by Meira Chand
He pulled the buff envelope towards him once more and, as if he needed verification of the horror, again drew out the photographs. ‘You took these?’ Revulsion filled Percival’s face.
Pictures of mass beheadings or disembowelled bodies stared at him. He passed quickly over those of grinning Japanese troops, posing as if for a holiday snap beside their raped or bayoneted victims, wiping bloodied swords upon a dress. Or the killing pens where roped captives were led, as further bayonet fodder for Japanese recruits.
‘My photo stills are nothing like these.’ Donald spoke quietly. ‘These were taken by Japanese soldiers. Many soldiers carry a camera, and they use it shamelessly, as you can see.’
‘It’s almost as if it were a sport for them.’ Percival pushed the prints back hurriedly again into the envelope.
‘Perhaps it is. War is a kind of brutish sport. Its rules are a choice of evils.’ The memory of the Panay flooded into his mind.
Percival stood up and crossed the room to a tray of decanters and poured out two whiskies. ‘I think a little of this is in order, considering what we are dealing with. How did you come by them?’ He handed Donald a glass.
‘Some of the Japanese troops who were in Nanking have passed through Shanghai on their way to other areas, and sent their photographs for developing without, it seems, turning a hair. They look upon them as souvenirs. Unbeknown to them the Chinese staff at the photographer’s I used, at the risk of their lives, made additional prints. This war is no sport to them. I have written a covering story to the whole thing. And there is also the matter of my reel of movie film. I must put this into the highest government hands. The Japanese are likely to say the stills are faked in some way. But no one can deny a moving film.’
‘How can men do these things?’ Percival sat down with the glass of whisky, shaking his head.
Donald remembered the rape he himself had filmed with discomfort. He recalled again his own detachment behind the camera, for which also he had no explanation. ‘They are just men like you or me. No more, no less, no different,’ he replied.
‘What the hell do you mean?’ Percival exploded. ‘Do you think you or I or any of our army would turn their hand to this inhuman behaviour?’
Donald shrugged. ‘They are under orders to kill and terrorise. For some reason men seem to do what they’re told under orders, especially if the cause is right to their minds. But those men, rushing about in Nanking, killing, raping, burning, looting, day after day for six weeks or more, they must suffer some after effect. However much drink they were given to numb them, they knew what they did. Deep down in themselves, some part is alive to that fact. Perhaps that part took these photos.’
‘It’s devilish pride in their diabolical deeds. Nothing more,’ replied Percival.
‘It is that on one level, of course. But perhaps, unconsciously, the blatant gesture of printing these photos, seems to me proof of some need to confess.’ The thoughts were not easy to formulate.
‘Sounds like a lot of blarney to me, Addison. You’re either a Jap-lover or half-mad,’ Percival responded. ‘You’re just looking for an explanation when there is none. These men are proud of what they’ve done. Why otherwise are they all walking about with cameras to record their prowess? It’s sickening.’ Percival spoke through his teeth.
‘Perhaps you’re right,’ Donald sighed. ‘I’m tired of trying to fathom it out.’ The order of everything was back to front in Nanking.
‘Do you still want to send these photos? And with your name attached?’ Percival enquired. Donald nodded in reply.
‘You realise of course, they will make you Enemy Number One of the Japanese nation?’ Percival warned.
‘Probably,’ Donald answered, taking a sip of the whisky.
Suddenly, after what he had said to Percival, his feelings were confused. Like Percival he was repulsed by the photos, but he queried his own motive now in needing to send them. Were they to warn the world as he thought, or were they to further his career? Was he too now taking an easy ride on the back of all this evil, like Mariani? He would have to deal with these thoughts later. An opportunity was before him. No reporter turned his back on a scoop. If he did not send them someone else would.
Percival nodded. ‘We have just been through something like this with pictures we were given from the Panay. We can do the same route if we’re lucky. Hong Kong or Singapore is easy enough, but straight through to America is safest. No danger of the Japanese over there.’ Percival picked up the phone and began to establish an avenue of escape for the films, through the collusion of diplomats.
‘This will take some time. Go back to your hotel. I’ll call you there,’ Percival said, cupping his hand over the telephone receiver.
‘The pictures still need identification and captions. I’ll work on it through the night.’ Donald picked up the envelope from Percival’s desk, and returned to the Metropole Hotel.
Some hours went by, but at last Percival himself arrived at the hotel. ‘The Americans have come up trumps again, just as they did with the Panay film. One of their destroyers, a fast one, is leaving for Manila at seven tomorrow morning. They have consented to carry the photographs. If there are no storms to delay the destroyer, it will reach Manila three hours before the next clipper is due to take off for San Francisco. This is the quickest route to the Western world I can offer your photographs. The Panay photos went to the New York Times on this route. The British Consul General in San Francisco and The Times correspondent, as well as someone from Look will be there waiting for the movie and photographs. This is historic stuff,’ Percival said.
At six the next morning Donald went with Percival to the docks in an Embassy car. He presented the sealed packets to the Captain, who locked them in his safe. They waited until the siren blew and the ship pulled away from the wharf.
‘Those pictures will appear around the world with your name attached. I can only repeat, you’ll be on a Japanese death list now, and we cannot help you there,’ Percival reminded him as he dropped him back at the Metropole. Donald nodded, shutting the door of the car, turning to walk up the steps to the hotel.
In the chill early morning the wind whipped about his neck. He turned up his collar, and dug his hands into his pockets. His fingers touched the cold metal of the bullet that had punctured the lifeboat of the Panay, and closed about it. He kept it always upon him.
Inside the hotel he went straight to the dining room and ordered coffee and croissants. Now that the films had left Shanghai, he planned to go on to Hankow and catch up with Chiang Kai-shek. As he waited for his breakfast a Japanese Army officer entered the room, and crossed towards him. He clicked his heels smartly and bowed. Donald drew a breath. Could the photographs have brought this man here? Had they already been intercepted? Was the man from the Kempeitai? Donald put down his cup of coffee and prepared himself for the worst.
‘General Matsui has come to know you are in Shanghai. Please make it convenient to see him this afternoon at the Shanghai Club.’ The man spoke pleasantly.
‘I shall be pleased to meet the General again,’ Donald replied in relief.
General Matsui had the bony quality of a plucked sparrow. The stiff collar of his military uniform stood away from his frail neck. He had lost yet more weight. He coughed into a handkerchief. The room was overheated, and the fumes of the oil stove made Donald drowsy. Matsui held his hands to the flame. The tips of his fingers were dark with nicotine, and his expression was morose.
‘Soon I will be recalled to Japan. Every day now I await an order,’ the old man sighed. He sat with inflexible military bearing, but his voice trembled at times with emotion. Except for the interpreter they were alone. Where Matsui could he spoke himself in his broken English, as if to emphasise the importance of the interview. They sat in a private room of the Shanghai Club. Hot tea and the best brandy were before them.
‘I appreciate the favour you are doing me,’ General Matsui announced. ‘I do not wish to involve you in too much deta
il, but many things here are not to my liking. They have reached such a tension that either I, or somebody I wish to speak to you about, must be recalled.’ There was a look of extreme weariness about the General. ‘If you remember, the last time we met I said I would make you my publicity agent. Since that victory procession through Nanking, I have been a different man.’ Matsui fell silent, as if reliving the event. Donald scribbled a note on his open pad.
‘If, as I suspect, I am to be recalled to Japan, I wish certain things set straight to the world before I leave. Tokyo appears deaf to my voice from here. But if you publish abroad the facts as I see them, and these facts are then cabled back to Tokyo from London, I may be able to reassert my authority.’
Donald nodded. He had no intention of permitting The Times to be used as a vehicle in a Japanese military feud, but he was more than willing to be given this exclusive interview by Matsui.
‘I will do what I can,’ he answered. What would Matsui say, he wondered, if he knew of the recent dispatch of photographs?
In spite of everything, he could not dislike this tiny general. Yet, Donald knew, he must not be deceived. This man’s ethics were not his own. There were distinct boundaries to his view of mercy. At a different time, in different circumstances, he would have called Matsui well meaning. But he appeared in this war as no more than a small man, locked into his own self-righteousness. It was extraordinary that Matsui was prepared to make his war views public through a foreign newspaper. The qualities that defined the Western military hero were unfamiliar to Japan. The less known by the public of their leaders’ personalities, the greater the manipulation possible of the masses. Few men of position tried dramatic gestures or broke with group policy. Physical courage and obedience was all that were demanded.
‘You were on the Panay, I understand?’ Matsui stared at Donald. He raised the brandy glass to his lips. ‘And, I am told, you were in Nanking during the first weeks of our occupation? How is it you survive so many dangerous situations? You have perhaps the many lives of a cat?’ Matsui smiled, his small eyes lighting up. He warmed the brandy in his cupped hands. Then grimness returned to his face, and he drew hard on his cigarette. ‘Did you witness these atrocities that appear to have happened? It is important for me to know.’
‘I have seen things it is impossible to ever forget, and that are beyond my comprehension,’ Donald replied.
‘Tell me,’ General Matsui ordered. Donald described whatever he could. Matsui listened impassively, occasionally clenching his jaw.
‘In Nanking my men have done something very wrong and extremely regrettable,’ Matsui said as Donald finished. He hung his head, staring into his glass, absently swilling the brandy.
‘Do you feel the troops went berserk then, out of control?’ Donald asked. Matsui looked up, his voice rising powerfully.
‘I consider the discipline of the troops was as excellent as ever. But the guidance and subsequent behaviour that resulted were not. I sent a message to Prince Asaka’s chief of staff at the height of things, when I realised the true extent of what was happening. I implored him to exert control over the troops, as could easily have been done. I pointed out that, especially as Prince Asaka was of the imperial blood, military discipline must be that much more strictly maintained. You can judge for yourself the good that came of my pleas.’
Everything about the Japanese attitude to war seemed poles apart from Western attitudes. Even in a war such as this, Donald had learned, the Japanese had few trained rescue teams to remove the wounded under fire or give first aid; it had no properly functioning medical system of any kind for its armies. In emergencies or retreat the wounded or hospitalised were often killed, or killed themselves, it was rumoured. Japanese society, it seemed, had no room for damaged goods in the shape of disabled soldiers. Honour in war was to fight to the death. Surrender, even if wounded or unconscious, was untenable. To Donald surrender was an honourable business, at the end of effort before hopeless odds. Prisoners of war were due a certain respect, as stated in the Geneva Convention. Such reasoning was incomprehensible to a man like Matsui. If even his own wounded were incomplete men, worthy of nothing less than disposal, what then was the value of prisoners of war? Donald grappled with these contradictions. It was as if he and Matsui approached the ethics of war from different sides of the universe.
Matsui looked at him hard. ‘I also consider the mistaken decision of you foreigners to again set up a Safety Zone in Nanking, to blame in part for the tragedy,’ Matsui announced.
‘Their decision to stay behind was heroism of the highest order.’ Donald had difficulty keeping his voice civil now to Matsui. ‘My own presence there was accidental,’ he explained hurriedly.
Matsui grew impatient. ‘Nanking is not Shanghai. They knew this. They received no official status for their zone as we had given in Shanghai. And yet they foolishly persisted in its establishment with only a half-promise of safety. Subsequently, many refugees who might have left the city stayed on in false hope of safety and perished. Chinese soldiers who had been ordered to retreat from the town heard about this zone and, yielding to thoughts of self preservation as would no Japanese counterpart, stayed in the city, disposed of their uniforms and entered the zone. I do not exonerate my army but, I put it to you, your Safety Zone was a place of death rather than sanctuary. This is because of its organisers’ ignorance and misplaced beliefs in their actions. Had there been no Safety Zone the death toll might have been reduced.’
Donald began to protest, but Matsui held up his hand for silence. ‘It is the Panay incident that I wish to talk to you about.’
The General drew on his cigarette, his voice took on a bitter tone. ‘The sinking of some of those ships was the work of Colonel Kingoro Hashimoto. I want this made clear to the world. In Japan he is a popular but dangerous man. We call him the Bad Boy of the army. He is arrogant and insubordinate. He wants Japan to fight the whole world.’ Anger flushed Matsui’s face. ‘The Navy has been forced to take the blame for the bombing and has sacrificed an Admiral who has resigned in apology. Hashimoto is intent only on actions that will embroil Japan immediately in hostilities with Great Britain and the United States.’
‘But how can he get away with it?’ Donald pressed.
‘In games of strategy firebrands such as Hashimoto are sometimes useful pawns,’ Matsui said mysteriously.
‘Things have reached such a pass that either Hashimoto goes home, or I go home. I can no longer be responsible for the actions and policies of such a firebrand. The matter of the Panay may already have been resolved between our countries and the attack passed off as unintentional, but I will have my say of the truth. If you wish to send any cables to your newspaper about what I have had to say to you today, I will see they get through uncensored,’ Matsui promised. He indicated with a sudden, abrupt gesture that the interview was ended.
As Donald left the room he saw the General finish his brandy and, resting his head on the back of the chair, close his eyes wearily. He had a vision once more of the bird-like quality of the man, and wondered that such frailty could empower death of such magnitude. Did Matsui’s indignation over Nanking spring from his disapproval of the wanton butchery, or from his own wounded pride? He wished to believe General Matsui, to prove decency was the common denominator of men. But, he reminded himself yet again, Matsui had made a career out of killing.
He left the Shanghai Club and made his way back to the Metropole. The town was not the place he had left so recently. Barricades were now at every intersection. Japanese soldiers stood guard, brandishing bayonets. And yet in the relatively unharmed Foreign Settlement, Donald felt returned to sanity. To look down a road and see it whole, not to stare at bloated bodies, to talk of irrelevancies without guilt; these things seemed almost novel. In the bar of the Metropole he ordered a drink and sat down at a corner table. He began to draft out a lengthy cable of Matsui’s interview for The Times.
The bar was half empty, and nowadays when it was full it no longe
r thronged with newsmen, but with Japanese personnel of the new administration. He realised then that this was the same table he had sat at with Nadya and Smollett, on that evening before the incident at the water-tower. Before leaving Nanking he had told Nadya of his departure. They had stood before each other silently.
‘Are you coming back? Will we meet again?’ Her voice had been emotionless. Although the gates were now open, she was not yet ready to leave the city, still pinioned to its agony. Neither of them had the energy to deal with the complexity of the emotions between them, let alone the residue of recent events. It was as if they watched the relationship slip away, like dust through their open fingers, powerless to stop it. He had turned from her without a touch, stumbling from the blighted city at last, as a somnambulist leaves a dream.
Now in Shanghai regret overwhelmed him, sharp as a pain. In the relative calm of the city it was as if he awoke. In the bar of the Metropole, his thoughts were unclear about Nadya.
24
A Dark Residue
Early March 1938
Ice no longer formed over puddles at night. Tufts of couch grass and other weeds pushed through at the sides of roads. The land beyond the moat, littered with ancient grave mounds, was now textured by the freshly turned soil of mass graves. Even here there was a hint of greenness. Nadya looked down from the ramparts of Nanking’s walls at the coming spring. So too, countless times, spring must have emerged after other sackings. Then too exhaustion must have spread over the town, the living weighed down with memory. Now, people sat in doorways, unspeaking. The farmer and shopkeeper faced a new death. Seed for replanting was gone, savings for stock long plundered. The silence seemed too big to face. No bowling of rickshaws or carts or the impatient honk of cars. No hawkers’ calls or children’s voices. Streets were clear of bodies, the stench had left the city. Electricity and water were switched on. But upon the town was an intolerable pressure from which there was no escape. The living would now walk forever with the dead. Purple Mountain darkened through the day, pale violet to inky blue, constantly renewing itself. In the town only memory remained.
