by Helen Zia
One Sunday in the fall of 1943, when the steam heat of Shanghai’s summer was turning cool and dry, Elder Sister and Kristian borrowed a car for an excursion to Hangzhou for the day with their sons. Bing and Ah Mei decided to go on a trip of their own. With a few yuan that Elder Sister had slipped them, they rode a tram all the way to the Bund. The two girls gaped at the massive stone buildings and, for good luck, rubbed the heads of the bronze lions in front of the imposing Hongkong and Shanghai Bank. They shivered at the sight of dozens of Japanese warships, their flags proudly displaying the rising sun against the white background. When they reached the big four department stores, they rode up and down the moving stairs at the Sun Sun.
By the time they reached the British racecourse, at Tibet Road, it was late afternoon. The extensive grounds were being used by the Japanese to garrison their soldiers and store their booty, looted from the homes of Chinese and now from the interned foreigners as well. The nearby Great World Amusement Center had been rebuilt after the Bloody Saturday bombing. Bing laughed at the clever puppet shows and her distorted reflections in the Hall of Mirrors. As suppertime approached, the girls spent the last of their coins at the hawker stands, choosing from foods grilled on sticks, slices of melon, pork buns and curried pastries, candied lotus roots, and sweets of every kind. There wasn’t a single sign reminder of the thousands killed in the bombings only six years before.
With no money left for a tram, the two walked the mile or so back home. When they arrived at the apartment on Avenue Joffre, Bing was exhausted—and happy. It was the first time in her life she’d had a day of pure fun.
* * *
—
“WHAT MAKES YOU THINK you can sit around like some no-good lazy dog who eats, sleeps, and shits all day while I bend my old back for you? You’re wasting time looking at those pictures. No one in America wants a worthless girl like you.”
Ma was just getting started, Bing knew. She reluctantly put aside the copy of Life magazine. She’d had a busy morning, pounding bedding to shake out the bedbugs, doing her best to chase after and stomp them as they scurried away. She had taken four-year-old Ole on a long walk, playing with him until he fell asleep, while Ma and the wet nurse minded infant Peter. Bing had hoped to enjoy a few moments with her favorite foreign magazine before Ah Mei returned from the marketplace with the day’s slim rations for lunch. The photographs of smiling people living in spacious American homes were so unlike their lives in war-torn China.
Once Ma latched on to a nit to pick, she never let go. There would be no end to her litany of complaints, curses, and vituperations. Bing picked up a broom and tried to look busy until Ah Mei returned. At least Bing could commiserate with her friend. Ma’s fuse had grown shorter and her temper flared hotter ever since Kristian had lost his job earlier in the year. Anything could set her off—the paltry food ration coupons, a change in the weather, Ole’s naughty behavior. And just about everything that Bing or Ah Mei did.
Only two things prevented Ma from exploding. The first was the simple presence of Elder Sister’s husband. Although he couldn’t understand everything Ma said, Kristian had lived in Shanghai long enough to recognize her choice curses. She moderated herself when he was present.
The second was opium. A few puffs from her long opium pipe relaxed Ma. She said it took all her aches, pains, and worries away. But the price of everything was so inflated in those days that Ma’s “medicine” was harder to come by. And that made her more peevish than ever.
Without those small breaks from Ma’s temper, Bing didn’t think she could stand it anymore. To be fair, everyone, including Ma, had good reason to be on edge after six years of unrelenting wartime hardship. Elder Sister often came home without finding a single customer for her trading and barter activities. As talented and clever as she had proven to be, even she was having trouble keeping up with inflation, and the scarcity and high cost of food.
Elder Sister and her foreign husband were better off than many, but their circumstances were worsening. Ma had started doing the cooking because there was no money for servants. This, too, added to her irritability. Parsing out the rations each night, she saved the best for the man of the family—though even he was lucky to get a single egg or slice of meat. Food was served first to Kristian, then to Ole, Elder Sister, and Ma—in that order. Luckily Peter needed only milk, which they made from Klim powder. Bing and Ah Mei got what was left. When there was nothing left, the girls had to eat plain corn or barley mush.
Bing wasn’t sure which was worse—Ma’s temper or the inedible mush. At night, in their bedrolls, the girls whispered their frustrations and, when they dared, their dreams.
“I took some mush to the alley for the dogs to eat, but not one mangy cur took a bite!” exclaimed Ah Mei. “It’s not fit for a dog.”
Bing smiled grimly. “Even if I’m aching from hunger, I can’t swallow any more of that mush.”
Then she hesitantly told Ah Mei about her recurring nightmare. In it, her baba was waving and calling to her, smiling. She’d run to him, but just when she was close enough to grab his hand, he vanished. In his place, Mama Hsu appeared, looking elegant in her plain qipao and beckoning for Bing to follow. Just as Bing was about to reach her, she disappeared too.
“I don’t know how to find my baba, but I still know the address that Mama Hsu gave me. Before she left me with Ma and Elder Sister, she told me to memorize it in case I wanted to reach her. Do you think she’s calling for me through my dreams?”
Excited, Ah Mei answered in the affirmative. “She must be sending you a message, just as when Ma says the ghosts of her dead ancestors are trying to contact her.”
“Could Mama Hsu have returned to Suzhou from Chongqing? I’m sure she would treat us better,” Bing ventured.
“Let’s go and find out!” Ah Mei shot back.
Startled, Bing paused. “You mean, run away?”
Ah Mei nodded. “Why not?”
* * *
—
THE TWO TEENAGERS STARTED planning. It was already November. With winter approaching, they had to move quickly. Between them they had a few yuan, saved from their New Year’s hong bao and the occasional change Elder Sister used to give them when times were better. But then Bing had second thoughts about running away, especially when four-year-old Ole clung to her. He’d cry for her, she knew. She would miss him and the new baby. Elder Sister needed her and had always treated her well.
Just when Bing was about to change her mind, Ma blew up over something she’d done.
“Go ahead and jump in the Huangpu River; see if I care! You won’t even know how to drown yourself!” Ma barked at Bing, complaining into the night and chain-smoking until she finally fell asleep.
“Let’s do it,” Bing told Ah Mei.
It had been four years since Bing had last seen Mama Hsu, and she longed to know what had happened to her. Had she made it to Chongqing? Had she survived the heavy bombings that the Japanese bragged about in their propaganda? If Mama was alive, would she take Bing back? Even if she didn’t, maybe she would know how to find Baba. Bing still held on to that hope.
Planning their move carefully, the girls decided to leave early in the morning, while everyone was still asleep and before the gatekeeper opened the bamboo fence of their building’s courtyard. Each carrying a small cloth bag containing her worldly possessions, the two girls climbed over the fence to Avenue Joffre and jumped onto the back of a tram headed to the Shanghai North railway station. From there, they planned to catch a train to Suzhou.
But the frequent bombings of the railway were causing long delays, clogging the station with people. By nightfall, there was still no train. With nowhere to go, Bing and Ah Mei squeezed onto a bench in the station and waited. Bing didn’t mind—she was determined to get away. She kept reciting the location she had memorized, desperate not to forget any part of it. It was the location of Mama Hsu’s
uncle. After their long day, the girls huddled together and fell asleep on the cold bench.
The next morning, they spent a few fen on some plain steamed bread and pieces of dried ginger to help stanch their hunger. Finally the train to Suzhou arrived, and the crowd surged forward in one terrifying wave. Swept up and pushed forward, Bing and Ah Mei somehow scrambled on board. When they arrived at the Suzhou train station, they had no money left for a pedicab to take them to the uncle’s address.
Ah Mei, the more streetwise of the two, had anticipated that they’d need more money. When they left the apartment, she had stuffed Kristian’s leather house slippers into her sack. The European slippers still looked new. The girls went from shop to shop at the train station, trying to sell the slippers. Sure enough, one of the shopkeepers bought them. With the money, the girls hopped into a pedicab and soon arrived at the doorstep of Mama Hsu’s uncle.
Bing swallowed hard, and Ah Mei gave her a nudge. Bing raised her fist to the heavy wooden door and gave a firm knock.
An elderly man with the wispy beard and long gray gown of a scholar opened the door. Bing instantly recognized him.
“Uncle, I’ve come to look for Mama,” Bing told him. “Before she left for Chongqing, she instructed me to come to you if I needed to reach her. She said that you would know where to find her. Is Mama back in Suzhou?”
The old man stroked his beard. “Bing, it’s been five years since I last saw you. You were just a little girl. Now you’ve grown into a fine young lady,” he said gently. “But I don’t know where my niece is. The Japanese are in control here, and we can’t get letters from the interior. The last time I heard from her was two years ago. She was in Chongqing then. I pray to Buddha each day to look after her.”
Bing looked down to hide her disappointment. She had dared to imagine a happy reunion with her kindly Mama Hsu. Ah Mei touched Bing’s arm to comfort her. After all their planning, they’d hit a dead end.
The old uncle looked closely at Bing, then Ah Mei.
“You girls can stay here for a few days,” he said. “I’m sorry I cannot offer more than that. Life here has been difficult under the Japanese. If you wish to remain in Suzhou, I’ll help you find a place to stay and work, but that’s the best I can do.”
Bing nodded slowly. She would take her chances in Suzhou.
SHANGHAI, 1943
“Twinkle, twinkle, little star. How I wonder what you are…”
Annuo hesitated for a split second. Then she plowed on. Reciting her poem in English, she raised her voice so it would reach the far corners of the room full of students and teachers. As she spoke, she lifted her arms toward the sky, making the most of her moment to shine.
In Shanghai, many schools had traditionally begun teaching English in the third grade. Pétain Primary School, Annuo’s school for the past two years, was holding its last English contest before the school would have to switch to Japanese, under fiat of the occupation authorities. Annuo had a knack for English, with its strange conjugations and peculiar “he-she-it” constructions so foreign to Chinese. The quiet girl with the nom de guerre of “Chang Tsen”overcame her shyness to win the competition and a beautiful certificate that read CHANG TSEN: FIRST PLACE.
Eager to show Muma her award, Annuo ran home to 275C Avenue Pétain. With Muma still at work in her pharmaceutical sales job, Annuo proudly showed it off to her eleven-year-old brother, Charley. He looked up from the book he had borrowed from the corner stall and exclaimed,“Gee, that Chang Tsen is really something!” then went back to reading.
Annuo waited at the window, watching for her mother. The same nagging fears tugged at the girl: What if some cruel Japanese sentry detected Muma’s false identity papers? What if she didn’t come home?
Muma had drilled them many times to stay alert on their way to and from school and to avoid Japanese patrols. If Annuo was ever stopped, she was to bow and be cooperative—as Chang Tsen. Nor could they feel secure at home, where their location near the Japanese garrison and the frequent sound of heavy boots stomping by triggered a panicked reminder of their late-night inspections.
Finally her mother appeared in the walkway below. Annuo could hear her slow footsteps coming up the stairs. After Muma got comfortable in her big chair, Annuo pulled out the certificate from behind her back.
“What’s this? First place? Very good!” Muma looked up and gave Annuo a smile of approval. “Can you show us your first-place performance?” Muma called over Charley, Li-Ning, and their amah, Zhongying, to watch the show. But first, she glanced out the window to see if anyone was listening.
Annuo held her head high and began, pointing upward. At the end, her family applauded, and Annuo swelled with pride. For a moment, all thoughts of war had vanished.
* * *
—
ONE AFTERNOON IN THE EARLY months of 1944, when Annuo was already home from her fourth-grade class and the sky had turned to winter’s dusk, she heard a light knock on the door. She called over to Zhongying. Peeking at the unexpected caller, the amah let the strange man enter. His hair was unkempt and his clothes bedraggled. At first, Annuo just stared, thinking a beggar had come into their home. Suddenly, she wondered, Could this be my father?
At that same moment, the man growled, “Is this how you greet your baba?”
Annuo’s face burned. She had seen him only once, more than two years earlier, since he had left to join the resistance in Jiangsu in 1939. This time he had arrived just as he had the last time, with nothing but his ragged clothes.
Before Annuo could reply, five-year-old Li-Ning came bounding over, shouting in her high-pitched baby voice, “Baba, Baba, you’re home at last!”
Her father scooped up Li-Ning and held her tight. “Shhh, not so loud, my nai baozi, my cutie pie! We can’t let the neighbors hear.” Annuo slowly inched her way out of the room. Baba didn’t even notice that she had gone.
When Muma arrived home that evening, she was just as surprised to find her husband there as Annuo had been. She immediately warned them all to keep their voices low and act as though nothing had changed, especially near the landlord and neighbors.
“You’d better stay indoors and away from the windows,” she said, looking at her husband. “In these two years, life has become much more harsh. The Japanese have tightened their controls. Spies are everywhere—the Japanese and their puppets have created a list of every household. They’ve organized a neighborhood network of baojia snitches to spy on everyone. Even the foreigners have baojia captains. It’s more dangerous than ever.”
Japanese sentries check identity papers at major intersections and bridges, while creating a network of spies and watchdogs to monitor everyone in occupied Shanghai.
Under this baojia identification system, a number and card had been issued to every person in Shanghai. This ID card had to be carried at all times and produced on demand for any Japanese authority—on the streets, in restaurants, and in other public places. Ration coupons for rice, cooking oil, and other essentials were handed out only to those who registered, making it impossible to escape the baojia. Every neighborhood had its watchdog who reported to the puppets and their Japanese masters. Waiters and servants were ordered to spy on people in their establishments and households. Everyone, even foreigners, had to register births, deaths, overnight guests, and family members who were away. It was increasingly difficult to hide from the watchful eyes of the enemy.
By 1944, in Shanghai and elsewhere in occupied China, the enemy’s depleted war machine was bearing down on civilians more severely than ever to squeeze out critical resources. The Americans were making headway against Japan in the Pacific, but Chinese resistance efforts in Jiangsu Province, where Annuo’s father was based, had suffered serious losses to the enemy. To evade capture by Japanese soldiers and Chinese Communists, her father had once again had to weave his way through rice fields and small villages, looking
like any other refugee. In Shanghai, he could get reoutfitted. Once again, Annuo’s mother had to shop discreetly during her work rounds for the items he needed: clothes, eyeglasses, Parker pen, watch—Rolex preferred. This time it was much riskier, and goods were harder to come by.
With all the excitement surrounding her father’s homecoming, at first Annuo paid no attention to her scratchy throat. She had once been a healthy child, but during her months of living with strangers, she had become more fragile. When Annuo finally realized she felt sick, she said nothing, not wanting to disturb her father. No one noticed that she barely touched her food. Within the week, Annuo had a raging fever.
By then her mother knew that Annuo was quite ill, unable to swallow even a spoonful of broth. But Muma still kept her home, afraid that their identities would be compromised if she took her to a hospital. That could bring certain disaster from the Japanese Kempeitai—their fearsome military and secret police—and the puppet police at 76, all constantly on the hunt for Nationalists like her father. A trained physician, Annuo’s mother tried to treat her daughter while continuing to go to work to keep up appearances, leaving the girl in the care of her amah and father during the day.
But Annuo’s condition deteriorated. Her neck was swollen and painful, and she was struggling to breathe. Worried, her mother stopped at home in the middle of her workday to see how Annuo was doing.
Annuo’s father reported, “She’s good—she hasn’t made any noise all day.”
“What?” her mother asked in alarm. “It’s a bad sign if she’s that quiet!” She could no longer avoid taking Annuo to the hospital.
It was too dangerous for her parents to go. After bundling the sick girl for the cold ride in a pedicab, Muma took her to one of her husband’s sisters who lived in Shanghai and asked her to rush Annuo to St. Luke’s Hospital. She couldn’t even let the sister know where the family lived—better not to give the baojia snitches any information for 76.
