by Iris Yang
Birch was staggered by what he saw. “What the hell is wrong with Du Ting?” he said, talking to himself. A cigarette dangled between his long fingers.
Chen Bin, an engineer, raised his shoulder in a shrug. “The truth is, he’s scared.” His bloodshot eyes looked empty. His once boyish face had aged too fast in recent years.
“About what?”
“His wife.”
“She was left behind, I know. But no reason to worry. She’s never worked—”
“She’s related to a Nationalist. That’s enough to get her in trouble.”
Birch shook his head, unconvinced or unwilling to believe.
“Oh, hell… You don’t know what happened to Meng Hu, do you?”
“I tried to convince him to leave, but Wang Hong was pregnant again. They didn’t want to take the chance.” The couple had had a miscarriage once. Birch had invited them to visit Yunnan afterward. Three weeks in the serene mountains had helped Wang Hong to heal. “I haven’t heard anything since we left. I don’t even know whether they have a boy or a girl.”
Chen Bin took another sip of his wine. “Wang Hong is no longer a nurse. She was fired,” he said in an oddly disconnected voice. “Meng Hu was put in jail.”
“No!”
“Yeah, he’d fought the Japs for eight years and lived through their bullets...” Chen Bin choked out a raspy laugh. Tilting his head back, he emptied the rest of the wine down his throat. “…only to end up in jail…and he died in peacetime!” His hand started to shake as though the glass had suddenly become too heavy.
Birch opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He was dumbstruck, as if an iron hand clamped round his neck. “Are you sure?” Feeling suffocated, he reached up to adjust his tie. “Is the information accurate?”
Without looking up, Chen Bin dropped his head. All his attention seemed to be fixed on the bottom of the empty wine glass.
“Why?”
“He’d worked in the Air Force, that’s why.”
“So many people worked for the old government. They can’t kill all of them.”
“No, but they have to eliminate ones like Meng Hu.” Chen Bin paused to catch his breath. “Haven’t you heard their policy?”
“‘Lenient treatment to those who confess frankly. Severe punishment to those who remain stubborn.’ Right?”
“Yes. Well, he refused to confess or admit he’d done anything wrong. He didn’t point the finger at others. So they beat him…for days.”
The words landed like another blow. Birch felt a deep sadness for his friend.
Chen Bin slammed the glass down on the table. “How stupid was he?” He uttered a string of profanities, but tears sprang to his eyes. “Many people made false confessions. Why couldn’t he just say something they wanted to hear? Why was it so hard to lie?”
Birch understood. Meng Hu was a Tiger. He would rather die than bend under pressure. Certainly he wouldn’t hurt someone else to save his own skin.
“I still can’t believe he’s gone. He was so strong.” Looking at Birch, Chen Bin pleaded for an answer.
Birch shook his head. Bile rose in his throat, cutting off his words. Meng Hu had fought the Japs like a fierce Tiger. He had two medals to prove it. And Wang Hong was such a kind nurse. They were his colleagues and his friends. He was supposed to be their child’s godfather. At that thought, he asked in a hurry, “Did they have a boy or a girl?”
“No idea,” said Chen Bin.
A great emptiness opened inside Birch. He was so dazed that he forgot about the cigarette in his hand until it burned down to his fingers. From that moment on, nothing cheered him. The music was too loud; the laughter sounded too harsh; the flashing light hurt his eyes. Through a cloud of smoke, he squinted at the women dressed in formal gowns and the men in suits and ties.
Is this what we fought for? He’d been taught from the time he could crawl that the highest duty was to defend his country. Jing zhong bao guo—Serve the country with the utmost loyalty had been drilled into his head. Peace was what they’d struggled to gain; freedom was what they’d fought so hard to keep.
Yet, these cheerful partygoers were blurred by the gray smoke and dissolved into all the sad events of his life—Daisy’s panicked eyes, Jasmine’s bloody cheek, Danny’s bullet-riddled body thrown in an unmarked grave, his mother’s stiff corpse, his uncle and aunt with knife wounds on their chests, the herbalist’s yard piled with twisted bodies, Wang Hong’s pain-filled gaze, and Meng Hu’s muscular figure covered with bruises. Birch blinked a few times to clear the images from his mind. He dropped his head forward, battling dark thoughts.
What if Dad and I had stayed in Yunnan? The question sent fresh chills down his spine. They might have been imprisoned or killed. Meng Hu’s fate would have been their fate as well.
Birch thought about Captain Zhang and Mr. Ding, the two communists he’d lived with in prison for seven weeks. Is this what they wanted? A country divided by deep hatred? If they’d survived, would they treat me the same way the other communists treated Meng Hu? The possibility shook him to the core. We fought the same enemy. We were comrades and friends.
A headache was building behind his eyes, and Birch used it as an excuse to leave the clubhouse. He was in such a hurry that he bumped into a waiter, splashing red wine on his tailor-made suit and tie. He stumbled outside and gulped fresh air.
Chapter 41
A light rain was falling, and the night sky was as black as death. The street was nearly deserted and vertical neon lights in Chinese characters pulsed in the darkness.
Birch pinched the bridge of his nose to stem the headache that had settled behind his eyes. Leaning heavily on his cane, he patted his pockets, searching for the cigarette, and realized he’d left the pack on the table. I’m not going back in there. No way.
The air was chilly. A gust of cold wind set off another round of shivers within him. Better get going, keep moving. Kill this pain.
With leaden steps he plodded toward his car several blocks away. Horrible images of his friend being beaten to death invaded his mind. His head bowed between hunched shoulders, and a deep stab of loneliness struck him. In the empty street, his lonely figure looked lost and forlorn.
At an intersection, he heard noises that sounded like a beating and moaning. At first he thought he was imagining it, that he was visualizing Meng Hu’s torment. Shaking his head, he tried to clear the sights and sounds, but then he realized it was real.
The noises were coming from a narrow alleyway off to his right. In the dim light, he saw three figures punching and kicking someone that lay upon the ground. Groans of pain and shouts of irritation assaulted his senses. He was so angry that without so much as a blink, he yelled, “Stop! Stop!” and started toward them.
I really shouldn’t be doing this. The dark alley looked eerie and forbidding. He had no idea who they were and why they were there. Street punks and gangs fought all the time. Although Birch was strong and well-exercised, he could no longer fight as he had once fought. With a prosthetic leg, the odds of winning a match against three men were slim.
Yet, in the heat of the moment, images of Meng Hu’s bloody body propelled him forward. Meng Hu wouldn’t be dead if someone had stood up for him. Birch couldn’t save his friends. Not Meng Hu. Not Danny. But maybe he could help this poor guy.
He ran as quickly as his artificial leg permitted. Rage surged through his usually calm facade as he bore down on the gang. His cane thumped furiously on the ground, and the loud noise reverberated in the narrow pathway. The light from the main street shone behind him, outlining his frame, and casting a long shadow in the alleyway.
“Stop!” he shouted again. His deep roar barged into the darkness, and his warning tone carried effect. In the dim light he could see that they were street urchins, dirty and young. Affronted by his boldness, the teenage boys dashed down the alley.
“Punks!” Birch muttered a curse before moving toward the figure on the ground. “Are you okay? Do you need a doc
tor?”
The man groaned faintly. He lay curled up for a moment before waving his hand. “I’m all right.” He struggled to push himself off the ground, but fell in a heap.
Birch extended a hand and pulled him to his feet.
“Thank you.”
His familiar voice startled Birch. “Are you…?”
The man had a hollow, unshaved face, and was as thin as a reed. His collarbones bulged through his filthy, patched clothing. Except for his distinctive northern accent, he bore no resemblance to the young, brawny captain that Birch remembered.
“Wu Pan?” asked Birch. He could hear the doubt in his own voice.
“Birch! I can’t believe this.”
“It is you. What has happened to you?” Birch snatched Captain Wu’s skinny hand and arm.
“Long story.” Wu Pan’s body stiffened. A suffering sigh escaped him.
The wind funneled down the narrow alley, carrying the smell of damp rubbish and wet stones.
“Well…” Birch was ready to send Wu Pan home, but changed his mind. He doubted the former captain had a decent place to live, so he took Wu Pan by the elbow and steered him toward the main street. “My car is over there. Let’s go to my home. Dad and Xiao Mei will be thrilled to see you.”
“Xiao Mei?” Captain Wu’s eyes widened. “She is here in Taiwan?”
Birch nodded. “Oh, Dad will be so happy to see you. He—”
“How is the general?”
“Not doing too well. Heart problems. In fact, a doctor is coming tomorrow. Regular checkup. I’ll tell him to take a look at you, too.”
“I’m all right,” protested the battered man.
“Like hell you are!” Birch opened the car door for his friend, walked around it, and slid in behind the wheel. “Dad has probably gone to bed, but I’m sure you’ll see Xiao Mei soon.”
Wu Pan lowered his head, dusted off his filthy tunic, and gave the hem a tug.
“I’m so glad to see you again.” Birch turned to Wu Pan and threw a fake punch. He smiled, unable to suppress his delight. He couldn’t believe that his impulsive decision had saved a family friend. “Tomorrow you’ll get to meet my kids. They—”
“Your kids? You’re married to—?”
“Oh, no. I’m teaching some kids to fly radio-controlled airplanes. They’re great. I call them my kids.” Birch reached over to the glove compartment and tossed Wu Pan a pack of Lucky Strikes and a lighter. “What the hell happened to you?”
With shaky hands Wu Pan lit a cigarette and took a couple of quick puffs, trying to maintain his composure. His sunken eyes stared out the windshield.
Birch kept his eyes fixed on the road, waiting for his companion to collect his thoughts. They drove in silence for a while. The light rain had become a heavy downpour, and water hammered the metal roof of the car.
Taking a deep breath, Wu Pan began, “You know I grew up in a village in the northeast…”
Chapter 42
Wu Pan’s family had managed several dozen acres of wheat fields and lived in a self-sustaining way before the Japanese conquered the northeast of China in the early 1930s. Their province became part of the Japanese-controlled puppet state of Manchuria. His father and elder brother were forced to work in a coal mine after the invasion. Soon the older man’s health deteriorated under the harsh living conditions and sixteen-hour daily shifts. He died of typhoid a year later.
On April 26, 1942, a gas and coal-dust explosion sent flames bursting out of the shaft entrance. Instead of evacuation and rescue, the Japanese shut off the ventilation and sealed the pit head in an attempt to curtail the fire. More than fifteen hundred Chinese workers were trapped underground. Wu Pan’s elder brother was one of the unlucky miners working that day.
“He was right behind me,” one of the survivors told Wu Pan and his mother. “I heard him when the Japs sealed the pit head, so I turned back. But a guard smashed my head, and before I went down, I saw…I saw him being shoved backward. His hand stretched out to me, and his face… Oh, God, I’ve never seen anything so horrible.”
Wu Pan hadn’t intended to join the army. He was afraid to leave his mother alone. It was she who urged him to join the fight after his brother’s death. “You can’t protect me. No one is safe as long as the Japs are here,” she said. “Go! Chase the bastards out of our country.”
So Wu Pan became a Nationalist soldier. Although he loved his mother, he visited her only once after the war against Japan ended. When his regiment was ordered to retreat to Taiwan, he asked for a two-week vacation to say goodbye to her. From Fuzhou in Fujian Province, where his unit was stationed, he took a train home, leaving his identification paper with a friend in the squadron. It was the summer of 1949. By then the Communists had taken a large part of the country, including his hometown.
Dressed in civilian clothes, Wu Pan sneaked into his village late one evening. His mother was elated. They spent the best two days since his father and brother had left. On the third evening, they were enjoying his favorite dumplings when their dog began to bark. Wu Pan knew something was wrong. He grabbed his mother and pulled her toward the door, but it was too late. The sound of the front gate being knocked down cut through the nighttime silence.
They turned around. His mother pushed and shoved him through their back window. Wu Pan tried to pull her through as well, but she shouted, “Go!” and locked the window. Knowing he was the target, he sprinted toward the woods behind the house. As he disappeared into the dense trees, he heard the sharp explosion of gunfire—three shots.
Instantly, he swiveled round and ran back. A few steps later, he stopped.
It could be a trap. The Communists and their followers wanted him to go back so they could capture him. And if they had shot his mother, it would be too late anyway. He shouldn’t waste his life when he knew he couldn’t save her. Wu Pan dropped to his knees, his face contorted in pain.
He didn’t stay long. He was too close to the house, and he could hear people talking and he could see torches in the darkness. He shot to his feet and ran through a barrier of thick bushes that scraped deep into his arms, legs, and face. For three days he hid in a small cave where he and his brother had played as children. Wild berries and mushrooms were the only food he could find. On the fourth night, he crept back to the house. He had to find out if his mother was alive. The Communists might still be there, but he couldn’t wait. His authorized leave would end soon.
The house was dark. He crouched among the trees until long past midnight.
He smelled it as soon as he entered the house. The stench of blood, decay, and death permeated the air. His mother lay sprawled on the floor. Three bullet holes had punctured her chest. The room had been ransacked. Anything of value was gone, and everything else was destroyed.
Wu Pan found a piece of old cloth and wrapped his mother in it. He picked up her frail body and climbed back out the open window. Carrying a rusty shovel, he took her deep into the forest.
The moonlight was eerie as he started to dig. A torrent of emotions struck him: grief, rage, guilt. As he gently placed her in the shallow grave, a dozen men suddenly came out of the darkness and surrounded him while pointing guns and farm tools at him.
“Down with the Nationalist spy,” they shouted, kicking and punching him.
“Wait!” he screamed, protecting his head with his hands. “Please let me bury my mother.”
They ignored him. He worked for the Nationalists, and his family had just enough fields to be labeled as a “landlord.” Landlords were enemies of the people.
Wu Pan crawled to the rim of the grave. He shoved dirt with his bare hands, for a good son wouldn’t let his mother be exposed to the wilderness.
But the Communists and their followers didn’t give him a chance. One man smashed his head with a shovel. A wall of pain hit Wu Pan. A deep black pit opened and swallowed him.
When he awoke, he was alone in the woods. It was dark. He had no idea how long he’d been out cold. Is it the same night or
the day after? He had no clue. All he cared about was burying his mother.
It took a long time. He was weak, and he had no tool other than his own hands.
When he finally finished, he knelt and knocked his head three times on the ground, a tradition to show respect. Wiping the dirt, the blood, and the sweat from his face, he began his long journey back to Fuzhou.
Without money, he walked and hitchhiked, while begging for food. Once in a while he took oxen-carts and horse carriages. But most of the time he walked.
Several days later Wu Pan realized he would never get back in time if he didn’t do something drastic. So he did—he tried stealing. The first two times he wasn’t lucky. He was chased and beaten. The third time he took enough money to travel halfway back to his regiment. Then he had to repeat what he hated to do. By the time he arrived in Fuzhou, he was three weeks late and missed his chance to get to Taiwan.
Without identification, he was pushed back and forth from department to department. It was several days before he found a major who was patient enough to listen to his story. The sympathetic officer wore a black patch over one eye. With his help, Wu Pan finally received a boat ticket to Taiwan.
“Take this.” Along with the precious pass, the major gave him enough money to live for two days. “The boat leaves tomorrow evening.”
Wu Pan felt tears sting his eyes as he grabbed the officer’s hand in gratitude. He hadn’t cried when his mother was killed. He hadn’t shed tears when the communists beat him into unconsciousness. He found his way to a cheap restaurant and ordered steamed buns. His stomach was empty; he hadn’t had a real meal in weeks. The first bun disappeared down his throat without being tasted. Then he slowed and savored each bite.
The boat ride was blissful. For the first time in more than a month, Wu Pan slept in a real bed and didn’t have to worry about his safety. The food was fantastic. He ate enough to make up for the past several weeks. But once he reached Taiwan, his good luck ran out.