by Meira Chand
Teng raised his head and pulled back his shoulders. ‘The terror of this war is not that of battle, of shells and tanks and guns. No, the terror is of what men of one race can do to fellow men of another race. The stories we hear are not fiction but authenticated crimes.’
Kenjiro sat down on a stone beside Teng. He felt suddenly responsible for his blinkered nation, and almost ill listening to Teng.
Across the courtyard he suddenly saw the Russian woman. She was helping with disarming soldiers. She stood behind a trestle table handling guns with a practised hand, first checking barrels for ammunition, before registering each man.
‘She is still here?’ he asked. Somehow, he had convinced himself that she must have left.
Teng nodded. ‘Nadya is working with the International Committee. She could have left, but didn’t. She has the right spirit; even returned here from Shanghai.’
‘Maybe she is a spy,’ Kenjiro mused. Teng began to laugh.
Kenjiro had not meant it as a joke. The Indian, Tilik Dayal, had filed just such an accusation with him, backed up by reports from a military man at a railway station near Shanghai. Fukutake had ordered Kenjiro to investigate but each time he picked up the woman’s file a deep reluctance filled him. In the end Kenjiro did nothing with Tilik’s report, but tucked the papers away. He hoped it might be forgotten.
‘She attracts you, my friend?’ Teng murmured, looking into Kenjiro’s face.
‘All attractive women attract me, I am no different from other men,’ Kenjiro laughed to rid himself of embarrassment, shocked that Teng had seen so acutely. He had not realised himself, until this moment, that he was drawn to Nadya. Had he filed away Tilik Dayal’s report for this reason?
Several hundred Chinese soldiers now packed the courtyard. They were to be transferred to another building and kept apart from the other refugees, until they could be officially handed over as POWs to the Japanese. They stood silent, unsure of the wisdom of their decision to surrender.
There was a stir in the courtyard. A Japanese military official arrived. Kenjiro pushed his way through the crowd and introduced himself to the officer. The man reached no higher than Kenjiro’s shoulder. His eyes were small as currants, deep set beneath his brow. To Kenjiro he appeared of peasant stock, a country man who had come up through the ranks to his position. He spoke with a flattened dialect that might be, thought Kenjiro, from Kyushu. He gave Kenjiro a cursory nod. Mr Strang hurried forward. The other foreigners came into the courtyard, obscuring his view of the Russian woman. The officer turned to Kenjiro, pushing his chin in the direction of Mr Strang.
‘Tell them six thousand uniforms of the Chinese Army have been found so far in town. They have here no more than a few hundred men. Many soldiers have deserted, discarding their uniforms and mixed in with the civilian population. We will not tolerate this. All former soldiers must surrender, or sacrifice their rights as prisoners of war and be subject to the death penalty as spies.’ The officer spat out the words. ‘We will take the men here now. We will expect more tomorrow.’
Mr Strang stepped forward and his voice boomed out commandingly. Kenjiro interpreted for him. ‘The International Committee wish to be assured of their good treatment.’
‘They will be treated as promised,’ the officer replied. His nostrils flared and his lips tightened. The unit of accompanying soldiers behind him stood unmoving. Kenjiro glanced at their stony faces. The blades of their bayonets gleamed in the thin winter sun. The power of authority was a heady thing. Men found themselves in the position of God, and dispensed the judgement of Devils. The officer turned and barked an order to his men. They began to rope together the prisoners in groups of four or five.
‘Where will you take them? What will you do with them?’ Kenjiro asked without Mr Strang’s prompting.
‘That is the business of the military, not you diplomats,’ the officer replied.
Suddenly a woman’s voice was heard over the heads of the bound men. ‘What assurance do we have that they will not be killed?’ It was Nadya. Kenjiro moved forward to stand beside her and repeated her question in Japanese. The officer glared. Kenjiro looked down at Nadya’s impassioned face; he had seen a similar flaming in Jacqueline’s eyes many times.
‘Do not provoke him,’ he murmured.
‘To my mind it is not provocation but my right to ask their fate,’ she hissed. The officer grunted in rage and turned away.
‘He is doing his duty,’ Kenjiro replied.
‘Duty?’ She looked at him, aghast.
Mr Metzger of the YMCA, Chairman of the International Committee, suddenly appeared, thrusting his way through the crowd. He came straight up to Kenjiro. ‘These men are not going off like this unless we have written assurances of their safety, in compliance with the Geneva Convention. We cannot hand them over without any formality. We have persuaded them to surrender and we are responsible.’
‘I will tell him what you say, but I doubt he will give such an assurance. Your Zone is not a recognised entity,’ Kenjiro explained.
‘We have received no answer from your Embassy to that request.’ Mr Metzger’s thin face was firmly set.
Kenjiro spoke again to the officer who, in answer, silently pursed his lips. His men continued to bind the prisoners together. The first group was being marched away. The officer barked rapid orders, supervising their departure.
Mr Metzger began to shout at Kenjiro. ‘I demand that you stop this. It is unlawful.’
‘There is nothing I can do,’ replied Kenjiro. He knew the hopelessness of his position and that of the captive men.
‘How can we be sure they will not all be killed?’ Nadya turned upon him.
‘I can do nothing,’ he repeated. He saw his impotence as the foreigners must see it.
‘Nothing?’ Nadya shouted. The blood rose in her face. She pushed herself in front of the officer, pulling at his sleeve. Anger spluttered through her.
Surprise turned to fury in the man’s eyes. He looked down at Nadya as if he had suddenly seen an insect upon his uniform. He shook her off roughly. Mr Metzger’s voice rose in support of Nadya. The officer raised his arm and brought it down, flinging Nadya back upon the floor. Kenjiro turned in distress to help her up.
‘This is not the way to behave.’ Kenjiro could no longer control his voice. The officer took no notice of him.
How could he explain to these people the web of order and obligation that held him in a vice, even in this situation. Not only was the Embassy impotent in the face of military rule, but it would be unheard of to interfere between an officer and his duty. The man was doing as ordered. To cause him loss of face was unthinkable. There were other ways to handle the matter, indirectly and through the right channels. He must be allowed as ordered to take away his prisoners. Suddenly he was aware that Teng had planted himself before the officer.
‘Do you think Nanking is some unseen backwater? The eyes of the world are upon Japan here, as everywhere. Have you no respect for the name of your country that your soldiers behave in China worse than animals?’ Teng spoke in broken Japanese, but what he said was understandable. His voice was hoarse with suppressed emotion, his eyes blazed. He swayed from one foot to another, like a boxer anticipating a blow, his body taut with anger. The officer looked at him in amazement.
‘Who is this man?’ he roared at Kenjiro.
‘He is a professor at the university. A respected man,’ Kenjiro pleaded, horrified at the sight of Teng.
‘University man? Look at his hands. He is no more than a common soldier.’ The officer grabbed Teng’s hands, pointing to the dried blisters on his fingers. ‘Such calluses are found only on soldiers from the handling of guns. Take him,’ he ordered a subordinate.
‘These are the marks of handling a spade, digging graves for the men and women you murder.’ Teng raised his voice. His wild eyes and dishevelled appearance did him no good.
‘Take him.’ The officer roared again. His soldiers came forward to grasp Teng’s arms.
‘He is a well-known man.’ Kenjiro lost his calm.
The soldier turned. ‘You would raise your voice to an officer? You would try to save a miserable Chinese, a soldier who has discarded his uniform and now masquerades as a civilian, who shouts abuse at his conquerors? I shall speak of this to those who matter. Tell me also the name of that foreign woman who dared to put her hand upon me? I have seen enough insolence.’ The officer’s face was now ruddy in colour, his eyes bulged.
‘You have made a mistake, he is not a soldier. He is an educated man,’ Kenjiro tried again. He made an effort to keep his voice even. Already Teng had been roped to other men, and his tousled grey head was pulled further into the crowd of prisoners.
It was as if he were trapped in a nightmare from which he could not wake. Kenjiro wanted to shout Teng’s name, to tell him it was a mistake, release would come soon. And yet he stood, hands at his sides, and watched Teng led away. He must go at once to the Embassy. Fukutake would help him. Nadya dashed forward once more, pulling again at the officer. He turned and slapped her face.
Kenjiro stepped forward. ‘It is useless. This is not the way to free the professor. The army is all powerful. Here, in front of us, this officer will not admit he is wrong. I am going now to the Embassy. Something will be done.’
‘I will come with you. I will tell them who the professor is,’ Nadya insisted.
He shook his head. It was the last thing he wanted. The Kempeitai would be immediately alerted. Eventually, he would have to file Tilik Dayal’s report on Nadya or the Indian himself might file it directly to the military. What explanation could Kenjiro find if asked, for pleading with a suspected Russian spy for the freedom of a suspected Communist? Who nowadays believed in innocence?
The courtyard was emptying. The last men were led away. Teng turned his untidy grey head, shoulders bent. There was blood at the side of his mouth from a blow. For a moment his eyes held Kenjiro’s before he was gone, led out of the gate on a rope.
Nadya took another step forward but stopped, seeing the uselessness. ‘I will take a petition to the Embassy, and to the Military Commander himself if need be.’
‘You will do no such thing. You must leave it to me.’ Kenjiro spoke quietly. He could smell the fresh scent of shampoo from her hair. She shrugged and turned to disappear into the interior of the building.
Soon after reassuring Mr Strang and Mr Metzger that something would be done, Kenjiro left the Safety Zone Headquarters. The things he would say to Fukutake buzzed in his head, he could still not believe Teng had been taken. As he made his way back to the Embassy, he saw Nadya walking ahead of him, red hair swinging, a shawl pulled tightly about her. He hurried to catch up. She glanced at him quickly and then stared ahead as she spoke in a low fierce voice.
‘Once, in Shanghai, I watched from a roof-top while men were shot by your army. They dropped into a grave they had dug for themselves. It was at a distance, but I have not forgotten the feeling of helplessness, unable to even hear the gun that killed them. I could of course have done nothing, but that feeling of impotence has stayed with me. Now, Professor Teng has been taken from under my eyes. He might have been shot on the spot, and I would still have been unable to do a thing.’ She walked with short quick steps, head down. Kenjiro said nothing. Nadya began to speak again.
‘These soldiers have the power of the Devil. Even if for different reasons we are both exempt from being hounded like animals by your army, we are not exempt from the contamination about us. We have already absorbed it by being encircled. It will stain us for life, one way or another. Every time we shut our eyes we will relive this. How will we ever be whole again?’
The image of Teng being led away came forcibly again before Kenjiro. Yet, he realised in self-disgust, in spite of anxiety for Teng, he could still watch the swing of the woman’s red hair, and the spring of her breasts as she walked. He turned his eyes away. Once more the bleak landscape was before him. A terrified child sat in a doorway. A dog ran by with three fat pups. He could find no explanations. He needed his energy to survive.
‘Get Professor Teng freed,’ she ordered sharply, stopping to search his face. Her pale eyes met his and he could not look away. She turned towards a brick building that he saw was one of the foreign hospitals.
‘I live here, with Dr Clayton,’ she said, opening a gate in a side wall, leading to a garden.
‘Something must be done,’ Kenjiro leaned forward in his chair and thrust the words at Fukutake.
‘I have warned you once before over the matter of this man,’ Fukutake answered. He played with a pencil and stared at Kenjiro across the desk, noting the stress in his face. ‘He is a Chinese. Do you not understand the position?’
‘He is my friend,’ Kenjiro replied.
‘I can only repeat what I have told you before: these are dangerous times.’ Fukutake sipped a cup of green tea. ‘As you know, an investigation was made. Although nothing was proved it was thought the man might be a Communist. Events overtook us, otherwise a further investigation would have proceeded. With such suspicions as these, it is best to leave him alone.’
‘I have known him for years. He is a respected man,’ Kenjiro pleaded.
‘Respectability can be a front for many things. Think of your own skin. Why is this man so important to you? Do you not understand the Kempeitai will have their eye upon you? Do not forget, you carry your past about with you still, it will never leave you. You must always be circumspect. That is my advice as a senior and a friend. Forget this Professor Teng.’ Fukutake shuffled papers upon his desk to indicate the discussion was over.
‘Think of some way I can get him released,’ Kenjiro demanded.
He could speak to no one else but Fukutake like this. Apart from being at school and university together, there was an extra tie that silently bound them. During the time Fukutake’s father had worked in the Ministry of Commerce, Yuzuru Nozaki had once helped to prove him innocent of leaking secret information to the press. The knowledge of this obligation still remained between Kenjiro and Fukutake.
‘All you can do, and I doubt it will work, is to put in a plea on behalf of the Safety Zone Committee that this man be released. It will have to be worded carefully, so that you appear uninvolved. Nothing more than this can be done, as you well know.’ Fukutake remained firm.
Kenjiro returned to his desk to write out the plea for Teng’ s release and hurried back to Fukutake.
‘Why should I put my seal to this, why should I stick my neck out?’ Fukutake wondered, pressing his ivory seal in place beside Kenjiro’s. ‘If there are any repercussions, I will have to admit you know this man. I cannot protect you for ever. You have put me in a difficult position.’
Keniro bowed low in thanks. As he opened the door to leave the room Fukutake spoke again. ‘I have been asked about that Russian woman. If you have not yet investigated, hurry up. Mr Dayal has spoken of the matter to the Kempeitai and they are awaiting our report,’ Fukutake reminded him.
‘I have already made a preliminary investigation,’ Kenjiro lied.
Returning to his office, he sat down at his desk. He could no longer now avoid the matter of Nadya’s report. Nor could he allow his feelings to sway him; he had no proof she was not a spy. Reluctantly, he picked up his pen. He was under no obligation to the woman.
Immediately, as he began to write, his head was filled by the thought of her. He saw again the brisk walk, the angry eyes, the pull of the shawl about her shoulders, smelled again her shampoo. He put down the pen. How could she be a spy? How could Teng be a dangerous man? Why was he now interlocked with them both in such an impossible way?
Such interlockings seemed the pattern of his life. Events that at the time of their happening appeared solitary things, seemed now to reverberate through his memory, in ever widening circles of association, like ripples on a pond. He thought briefly of the terrifying intrusion of those armed men into his home long ago, forcing him to leave Japan. But more than that, he rem
embered the time of the Great Kanto Earthquake. He saw it now as a catalyst in his life. He willed the memory not to rise, but it returned, like a curl of smoke across time.
Tradition stated that a monstrous catfish lay beneath Japan. This creature stirred whenever the Sun Goddess frowned upon her Emperor son. At such times the worst earthquakes occurred and had caused past monarchs to abdicate. The catfish stirred on 1st September 1923 and all Tokyo had fallen.
It had been midday. Chacoal braziers were alight beneath meals. Workmen put down their tools to stretch out in the shade with a rice ball and cold tea. Kenjiro returned after lunch to the university, where he was a student. There, on the seismographs in the science department, early tremors rocked the needles at first no more than was usual in volcanic Japan. Soon they mounted by the second, merging to a single swell, billowing like a wave. Kenjiro was thrown on his back as the earth retched and opened. When he regained consciousness, much of Tokyo and Yokohama had disappeared. He stood up and shaded his eyes with a hand. A flattened plain stretched out before him, a woodpile broken by the remains of a few concrete buildings. Charcoal fires still burned under the debris and soon engulfed the ruined city in a holocaust of flame. He stumbled forward. All landmarks were gone.
He did not remember how he found his way home. The house stood miraculously; only one wing had collapsed. The garden had risen like a cake, regurgitating trees. The pond had cracked, leaving the carp to thrash and gasp. In the Nozaki kitchen the soup had tumbled, but the rice in its heavy iron pot still sat upon the hearth.
