Jing’s face darkens and he stares at me coldly.
“You may have played your games with my affection,” he says. “But your body is tainted now. No one will marry a girl who’s no longer a virgin. I’m the only man in this whole world who loves you, and I’m ready to take the woman who was defiled by my best friend! There’s no other choice for either of us.”
Min too said that my body belonged to him. As my eyes well up I blurt out: “There is someone else who loves me, and I’ve only just realized that I loved him without knowing it. He’s waiting for me in the town of A Thousand Winds.”
“Liar! Who is he? Where’s he from? Come on, if it’s true, tell me.”
I realize that I don’t even know his name. I know nothing about him except his soul. Seeing my hesitation, Jing calms down a little and takes me in his arms. I slap him, but he manages to kiss my forehead.
“Come with me,” he says, “don’t be a child. We’ll start a new life in Nanking.”
90
Clouds of flies hover in the air.
On the plain the shells have carved deep craters, the fields have been ravaged and bodies are everywhere. Those that still have their waxy faces lie with their mouths open. Others are just piles of mangled flesh hard to make out from the soil.
As our unit slowly crosses this vast cemetery, I realize that some of our soldiers, having fallen into an enemy trap, fought to the last man. In the sun I feel nauseated, and at that moment I understand that our fight against the terrorists in Manchuria was just a game of hide-and-seek. Only now does the enormity and horror of eagerly anticipated war make itself plain.
In the middle of a deserted village we are caught in a storm of explosions. I throw myself to the ground as the bullets rain down onto earth whitened by weeks of drought. After a brief exchange of fire, we conclude that the unit attacking us consists of just a few diehards who have stayed behind to hamper our progress. The bugle sounds the attack, and the Chinese scatter like rabbits in a shooting match. I aim at the fastest man, just as he is about to reach the edge of the woods. He crumples at the foot of a tree.
At midday a second violent attack; the Chinese are so drunk with despair that they have become ferocious. I lie full-length on a slope with the burning sun on my back, and I catch a waft of a sweet smell that reminds me of the girl who played go. In front of me a soldier hit in the back rolls on the ground screaming. I recognize him as one of my men-we have just celebrated his nineteenth birthday.
I wanted to bury the boy after the battle, but the order to march on is given and I must leave him to the attentions of the next regiment. Inequality continues beyond the grave. The luckiest are burned on the battlefield, while others are thrown into a ditch. But the most unfortunate are gathered up by the Chinese, who cut off their heads and parade them on stakes.
This first day of warfare feels like a long dream. Nothing touches me, neither the atrocities of the fighting, nor the exhausting march, nor the deaths of my soldiers. I wander through a padded world where life and death are equally meaningless. For the first time the military adventure has failed to inspire me: we go to our fates just as salmon struggle back upstream-there is no beauty or grandeur in it.
That evening the medical officer notices that I am sullen and withdrawn and he diagnoses sunstroke. I let my men wrap my head in a cool, damp towel and lie down on a bale of straw, staring at the dark ceiling of the cottage appropriated as my quarters for the night. I am disgusted with myself.
We are woken by whistling and explosions in the early morning. We respond with grenades, before both sides man the machine guns. In this cacophony we suddenly recognize the bugle sounding the attack.
The division attacking us is Japanese, a mistake that costs us several lives.
91
A campfire crackling, Jing dozes fitfully, and all around me hundreds of other refugees are sleeping. We are like herds of deer fleeing a drought, we are thin and sick, our sleep as heavy as our bundles.
I take a pair of scissors from my bag and cut my hair as short as the strength in my arms permits. I tie my two plaits together with a ribbon and lay them next to Jing, then I climb over ten sleeping bodies and disappear into the night.
In a wood I take off my dress and slip on the clothes I have stolen from Jing. Behind the trees the dawn casts its pale light over the Peking plain. I walk in the direction opposite the flow of the refugees who have been on the move since daybreak. The women, weighed down by their bundles, drag a child with one hand and a goat with the other. From time to time the unmistakable cry of a newborn rings out. There are men carrying an elderly parent on their backs; luckier ones draw the old folks in a rickshaw. A woman who seems to be a hundred clutches a chicken in her arms as she teeters forwards on her bound feet.
My heart has been torn by a succession of such scenes ever since we fled Peking. I don’t regret following Jing into this upheaval; thanks to him, I have witnessed the strength of our people driven from their own land. The tenacious march south is like a silent protest against death. In this tidal wave of men and women a hatred mingles with hope. And this furious force of will that has infected me too will carry me to the very end of my own lonely progress.
I am like them-I want life. I want to go back to Manchuria, to find my house and my go table. I will return to the Square of a Thousand Winds and wait for my Stranger. I know he will come… one afternoon… as he did that first time.
At midday I sit under a tree by the side of the road eating a three-day-old piece of bread one crumb at a time. The silent column advances steadily past, indifferent to the droning of the airplanes and the distant explosions.
Within that human river the first Chinese soldiers appear. In their blood-splattered uniforms, their faces darkened with smoke, they remind me of the soldiers who invaded our house in 1931 after fleeing the Japanese: their eyes betray their exhaustion and the peculiar coldness of those who have left their fellows to the slaughter.
“ Peking has fallen! Hurry up, we must flee.”
“The Japanese are coming! The demons are coming!”
Amid an eruption of screaming and crying, I catch sight of Jing running with his halting limp against the flow of the refugees, and I hide behind a tree. He passes a stone’s throw from me and I hear him asking a woman whether she has seen a pale young girl with her hair cut short and dressed as a boy. His voice cracks and, holding my plaits in his hand, he spits on the ground and curses me as he calls my name.
His words cut through me but still I hide: “How could you make me suffer like this, I have been to hell and back already!”
Eventually he moves away.
An airplane that has been circling overhead for some time drops one bomb, and then another. The explosions knock me to the ground. When I come to, people are running in every direction like ants from a campfire.
When I get up I notice that my arm is bleeding. The roar of the engines in the sky grows louder and louder: more planes are coming! I take cover in a nearby field.
The Japanese bomb the road. I wander through the fields not knowing where to hide, my head is spinning and my injured arm dangles heavily by my side. When am I going to wake up from this nightmare?