these odd ramblings that have escaped my feverish mind. I do not want to present a bad first impression. It seems I have been off my head these last few days. An elegant diagnosis, I know. But I am pleased to say I’m feeling better on this, the sixth day of this difficult stretch. The uncontrolled vomiting has left me weakened. But I am bright now, more than ever, and alert. The night was an improvement, and today the temperature, 102 degrees, is down somewhat.

  This morning I asked after Capa. “Mr. Tung,” I said, “where has he gone?” Mr. Tung was leaning over me, cooling my forehead with a wet towel. I waved him away. “Will you answer?”

  At length, the delicate Mr. Tung said, “There is no photographer here, Doctor. We are alone.”

  “Has he taken the boy?”

  Mr. Tung left my bedside. Without another word he left me.

  When I awoke hours later I found this machine here, placed on a small stool beside the bed. I have been typing for some time now, perhaps hours, recounting what has transpired over these last few days. Did Mr. Tung bring it to me? Was this an apology for his rudeness? Or was it Ho, atoning for his strange behaviour? They will not answer my questions, but neither will they silence me. I shall not be silenced. Not here. Not in America. My ribbon is refreshed, though the ink is slightly off. Closer to blue than green now. You can see it. Yes, it must have been him. Blue is fine, I shall tell him. Don’t be so cagey, boy!

  I have rallied and I am sitting upright. Look, that wasn’t so difficult. This thing sits comfortably on my skinny thighs. I feel the pop-pop of the keys resonate down into the femur. Writing on the bone. What a lovely metaphor to think about.

  When I get to America I will show you my paintings and drawings, long after all this is done with. They are much better than these small doodles.

  You know, I finished your mother’s portrait the day I departed from Madrid. Did I tell you that? I wish you could have seen it. It was taken, along with my other belongings, from that stalled train in Goasi. Perhaps it will be returned to me one day, and you will see how beautiful she is. Of course, you can see that in my documentary, too. But film cannot capture the love of an artist. You will see how much I loved her.

  How different it will be once we have won this war! I will show you more than the sketches buried under these green ramblings. Might something good come out of America after this? Has the war in Europe begun? Are you now safely growing to girlhood in a Stockholm neighbourhood? Or still in Madrid where Pitcairn told me I’d find you? Isn’t that war finished?

  I will have Ho help with my paintings and drawings. Where is he? He’ll pack them up for me. And Mr. Tung, when he finishes with his translations. Perhaps I shall bring some along and leave them for you to look over when you are older, when Europe and America have come to help the war here. These mountains will only be a memory by then. I will know you. Perhaps I can visit you often. You’ll be as beautiful as your mother. Wouldn’t it be grand to see your mother and father together? We could walk along a riverbank holding hands. You’d enjoy that. For if they fall, the one will lift up his fellow: but woe to him that is alone when he falleth; for he hath not another to help him up. I have to leave my bed to find the boy, so will leave off here. Does he mean for the failing doctor to come crawling? Well, then, so be it. I will get up and march onwards. But I am tired. The doctor is tired. I will lie down here for a moment. I can get back to this soon enough. Perhaps I will tell Ho to soak this ribbon in the meantime. I see it’s beginning to fade already. Where is he? Has he already started off to America? Those hills are too much for just one boy. I can take him on my shoulders. Are there any abdominal cases? I will stroll past the hospital for a look before we set off.

  I hear the boy coming now. I know that lively step. I’ll bet he’s saying one of those old poems. A poem for you, perhaps.

  How these hands tremble. There is still so much more to tell. As I write this I’m imperishable. I am completely here. Please know that. It pains me to leave these pages now. But I have to rest. How I am looking forward to completing this history. As you read this I’m radiant. We will be radiant together. Something tells me this can be a beautiful story after all. But first I will rest.

  19 Dec 1939

  Yan’an, Shensi Province

  Comrade Mao Tse-tung

  Chairman of the Central Soviet Government

  Esteemed Chairman,

  While the writings contained herein represent personal histories that may be of interest to certain family members of Doctor Bethune, this committee has found that they cannot be used to serve the People in their struggle against the Japanese Imperialist invaders or the Nationalist Kuomintang Army. It must be stressed that, although the Doctor’s personal efforts in the Border Regions of Shensi and Hopei provinces were exemplary and highly beneficial to the Communist cause, it is also clear that certain of his actions and beliefs can be viewed as less than exemplary of and likely harmful to the Communist ideal, as it is so clearly and inspiringly detailed in the Chairman’s own political writings. It is the considered opinion of this committee, consisting of the undersigned, that Doctor Bethune’s value as a symbol of the rightness of this struggle would be significantly reduced if these writings came to light. It is recommended, therefore, that these seven envelopes remain untranslated from the original and sealed for the interim and that they be reopened and considered for translation only at the conclusion of a Communist victory, at such time as Doctor Bethune’s importance as an international symbol of China’s Marxist-Leninist Revolution is past and the historical and personal value of this memoir becomes its primary interest.

  The various belongings of Doctor Bethune also recovered—including personal articles such as toiletries, the memoir herein recorded, and clothing, thirteen books and pamphlets, one painting of a girl (perhaps the seagull-child) and numerous drawings, one Remington 5 portable typewriter, seven maps
(personally annotated) and various other medical and political pamphlets and treatises—may be examined by a separate committee regarding their propagandistic and/or historical value. It is recommended that if no appropriate committee can be formed at this time all articles be kept for a later date.

  In conclusion, the committee finds that only with significant editing and rewriting will the Bethune memoir be suitable for translation and printing for wide-scale distribution. It is advisable that these documents remain sealed until that time. However, given the revolutionary and international importance of Doctor Bethune’s life, a brief, more idealized biography or political eulogy of the subject might prove extremely beneficial to the present war effort, and find continuity in the larger canon of the Chairman’s political and philosophical writings.

  With comradely salutations,

  Lu Ting-yi,

  Director of the Propaganda Department of the Central Committee of the Chinese Communist Party, Yan’an

  Major Szu Ping Ti,

  translator, Propaganda Department, CCP

  Lieutenant Tung Yueh-ch’ien,

  interpreter for Dr. Bethune, Eighth Route Army

  Zhou Erfu,

  Lu Hsun Academy of Literature and Arts

  Jean Ewen,

  surgical nurse, Fung Yiu King Hospital, Hong Kong

  Author’s Note

  While the central character in this novel is based on the Canadian doctor who served in Spain and China in the 1930s, the aesthetic concerns of storytelling often outweighed the more standard historical versions of the Bethune story. The same must be said of the other characters in this novel. They are based only loosely on actual characters who passed through Bethune’s life or, in some cases, are completely imagined. The character of Kajsa von Rothman, however, is not my invention. Very little is known of her but for the suspicions that she inspired in Republican wartime Madrid. A 1937 government report makes it clear that von Rothman was officially suspect, and that her intimate relationship with Bethune, a high-profile Communist, was cause for concern. On January 4, 1937, all members of Bethune’s staff at the Vergara Street address, including Bethune himself, were taken into custody for questioning. One of these men, an Austrian by the name of Harturg, is said to have been executed. Bethune and von Rothman were both released. Despite his great accomplishments in Spain, Bethune left that country under a dark cloud. Von Rothman’s fate is not known.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to acknowledge the support of the Canada Council and the Ontario Arts Council, the staff at the Toronto Reference Library and the generosity of Beatrice Monti della Corte of the Santa Maddalena Foundation.

  Lines from “Sunday Morning” and “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird” are reprinted from The Collected Poems of Wallace Stevens by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., a Division of Random House.

  The newspaper clipping describing the re-taking of Teruel is as reported in The Manchester Guardian, January 8, 1938.

  P.S.

  Ideas, Interviews & Features

  Author Biography

  An Interview with Dennis Bock

  An Excerpt from Olympia

  An Excerpt from The Ash Garden

  Recommended Reading

  Web Detective

  Author Biography

  Raised in Oakville, Ontario, Dennis Bock is one of five children born to German parents. His mother and father are both craftspeople: she, a weaver; he, a carpenter. The family lived near Lake Ontario, and Bock remembers his father building a sailboat in their basement, an experience that later influenced his short story collection, Olympia.

  There were few English-language books in his childhood home, so becoming a writer wasn’t Bock’s original career choice. As a boy, he dreamed of being a marine biologist. During high school, however, he got caught up in the magic of Gulliver’s Travels. “It was the first book I read with the understanding that someone’s mind had put all those words together—that someone’s imagination had constructed something that didn’t exist before.”

  After studying English and philosophy for three years at the University of Western Ontario, Bock set off for Spain. Wanderlust, he says, took him there. “Spain was the setting of some of my favourite stories and novels. I had a preconceived, literary notion of what it would look like. Of course, it was totally different.” He also wanted to experience dislocation and immigration, “to break down my elements.” While living in Madrid, Bock taught English as a foreign language and wrote short fiction. Though he returned to Canada to complete his degree, after graduating he was drawn back to Spain where, for the next four years, he continued to teach English and work on his writing.

  In 1993, his talent and efforts were rewarded. One of his stories, “The Wedding,” was published in Canadian Fiction Magazine and named as an honorable mention in Best American Short Stories the next year. In 1994, Bock returned to Canada and served as the editor of Blood and Aphorisms magazine. Four years later, “The Wedding” became the first story in his collection Olympia (1998), a series of related tales about a German-Canadian family. The title story was selected for the 1997 Journey Prize Anthology, and Olympia won the Canadian Authors Association Jubilee Award, the Danuta Gleed Literary Award for best first collection of stories by a Canadian author and the British Betty Trask Award. The Globe and Mail and the Toronto Star both named Olympia a Notable Book of 1998.

  Bock’s first novel, The Ash Garden (200I)—first tentatively titled “A Man of Principle”—began as a book about an atomic scientist. The plot evolved to follow the parallel lives of two people intimately connected to that watershed moment when the first atomic bomb was detonated over Japan—one, a victim of that day, and the other, a nuclear physicist. The Ash Garden became a #1 national bestseller and won the Canada-Japan Literary Award and the Drummer General’s Award. It was shortlisted for the prestigious 2003 IMPAC Dublin Literary Award, the Amazon.ca/ Books in Canada First Novel Award, the Kiriyama Prize and the Commonwealth Writers’ Prize for Best Book (Canada and the Caribbean Region). The Globe and Mail named it a Best Book of the Year.

  The Communist’s Daughter (2006), Bock’s second novel, also received high critical acclaim. Donna Seaman of Booklist wrote,

  After imaginatively considering the freighted legacy of Hiroshima in The Ash Garden, Canadian writer Bock continues his profound inquiry into the morass of war in a beautifully measured yet deeply felt portrayal of a battlefield surgeon. . . . Reminiscent of Marilynne Robinson’s Gilead (2004) in gravitas and lyricism, Bock’s novel about a man who means to do good in the world, steadfastly faces death and reveres the planet’s beauty is a study in sorrow, courage and mystery. As Bock’s hero unflinchingly parses our insistence on war and our caring more about ideas than life, he also, even amid horror, celebrates “the rapturous wonder of being alive.”

  As a reader, Bock appreciates books that ask tough questions; therefore, when he writes, he is committed to tackling what he calls Big Challenges. His published works thus far—Olympia, The Ash Garden and The Communist’s Daughter—reflect this determination.

  Bock lives with his wife and two sons in Toronto, Ontario, where he is currently working on his fourth Big Challenge. Visit the author at www.dennisbock.ca.

  An Interview with Dennis Bock

  In a 2001 Quill & Quire interview, you stated, “It would be sad not to take on a big subject. I’m not taken in by books that don’t.” What aspects of writing about Norman Bethune’s life and times “took you in”?

  Bethune’s is a story of great political triumphs and bitter personal failures. How was he to strike the balance between public service and private commitment? In a way he reminds me of Anton Boll, a character from The Ash Garden. He, too, is a brilliant man whose gifts lead him to walk the fine line between ethics and morality. What is the right thing to do? This is a conflict that must be resolved in Bethune’s life, and his ability to do so (or not) gives his l
ife story a heightened sense of urgency. It’s also one that offers great range and depth for a novelist interested in how his characters live their lives.

  Why does such moral complexity appeal to you?

  I love a good mystery, but not in the conventional sense of that word: the mystery of right behaviour, moral choice, responsible action. I’m put off by novels that pretend to answer the questions they raise. There can’t be answers—not sincere or meaningful answers—to the questions of moral action raised in a great book. A serious writer, in my mind, attempts to expose the flipside to any commonly held belief. It’s a shell game of sorts, with each shell containing—or seemingly so—the seed of truth. Point to it with anything resembling conviction or certainty and you will be proven wrong.

  That being said, a novel isn’t a game. It doesn’t try to cause the reader to stumble, but in resisting an easy answer to justify a character’s choices, readers may find themselves in the confusing position of simultaneously loving and hating characters, their choices, their beliefs. For me, a novel is at its best when it brings contradiction to the surface of a character’s life and when those contradictions are highlighted by a dramatic conflict between characters. In exposing those contradictions by the right positioning of character, setting and drama, you approach the heart of what it is to be human. There is in this world, instead of the simple black-and-white universe of poorly imagined fiction, an infinite variety of greys.