Last Boat Out of Shanghai

by Helen Zia

  Just as Ho was beginning to lose hope, he saw that some of his fellow students were fighting against the gross unfairness. Campus activists stood on the steps of buildings, arguing that they should not be treated as though they had supported the Japanese enemy. Ho stopped to listen. They hadn’t joined the Wang Jingwei puppets in Nanjing or aided Pan Da’s puppet police at 76, the students asserted. Didn’t the accusers know that many students and teachers in Shanghai had been arrested and executed for their anti-Japanese resistance? Or that students across Shanghai had refused to study the Japanese language?

  The protests against the Nationalist sanctions spread like wildfire. Shanghai’s workers, too, called for relief from the years of hardship and repression. The students and workers combined forces in massive citywide demonstrations that seemed to explode with greater ferocity each day as the postwar unrest spread.

  Ho found himself pulled into the groundswell. He agreed with the protest organizers. After all, they had been children during the war. It was unfair and outrageous to condemn them as traitors and ruin their lives. It made sense to Ho that he should stand up for his own future and not depend on others to do that for him. When students in his dormitory asked if he would support them, Ho surprised himself by joining the protests in spite of rumors that some of the students were secret Communists. Ho didn’t care. He had to show everyone that he was a student, not a traitor.

  A massive mobilization called on all students to gather at the Shanghai North railway station, the major rail terminus in the former International Settlement. Ho fell in step with throngs of Jiao Tong schoolmates as they marched the five-mile distance. He, too, shouted, “Fair treatment for all students and teachers!” and “Punish the real traitors, not the ordinary people!” Along the way, the ranks swelled with men and women from other campuses: Shanghai University, Tongji, St. John’s, Fudan, Aurora, and the many other schools that were an important part of Shanghai’s intellectual life.

  As China’s postwar conditions continued to spin out of control, in 1946, Shanghai’s universities exploded in protests over multiple issues, including some of the protestors’ own legitimacy as students.

  Ho felt energized by the passion of the thousands of other students around him. Wide-eyed, he watched as articulate student leaders urged the others not to fight only for themselves but to rise up for fair treatment of all. Some called for the various political parties in China to end their antagonisms and to work together to rebuild China. Others denounced the returning Nationalist Party as corrupt. Some, angered by rumors that an American marine had raped a Beijing University student, demanded, “Foreign devils out of China!” and “Yankee, go home!”

  When the huge demonstration reached the North station, student protestors swarmed onto the tracks and blocked all trains from coming or going for hours. Hundreds of students took over an empty train, announcing their intent to commandeer the locomotive and drive it to the reestablished capital in Nanjing. But the students faltered when no one knew how to operate the engine.

  A group of Jiao Da engineering students came to the rescue, climbing aboard and taking control of the locomotive. One of the Jiao Tong students, whose father worked for the railroad, got the massive engine started. The train was on its way to Nanjing, with Jiao Da students at the helm. Ho didn’t go to Nanjing. The day had been full enough, and he returned to campus, proud of what his Jiao Da contingent had done. The day was also a first: Ho felt he had accomplished something significant, something larger than himself.

  When he told his family what he had done, they reacted as he had expected—with consternation. His mother worried that the Nationalist secret police might come to arrest him. His sister, Wanyu, said that he could be blacklisted as a troublemaker. His brother, Hosun, advised him to drop to the ground if he should hear gunshots.

  It came as a great relief to Ho when he was able to prove to his family that the students’ actions were a success: The Nationalist Ministry of Education decided that the “fake” students would receive full academic credit for their college records, provided that the students attended and passed the political ideology class. That was a condition Ho was willing to accept. The “fake students” had won a big victory, and Ho still might get to study abroad after all.

  * * *

  —

  NOT LONG AFTER HO graduated at the top of his department in the spring of 1946, he heard the news he had been waiting for: The Ministry of Education announced it would conduct national examinations and grant visas for study abroad to those with the best scores.

  Given that no visa exams had been administered during the war, the competition would be fierce, with potentially every college graduate from the last eight years eligible to take the new examination. In addition, the government now further required that high-scoring students be accepted by a foreign university before they could get a visa.

  Students who received visas would also be permitted to convert Chinese yuan into foreign currency for their tuition and expenses—but doing so would not be easy in the volatile economy. Foreign currency exchange was otherwise prohibited for Chinese like Ho, who had no connections. During the Japanese occupation, it had been impossible for ordinary people to get authorization to exchange Chinese money for foreign currency. Now in control, the Nationalist government created tight restrictions in an effort to stabilize the terrible inflationary pressure on Chinese currency. In 1940, a hundred yuan could buy a pig; in 1943, a chicken; in 1945, a fish, while in 1946, it would buy only an egg. By 1947, it couldn’t even fetch a pack of matches.

  Ho would need U.S. dollars to pay the tuition and fees, but he was discouraged to learn that the U.S. government also required foreign students to have money available to them in the United States for at least a year’s worth of expenses, including tuition. Ho needed a thousand dollars for the current year and another thousand to show he could cover the next year. That was a small fortune for Americans in 1947 and an astronomical amount for Chinese. Not only would Ho need a huge sum from his family, he would need it in U.S. dollars.

  To make sure there would be enough money, Ho’s mother had to collect rent from her tenant farmers in Changshu again. She’d waited months for safer travel routes to her Changshu home after the two million Japanese soldiers in China were disarmed and repatriated, along with another two million Japanese civilians who had worked in China. When Ho’s mother and sister, Wanyu, made their first visit back to Changshu, they found bullet holes and bomb craters pockmarking their walls and grounds. Fortunately, it was all reparable. Their longtime servants began returning, and their home soon became habitable again. However, with the Nationalist government still in transition to establish control, thieves roamed the area, and lawlessness posed a grave danger. Occasional skirmishes were also breaking out between Nationalists and Communists—with the latter agitating to uproot landlord families like the Chows.

  Ho worried for his mother’s and sister’s safety. He’d wanted to accompany them, but his mother felt it was more dangerous for a young man like Ho to travel when some army or gang was always on the prowl for conscripts or targets. Frustrated, the young engineer designed a simple mechanical alarm for his mother and sister to set up in their rooms as they slept. If an intruder entered, the device would set off a loud noise in a different part of the room. According to Ho, the noise would distract the intruder, allowing his sister and mother to escape. Luckily, Ho’s invention was never put to the test, but everyone rested easier.

  After his graduation, Ho went to work as an automotive lab researcher in the university’s engineering department. This allowed him to eat at the school canteen and sleep in the lab for free. He found another job with Shanghai Public Utilities Commission studying the flow of the Huangpu River. With two jobs, Ho could save money for graduate school, but he had precious little time to prepare for the national examination.

  Like generations of Chinese who had taken the imp
erial civil service exams for more than a thousand years, Ho began a rigorous review schedule to spend every available moment preparing for the big test. He simply had to do well.

  A few days after the test, the results were published in the newspapers on full-page broadsheets listing each student’s name and numerical rank on the test. Ho scanned for his name. He was not among the very top students who would receive full scholarships from the government. Ho wasn’t surprised, for his English and Chinese language skills weren’t strong enough to place him at the top. Finally, he found his name—with a score that would qualify him for a visa and foreign exchange so he could study in America.

  Jubilant, Ho celebrated the good news with his family. A degree from America would bring honor, status, and rewards to the family. On December 4, 1946, Ho, by then twenty-two, received his official notification letter from the Ministry of Education in Nanjing:

  TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN:

  THIS IS TO CERTIFY THAT MR. CHOW HO [SIC] HAS PASSED THE GOVERNMENT EXAMINATION FOR STUDENTS GOING ABROAD AT THEIR OWN EXPENSE AND IS QUALIFIED TO ENTER THE GRADUATE SCHOOL OF A UNIVERSITY IN ANY FOREIGN COUNTRY.

  As he read the letter, Ho’s face broke into a rare grin. Soon he’d be on his way. He just knew it.

  SUZHOU, 1945

  Deeply disappointed that she had failed to find any sign of Mama Hsu after running away to Suzhou, Bing had figured that there was no point in returning to Shanghai. The food crisis there wouldn’t have improved, and Ma was certain to be even more unhappy and irritable with them, the two adopted girls both agreed. They decided to accept the offer from Mama Hsu’s uncle to help them find work and a place to live in Suzhou.

  Uncle, in turn, enlisted his daughter to check around for possible jobs at the big Suzhou Customs Office where she worked. The Japanese occupation had taken over the office at the start of the war, and Uncle’s daughter learned of a Japanese coworker who was looking for a maid. The coworker hired Ah Mei. Then a Chinese couple at the customs bureau wanted someone to care for their three small children while they were at work. They offered Bing room and board—there’d be no pay but no dreaded corn mush either. Bing agreed. At least she’d have Ah Mei nearby.

  By mid-1945, the girls had been in Suzhou for about a year. The days had passed quickly, each much like the one before. Bing didn’t care; she was biding her time, waiting for Mama Hsu to return. Even at age sixteen, Bing believed that the kind Suzhou woman would want her back. If for some reason that wasn’t to be, then perhaps her return would lead to Baba and her birth family. Maybe they would want her. Bing didn’t expect much for herself, but still she couldn’t extinguish the small pilot light in her heart. For now, she had a place to stay, and she loved taking care of small children—she showered them with the affection she had never received, and they gave it right back. That was enough.

  In August, when the steam of summer heat could be seen rising from the city’s canals, news of the coming Japanese surrender erupted. People burst out of their curfew-shuttered homes, rejoicing in the narrow lanes. Bing could hardly believe it. Yet it had to be true when everyone working at the Japanese-run customs office, including the couple she lived with, was abuzz over rumors that they would all be fired or even arrested for working with the Japanese.

  Ah Mei’s Japanese employers flew into a panic, prompting her to consider returning to Shanghai. She asked Bing if she’d join her. But with the war over, Bing felt that her Suzhou mother would surely return and she’d finally get answers to her gnawing questions. Though Bing was sorry to see her friend leave, she decided to stay put in Suzhou. And wait.

  * * *

  —

  IN EARLY 1946, a few months after the Japanese surrender, Bing answered a knock on the door of the apartment where she was living. She was shocked to see Ah Mei—with Elder Sister and her building’s gatekeeper. They had taken the train from Shanghai that morning.

  “Bing! I’ve been looking all over for you,” Elder Sister said, her deep voice reverberating. Bing had forgotten how loud Elder Sister could be. In rapid-fire Shanghai dialect, she told Bing that she had been searching for the two girls ever since they ran away nearly two years before. She had enlisted the building’s gatekeeper and others to help her find the girls but had had no luck. Then, after the Japanese surrender, the gatekeeper spotted Ah Mei on the street. Elder Sister found where she was staying and asked her to come back.

  After Ah Mei’s return, Elder Sister asked about Bing. At first, Ah Mei professed ignorance, knowing that Bing wished to stay in Suzhou. But Elder Sister persisted and gradually convinced Ah Mei that she was sincere in her concern for Bing. Once the railway line to Suzhou was safe to travel, Elder Sister asked Ah Mei to take her to Bing, bringing the gatekeeper along in case they ran into trouble with maverick soldiers or other ruffians.

  “Bing, please come back to Shanghai with us,” Elder Sister entreated. “We all miss you. Ole misses you. He calls out your name. Ma misses you. Kristian too. We all want you to come back.”

  Bing was too surprised to speak. She stared at Elder Sister, as dazzling as ever with her red lipstick and Western hairdo. Although the women of Suzhou were renowned for their beauty, they were more modest in appearance. Elder Sister was the epitome of her city: stylish, outspoken, and brash as only a Shanghai woman could be.

  Bing quizzed Ah Mei. “Ma isn’t mad? She really misses me?”

  “It’s true, Bing. Things are better now,” Ah Mei offered. “Kristian has a good job—there’s real food again. Ma is calmer. Ole is going to school, and Peter can walk and talk now!”

  Bing stared down at the floor, thinking hard. She’d been in Suzhou for nearly two years. In that time, she had kept checking with the elderly uncle for any contact from Mama Hsu. Not one word had come through. Could Mama Hsu be dead, one of the many thousands killed in the Japanese bombings of Chongqing? If Mama Hsu never returned to Suzhou, what then? On the other hand, Elder Sister really seemed to want her to come back. Unaccustomed to feeling wanted, Bing hesitated. Then she squared her shoulders and said, “Yes. I’ll go back with you.”

  * * *

  —

  ON THE TRAIN BACK to Shanghai, Bing watched villages and farms whiz by vast spaces of blackened rubble and stark wasteland. The last time she had traveled this route with Ah Mei, they’d been fourteen-year-old runaways. How naïve Bing had been to think she would knock on Uncle’s door and find Mama Hsu waiting to welcome her and resume her schooling. Now she might never see Mama Hsu again. And she’d lose her only link to her father. But even if she found them, maybe they would reject her—again. And what about Ma in Shanghai? Bing dreaded the tongue-lashing that Ma would surely mete out. Tears of uncertainty, sadness, and regret began to run down her cheeks.

  To comfort Bing, Elder Sister spoke in her most soothing voice: She hadn’t been able to search for Bing in Suzhou sooner because hundreds of American bombers had been flying over Shanghai, destroying roads, bridges, and rails, until the Japanese surrender. Life in Shanghai had improved: Curfews and barricades were gone, and American soldiers were now keeping the peace. American GIs were everywhere, with lots of greenbacks to spend. “And so you must be careful,” Elder Sister advised. “You’ve grown into a pretty girl, and soldiers want only one thing, no matter what uniform they wear.” Bing recognized the same warnings that Ma used to give Elder Sister and her girlfriends so many years before.

  Ah Mei told Bing how the American, British, and other European civilians had been released from the internment camps scattered around the Shanghai area.

  “They came back looking so thin and hollow, with tattered rags loose on their bones. Can you imagine foreigners looking like beggars? Many have no homes because the Japanese and their puppets took everything. The Nationalists are back, and everything’s getting shaken up again like a fortune teller’s sticks.” Ah Mei described how all Japanese civilians were being deported to Japan, even decent ones
like the two ladies who ran the restaurant next door on Avenue Joffre. “Now it’s the puppets’ turn to go to prison, especially the murderous thugs at 76. They deserve the firing squad!”

  Elder Sister added some good news: Her husband had a big job at Texaco, an American oil company—and got paid in U.S. dollars.

  When they reached the familiar apartment on Avenue Joffre, Bing glanced around cautiously, absorbing the changes. The building’s simple lines and gray brick seemed brighter than before, without the wartime soot and grime that had coated everything. The marble lobby glistened, though the walls still had gaping holes once occupied by heating pipes and radiators, before the Japanese had scavenged them. But the bronze trim in the elevator had regained the sheen lost to the grim war years.

  Bing instantly noticed that the apartment seemed roomier. The tenant from Fujian and his girlfriend were moving out, furniture had been pushed back to make more open space, and the blackout curtains were gone. Before Bing could look further, six-year-old Ole ran over to embrace her. How he’d grown while she was in Suzhou! Meanwhile, Peter stood by his father, watching shyly.

  Kristian smiled broadly. “Welcome home, Bing. Son, say hello to Bing.”

  Without taking his eyes off her, the little boy squeaked, “Ni hao?” Bing laughed in delight to hear the Eurasian child speak Chinese in his baby voice. Seeing his older brother, Ole, wrapping his arms around Bing’s waist, Peter rushed over and hugged her leg. Bing glowed from their affection. Then she looked up and saw Ma. Bing braced herself.