‘What they did to him!’ Hung corrected — his teeth clenched. This time, it was Hung who spoke too loudly.
Chin looked around before continuing in a whisper. ‘A lot of people have died. Good men. They died in the riots at Beijing University last August. They died before that in Tiananmen Square.’
‘My brother didn’t die in the riots,’ Hung replied.
‘I know, but…’ Chin tried to interrupt.
‘He died in the basement of some building in Beijing. I don’t even know which one. They never let us see the body. Now why do you think that is?’ His eyes rose to challenge Chin.
Chin wilted — his head waggling from side to side. ‘I know that, but the point is…’
‘Four days! They had him for four days! We know that much!’ There was agony written all over his face. In his mind, Chin knew, he imagined his brother’s end. They had been close — just a year apart. They were an oddity, and Hung had been proud of their uniqueness. Two children in one family was rare — especially two boys. Almost nobody had a second child after having a boy. Chin couldn’t count the number of times the words ‘my brother’ had slipped out of Hung’s mouth when recounting some boyhood adventure. Each time it had cast a pall over the conversation.
Chin’s mouth was dry, but he tried again. ‘I guess I mean to say that a lot of people have died. Think about the war. Just think about it.’ Chin’s throat was pinched closed with emotion. ‘But the war’s over. The riots are over. It’s time to go home.’ Hung snorted — like the college puke from before. But Chin wasn’t angered this time. ‘You did the right thing,’ Chin said. ‘You’ll be glad once you’re home and everything’s back to normal.’
The groaning brakes brought the bus to a stop. Everyone headed out into the cool day. There was a floating bridge across the broad, fast-moving river. ‘Remember the last time we saw the Amur?’ Chin asked excitedly. Hung walked with his hands jammed in his pockets. His chin was tucked to his chest, but his eyes were raised to the bridge. On the opposite side stood a small party of Chinese soldiers. Green army trucks were presumably their ride home. Four huge tents had been pitched at the small camp. ‘The river was frozen solid! Remember?’
The dirt road behind them was filled with buses. Hung said nothing as the Americans ushered them toward the bridge. A crowd of almost a thousand Chinese prisoners formed on the Russian bank. All faced south — toward China — with expectant looks. Few said anything at all. After several minutes, three men appeared on the far end of the bridge. They walked across the metal span shoulder-to-shoulder. As they approached, Chin could see they were European. They wore flight suits and one walked with a limp.
When the fliers were almost on shore, several American officers walked out onto the bridge. They wore dark sunglasses, blue caps and broad smiles. They shook hands and then hugged the returning men. It was a homecoming filled with great emotion and cheer. The returning prisoners were quickly escorted to waiting ambulances.
An ethnic Chinese soldier wearing the uniform of the U.S. Army said, ‘Go across the bridge!’ in stilted and almost monotone Cantonese. There were titters from the mass but they complied. Just before Chin’s and Hung’s turn came to cross, American soldiers blocked their way with rifles. The bridge was filled to capacity, Chin presumed, so they waited. Just ahead, a couple of hundred men slowly shuffled toward the far bank.
Hung kept craning his neck to look back. First at the departing American POWs. Then at the buses, which slowly pulled away. When their time finally came, Chin had to backhand Hung to get him moving.
The bridge swayed and sank with the weight of so many men. Across the river the group ahead had entered a tent. ‘Must be more medical check-ups,’ Chin said to the taciturn Hung. Chin chuckled. ‘Gonna stick fingers up our ass again is my bet.’
Hung didn’t seem amused by Chin’s attempt at humor. When they reached the south bank, they saw that their welcoming committee carried rifles. There were no hugs, or handshakes, or even greetings. They were simply herded into a tent filled with cloth partitions, which looked like a field hospital. The process seemed simple enough to Chin. Everyone was crowded into one end of the tent and taken — one by one — into the warren. There arose the clacking of typewriter keys. Hung was called by an armed soldier before Chin.
When Hung was gone, Chin squatted to wait. ‘Watch your ass,’ he heard out of nowhere. Chin turned to see a peasant man who had bunked next to him in the barracks.
Chin smiled on recognizing an acquaintance. ‘What did you say?’ he asked the man.
‘College shits think they rule the world,’ came the reply. Chin realized he was talking about Hung. He started to object, but the shout of an armed soldier called him away. Chin was ushered through the maze to a desk. A man sat behind a typewriter smoking a cigarette. He held out his hand to invite Chin to sit.
‘Name,’ the man asked — the cigarette bobbing. Chin answered. Rank. Place and date of birth. Army serial number. All the requisite information. Chin was cooperative and upbeat with his answers. He was eager to board a truck and head home. ‘Have you observed any anti-state behavior?’ the man asked in a bored tone. His fingers never left the keyboard. When Chin hesitated, the interviewer squinted and looked up through the rising smoke.
‘No! Chin burst out, then smiled. ‘All the men in my barracks were totally loyal Chinese soldiers.’
‘Everyone?’ the man asked — his fingers still poised. ‘What about the traitors who stayed with the Americans? Were they loyal Chinese soldiers like you?’
‘Well…no! Not them, of course.’ Chin’s eyes darted down to the man’s yellow fingertips. They hovered over the keys — still not satisfied.
‘Is that your answer?’ the man asked. Chin’s eyes rose. He could feel beads of sweat forming just beneath his hairline. He nodded.
The clacking keys made their marks on the paper. An official document filled with Chin’s vital records. Chin’s mouth was dry and he swallowed. That simple act drew the watchful eye of the interviewer. The man hesitated… then continued typing. When he was done, he pulled the sheet from the roller. He laid it in front of Chin and handed him a pen. ‘Sign that,’ he curtly directed.
Chin took the pen. ‘What is it?’ The man stared at him through narrow slits. His eyes rose to the trickle of sweat that ran down the side of Chin’s face. Chin lowered the pen to the paper. While he was signing, he stole glances at the document. It was a statement of some sort. A claim — sworn by Chin — that the deserters were enemy agents. That they’d been planted years before by the CIA. That they’d worked actively to sabotage the defense of their homeland. That they’d each been given one hundred U.S. dollars by the American government.
Chin laid the pen across the paper and stood. His armed escort took him to the opposite end of the tent. Chin breathed a sigh of relief. He saw Hung squatting off to the side and headed over.
Hung’s eyes caught Chin’s and he shook his head once. He looked away then as if they were strangers. Chin was instantly alert to danger. He felt a prickly fear spread across his skin. He squatted some distance away from Hung. The short hairs on his neck rose up. The men all now avoided eye contact. No one spoke. They were changed — ill at ease — not like before. Chin acted as anonymous as he possibly could. He knew several of the men right around him, but he dared not look their way.