Falling Leaves Return to Their Roots

by Adeline Yen Mah

  Three of my fellow boarders from Hong Kong were also attending university in London. We all came under the influence of C. S. Tang, president of the Chinese Students’ Union.

  C. S. was originally from Shanghai. His family was in the shipping business. He was very handsome and was working for a Ph.D. at Imperial College. C. S. had leftist leanings. Unlike the rest of us, he fully intended to return home to serve the people of mainland China. He was our big brother.

  At weekends, C. S. organized rowing excursions on the Serpentine in Hyde Park or ice-skating at Queensway. He arranged dances and pot-luck dinners with dishes full of peppers and garlic. He rented Chinese movies portraying Communist freedom fighters outsmarting corrupt Kuomintang officials and landlords. We felt very progressive and idealistic watching them, dreaming of returning to China one day to contribute our skills to the glory of our motherland.

  C. S. had nothing but contempt for Chinese students dating westerners. ‘Traitor!’ he would mutter under his breath. ‘Consorting with the enemy!’ Once, at a Chinese restaurant near Leicester Square, our group ordered the house speciality, Peking duck served with spring onions, plum sauce and wafer-thin pancakes. The waiter told us that the last duck was already in the oven, about to be served to a white man with his Chinese girl seated a couple of tables away. C. S. draped one arm around the waiter, a diminutive young Cantonese from Hong Kong called Little Chang, and said that for many years our great country China had been bullied by the barbarians. He repeated the story of the notice in the Shanghai park forbidding entrance to dogs and Chinese.

  ‘Here you see a barbarian taking the last duck to share with that pretty Chinese girl. You simply cannot allow this to happen! Barbarians don’t know their Chinese food. They can’t tell a live duck from a live chicken, let alone when the bird is dead and roasted. Why don’t you give him something else tasty, put a bunch of plum sauce on it and just call it Peking duck? It won’t be difficult to fool a barbarian.’

  So I ate the duck along with the rest, but inside I felt uneasy about C. S.’s attack on the ‘barbarian’. Towards the end of the meal, I blurted out, ‘When you talk about fooling barbarians, isn’t it a sort of reverse racism?’

  C. S. cocked his head and pondered. He ran his fingers boyishly through his thick glossy hair. He called me by my Chinese name. ‘Junling, you ask the most difficult questions. How do I answer without sounding like an idiot? I suppose in everyone’s life there are priorities. Mine are, in the following order: my country, my leader Chairman Mao, my family, parents, siblings, Chinese friends. My professor, schoolmates and other barbarian friends. Finally, everyone else. I can’t help it if I feel kinship towards my own people like our waiter Little Chang here. Apparently Little Chang feels the same way about all of us.’

  During that period in England, roughly between 1955 and 1963, most of us were proud of the way China had risen in the eyes of the world. However, we did not share identical hopes for the future of our nation. Some wanted China to blaze in a gleaming capitalist society like that of North America. Others hoped to see Mao’s revolutionary policies of collectivism and socialism take an even firmer grip. Few were as evangelical as C. S. with his pamphlets and propaganda movies showing plump and rosy-cheeked children, happy workers, giant new factories and incredible and ever-increasing production figures: the whole of China on the move. I believe most of us, at some time or other, saw ourselves as a group of skilled university graduates trained in the latest disciplines of western technology, dreaming of going home to serve our motherland and right the wrongs of long ago.

  In the lab, I tried to convey to Karl the pride and elation carried over from my life at the Chinese Students’ Union. Karl would dampen my excessive zeal. ‘I’ve lived through this patriotic nonsense in my own country during the Second World War. Believe me, reality is not like that. So everyone in China is now an angel because Mao Zedong has liberated the country! Overnight nobody is for himself any more. No more envy, hatred and malice. Only kindness, love and universal justice! Do you really believe that, you little fool?’

  CHAPTER 14

  Yi Qin Yi He

  One Lute, One Crane

  H. H. Tien was a postgraduate student in applied mathematics at Imperial College. He was of medium height, slender, wore thick glasses and, although not considered handsome, possessed warmth and charm. Kind and generous to a fault, H. H. was a natural leader and seemed to embody all that was most hopeful for the future of China. We looked up to him, not because of his logic or persuasive arguments, but because of the magnetism of his personality. His wealthy banker father had married for love and had spurned mistresses or concubines, which was unusual among Chinese men. In the 1930s, Mr Tien had been active in the Anti-Japanese Boycott Association and fought with the heroic Nineteenth Route Army in defence of Shanghai against Japan before joining the underground Communist Party. He welcomed the liberation of Shanghai in 1949 and wrote an eight-page letter to his son H. H. in London preaching the dawn of a new China. However, to hedge his bets, he pragmatically opened another bank in Hong Kong and moved there in 1951.

  One evening, soon after the Hungarian uprising in 1956, I went out with H. H. to a concert at the Albert Hall. Earlier that week, Karl had been perturbed by reports on BBC radio that Russia had sent troops into Budapest. H. H. and I had a heated discussion, during which I echoed many of Karl’s misgivings. H. H. described Russia’s actions as the protective embrace of a big brother to prevent chaos within a branch of the same political family.

  ‘How can you be sure that China will become a great country?’ I argued. ‘If there was so much greed and corruption under Chiang Kai-shek, why should a mere change of government alter the nature of every Chinese?’

  We had arrived at my hall of residence in Tavistock Square. Reluctant to end the evening, we walked round and round Campbell Hall. H. H. suddenly chuckled. ‘Know what they call Chiang Kai-shek?’ he asked in English. ‘Cash my cheque, Chiang Kai-shek.’ He reverted to the Shanghai dialect in which we usually conversed. ‘Seriously, if leadership is corrupt and inept such traits will permeate downwards to the masses. Under Communism, China is entering a new era of radical reform. Mao and his generals have made great strides and brought China into the world arena. Instead of kowtowing to General MacArthur, they forced America into a ceasefire in Korea. As Chairman Mao said, “China has finally stood up.” ’

  Under the dim street lights his eyes were bright with fervour and hope. How I admired him! It started to rain. I raised the collar of my coat against the blustery chill. H. H. took off his warm college scarf and wrapped it around my neck. It felt so safe and comfortable to be in his company. In dribs and drabs I had confided in him parts of my painful childhood: information seldom disclosed.

  ‘I’m almost eight years older than you,’ H. H. was saying. ‘Sometimes I wish you were older. There’s so much I want to tell you. You had such a rough time with your stepmother. You need someone like me to defend you and look after you for the rest of your life.’

  ‘I have to get back now,’ I told him, suddenly flustered and confused. ‘My brother Gregory said that a boy and a girl getting together is like taking a bus. You end up on a particular bus because the right number comes along at the right time. I’ve been thinking about that ever since.’

  I unlocked the front door and handed H. H. back his scarf. I watched him as he wound his way around the puddles. Before he turned the corner, he waved and shouted, ‘Let me know, am I the right number? Are you ready to board the bus?’ Then he was gone.

  Inside the hall it was dark and warm. On my way up, I noticed there was a letter in my letterbox. It was from Karl.

  Dear Adeline,

  It would be nice, and perhaps more than that, if we could meet after your tutorial on Wednesday. But I agree with you that we should not risk messing things up. Naturally, because of your youth, your concerns compared with mine are more substantial: to do with parents, grades, face, Chinese friends, your future and China (now th
e Big Thing). I have merely been trying to identify another biophysical problem and am now attempting to solve it. Of course, there will be no rewards, perhaps not even a paper at the end; and yet the enterprise seems so important. Would I be able to keep my position at the university if my feelings for you were to become known? It would be so wonderful to have you on my team permanently, but that is quite out of the question, and you are only eighteen.

  So I don’t expect to see you alone soon. However, if you feel there is a chance, remember that I can manage Wednesday almost any time. Maybe we might have something meaningful to say to each other. Or, we may just be happy together, as we were in the last few months, sometimes…

  Do not be seduced by rhetoric. Communism appeals to men and women yearning for Utopia. It will not work. Conflict, envy and malice will always be in the breast of man no matter which government rules. It stands to reason. Don’t be lured into adopting a particular religion because you happen to like the priest.

  My little girl! My femme fatale! I have written little of what I meant to say. Thinking of you fills me with disturbing emotions I hesitate to transcribe. Suffice it that you have erased from my heart a bleakness I was happy to discard. Though I know I should probably step aside, please remember that wherever you go, I shall be waiting for you here in my lab, at all times.

  Karl

  Oh! The melting melody of his words! I never went out with H. H. again.

  The Cold War was at its height during the 1950s and 1960s. A few of my most idealistic contemporaries were asked to leave Britain in 1961 by the immigration authorities for being ‘undesirable’. Kim Philby had recently been revealed to be the third man behind Burgess and McClean: a circle of English spies spawned during their undergraduate years at Cambridge university in the 1930s. British authorities charged that Beijing was infiltrating secret agents among Chinese student circles in London, turning us into fledgling Communists.

  C. S. married a Singaporean Chinese girl. He took her back to Shanghai and then taught and did research at the Academy of Science in Beijing. They were to suffer greatly during the Cultural Revolution. By the time I next saw him and his wife in 1980, C. S. had lost his hair and his patriotism. He no longer talked about rebuilding China but asked if I could help him obtain a post-doctoral fellowship in America. What concerned him most were education plans for his children and a pleasant retirement spot for himself and his wife. Not once did he complain about his decision to return to China. He remained warm, generous, honest and kind.

  Others were less fortunate. H. H. was thirty-three and still single when he was told to leave. He went back to mainland China in 1962, against the advice of his parents. Months went by. No one ever heard from him. Some of us wrote to the address he had given us before his departure. There was never any reply. He had simply vanished into the bowels of China, swallowed amongst 800 million Chinese.

  His ‘disappearance’ distressed and perplexed us. We knew that something was deeply wrong and suspected that events had not turned out well for him. For me personally, his silence shattered every fantasy of the glorious motherland and I never again seriously considered returning to work in the country of my birth.

  Years later, we heard that H. H. had been persecuted and imprisoned during the Cultural Revolution. His gaolers were unable to believe that such an accomplished and highly educated young scientist would renounce his rich family in Hong Kong, his comfortable lifestyle in the West and his promising career in order to serve his country. They insisted that he had an ulterior motive and urged him to confess. H. H. refused and committed suicide in 1967, leaving a note with four Chinese words yi qin yi he (one lute, one crane), meaning that he was incorruptible and upright unto death. He was thirty-eight years old.

  Others thrown out of Britain in the purge of leftist Chinese students fared differently. S. T. Sun (Little Sun), a graduate in architecture, was enamoured of Rachel Yu, one of my classmates from Sacred Heart boarding school days. When Little Sun was ‘asked to leave’, they were dating seriously. He returned to a Hong Kong in the throes of a building boom which went on for over thirty years and continues unabated. He soon started his own architectural firm and became rapidly embroiled in an economic miracle that transformed Hong Kong from a sleepy outpost on the edge of China to the vertical metropolis it is today. All thoughts of motherland faded with the advent of six-figure pay cheques. Away from London and Rachel, he went back to his childhood sweetheart. Later his whole family took up Canadian citizenship and now commute between Hong Kong and Vancouver.

  The years went by. I attended many weddings, feeling increasingly empty and forlorn. Those of my friends who were not already married seemed poised on the brink whilst I floundered in a relationship leading nowhere. Though I had been successful in keeping my emotional bondage to Karl secret, I had lost out in the larger sense because I was unable to form a simultaneous attachment to anyone else. The basic neurosis of our affair fed upon itself. While believing that our mutual feelings were irreplaceable, Karl was also convinced that it would be disastrous for us to marry. He persisted in encouraging me to go out with Chinese boys my age. Sometimes he even came along to vet my escorts. One evening, when I was sitting between a would-be suitor and Karl in a dark cinema, he suddenly reached over and caressed my hand.

  After my graduation and internship I spent two years working and studying for post-graduate degrees in Edinburgh, perhaps in an attempt to escape from Karl. I passed my boards in internal medicine, becoming MRCP (Member of the Royal College of Physicians) London and MRCP Edinburgh. In that gloomy, wet, cold and windy city, I finally accepted that I had to leave England. So many times I had tried to break free from this impossible entanglement. None of the conflicts would ever be resolved. Towards the end, on a rare day when Karl had been particularly loving, he told me he was so happy he wanted to die. Then he added sadly, ‘We are all wrong for each other. It is easier to die for you than to live with you.’

  The parting, when it came, was wrenchingly hard. In a way, I never got over it. Karl was my teacher, my mentor, my first love, my larger-than-life surrogate father. But, no matter how I rationalized it, he had rejected me and the relationship had failed. In a moment of shattering anguish, I destroyed all his letters.

  Soon afterwards, in 1963, I left England for Hong Kong.

  CHAPTER 15

  Fu Zhong You Yu

  Fish Swimming in a Cauldron

  A few weeks before I left London, I wrote to Professor McFadden, Lo Mac, at Hong Kong University medical school. He welcomed my application as assistant lecturer in his department, commended me for my advanced degrees, quoted the salary and added that housing would be available. It was, therefore, with confidence and regret that I flew to Hong Kong in November 1963.

  Gregory and James met me at Kai Tak airport in Father’s chauffeured Mercedes. They had both been working for Father for a year. James returned first, after finishing his studies at Cambridge. His salary was so low that he could only afford to live at the YMCA. Life became easier when Gregory returned from Montreal, where he had obtained a master’s degree from McGill University. Father paid them each a monthly salary of 2000 Hong Kong dollars, equivalent to 250 US dollars. Together, they were able to rent a tiny studio apartment above a nightclub on Nathan Road in Kowloon.

  Hong Kong was no longer the sleepy city I had left behind eleven years ago. The narrow, cramped, neon-lit streets were teeming with pedestrians and traffic even though it was after nine p.m. There were a great number of new buildings, some of them half completed and covered with bamboo scaffolding. Colourful electrical signs blinked out their advertisements. The vitality was almost tangible.

  ‘This is not the Hong Kong I left behind,’ I gasped to my brothers. ‘This is Shanghai reincarnated!’

  ‘Except bigger, better and more modern,’ James replied. ‘Kowloon and Hong Kong are like one long Nanking Road.’

  ‘I’m glad you’ve come back,’ Gregory said warmly. ‘This is the right place and the r
ight time. The city is going to explode. Our clever Old Man is making an absolute killing.’

  ‘Is Father still in the import–export business?’

  ‘Import–export!’ Gregory snorted, incredulous at my ignorance. ‘Haven’t you heard of the Korean War? Didn’t you know that the Allies put an economic blockade on China when Mao Zedong supported North Korea? Father’s markets were closed to him overnight. The setback prompted him to diversify into manufacturing and light industry. He started three factories making plastic flowers, leather gloves and enamelware and now calls himself an industrialist.’

  They told me that Father’s enamelware factory was especially profitable, turning out brightly coloured cooking utensils, camping implements and an assortment of unbreakable tableware. Father had recently been approached by the Nigerian government to build a branch factory in Port Harcourt. The terms were extremely favourable, with the Nigerian side providing subsidies, tax incentives and cheap land. My two brothers were involved in the project.

  We had reached the Yaumati vehicular ferry, at that time the only means of transport between Kowloon and Hong Kong. After boarding, the three of us got out of the car and stood by the railing for the crossing. In front of us lay Hong Kong Island, glistening like a jewel, with thousands of lights twinkling in the night. Both my brothers were dressed in dark suits with white shirts and conservative ties. The two of them looked as if they were going to attend a business meeting.

  Glancing disdainfully at my old-fashioned Marks and Spencer dress which was a shade too large for me, Gregory commented, ‘If you decide to settle down and practise medicine in Hong Kong, you really ought to pay more attention to your clothes. Hong Kong people are very fashion-conscious. What you’re wearing just isn’t good enough.’