“How do you mean?”
“Without my old home anymore, I can go anywhere I want to and live a different life.”
I’d heard her say that before, so I shifted the subject a little. “I admire your devotion to our people. You’ve become one of us.”
“Not really. I belong to myself only.”
“But you’re a Chinese citizen, aren’t you?”
“Citizenship is just a piece of paper. I belong neither to China nor to America. Like I said, I’m on my own.”
“Still, you’ve been helping us in our cause.”
“That’s because I believe it’s the right thing to do. I’ve followed only my heart.”
“Come on, Holly, you’re living a hard life, and so is your friend Siuchin. You cannot say you two haven’t made sacrifices for this country.”
“We’ve been doing the work only because we believe it’s worth our effort. One doesn’t have to love a country to do what’s right.”
“So you like this kind of life and will live as a widow forever?”
She laughed. “I know what it was like to live with a man I loved. It’s enough to love once in a lifetime.”
“You still miss your husband?”
“Yes, I do. My husband, Harry, was a poet, although he didn’t publish many poems. He was a good man and we enjoyed each other so much that we’d like to be a couple again if we meet after this life.”
I chuckled, amused by that quaint notion, as if she were a Buddhist. “So after he died you never found a better man?”
“No. I dated a few, but they were nothing compared to Harry. So my heart gradually shut itself to men.”
“How about your friend Siuchin? Doesn’t she want to marry and have a family? She’s still so young.”
“Her late fiancé must’ve been a splendid fellow or she wouldn’t live this way.”
“You told me about her loss.” I knew Siuchin’s fiancé had been an officer, killed in battle by the Japanese.
“She’s often said she would’ve been happy to die for him. She loved him that much. I urged her to settle down somewhere, but she likes wandering around and doing mission work. She feels safer this way.”
Siuchin stepped in and announced that it was time for lunch. She had asked the cook to prepare a pork dish, which we should eat before lunchtime; otherwise we might make others crave meat and cause trouble for the kitchen. I followed them out to the shed that served as a dining room.
A small basin of rice and two dishes — one of sautéed tofu mixed with scallions and baby bok choy and the other of pork cubes stewed with pole beans — sat on a makeshift table constructed of two naked boards nailed onto the tops of six short wooden poles. The pork tasted so-so, but I liked the tofu dish and put some of it on my rice and mixed it with chopsticks. Holly used a spoon instead, chewing the meat with relish. I could see that this was a treat for her and Siuchin.
The air smelled of cow dung and freshly sickled grass. In the distance a pond spread beyond rice paddies, dotted with a couple of white geese. As we were eating and chatting, a knot of children appeared, all skin and bones, watching us with hunger-sharpened eyes. Yet none of the kids made a peep or stepped closer. A girl, six or seven years old, with one bare foot on top of the other, opened her mouth halfway, saliva dripping from its corner. As I wondered if I should give them some food, Holly and Siuchin glanced at each other. Then the young woman stood and turned to the five children, saying, “You all go get bowls and chopsticks, and come back in a few minutes. We’ll leave you some. But everybody must promise that you won’t fight over the food, all right?”
They nodded and raced away. Hurriedly we finished the rice in our bowls and left the benches. Siuchin covered the rest of the rice with a towel and the dishes with a bamboo basket to shield them from the bluebottles droning around. A few of the flies, stripped of their wings, were crawling about on the table. Holly told the cook to keep an eye on the food for the children. “Fine,” the man said. “What can I say if you mean to spoil them again?”
“Make sure they share everything.”
“I will.” The cook’s palm was cupped behind his ear as he spoke; he appeared to be slightly hard of hearing.
Holly and Siuchin would have to work in the afternoon as some refugees had just arrived from Anhui, so I stayed another hour and then headed back to the train station. It had begun sprinkling, fat raindrops spattering on treetops, roofs, and my striped umbrella. All the way home, I pondered the two women’s lives. I admired them but couldn’t say that their way of living was better than mine or Minnie’s. Even if we had wanted to live like they did, we were no longer free to do so. In Minnie’s case, on her shoulders was the responsibility for those underprivileged women and girls at Jinling, who viewed her as their protector.
42
THE SUMMER MOVED ON almost uneventfully until early July, when a letter arrived from Luoyang. It contained a handwritten note and a newspaper clipping that had my son’s snapshot on it. The title of the brief article announced: “Traitor Killed by the Partisans.” I read the contents while my heart began thumping so violently that I had to sit down. The article stated that Haowen had been murdered outside a theater in that city. “We are glad that another traitor got his comeuppance,” the author declared.
Liya read out the note, written in pencil, which said: “Aunt Gao, your son, Haowen, was killed. He was a good man and they stabbed him when he went out to see a civilian patient in the suburbs. This was probably because a Chinese colonel, a POW, had died in his care. Haowen really did his best for the man, but he had been wounded fatally in the stomach. I am very sorry about your loss.” Strangely, the sender of the letter hadn’t signed his name, but the fluid handwriting indicated that he must be Chinese, probably a comrade of Haowen’s who also served in the Japanese army and therefore was afraid to identify himself.
Both Liya and I burst out weeping. This scared Fanfan, who started bawling too. Liya held him up, her hand covering his mouth. “Don’t cry, don’t cry, Fanfan. Mom has goodies for you,” she said, and took him to the sitting room. When she threw him a half-empty pack of toffee, he stopped blubbering.
Our world was turned upside down, but we dared not make too much noise. We locked the doors and closed the window curtains. Then Liya and I collapsed on the bed, sobbing our hearts out. Our heads touched each other and our hair mingled, wet with tears. “Mom, why did this happen to us? Why?” she went on wailing.
Similar questions were rising in my mind as well, but I was too distraught to say anything coherent. By instinct we knew we must not let our neighbors hear us, so we continued weeping in a subdued way, muffling our voices with our palms.
It would be hard for Liya and me to conceal our grief. I already felt half dead and might not be able to go to work the following day. What should we tell others about the death in our family? We could not say that Haowen had been assassinated by the partisans. That would amount to admitting that he’d been a traitor and deserved the punishment. But wasn’t his death already known to lots of people? True, yet it might be known only in Henan Province. Here no one but Minnie knew he had been a doctor in the Japanese army. We might be able to guard the secret of his identity, even if others saw us mourn his death. Liya and I decided to tell people that Haowen had been killed by the Japanese on his way back to China. It was a lie, but it might protect us and also keep his name clean.
We wouldn’t be able to do anything about bringing Haowen’s body home, and would have to leave him somewhere like a nameless ghost wandering in the wilderness. The Japanese didn’t ship their dead soldiers back to Japan. At most they would cut off a finger from a body, burn it with other dead men’s fingers, and then send a bit of the ash to each family. The thought of my son’s body not being interred properly suddenly seized my heart with a piercing pang, and I cried again.