by Meira Chand
‘Why can’t you let them through?’ She turned to the officer on the Settlement side. The agony of it all tore at her.
‘Full up, Miss. We’ve nowhere left to sleep ’em. They bring disease as well.’ The man had a ginger moustache.
‘But you’re sending them back to sure death. Only the Settlement is safe.’ She could hear her own voice, like a thing apart, flailing about the man.
‘No need to shout, Miss. We’re only obeying orders.’
As they spoke, Japanese planes winged out of the sky, diving low over the lines of women and children, splattering machine-gun fire. The crowd turned in a single movement, like a shoal of fish, and swarmed back towards the ruined bridge. The planes returned, spitting more bullets. Bodies now choked the bridge, dead mothers fell into the water, live babies in their arms. Nadya jumped out of the jeep, running back to the barricades.
‘Let them in,’ she screamed, trying to tear at the gates.
‘Get down, Miss!’ The man with the moustache pushed her behind an armoured car.
Already, she saw that someone at the barricades, against orders, had rolled back the gates. The hysterical crowd flowed through, babies in baskets suspended on poles, swinging from their mothers’ shoulders, toddlers carrying younger children, others lugging bundles bigger than themselves. Abruptly the barricades were closed again upon the order of an officer who appeared in a car. The crowd still pressed against the thorny wire, regardless of injury. The planes streaked off, and there was silence again.
‘It’s over, Miss. You can get up now. Nasty bit of work.’ The officer helped her up. ‘No need to upset yourself. They’re Chinese. Death stalks them closer than it does us. And they’ve a different attitude to dying. They expect to. We do not.’
Her face was wet with tears.
The tower stood near the Waterworks in the French Concession. They were not supposed to be here. Donald had bribed some Chinese soldiers with packets of cigarettes to let them through the front line. He raced towards the water tower, but was forced to stop and crouch for safety against a wall at a fresh barrage of firing.
‘It’s all right,’ he yelled to Smollett who followed behind. ‘It’s between the lines of fire.’ The tower was high and above the fighting. These were the last days of the battle for Shanghai. Only a few stubborn Chinese battalions now held out on the far edge of the city.
‘It’ll give a bird’s-eye view and terrific pictures,’ Donald slung his camera round his body.
‘We’ll have to climb up eighty feet or more,’ Smollett looked apprehensively at the tower. ‘I’m not much good at heights, Addison.’
‘There’s a ladder,’ Donald replied, taking no notice of Smollett’s protest.
‘There are some American Marines over there on that balcony and French soldiers near the Waterworks. Nobody’s on the tower. We could join the Marines,’ Smollett suggested.
‘They’re not journalists looking for pictures. Wait for a lull in the firing.’ Donald ran to the base of the tower. Smollett followed reluctantly.
Donald began to climb. Near the top of the tower was an observation platform. The stairway was narrow and, as he gained height, a strong breeze whipped about him. The sound of gunfire was fierce. Looking down he saw Smollett’s face staring up fearfully. He would have given anything, Donald was sure, to retreat back down the ladder. He had never liked Smollett and now knew why. Smollett appeared the personification of all those fears he suppressed in himself.
‘Addison, I can’t go on.’ There was terror in Smollett’s voice.
‘Don’t look down, we’re nearly there now.’ Donald pulled himself onto the platform. He reached out a hand to Smollett, who snatched at it desperately.
Far below the creek was lit by sun. The water cut in a ribbon of light through the cratered, smoking land. From the tower the view of the battle was spectacular. The crackle of machine-guns and the smoke of mortar fire floated up to them. The sky arched above, immeasurable. Clouds drifted by, untouched by the chaos below. Donald looked into the camera lens and began to snap the scene below.
‘Addison, I shouldn’t have come up here. I can’t stand heights. It makes me feel sick.’ Smollett edged round the platform to where Donald stood. ‘I won’t be able to get down again.’
‘Well, you’re up here now, and I’ll help you down. You won’t get any pictures if you stand back there,’ Donald spoke briskly, preoccupied with the camera. He hoped Smollett was not going to be a nuisance.
‘I don’t think I can stand at that rail like you, Addison.’ Smollett’s voice was hoarse, Donald turned to look at his white face. The wind flapped about them, cutting their words adrift.
‘I’ll stand behind and hold on to you,’ Donald suggested, moving over to him.
‘It’s cold up here.’ Smollett began to shiver.
‘Take hold of yourself. Don’t waste the climb. Get your shots and we’ll go down immediately.’ Donald took Smollett’s arm and steered him to the rail. Smollett raised his camera while Donald hung onto his jacket. Suddenly Smollett twisted in panic.
‘Addis . . .’
There was the clank of bullets hitting the metal struts of the tower. Donald’s arms were suddenly covered in blood, and yet he felt no pain. It was Smollett’s blood, he realised, as he ducked down. Smollett’s body shook as bullets sank into him. Then he slumped heavily forward over the rail. Donald edged backwards, pulling Smollett’s inert body with him.
‘Smollett.’ Donald reached out and shook him. He put a hand to his pulse and felt nothing. Smollett lay face downwards, blood dripping through the slatted floor. Donald flattened himself beside Smollett’s body. The firing went on. Bullets struck the tower, thudding against the metal structure. They ricocheted down upon Donald, spent but powerful enough to scratch and bruise, like a shower of stones.
‘Oh God, God,’ he muttered, shielding his head with his hands. He had not prayed since he was a child. His hands were sticky with Smollett’s blood, his face cut by deflected bullets.
The firing stopped suddenly and continued at ground level again. Donald did not move. At last he heard the tower being climbed. A new terror took hold of him. The Japanese were coming. They would appear on the platform with their bayonets and finish him off. He began to pray again. Instead, an American Marine arrived and others followed.
‘Are the Japanese coming?’ he asked in confusion. The Marine knelt beside him and shook his head.
‘The battle is over here. The Chinese all retreated into the French Concession at the time you were fired upon. Your friend is dead.’ French soldiers were also now on the platform.
Donald was helped up. Below the tower, on the Chinese side, bodies were strewn about like a heap of dolls, tossed on the floor after play. The Japanese appeared to have had few casualties. They had already packed up their guns and left.
‘One of the Japanese gunners elevated his fire. Maybe they thought you were Chinese snipers. This French soldier here ran out at great danger to himself while they were gunning you, to hang up a French flag on the tower. That’s when the firing stopped.’ The Marine nodded towards a French soldier who was examining the bullet-scarred metal.
Smollett was lowered on a harness of ropes. Donald followed, climbing down awkwardly. As he reached the ground his knees buckled beneath him. Someone gave him brandy and dressed his cuts. Smollett’s body was laid in the back of a jeep, under a canvas sheet.
‘The battle for Shanghai is over. Chinese troops have orders now to withdraw and the Japanese are advancing into the Yangtze valley,’ the jeep driver told Donald as they drove towards the Settlement.
‘Has the Chinese flank been turned?’ Donald asked. His teeth chattered, obstructing his words, shock still convulsing him.
–––
That evening Donald drank heavily. He could not believe Smollett was dead. If the firing had started a moment earlier, it would have been he, not Smollett who died. Instead, Smollett’s body had protected him.
‘A
ddis . . .’ Smollett’s voice came to him again. The memory of holding him against the rail, impatient with his fear, would not go away. He gulped back neat whisky. As the bullets pumped into him, Smollett’s body had shuddered in a sickening way.
‘But this is ridiculous,’ Nadya argued. ‘It was an accident. You did not kill him.’
‘He tried to get free even as I gripped him. He saw them raise their guns. But I forced him to that rail,’ Donald’s voice cracked. Nadya held him in her arms until he quieted. Later, she undressed him and put him to bed.
That night, as Shanghai had dreaded, the suburb of Chapei was put to the torch. Eight miles of fire roared up across the land behind Shanghai, to cut off the retreat of the Chinese Army. Nadya sat up until late, watching Donald. Beyond the window the holocaust lifted the roof off the night. It was as if in his dreams Donald could see this surreal sunset. His sleep was fitful. In repose his expression was vulnerable. Awake, he now wore isolation like an armour. Nadya wanted to know more about his family and his past life, but he cut off questions with a flinty tongue. Once, he had told her his mother died of cancer. He had taken a creased picture from his wallet. She had stared at a young face, humour hidden by a careworn smile. I took that, he said, with my first box-camera, when I was ten years old. Of his father he would not speak.
She wondered why he had never married, but he would not be drawn on this subject, evasive as always. This deliberate withholding of information disturbed her. Sometimes, like water imprisoned in an underground place, she felt the silence pulsing within him, as if it would break out. On the walls now, the reflected glow of the fires in Chapei grew stronger. Perhaps, like that burning city, his memories too must await their immolation. She settled back in the chair and closed her eyes, but her sleep was no less fitful than Donald’s.
In the morning smoke from Chapei still drifted over the Settlement. A charred space now spread where once the bustling suburb had stood. She knew then that Shanghai had finally fallen.
General Matsui’s press conference took place in what had once been a schoolroom. It was bare of all but two vases of yellow chrysanthemums on a table covered by a white cloth. The journalists filed in and took their seats. The day before they had gathered at the cemetery on Bubbling Well Road, to bury Hugh Smollett. A translation of a report sent to Tokyo by the Shanghai correspondent of a Japanese newspaper had been circulated that morning. The report alleged that Smollett had not been killed by a Japanese machine-gunner, but had died as the result of wounds received several days before in a scuffle with another British correspondent at the Metropole Hotel. Smollett and Donald’s horseplay before the Domei reporters had been seen by everyone in the bar of the Metropole, and the absurdity of this report raised much ire. Donald found himself elevated to hero status. The mood in the room was not sympathetic to General Matsui.
‘We’re going to be told to suppress anti-Japanese feeling,’ said Art Fabian of United Press, sitting next to Donald.
‘They’re planning a victory parade through Shanghai and the Settlement. They’re not the best nation for public relations. More like putting your foot in it,’ Donald replied.
At last General Matsui appeared. He strode into the room, smaller by a head than the military men who surrounded him. This aroused some amusement amongst the journalists. He settled at the table, a tiny figure between the yellow flowers. There were no medals on his uniform and his voice, when he spoke, came as a surprise, echoing strongly about the room.
‘When I left Japan I thought to do my best to co-operate with the officials of other nations in Shanghai. During the two and a half months I have been here the situation has changed in London, Washington, Paris and Brussels, and I am disappointed in what officials of other countries now say and do here in Shanghai. I cannot accomplish cooperation with these officials as I had hoped. This is unfortunate for the peace of the world.’ General Matsui gazed about the room and then leaned forward towards the correspondents. A lost tooth gaped under his moustache.
‘Do you think the International Settlement is carrying out its duty of neutrality?’ he demanded. There was a stir of annoyance in the room. The translator pointed to the raised arms of correspondents in quick succession. Questions were thrown at General Matsui. He gave his attention to each, his expression alternatively amused or serious.
‘I wish to assure you I have no intention of taking advantage of the present state of things, of either violating neutrality or favouring the Chinese, in order to take the International Settlement into my hands. But as things have gone, I repeat, co-operation cannot be obtained,’ said the General.
‘What should the authorities of the International Settlement do to prevent you feeling a need to take any steps against it?’ Donald asked, standing up to face General Matsui.
‘The fundamental thing for all people to understand is that Japan is not an aggressor, but came here to rescue the civilian population of China,’ Matsui answered. An aide stepped forward and spoke in a low voice to the General. Matsui stared at Donald.
‘How far will your army continue the Shanghai drive? Do you intend to take Nanking?’ Donald stood up again and asked the question on everyone’s mind.
‘For future developments you had better ask Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek.’ General Matsui gave a chuckle. ‘It is up to the Chinese to cease hostilities. We do not know whether we will go to Nanking or not. It all depends upon Generalissimo Chiang.’
The conference was ending. ‘We are an honest country,’ General Matsui promised by way of conclusion. ‘Whatever Japan may do, nothing brutal or foolish will happen here.’
Correspondents filed out of the room, but as Donald moved towards the door a military man hurried after him. ‘General Matsui wishes to speak to you. Please return to your seat,’ said the aide.
Donald turned and bowed his head slightly in respect to the General. He sat down on the chair the aide pulled forward close to General Matsui. There was a flush to the old man’s face, as if he had a fever. A nervous tic twitched at his chiselled features. The General leaned forward.
‘The occurrence the other day in Nantao was most unfortunate. I wish to convey my condolences on the death of your friend. It was thought you were Chinese snipers.’ General Matsui spoke without emotion. He lit a cigarette, his eyes upon Donald.
‘I wish you to give a personal message from me to the world in your London newspaper,’ Matsui continued. ‘I have been made very angry by reports from America and England revealing foreign expectations that the Japanese Army under my direction would grab everything in Shanghai and would imperil all foreign rights and interests here. Nothing is further from my thoughts.’ The General looked sternly at Donald.
‘I am more than happy to convey with every sympathy your message to the world,’ Donald replied. What private agendas and political infighting must this tiny General face, he wondered. General Matsui smiled.
‘New York, Washington and London seem to think I am a Japanese version of a looting Chinese warlord. Please disabuse the public in the Western world,’ General Matsui drew on his cigarette and began to cough.
‘I wish you to make it plain to your readers that, despite some destruction of foreign properties in and around Shanghai, my whole campaign was directed with the determination to protect foreign interests. All military experts will agree that I could have captured Shanghai in less than half the time, with less than half the Japanese losses, and half the expenditure, had Shanghai been a Chinese city without foreign areas which demanded consideration. In fact I do not mind telling you, for this consideration to your Foreign Settlements, I have been much criticised in Tokyo,’ General Matsui explained. Donald nodded and scribbled in his notebook.
‘The many American and British facilities and warehouses are all intact,’ Matsui continued. ‘But we are now masters of Shanghai.’
‘And Nanking?’ Donald asked again. The General glared.
‘I am no longer needed in Shanghai. The battle here is over. I move on to
the battleground north of Lake Tai, to direct the advance on Nanking, if indeed we are forced to advance. Everything depends upon Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek.’
General Matsui stood up. ‘I shall wait to read your report. You will be my publicity man.’
Donald appeared the man of the moment. The misadventure with Smollett and the scoop it provided made a hero of him. General Matsui’s favour only added to this aura. Donald felt a swell of support about him in the bar of the Metropole. But this did not help in the matter of self-knowledge. He knew himself for a sham. Only to Nadya could he admit his guilt about Smollett.
Now, he sat before a typewriter in the editorial room of the North China Daily News, the foremost British paper on the China coast. The clack of the machines filled the room like an army of desperate cicada. There was an air of urgency beyond the usual newsroom pressure. Since Shanghai had fallen everyone knew newspapers were in danger. A Japanese-held Shanghai would tolerate no pro-Western propaganda.
‘We’ll be muzzled, and forced to parrot official lines as Domei does,’ said Joe Russek, one of the paper’s key reporters. ‘I’m leaving.’ He leaned on the back of Donald’s chair, trying to read what he had written.
‘Is everyone going?’ Donald asked, looking up from the typescript in the machine before him, and then rolling it hurriedly to the beginning of the page before Russek’s inquisitive eyes.
‘Most correspondents· I know are moving on. I’ve bought my ticket back to Australia. I’m going via Japan, thought I’d see what was happening there. No point now in remaining here. The best is over with the fall of Shanghai. The Japanese will go on to Nanking, but that will be no more than a technical occupation. There’s no doubt Chiang will surrender now. Shouldn’t think he has any other choice,’ Russek answered.
Donald shrugged. He wondered what he himself should do. He could not think clearly since Smollett. A Chinese assistant came up to him and Russek turned away.
‘This cable has just come through for you.’ The boy held out a piece of paper. It was from London.
