by Meira Chand
As she reached the door the old Amah returned after hurrying downstairs to investigate. Clucking in fright, wheezing for breath, she lumbered towards the girls. ‘Is there no end to this terror?’ she asked and collapsed in a heap by the bed.
Lily began immediately to question her about the damage in the hospital. An inventory began. How many windows were broken? How many watches were stolen? Did Dr Chen lose his fountain pen from England? War could still be a game to Lily.
Flora stared at the ceiling. Her mother’s face was before her again. That word, rape, was wedged permanently in the cold lining of her stomach. That word had now damaged the nurses across the compound. What had been done to them? The iciness gripped her anew. And as always, beyond this new terror, she must deal with the old weight. She must stand guard, ever more vigilant, absorbing pain, deflecting danger, between her mother and her sister. She had been ordered now not to take her eyes off Lily. If anything happened, it would be her fault. Tiredness overwhelmed her. When the war was over she would sleep for a hundred years.
Soon Nadya returned with mugs of hot milk. After some time, when she was sure they were calmer, Nadya made her way back downstairs. Lily’s voice followed her. It was ignorant of any real danger, lost still in a child’s world. It was Flora she worried for, whose face was now stilled of all expression.
She saw a man in shadow at the bottom of the stairs and drew back, prepared for anything now. Her hand gripped the banister rail. Donald Addison stepped into the light and looked up. His face was ashen, leaves stuck in his hair. Stubble darkened his cheeks and his clothes were torn.
It was as if she had been hit. She gripped the rail tighter as he walked forward unsteadily. There was a vacant look in his eyes. ‘I thought you had left Nanking.’ She collected herself and spoke coldly, determined to show no more chinks in her armour.
‘I was on the Panay. It was sunk. Where’s Martha?’ He sat down on the bottom of the stairs.
Suddenly Martha appeared, coming back through the front door from the hospital. She stopped in surprise at the sight of Donald, and looked up in query at Nadya who now descended the stairs reluctantly. She wanted nothing more to do with Donald, Nadya decided. Once she had confronted him she would cut him away from her mind and body. Donald sat slumped below her on the last step, leaning back against the wall. She could see now he looked very ill.
‘Help me get him into the lounge,’ Martha ordered. Donald appeared almost half-conscious, and groaned.
‘He has a high temperature, whatever else may be wrong,’ Martha said. ‘Where has he been?’
‘He said something about the Panay being sunk,’ Nadya answered, supporting Donald until he lay back upon the sofa.
‘The Panay? So many people were on that boat. There is no way to get news here now.’ Martha frowned. She appeared herself again. Her hair was coiled tightly at the back of her head, obedient to her will.
Donald stirred. ‘Got a room here, Martha? I’ve nowhere to go. Everything’s boarded up or burned down.’ He closed his eyes again.
Nadya looked down at his thin body. His clothes were torn and his face was streaked with dirt. All the feelings she had vowed to eradicate regarding Donald stirred again within her. Love for him was the expectation of sorrow. He had no belief in happiness. At its first shoots he sought to destroy it.
That night Nadya could not sleep, knowing Donald was in the house. His presence seemed to override the earlier terrifying intrusion of the soldiers. And her anxiety for Professor Teng welled up anew. Had the Japanese man from the Embassy been able to free him? Where was Professor Teng now? Had he been shot like thousands of others, tossed into a mass grave? Something must be done.
In her room Martha too could not sleep. She sat for a while at the window, looking out into the blackness at the fires that still bloomed in Nanking any time of day or night. How much, she wondered, could there be left to burn? She swung the curtains together blotting out the scene. All she had kept in place for so long boiled dangerously within her now. She dreaded going to bed, switching off the light. Not since the time of Bill’s death had she been so little in charge of her emotions.
‘There is nothing to be afraid of,’ Bill had said on that last day she had seen him, so long ago now. ‘We’re together and God is with us.’ And she had believed him in that year of terrible famine. The desperate peasants swelling the bandit ranks marched nearer, capturing town after town, killing and looting, carrying off the rich for ransom. Soon it was feared that they would reach the mission.
Martha’s father and Bill were persuaded at last to flee before the approaching bandits. They were taken in by friends up river. At last the bandits were stopped by government troops. Bill and her father insisted on returning at once to the mission.
‘There will be wounded,’ Dr Keswick had said. ‘You must wait on here with Flora. It is not safe enough yet for a child.’
Eventually, after some time, word came from the mission for Martha to return. When she arrived Bill was away on a round of the outlying clinics. She had returned to her routine of outpatients and surgery, to a queue of stab and bullet wounds and the many maimed victims of kidnapping. Two days passed; it was not unusual for Bill to delay if work demanded. On the third morning her father interrupted the surgery.
‘Martha, I must talk with you, child,’ Dr Keswick said. She took a stethoscope from an old man’s chest and looked at him in surprise. It was exceptional for her father to interrupt the morning clinic. He led her back to the house.
‘It is best to be direct. No news is made better by beating about. They have taken Bill.’ He stood before her, his agitation clear.
‘Who have taken Bill?’ At first she did not understand.
‘Bandits, my child. Bandits.’
‘What proof is there?’ she demanded.
‘A note of ransom, nothing more,’ her father replied.
‘Nothing more?’ she queried.
He shook his head and reached for her hand. That no parcel of bloodied parts had arrived seemed somehow to give hope.
‘What are we to do?’ she cried.
‘Wait. Pray,’ her father replied. Everyone knew missionaries paid no ransom.
Her hands were permanently locked in prayer, her knuckles white with the pressure. She pulled Flora close for comfort, but the child struggled from her and returned to play, unaware. A storm blew up and she thought of him, hidden in a shack or an underground hole, clothes sodden, mud sliding down upon him; cold, starving, beaten. It became unbearable.
‘Pay, Father. Give them what they want. Write to the Head Mission. If you ask they will pay.’
‘What are you saying?’ Dr Keswick demanded. ‘We are in God’s hands. Cast thy burden on the Lord, child. Call unto Me and I will answer thee. We have no resource to His Will but prayer.’
‘Stop it. Stop it,’ she screamed.
Eventually, Bill’s dismembered body was found. A last sight of him was denied her on Dr Keswick’s orders. The coffin was hammered down. She began to scream. They held her down and splashed cold water on her face, slapped her face, and still she screamed.
‘Let her be,’ Dr Keswick decided. ‘Let her exhaust herself. Let it come out.’
She knew then there was no God. Her scream became a scream of relief. Dr Keswick approached with a hypodermic. The dark limbo it brought lasted over a year, until the day Flora found Lily.
Martha sank her head in her hands now. Outside, in the distance, came the sound of marauding soldiers. She began to shiver. If now a scream escaped her she knew it might never be stopped. She pressed her lips together in an effort of control. She would not give in to the frail creature she saw so clearly within herself.
The next morning Donald’s fever had dropped and his general condition had improved. He told Nadya and Martha the story of the Panay, and the way he had returned to Nanking over enemy territory. He had climbed a breach in the wall to enter the city.
‘Keep him as quiet as possible, he is still v
ery weak and his fever will go up again,’ Martha warned, as Nadya followed her to the dispensary to collect Donald’s medicine.
Quietude was impossible while the sack of the town continued only yards outside the window. All they did was talk. Donald asked questions that forced Nadya to relive the horror of the last few days. She told him also about her own journey back to Nanking.
‘Why did you leave without a word?’ She could not hold back the question.
‘I had to get away,’ he answered, and turned his face sullenly to the wall.
‘From me?’ she questioned.
‘I don’t know from what,’ he replied. His expression was lined with fatigue.
‘It’s all because of Smollett,’ she told him angrily.
‘How do you know it’s Smollett? It’s nothing to do with him,’ he yelled suddenly, trying to sit up in bed.
‘Well, perhaps it’s because of your father then, or your wife,’ she spat out the information W.H.D. had imparted.
‘I am already divorced, so what need was there to mention it. And yes, my father shot himself. He left no note, so I don’t know why.’ He looked suddenly so haggard she regretted the inquisition.
‘I suggest you not believe any more rubbish that bastard W.H.D. has to impart. All he wants is to get back at me.’ Donald’s voice was suddenly calmer.
‘You should not be here, in this terrible town,’ Nadya worried. ‘You should have gone back to Shanghai with the others.’ The state of Nanking could do nothing but damage his fragile emotional balance further.
‘I cannot tell you why I need to be here,’ he answered, unable to explain even to himself the strange inner journey he was embarked upon.
Nadya observed him, distressed at his agitation. Something appeared to erode the very fabric of his soul. The anger in her diminished. The emotions forged between them were without any tangible explanation. The resolve to be free of him had already disintegrated. She told him then about Teng.
‘If he’s still alive we’ll get him freed,’ she said. ‘I have a plan.’
14
Second Thoughts
There was no heating in the room at Military Headquarters. Tilik Dayal sat on a chair near the door. He watched a trail of ants scurry along a seam in the marble wall. His position was that of an outsider. They did not want him in Nanking, but would not let him go. Sometimes his opinion was asked for upon trivial matters as a form of politeness. It was known he knew Generals of the top rank in Manchukuo.
The building had been one of Chiang Kai-shek’s Ministries. Its rooms were cavernous and echoing, staircases spiralled before stone walls. Tilik, alone in this freezing mausoleum, was without a role. A faint smell of blocked drains pervaded the place. Why were they keeping him here?
At the end of a long table Prince Asaka talked strategy. Asaka was small, compact, hard. His skin was drawn tightly across the bone. There was a thin gleam in his eyes, like metal caught by the sun. Commanders pressed around him. Nearby was Colonel Kato, who was assigned to Tilik’s welfare. Tilik returned his attention to the ants. For the first time he felt fear.
On a previous visit to Nanking for the Asia Conference, he had walked about the town early each morning, as was his habit wherever he was. Now, he stayed in his room, in a house used by Embassy personnel. If he looked out of his window he could see the road to one of the city’s seventeen gates. From that window he had watched the army entering Nanking. Because of a poverty of transport they had come in on donkeys and carts, besides tanks and trucks, covered in mud like farmers. There had been a crushing roll of wheels, the vibration of boots, and the neighing of animals. The army had appeared a dark, exhausted mass of men. Few streets were lined in welcome; people hid behind locked doors. Soon afterwards it had rained. Depression had overwhelmed him. It had not been Tilik’s intention to stay in Nanking. He felt like a guest at a party who cannot depart without permission.
Prince Asaka stood up and prepared to leave. There was a clicking of boots and saluting as Asaka walked past. He limped from an old wound received in a car crash in Europe. Colonel Kato strode beside him. Prince Asaka inclined his head slightly to a chosen few, and walked on. Tilik noticed the clipped moustache, the colours of command upon his breast, the straightness of his back. The man’s flinty eyes remained with Tilik. A door was opened, and Asaka disappeared with a phalanx of officers. With his departure the room relaxed. Green tea was offered around. Colonel Kato reappeared beside Tilik.
‘Now you have met our great commander,’ he said, gesturing to Tilik to follow him across the room to a knot of officers. The men turned at their approach, making room for Tilik.
He bowed politely. All the men in the room looked the same to him whatever the shaping of their bones. They had faces of stone, and were lean on skimped rations. They were weathered by winter winds rolling against them day and night across the plains from Shanghai. Their talk was exclusively of the lesson to be taught to China. Tilik was filled by unease. Clearly, this was a war of punishment.
All these years, thought Tilik, he had scurried like a mole through the underground tunnels of command, his gaze secured between narrow walls, never glimpsing the upper world. Now, suddenly, it was as if he had surfaced into gaunt reality. These strutting men, and rolling drunks, this desecration of a city, the rape of women, the killing of children; had he unwittingly, been part of this? These thoughts now kept him awake at night. He missed Japan. There, near Rash Bihari, he felt part of the bigger scheme of things. Here, in China and Manchukuo, there was not even news of India. Where now was the great freedom fighter, Subash Chandra Bose? He knew nothing.
‘You are our eyes and our ears in places we cannot reach,’ Kato said. ‘War is a brutal event. There are unfortunately foreigners still here who might misinterpret our actions. They refuse to leave the city although we have offered them every assistance. It is easy for you to mix with them, to know their thoughts. This way we can contain the wrong information getting about in the world. A Russian is amongst these people, a woman, whom you yourself have reported to be a spy. She may be part of a ring. We have asked the Japanese Embassy to watch her; their relations are tolerable with this Safety Zone Committee. Go amongst these people, let them think you are one of them, find out what you can.’ Kato smiled blandly.
Eventually the meeting ended and Kato gave Tilik a lift in an armoured car to his room in the Embassy accommodation. The car drove at speed through deserted streets, scattering dogs. At the sight of the car people fled, diving into doorways. Soon they arrived at the house and Kato nodded his dismissal.
Tilik climbed the stairs slowly to his room. On the same floor lived Kenjiro Nozaki. It was a comfort to know a friend was near. He felt he could talk to Nozaki, who listened when others did not. There was no need to watch so closely what one said, or afterwards scour a conversation for what could be misconstrued, as was the case with Jun Hasegawa. Tilik shut the door and lay down on the bed, pulling the blankets over him for warmth. He was always cold these days.
Outside, the noise of firing continued sporadically. The sounds spat viciously into the silence. He shut his eyes and began to shiver. The shots echoed through his head, throwing him back to Amritsar and the day his father died. He had heard no gun since that terrible day, seen no bodies since that moment. For seventeen years he had worked to forget. Why must he now be pinioned to Nanking, forced to watch its destruction? He was no more than a puppet on a string: Japan ordered, he obeyed. Day by day, inadvertently, he had helped to realise this nightmare, thinking he worked for India.
He remembered that soon after he and Michiko arrived in Manchukuo, he had persuaded Rash Bihari to travel to Manchuria on a lecture tour. Rash Bihari insisted on only addressing Japanese audiences, speaking fluently in the language. His astringency was shocking. He dared to criticise Japanese policy in Manchukuo and the treatment of the Chinese. Tilik had been forced to apologise behind his back for such unorthodox behaviour. The tour had ended in Dairen. Rash Bihari expressed distre
ss at all he had seen. Before embarking on his ship he dispatched a telegram to War Minister General Araki in Tokyo, voicing his disgust. He signed it, ‘The Indian, Bose’. Many people were upset, for he was a naturalised Japanese.
‘It will put you in a bad light with the Japanese Government. Is this really helping our Indian cause?’ Tilik worried. Rash Bihari gave him a long-suffering look.
‘My Japanese citizenship is for my survival. In all my thought and actions, I am an Indian. I will take responsibility for the consequences of my action.’ His voice was firm. Tilik remembered his face, lined and strong. He knew now he would never be like Rash Bihari, could never hold such single-minded principles.
From outside the window the sound of shooting came again, and a sudden crescendo of screaming. Once more women were being dragged from their homes. His stomach tightened, he put his hands over his ears. In desperation he got off the bed and from a drawer took out Rash Bihari’s last letter. It was written some months before. It gave news that Subash Chandra Bose was once more in jail, arrested at the Bombay docks on his return to India after a time in Europe. Hitler had refused to see him, but Mussolini had been eager.
‘Hitler,’ wrote Rash Bihari, is not interested in India. He sees us freedom fighters as Asiatic jugglers. India as a country has no strategic or commercial interest for him. Even his Nazi philosopher, Rosenberg, who is credited with such insights into our Indian culture, calls us poor bastards, and says from the German point of view British rule in India must be supported. And Hitler has advised the Englishman, Halifax, that the problem of Gandhi is simple: ‘Shoot him.’ Yet Subash continues to be convinced that something can be salvaged if only he and Hitler can meet. Rubbish, I say. The way lies in the East through the united strength of our people outside India, and through Japan. Yet so immersed is Subash in his anti-imperialist campaign that he now talks of preventing the growth of Japanese imperialism in Asia. ‘If tomorrow China could be strong and unified; if tomorrow India could be free, I am sure it would influence the balance of power in Asia, and serve to check the spread of Japanese imperialism.’ This is what he says. These are nice thoughts, but look at the reality. Only Japan can help us now.
