Nanking, 12 November 1937 (the tenth day of the tenth month)
Shanghai fell last week. The enormity of this news is still sinking in. Our president’s best troops were defending the city: we outnumbered the Japanese marines ten to one, and yet somehow the city fell. The streets are said to be deserted, only the empty vomit and blister-gas canisters of the Japanese scattered in the gutters, dead zoo animals rotting on the floors of their cages. News comes that the Imperial Japanese Army is fanning out across the delta and now it seems that an assault on Nanking is inevitable. Ten divisions are pushing inland towards us: walking, riding motorbikes and armoured cars. I can imagine them, their army-issue puttees soaked to the brims with yellow river mud, certain that if they can only take Nanking, our nation’s great capital, they will have the giant’s heart in their fists.
But naturally it won’t happen. Our president will not allow harm to come to his city. And yet something has changed in the citizens, a wavering of faith. As I was walking home today after my morning class (only four students attended, what am I to make of that?), the fog that has been hanging over the city lifted and it became sunny, as if the sky had taken pity on Nanking. Yet I noticed that no laundry appeared on poles as it usually does at the first hint of sun. Then I noticed that the street sprinklers, the poor ragged coolies who clean our thoroughfares, hadn’t come through, and that people were scurrying from doorway to doorway, carrying more belongings than seemed necessary. It took me some time to realize what was happening and when I did my heart sank. People are fleeing. The city is closing down. I am ashamed to say that even some lecturers at the university were talking today about heading inland. Imagine that! Imagine such a lack of faith in our president. Imagine what he will think to see us fleeing his great city.
Shujin seems almost gleeful that Shanghai has been taken. It seems to prove everything she has always claimed about the Nationalists. She, too, has been caught up in the frenzy to desert the capital. When I returned home today I found her packing belongings into a chest. ‘There you are,’ she said. ‘I’ve been waiting. Now, please bring the cart from the courtyard.’
‘The cart?’
‘Yes! We’re leaving. We’re going back to Poyang.’ She folded a white swaddling cloth from her grandmother’s cui sheng parcel, and packed it into the chest. I noticed she had reserved the largest space for a tortoiseshell money case of my mother’s – a case I remembered to contain several I Ching passages, written in blood, and wrapped in cloth. My mother had put all her faith in those words, yet they had been unable to save her. ‘Oh, don’t look so anxious,’ said Shujin. ‘My almanac marks today as a perfectly auspicious day for travel.’
‘Now, look here, there’s no need to be hasty-’ I began.
‘Is there not?’ She rocked back on her heels and looked at me thoughtfully. ‘I think there is. Come with me.’ She got up and beckoned me to the window, opened it and pointed up to the Purple Mountain where Sun Yat-sen’s mausoleum sits. ‘There,’ she said. It was getting late and behind the mountain the moon was already showing, low and orange. ‘Zijin.’
‘What about it?’
‘Chongming, listen, please, my husband.’ Her voice became low and serious. ‘Last night I had a dream. I dreamed that Zijin was burning-’
‘Shujin,’ I began, ‘this is nonsense-’
‘No,’ she said fiercely. ‘It is not nonsense. It is real. In my dream Purple Mountain was burning. And when I saw it I knew. I knew instantly that disaster was going to strike Nanking -’
‘Shujin, please-’
‘A disaster the like of which no one has seen before, not even during the Christian rebellion.’
‘Really! Tell me, are you as wise as the blind men at festivals, boasting they’ve smeared their eyelids with – with – I don’t know, the fluid from a dog’s eye or such nonsense? A soothsayer? Let’s put an end to this rubbish now. You cannot, cannot predict the future.’
But she wasn’t to be shaken. She stood stiffly next to me, her eyes locked on Purple Mountain. ‘Yes, you can,’ she whispered. ‘You can predict the future. The future is an open window.’ She put her hand lightly on the shutters. ‘Just like this one. It is easy to look ahead because the future is the past. Everything in life revolves, and I have already seen exactly what will happen.’ She turned and looked at me with her yellow eyes, and for a moment it seemed she was staring steadily into my heart. ‘If we stay in Nanking we will die. You know it too. I can see it in your eyes – you know it very well. You know your precious president is too weak to save us. Nanking doesn’t stand a chance in his hands.’
‘I will not listen to another word,’ I said firmly. ‘I will not have the generalissimo spoken about like this. I forbid it. Absolutely forbid it. Chiang Kai-shek will save this city.’
‘That foreigner’s lapdog.’ She sniffed contemptuously. ‘First his own generals have to force him to fight and now he can’t even defeat the Japanese – the very same army that trained him!’
‘Enough!’ I was shaking with anger. ‘I have heard enough. Chiang Kai-shek will defend Nanking and we, yes, you and I, we will be here to see it.’ I took her by the wrist and led her back to the chest. ‘I’m your husband and you need to trust my judgement. Unpack this now. We’re going nowhere – certainly not back to Poyang. Poyang killed my mother and for once I am instructing you clearly, as befits a husband: you will put your faith in Chiang Kai-shek, the supreme arbiter, a man far greater, far stronger than all of your superstitions put together.’
Nanking, 16 November 1937
How I regret those words now. Now that I am here, alone in my study, the door locked, my ear pressed furtively to the radio, how I regret my proud stand. I am afraid to let Shujin hear the news the radio is delivering because she would crow with delight to hear today’s terrible report, so terrible that even I quake to write it down here. I will write it in small characters to make it easier to bear: Chiang Kai-shek and the Kuomintang government have fled the city, leaving it in the hands of General Tang Shengzhi.
Now I have written the appalling sentence what is there to do but stare at it, the blood rushing in my head. What shall I do? I can neither sit still, nor stand, nor think about anything else. Commander Chiang gone? General Tang in his place? Can we trust him? Am I to crawl to Shujin and tell her that I was wrong? Allow her to see me weakened in my resolve? I cannot. I cannot retreat. I am caught in a wretched web of my own making, but I must stand my ground, no matter how queasy it makes me. I will barricade the house and we shall wait out the arrival of the Imperial forces. Even if the unthinkable does happen, and our troops are defeated, I know the Japanese will treat us well. I visited Kyoto as a student and I speak the language well. They behave with infinite care and sophistication – one only has to study their deportment in the Russian war to know them as a civilized people. Shujin will be surprised to find that they even have things to teach us. We will prepare a sign in Japanese saying, ‘Welcome’, and we’ll be safe. Today I saw two families in an alley off the Hanzhong Road working on such a sign.
But as I write, as night falls on Nanking outside the walls of the house, as the city descends into perfect silence, with only the occasional distant shudder of a Nationalist tank prowling Zhongshan Road, my heart is like ice. It is all I can do not to go downstairs and confess my fears to Shujin.
She has hardened to me since I refused to return to Poyang. Daily I repeat my list of reasons for not fleeing, pretending not to know how hollow they sound: in the countryside there will be no medical care, no sophisticated methods for our child’s birth. I have tried to paint a picture of the disasters that would follow if we were stranded in the countryside, with only an old peasant woman to help Shujin in her confinement, but every time I say this she flies at me with fire in her eyes: ‘An old peasant woman? An old peasant woman? She would know better than your foreign doctors! Christians!’
And maybe I have worn her down, because she has lapsed into silence. She has spent most of today sitting limply in her chair, her hands folded on her stomach. I can’t help thinking about those hands, so small, so white. All day I was unable to stop staring at them. They must have drifted unconsciously to her stomach because she would never knowingly stroke her abdomen – she is certain that to do so would make the baby spoiled and demanding, the very words my mother used with me: ‘Really, I must have rubbed my stomach too often to produce such a proud and obstinate child.’
When I consider the possibility that our child could be obstinate, or arrogant, or selfish, or any other undesirable characteristic, I could weep. Proud and inflexible or spoiled and demanding – all these things depend on one thing: on our child having life in the first place. It all depends on Shujin surviving the inevitable attack on Nanking.