by Lisa See
*
In Dimtao, Uncle’s household included five children, an amah, and two servants, including Lui Ngan Fa, who helped with the younger children and did chores. They lived in Shue-ying’s old house. Though hardly the mansion of Fong See where Ngon Hung lived, the house boasted a big room for living, with two bedrooms flanking it. The sitting room had a wide shelf near the ceiling, used for storage. Each bedroom held two large beds built on wooden platforms. A loft had been added in one of the bedrooms for extra sleeping space for the children.
The courtyard, which housed a well with cool, fresh water, was small and cozy enough for a few people to sit and chat. Off the courtyard stood a half-open kitchen where, in a small alcove carved into the outside wall, a figure of the kitchen god watched over the family’s activities. At the beginning of the New Year’s celebrations, the kitchen god would be carried outside with a flurry of firecrackers set about its feet to be sent on its annual trip to make its report to the Emperor of Heaven on the behavior of the family during the past twelve months.
With Fong Yun usually away in the Gold Mountain, the family developed its own routine. Servants woke up the children, washed them, fed them. The younger children stayed at home during the day. The older boys—Kuen, Ho, and Haw—went to school, where they studied the teachings of Confucius, classical poetry, and the new ideals and ideas of the Republic.
People in the village treated Fong Yun’s family kindly, because he was the brother of Gold Mountain See. But although everyone in Dimtao was thankful for the charitable works of Fong See, not everyone was good. One of Fong See’s cousins was known as a bad man in the village. While the populace didn’t permit an opium house, this cousin always had an ample supply of opium that he bought from bandits and ruffians who lived in hidden camps in the distant hills. No one bothered to do anything about this crime, but then the bad cousin stepped beyond the boundaries of what was acceptable; he became an inside spy. Bandits offered to buy information from him about Gold Mountain See and his family. Since Fong See was away in America and the cousin couldn’t gain direct access to his family, which was safely protected in the mansion, he did the next best thing. He befriended Fong Yun’s wife. He did errands for Leong-shee, telling her how hard it must be to have her husband gone all the time. He played with the children, memorizing their names, faces, and ages: three older boys—Kuen, thirteen, Ho, twelve, and Haw, ten; a six-year-old girl, Choey Lau; and another baby boy, Duk, born on the third day of the second Chinese month of 1925, who was sick with pneumonia.
People in the village tried to warn Leong-shee, but she wouldn’t listen. On a night in late January 1927, twenty men—too many for Dimtao’s two guards to stop—clambered over the village’s protective walls and made their way to the home of Fong Yun. They chose the weakest spot in the compound’s brick exterior—the inset alcove where the wooden statue of the kitchen god held sway. Uncle’s family awakened to hammering and the sound of the kitchen wall giving way. Inside the main bedroom, Leong-shee and a servant cowered in fear. The bandits pushed their way past the women, calling out, “We are here for the sons of Fong Yun!” They overturned baskets and pushed aside the few pieces of furniture. Some pocketed small treasures they found. In the third room, the children darted back and forth, trying to escape the grasp of the foul-smelling men. The bandits knew they were to take three boys. “Leave the girl behind,” their leader ordered them in his crude dialect. “She is of no value to us.”
Ngan Fa, the servant girl who slept with Choey Lau, whispered to her charge to feign sleep. Her eyes shut tight, Choey Lau felt the rough hand of a man pinch her earlobes. Feeling her earrings, he said, “Not this one. She’s the girl.” Easily they grabbed Ho and Haw, but where was the third boy?
Kuen, the eldest son, had hidden under his wooden pallet and pulled an earthenware storage jar in front of him. He was completely concealed from view. As villagers came out into the alleyways to see what all the commotion was about, the kidnappers snatched up baby Duk, then quickly retraced their steps.
At first, no one tried to stop the bandits, then one man called out, “Stop, there!” But his neighbors chastised him. “Let them take the Fong sons. This family lives too well. They have too much. It is not right.” Even in his fright, Haw wondered, How can they be so jealous? My father, my uncle, they both took a chance. They went away. They had to work hard. Nobody gave anything to them.
Unhampered, the bandits swept through the dark alleys and out through the main entrance of the village. They traveled on foot for several hours. Ho and Haw scuttled along, afraid to complain, afraid to cry or plead for help if they fell. Ho, the elder of the two boys, whispered to his brother, “They don’t care. It is just a business with them. We must be careful.” On and on they went, running along the raised pathways between the rice paddies, stopping at an occasional village to demand hot tea, then slowly climbing the mountain of Sha Han. Finally they reached the bandits’ home village.
Baby Duk died within two days from the illness that had already weakened him. When his body arrived at Uncle’s doorstep, Leong-shee was overcome by grief. She could not let this happen to her other sons. A letter writer was sent for, and soon a missive was dispatched to make the long journey to Los Angeles, imploring Uncle to please come home and negotiate with the kidnappers. It was early February 1927.
Ho and Haw spent the next eight months with the kidnappers on the mountain of Sha Han. As far as they could tell, these men weren’t the only bad men of this village; everyone who lived here was a bandit. Although devoted to the crime of kidnapping, ransom payments hadn’t made this a town of wealthy men. The dwellings were little more than shacks, a far cry from the sturdy, tile-roofed brick buildings of the Pearl River delta. Behind several of the houses were pits. In other villages, these might have been used for refuse or the storage of vegetables and rice; here they held men kidnapped from their homes in the countryside. Older men were often held for months, their half-dead bodies returned to their families only after their ransoms had been paid.
Uncle’s sons saw that they were lucky to be just small boys. Chun Kuen, the leader of the bandits, took them into his own home. Ho and Haw became part of his family, doing chores, even receiving occasional demonstrations of affection. Still, they were careful never to oppose Chun Kuen. They learned never to say anything that could be taken as a complaint or a threat. They were valuable only as long as they were alive, but Chun Kuen didn’t like to be crossed. To risk that would mean to risk death. Sometimes the boys conspired to run away, but what could they do? They were small boys. They knew they were in the mountains, they knew they had crossed fields, but they could never have found their way home.
During the long months of their capture, the boys adapted to village live, even discarding their own Nam Hoi dialect to learn the dialect of the bandits. Some days were even fun, like the time they all camped out when the bandits traveled to their ancestors’ graves during the spring festival. But the reality of their situation was never far from them. Late in their stay, after their father and uncle had come back to China, mounted troops would ride up onto the mountain looking for the boys. But a bandit could not remain a bandit by being careless. “Come with us or we’ll kill you,” Chun Kuen would tell the children. By the time the troops arrived, the village would be deserted.
In early March of 1927, Fong Yun received word that two of his sons were being held hostage, and that Duk had died at the hands of the kidnappers. Although Yun needed to get to China as quickly as possible, the Immigration Service moved slowly and precisely. Witnesses needed to be called, affidavits signed. On March 15, Inspector J. C. Nardini wrote a letter to the U.S. Department of Labor asking that Fong Yun’s file be forwarded. A month later, on April 15, the interrogations began. At no time was the word kidnapping uttered. Fong Yun, whose sons had already spent ten weeks with the kidnappers, couldn’t take a chance on the inspector’s investigation bogging down with further complications.
Inspector Nardini had
interviewed Fong See as recently as a year ago, and had asked at that time if there had been any changes in his family, only to receive the response that his mother had died. Now Nardini took the opportunity to delve into Chinatown’s most persistent item of gossip: Fong See’s new marriage. As a result, Fong See received just one standard question—“State your name”—before Nardini began: “What is the name of your wife in China? When did you marry her? Have you any children by her?”
Fong See answered these queries, then added, “Jong Oy is an adopted daughter. She is my wife’s own child.”
“Who is the father of this daughter?”
“I don’t know,” Fong See responded.
“Give us the particulars of how you happened to get her.”
“She came with my wife.”
“Where did your wife get that girl?” Nardini wanted to know.
“She was born to her.”
“How old is your wife?”
“Twenty-three.”
“How old was your wife when you married her?”
“Twenty-two,” Fong See lied.
“And you claim then that she was the mother of a child by some other person?”
“Not my child,” Fong See stated.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Nardini flared. He riffled through the pages of Fong See’s last reentry transcript. “You said here that your youngest daughter was Jong Oy, five years old, and today you say she is your stepdaughter. How do you account for that? You said nothing about her being the daughter of your wife by a former marriage at all.”
If Mr. Nardini had thought that Fong See would cave in, he was vastly mistaken.
Fong See shrugged and said, “According to Chinese custom, she is my daughter.”
This answer momentarily stumped Nardini, who moved to the crux of the issue. “Were you in a position to marry this second woman as far as the law is concerned? Have you separated from your wife in such a way as would permit you to marry a second one?”
“We’ve been separated for years.”
“How were you separated? Through the courts?”
“It is not necessary.”
“You must answer my question!” Nardini snapped.
“There wasn’t any court action taken.”
The inspector sat back, nodded smugly to the stenographer, and said, “Then you are not legally divorced? How can you be married legally to another wife?”
“I wasn’t married legally to the first wife,” Fong See answered in his most superior tone.
“In what way were you married to the first wife?”
“We just lived together.”
“Your first wife was a white woman?”
“Yes.”
“Do you mean to tell me that a native of this country, a white woman, agreed to live with you without being married under state law?” the inspector asked, his voice dripping sarcasm.
“Yes.”
“And now you go on record as saying that you married a Chinese widow in China?” Nardini asked in disbelief.
“Yes.”
The inspector tried a new tack, questioning Fong See on the name change of his company. “My wife went away and I can’t help it,” said Fong See.
Finally, Nardini lost his temper. “What’s that got to do with it?”
“I changed the name so that my first wife could no longer claim an interest in my store,” the businessman responded.
Licked once again, Inspector Nardini wrote a favorable review to the district director of the U.S. Department of Labor Immigration Service. On May 31, 1927, Fong Yun received his return permit, and he set sail shortly thereafter. His sons had now been held captive for four months.
Fong Yun was a kind man who loved his family, but under the stress of the kidnapping, coupled with his failed business, he reverted to old Chinese ways, adopting the view that children were collateral against old age. Boys were born to take care of their parents. Yes, a first son was precious; fortunately the kidnappers had not taken Kuen. But the other boys—how much were they worth to Yun in dollars and cents? He knew he would have to confront his wife, who loved the children, but he couldn’t allow himself to be swayed by her. Women were nothing to care about. As girls, they were bought and sold, or often left to die after birth. Yun, with his heart firmly in the wrong place, decided to take a tough stance with his wife.
When Fong Yun finally arrived in Dimtao, negotiations between the kidnappers and intermediaries were at an impasse. Before joining the negotiations, Fong Yun tried to reason with his wife. “This is a time of bad famine,” he said. “If we lose Ho and Haw, we will still have Kuen and Choey Lau. We are still young, and you can have more children. Let the kidnappers have their way.”
Another village woman might have seen the practical wisdom in her husband’s words, but not Leong-shee. During her married life she had been alone much of the time. She had done all the disciplining of the children. She was independent and courageous, wise and compassionate.
“I want my children,” Leong-shee insisted.
“I can’t go to talk ransom,” Fong Yun declared. “I am a man. It would be too dangerous for me.”
“Then I will go.”
While her husband stayed in Dimtao, Leong-shee traveled alone to meet with the kidnappers, knowing that they wouldn’t hold her for ransom, for all females, even after the Republic, were useless and easily replaced. Sometimes she was gone for days. When she came home she pleaded with her husband to meet the bandits’ demands, but he insisted, “We have other children. This is famine time.” Then Fong Yun would try to assert his marital rights in the conjugal bed. At this, Leong-shee drew the line.
“I have no time for love. I have no time for sex. I don’t have any time for that. My children are in the hands of kidnappers!”
Night after night, Fong Yun listened to this reproach. He had been away from the family for so long. When he returned to Dimtao, he had expected to find a compliant wife, not this harridan. So Fong Yun did what he believed any normal man would do.
The servant girl, Lui Ngan Fa, had been bought by the Fong family when she was eight, had worked diligently, and had never asked for anything that might imply a desire for a high standard at living. She was always happy as long as she had enough food to eat and clothes to wear. She made the beds. She helped with the babies. She never argued with others in the household. She showed her respect for the family by never sitting down in their presence or eating in front of them. At nineteen, Ngan Fa was old enough to marry. Fong Yun had been on the lookout for a good husband for her, but now, barred from his wife’s attentions, he found himself attracted to this young woman. They lived in the same small house; they took care of each other when Leong-shee was away. Leong-shee felt she had no right to complain; she had done the same thing herself when her husband’s Number One wife was dying from her coughing disease.
By November of 1927, Leong-shee had negotiated a ransom of two thousand American dollars to be paid by Fong See. The boys were returned—dirty, a bit tattered, their hair long and unkempt. It would take them many months before they would forget the language of the bandits and once again speak the pure—to Leong-shee’s ears—sounds of the Nam Hoi dialect. Ultimately, the bandits came to a “no good end” and were captured and executed. The bad cousin stayed in Dimtao until he did another “bad trick” that finally turned the other villagers against him. For the next several years he languished in a Fatsan jail while the evidence was collected for his trial. Eventually he was found guilty and shot.
Fong Yun and Fong See decided that the risk of leaving the family in China was too great. Leong-shee and her family of four applied to the American Consulate General in Canton to accompany her husband to the United States. Fong Yun also asked that Ngan Fa, pregnant with her first child, also be allowed to enter the United States as a servant of Leong-shee. Ngon Hung, Fong See’s wife, and her six-month-old son, Ming Chuen, also applied for entry. Ngon Hung and Leong-shee were issued non-immigrant visas to ente
r the United States as the wives of lawfully domiciled treaty merchants.
On February 6, 1928, a year after the kidnapping, they all landed in San Pedro, where immigration officials were familiar with the Fong See name. Despite the rigid enforcement of the National Origins Act, Fong See had enough power to bring in his new wife, his brother’s wife, his brother’s concubine, and all but one child. Applications for Jong Oy continued to be denied. The little girl was, for the time being, left behind in China to live with Ngon Hung’s mother.
Once in Los Angeles, the two families moved into an American version of a traditional Chinese compound—carved out from the city’s first Department of Water and Power building—on Marchessault Street, adjacent to the Plaza and a half-block away from the Fong See On Company. The triangular, two-story brick building had a courtyard large enough to drive trucks into and unload goods, and there were several outbuildings.