A Choice of Evils

by Meira Chand

  ‘Are you giving me orders?’ Hasegawa raised his voice. ‘I’ll send you when I please. Get back to your desk. You’ll find I’ve already compiled a list of instructions.’ Hasegawa waved him away, coughing into his handkerchief. Tilik stood up reluctantly and left the room.

  It was a relief to be back in Hsinking where everything was whole. Trees were a luminous green against a clear sun. The air was fresh, blown in for miles across the steppes. The town emanated purpose. Military cars, polished and fast, passed on the street. Barrows, piled with vegetables and fruit, gleamed with plenitude. Even the Manchurian dust seemed restrained, compared to the ash from bombs or pyres that had settled upon Nanking. He was glad to be back.

  His rooms in a boarding house were small but neat. As he hoped there were letters waiting, from Michiko and Rash Bihari. He wished for a return to equilibrium. Since Nanking he was filled with painful emotions. He tore open the letter from Michiko, but the familiarity of the writing only conjured up the reality of her distance, and sank him further into depression. And the news she gave of Japan was not good. He worried about his child being born into a world of such grimness.

  It is worse and worse. It is not just the lack of commodities. Now a National General Mobilization Law has been introduced, giving the Government the power of control over everything. I cannot really say this yet affects our everyday life, but there is a feeling that we are on full war footing. The newspapers are of course crammed with news of our advances in China but somehow news of a final victory never comes. We all feel rather depressed. It is as if the colour has gone out of everything. I thought once we got Nanking this war would finish, but it seems not. It seems to only get worse. And Father talks now of an even bigger war, one that might end with us facing even America. How could we ever fight America? But people are whispering these things. I am frightened. Can you not come back here? Do you think all this will happen?

  Otherwise I am well. The baby moves and kicks within me. The doctor says he will be strong. Do not worry about us.

  He leaned back, the letter in his hand and loneliness pressed about him. He could see the expression of worry already upon Michiko’s face, the creasing about the eyes, the faint pucker of her mouth. In the beginning he had thought their life together would never settle into a truce, nor thrive. They had lived like separate people. But slowly the structure of marriage ripened about them. Once she knew a child was growing between them, acceptance came quickly to Michiko. Now, at this distance, he missed her, and could read in her letter that this feeling was reciprocated.

  There was a small balcony attached to his room, and he opened the french windows. Outside the sky was thick with towering cloud. He pulled a chair out onto the narrow space and sat down with Rash Bihari’s letter, drawing the thin, lined paper from the envelope. At once the old man’s familiar writing filled him with nostalgia. It was as if Rash Bihari stood beside him, like a genie released from a bottle. Just the thought of his elderly, paternal presence, returned Tilik to a lost identiry.

  There is a feeling here of things closing in. There is no doubt that this Government has a taste for war. Here and there is talk of things in China that are not pleasant to hear. Of course the Government is very quick to suppress these accounts. For the first time now too we hear rumours of some defeats. This too is played down. What really is happening? Only from the occasional newspaper smuggled in from abroad can one get some idea of what may actually be going on. In general this seems to be triumph for Japan. And who are we to wish otherwise, even if some of their methods of war are not to our liking? War is war, unfortunately. On their triumph we must ride. Their victory is our victory. Long may it be. We must keep our minds only upon India, nothing else.

  Our time in India may also soon arrive. Subash Chandra Bose’s stature grows in India. He is Congress president now. So far he is working Gandhiji’s machine with some skill, but there is talk of great strains beneath the surface. I do not know how long an alliance with Gandhiji will last. I predict a split and war between them before long.

  War. That is all I think about now. It seems inevitable in Europe. Japan and her conquests this side of the world, keep pace with Hitler’s own. Many people speak of a greater war even, when Japan will face America. If a war of this nature should come upon us, what then will our position be? My mind turns upon this always. We must be prepared.

  There are large Indian communities throughout south-east Asia. We must coordinate the united strength of this expatriate India, a force of perhaps two million or more. In the event of a Greater East Asia War an Indian Independence League could not only be of use to Japan, but a support to India in her struggle for Independence. We must be assured by Japan that these expatriate Indian communities will be under Japanese protection should their countries of residence fall to Japan. All this may be some way still in the future, but we must be prepared.

  My gentle probing on these matters to various influential people has been very well-received. A man from the Japan Broadcasting Corporation suggested that, if events demanded, they might consider opening a short-wave radio station for us to broadcast to India.

  We need to strengthen our position in Japan and consolidate all the freedom movements throughout south-east Asia. This is esssential. Let us struggle together for a free India. There is much work to be done here. I do not know what you can do there, running hither and thither across deserts and steppes. China can do without you. India needs you here. Tell them to send you back to Japan.

  Tilik put down the letter. A sense of immediacy filled him. Rash Bihari was right. What was he doing here, jerked like a puppet on a string, at Hasegawa’s whim? He must get back to Japan.

  He rested the letter on his knee and looked up into the sky again. Clouds massed above, stretching and changing. An arch formed in the sky like a gate in a crumbled wall. The great walls of Nanking were at once before him. He shut his eyes quickly. So much effort now seemed to go into pushing Nanking from his mind. Every day images crowded up, pressing against his skull. His face had taken on a rigid expression, from the effort of control. He had hoped to leave it all behind him, when he left Nanking.

  Nozaki came into his mind again. Even across this distance, a taut line seemed to pull between them. Perhaps this was how twins felt, two people tied at the ankle, each aware that if the other stumbled the pain would pass through him. Did Nozaki live with the same apprehensions of revelation? What if they suspected Nozaki and tortured him and he gave way before the pressure? What then? Already Tilik saw himself before a firing squad. Why had he done such a foolhardy thing? What had Nozaki said, what were the words that had made him jeopardise not only every ideal he had worked for, but his very life? Questions piled in upon him.

  He knew himself a timid man. He could not throw a bomb. In Delhi, Jai Singh had died because of him. Those women loaded before his eyes upon a truck and driven off to slaughter, they too had died because he feared to mediate. And yet, for an instant Nozaki found words that had moved him to an extreme of action. The past can fill our minds forever . . . We must know we opposed this evil . . . Some words returned to him. Were they enough to have made him risk his life for a man he did not know? He remembered the force with which Nozaki spoke, the strange light in his eye. Why did it remain with him? He felt suddenly cold and returned to the room, shutting the windows behind him.

  ‘This is nonsense. Have you become like a woman, asking to go home?’ Hasegawa yelled and sat down at his desk to light a cigarette.

  ‘Let me tell you a few things. We have a Russian, a general, who has crossed the border and given himself up to our Kwantung Army. He has imparted to us much invaluable information about the state of the Soviet divisions in Siberia. We are sure that now is the ideal time for a full-scale Strike North, but Tokyo orders us to wait. There is trouble on the shores of Lake Khasan where the borders of Siberia, Manchukuo and Korea meet. Soviet forces have moved into the zone and have fired already upon us. Our men are mutinous, they want to fight. I
f Russia has plans to intervene in China it is essential we show them they are wrong. If the army here defies Imperial orders, we are in trouble. And at this time, you want to go home.’

  ‘Things are heating up for India too. All these Japanese triumphs mean a spread of power. It is time now for me to concentrate on consolidating the strength of all expatriate Indians in south-east Asia against our colonial government. We would be an added force on the side of Japan,’ Tilik argued.

  ‘You are working for the Japanese Emperor. Never forget that,’ Hasegawa hissed. ‘Who is paying your keep?’

  Tilik tensed in sudden fear at the expression on Hasegawa’s face. He felt his courage dwindle and Rash Bihari fade into a shadowy corner. Hasegawa narrowed his eyes upon Tilik’s confusion.

  ‘We are in need of buffer zones between Manchuria and Russia. Inner Mongolia is already such a zone.’

  ‘How will this work be done?’ Tilik enquired morosely.

  ‘We are setting up a new school to teach techniques of espionage to Koreans of our choice. They will be placed over the border of Russia to incite Koreans on that side to agitate for a state of their own, which we would then control. You will be a useful instructor in the school. It is essential you concentrate upon this. No more talk of going home.’

  30

  Front Line

  April 1938

  At midnight Donald and Art Morton began their journey towards the battle front. They were on the polished speeding train of General Pai, who they interviewed in his Operations Room, which had once been a dining car. Maps now covered the walls and tables.

  General Pai Chung-hsi had the look of a thinker, not a fighter. His welcome was courtly. ‘The trap is about to close on the Japanese. We have them like fish in a pond. The battle should begin tomorrow. We are going to wipe out the army of a Japanese-backed Chinese warlord at Taierchuang. We must have a victory at Taierchuang to raise our people’s spirits.’

  They were forced to travel with the China correspondent for Hitler’s own paper, the Voelkischer Beobachter. Almost at once Heiner Zimmer opened up his typewriter. Art Morton turned to roll his eyes at Donald. The train was blacked out and Chinese guards patrolled the corridors. In the carriage, Art and Donald smoked in silence. The German wore storm troopers’ boots and breeches and a semi-military jacket, and refused both their cigarettes and brandy from the flask Art Morton produced. He led, he said, a controlled life, and spoke enthusiastically of the Hitler Youth Movement. The train sped forward through the night, swaying as if to derail itself. Donald leaned back and closed his eyes. The click of the German’s typewriter was bound to the deeper knock of the train wheels. The smell of smoke and Morton’s brandy hung in the air, and mixed with the German’s hair oil.

  They wrote down what the General said, and soon returned to their carriage. Once more Zimmer opened up his typewriter, switched on the light above his seat, and began to pound the keys.

  ‘Can’t you stop that?’ Morton asked. ‘We need some sleep.’

  ‘Everything I see and hear must be recorded. This is what the Fuehrer demands. My reports go to the Embassy in Hankow and then on to Berlin,’ Zimmer said without disguise.

  ‘What about Voelkischer Beobachter?’ Donald enquired.

  ‘They go there too, of course,’ Zimmer’s fingers rattled on.

  ‘Either you stop that infernal noise or I’ll throw your typewriter out of this train,’ Morton announced.

  ‘I am nearly finished, please,’ Zimmer replied.

  ‘He is no more than a spy,’ Morton confided when Zimmer went to find the lavatory. ‘How can they let him travel about like this? Germany probably sends his reports straight to the Japanese.’

  The train roared on for hours but stopped eventually across the Grand Canal. The sudden cessation of movement filled them with excitement. In the stillness they listened to the thud and boom of heavy fighting. Sometimes the sounds were overhead, as if bombs would rain down directly upon them. They waited in silence. Soon there was the noise of opening doors. Officers entered the train, and pushed along the narrow corridor towards the operations room. Donald lifted the blackout blind a fraction. The sudden light of shells, like falling stars, illuminated the countryside. He saw also, to his amazement, General Pai with his Chief-of-Operations, pacing the furrow of a wheat field, deep in conversation. The General appeared to scorn all cover.

  After some time the train began to move again, not forwards, but back in the direction it had come.

  ‘What the hell is happening?’ Donald asked, sitting forward with a frown. Morton went to enquire but was told to wait in the compartment.

  Soon General Pai’s Chief-of-Operations entered. ‘It is bad luck for you this time. We have decided to let the Japanese stretch their lines a little deeper.’ His eyes rested on Zimmer. ‘General Pai sends you some kao liang, the drink of the northern farmers. It may ease your disappointment at such a wasted journey.’ He who had paced the fiery wheat field now assumed the role of genial host.

  It was always the way, thought Donald. He never knew at the start of a journey whether it would end in his annihilation or an anti-climax of frustration.

  When Donald opened his eyes it was morning and they were drawing into Hsuchow, the front line city and railway terminal. He had made up his mind; he was not going back to Taierchuang. One front line was like another. He had no stomach for more battle. It appeared Zimmer had also got what he wanted. He clicked shut his typewriter and reached for his cap. As they stepped down from the train General Pai’s chief commander came up with a band of officers and led Zimmer, protesting, away.

  ‘I told you he was a spy,’ Morton said in satisfaction.

  Morton decided to stay on in Hsuchow and return to the front, but Donald could not be persuaded. His instinct was to go back down the track to Hankow. He did not know what his next move would be. But things turned up, they always did.

  General Pai’s sleek train was another world from the trains returning to Hankow, weighed down with a dying cargo. Every train was a hospital train, its carriages, freight cars and open trucks crammed with wounded men. Refugees, fleeing the areas of North China taken by the Japanese, crowded upon the roofs of the trains hanging there like a colony of bats. Thousands more walked beside the tracks.

  Donald found a corner seat in a carriage of wounded men. He offered cigarettes, but there was no common language in which to ask of their ordeals. A stench of blood and gangrene hung upon the air, and eventually he could stand no more and went out into the corridor. There too the same odour pressed upon him. He fought his way along the packed train, desperate to escape the overpowering reek of death. Carriage after carriage presented the same distressing scenes, the same fetid aroma, until he despaired of release. Already he neared the end of the train.

  In the very last compartment a huge man sat drinking surrounded by others of lesser girth, none of whom were in uniform. The smell here was of alcohol instead of gangrene, and the ripe odour of the living. Donald pushed his way in determinedly and gestured his demand for a seat. The men made room, exchanging glances, looking at him curiously. The fat man, a bottle of liquor in one hand, appeared to be their leader. He immediately thrust a glass of kao liang into Donald’s hand and raised his own in a toast. Donald took the drink gratefully, throwing it back. The liquor rocked through him and he began to cough. The fat man swayed with uncontrollable laughter. He gave a loud order to one of his band who disappeared and returned with a soldier who spoke some English. The fat man demanded he interpret, he wanted Donald to hear his story. He continued to laugh, showing a mouth of rotted teeth, and uttered a stream of incomprehensible words.

  ‘His name is Fat Man Ping. Guerrilla leader,’ the soldier interpreted. Donald looked at Fat Man with new interest.

  ‘He is going to Hankow to join his friend, Grandma Chao. Many people give them money in Hankow. He will join hands with Grandma Chao. He is the leader of ten thousand guerrillas twisting the tiger’s tail in the hill country. He is a
northerner. They eat wheat and are big tall men. Rice-eating men are smaller. He says, Chiang Kai-shek is the first rice-eating man to be a leader in China in many years.’ The soldier was given more kao liang as was Donald. Fat Man Ping renewed his tale.

  ‘Fighting Japanese has saved his life. Before this war Chiang Kaishek’s men only wanted to hunt him down for being a bandit. Now he is happy. He can kill as many Japanese as he wants and not get into trouble. Now he is called a guerrilla, no longer a bandit. Only, there is no money to be made in this new game. No money either in the pockets of the Japanese he kills. Just lucky charms. But their coats are good wool. Good for the snowy passes of the north. Only, if you wear them you must be careful. Other guerrillas may think you a Japanese and shoot you down. Better to leave the coat and take only the weapons of these dead Japs.’ Beside the soldier, Ping rocked about with laughter, tears streamed down his face.

  ‘From mountain ledges his men roll great rocks down upon Japanese convoys and block the narrow mountain roads. Then they pick off the East Ocean dwarfs like sparrows,’ the soldier continued.

  Every so often Ping slapped the interpreter on the back with a great guffaw. More kao liang was passed about. Donald felt his head swim and his insides bleed. Ping had tales of ambush and sleight of hand that lasted the rest of the journey. The kao liang seemed in inexhaustible supply. At last, to Donald’s relief, Hankow was reached and they reeled from the train.

  ‘He want to know what you do now?’ the soldier asked, looking distractedly down the platform, anxious to return to his friends. Donald shrugged, his head too muzzy to think clearly about anything.

  ‘He says you need English-speaking guide. He wants you to write about guerrillas. He wants to see his picture in a newspaper. He says you follow him.’ The soldier turned and hurried away before Donald could reply. Fat Man Ping pointed to the camera and Donald obediently took his picture. Fat Man Ping posed with flourish and a wide grin, then took Donald’s arm in a vice-like grip. He stumbled forward beside Ping, too demolished by kao liang to protest. Ping led him triumphantly out of the station, like a prize dog on a lead.