by Bo Caldwell
I sat down next to him and touched the white dressing on his leg. “Na shih shen-mo?” What is that?
“Peng-tai.” Bandage; I repeated it. Then Liang hesitantly touched my shoulder and said, “P’eng-yu.” Friend.
I nodded. Then I touched Liang’s chest and said, “Hsiung-ti”—younger brother—and he beamed.
November 15, 1906
Our ninth day on the canal. A bad day turned good.
This afternoon Liang fell into the canal while following Will across the gangplank. While struggling in the water the boy cut his ankle on the rocks, but good came from it: the gash was painful enough that he allowed me to dress it. Which I did, as gently as possible, talking to him all the while (mostly in English—I didn’t want to risk offending him in my piecemeal, unpredictable Mandarin), hoping to keep his mind off what I was doing and allay his fear of me. Almost before he knew it, I had stitched the cut and bandaged his ankle.
The other boatmen watched us suspiciously from a few feet away. A few minutes later when Liang was good as new they were impressed, and finally one of them was brave enough to come forward. He bowed to me, then timidly pointed to his knee, and I saw that he too had a deep cut, dirty and infected.
I told the man to be seated next to me, and I cleaned the cut then stitched and bandaged it as I had Liang’s ankle, once again rattling on in English to distract him from what I was doing. My strategy worked a second time, and when I had finished he turned to his companions and pointed to the wide bandage on his knee. As they marveled at him, he nodded matter-of-factly, pleased with himself, and that did the trick: the men lined up, eager to show me their various injuries and to list their complaints. Despite the fact that I understood little of what they actually said, we were able to communicate enough for me to treat their cuts and boils and blisters and mouth sores and eye infections. As I did, they became less hostile and afraid; they began to laugh as we worked to understand each other, and they thanked me when I had finished. They didn’t need to, though, for their gratitude was plain.
I too was grateful—to God for this good turn of events, to the boatmen for their trust, and to Will, who held the lamp above me and did anything else I asked of him. He didn’t complain once—not of the cold or the late hour or the dreariness of the night, and his poor arm must have been frozen stiff from holding the lantern for so long. But he said nothing, and in doing so he endeared himself to me, at least a little.
Which is a good thing, for I was angry with him. Last night I couldn’t sleep and I made my way quietly up to the deck, hoping that some fresh air would calm me. The air in our cabin is so thick that it’s hard to take a deep breath. Everything was very still, and in the moon’s soft light I saw Will sitting alone, keeping watch as Edward had asked him to. But then I heard a sound I know only too well from my cabin mates below, the ruffled sound of snoring, and I saw that Will was fast asleep. I was immediately irate—he was supposed to be watching over us, keeping us safe! I wanted to wake Edward and expose Will’s failure. My quick temper surprised me, and I just stood there for a moment, watching him. In that dim light he looked so young that my feelings eased, and the night was so peaceful that I thought perhaps the threat of danger had been exaggerated. I decided there was no reason to cause a fuss then and there—it could wait until morning—so I went back to bed.
This morning Will looked miserable. He kept to himself at breakfast, and when Edward asked him how his night was, he shrugged without looking up. Edward stared at him strangely, and I saw that Will was about to confess. But just then he happened to glance at me, and when I saw the sadness and remorse in his face my desire to accuse him left me.
“His night must have been just fine,” I said. “We’re here, aren’t we?” and somehow the moment passed.
Tonight he proved himself, so I am giving him another chance. I’ll at least be kinder to him. I’m feeling kind toward everyone this evening, despite my fatigue and the lack of supplies, light, and warmth. For the first time since leaving home I was useful. And I am content.
The boatmen decided Katherine was a healer, and that night became a routine. Each evening after dinner she sat on a wooden crate near the cockpit, where a few hot coals burned in a brazier, as the boatmen gathered around her, intently watching everything she did and asking questions of one another about their complaints and her cures. Her face looked wan and the circles under her eyes grew darker and her teeth chattered as she spoke, but she never admitted to being tired or cold. Night after night I observed her gentle touch, her kind tone, her careful ministrations. While everything else gave off the pungent, metallic smell of kerosene and canal water, Katherine always smelled like soap. As she worked, I saw the gratitude in the boatmen’s expressions, and although their complaints seemed to grow increasingly minor, I could not blame them, for I found myself searching for an ailment of my own.
After three weeks’ travel on the canal, we reached Yung Nien Ch’eng in Shantung province. While the boatmen unloaded our goods from the hold, Edward hired two-wheeled carts pulled by mules to carry us and our freight 135 li, or 45 miles, to his family’s home in Ch’eng An Fu—City of Perfect Peace—on the border of Shantung and Honan provinces, an overland journey that would take two days.
Because the land was flat, I thought traveling by cart would be easy. Not so; the issue wasn’t the topography but the roads. While ancient and frequently traveled highways connected major cities, smaller cities and villages were linked only haphazardly. These country roads were nothing more than the legacy of earlier travelers, paths cut randomly through this field and that, rarely in anything resembling a straight line. If the roads weren’t muddy, a mule-drawn cart could travel twenty-five miles in a day, but reaching somewhere relatively nearby could take hours or most of a day, simply because the roads wound around so much. In winter and spring they were thick with dust, and during the summer rains they became muddy to the point of being unusable, often becoming rivers, as many of them were lower than the surrounding fields. The springless carts that traveled these roads were flatbeds on two wooden wheels—huge round pieces of wood weighing nearly two hundred pounds each. The carts screeched horribly as they were pulled; there was no money for axle grease. Padding the floor with bedding made the ride bearable but not comfortable.
On our first day we traveled to Shin Sheng Chou—City of New Future—the home of John and Anna Leicht, fellow Mennonite missionaries. Jacob and Agnes Schmidt and Ruth Ehren were to remain with the Leichts to help them with their work; Edward, Katherine, and I would stay for the night then travel the last twenty miles to Edward’s home in Ch’eng An Fu the next day. When we reached the Leichts’ home we found a somber household; the couple’s only daughter was ill due to an enlarged spleen. After hearing that we would be staying in the home of missionaries I had hoped for a real bed, so when we were shown into a large room with a pile of millet straw I felt a sharp stab of disappointment, followed by shame at my selfish concern.
The next morning we did what we could to help the Leichts. Jacob made the fire and I brought in more firewood than they would need for a week, while Agnes cooked breakfast and Ruth and Katherine examined the sick girl and bathed her. When we said our goodbyes, Edward assured them that he would visit within the month, then he and Katherine and I set off on the last leg of our journey.
As we traveled across the countryside, Edward grew more and more excited. By then he had been away from his wife and two sons for over a year, and there was a new daughter he had never seen. When his home was at last in sight, he jumped down from the cart and ran the rest of the way. Eager for our journey to be over, I got out too and walked next to the cart. When we were still a good distance away from the Geislers’ home, Edward’s wife, Naomi, ran from the house and to him. When they met, they held each other closely, and as I watched I felt a cloud of envy at what they had.
Dinner that night was a celebration, for tomorrow was Thanksgiving, a fact I’d forgotten until Naomi reminded us. We gathered aroun
d the Geislers’ kitchen table—Katherine and myself, Edward and his two young sons, Paul and John, and Naomi, holding their one-year-old daughter, Madeleine. Naomi loaded my plate with pork and vegetables and Chinese steamed bread then began cutting my meat, as I looked on awkwardly, unsure about what to do. In a moment, she caught herself. “Oh,” she said, and she laughed, “look at me! I am so used to having children on either side. Forgive me, Will.”
I nodded. Edward and Katherine laughed, and I felt my face grow hot. But for a moment it felt like home, and Edward, sitting across the table next to Katherine, winked at me. “Consider it a compliment,” he said, and he nodded at his wife. “She sees you as family.”
I felt myself grow redder still, and when I looked up, I found Katherine smiling at me. I returned her smile and felt a sudden and unexpected contentment. My homesickness had eased; it seemed I had fallen in with family.
November 27, 1906
We’ve reached Edward and Naomi’s home, and I am elated to meet my handsome young nephews, Paul and John, and my beautiful baby niece, Madeleine. But most of all I’m excited to see my most sisterish sister. I loved sitting across from her at dinner tonight, and afterward when we were alone she made me laugh until I couldn’t speak. She has always been the funny one, I the serious one. “Katherine, who’s this?” she said, and as she walked across the room, I suddenly saw our father trudging to the barn in the morning, pulling his suspenders up as he walked, his short legs bowed outward. “And this?” she asked, and there was Mother, standing at the stove and methodically stirring a pot with her huge wooden spoon, her eyes wide and her lips pursed as she hummed a hymn, her right foot tapping in time. Naomi continued through our family, one sibling after the next, until I was laughing and crying both. Finally she sat down on the bed next to me and propped her chin on her hand and gazed at me dreamily. “Who’s this?” she asked, barely containing herself. I was stumped, but not for long; she couldn’t hold herself back. “Will Kiehn!” she said jubilantly. “Our smitten new recruit!”
The two of us were in my room during all of this— my room. I say it over and over again, for I have never had a room of my own, and it feels like a great luxury. To be able to close a door and be alone! When Naomi and I finally whispered good night—the others were long asleep—I shut the door and knelt.
There is much to thank Him for: a safe voyage across the ocean, a safe journey up the canal, a safe trip inland. A reunion with Naomi, and becoming acquainted with my nephews and niece. I am grateful for these blessings and many others, but I am also troubled, for when I fell to my knees in this small room it was as much from fatigue as from gratitude; I am exhausted. I felt so strong at the start I thought I was finally rid of the weakness I’ve grown up with. But to my disappointment it has accompanied me.
At dinner I saw that I am not alone in feeling tired, for while I can see she is happy, Naomi looks fifteen years my elder instead of five. The sweet softness of her features that made her look like a girl even at twenty is gone; her face is now thin and angular. I remembered Edward’s words about the hardness of people’s lives here and thought, Add ten, for in the five years since I saw my sister she has aged twice that and now looks ten years older than she is. I can’t help but wonder if I am seeing my own future.
But perhaps I’m just chasing my tail; perhaps my being tired is making me worry about being tired. I’ve been taught since I was small to be grateful in all things and for all things, so despite my feelings I give thanks for this night and this place and for what lies ahead.
Ch’eng An Fu
1907–1908
Both my new home of Ch’eng An Fu and my future home of Kuang P’ing Ch’eng were in the North China Plain, a region that was, strangely enough, geographically similar to Oklahoma: miles of flatness with no mountains to break the horizon, just acres of good farmland well suited to millet and wheat. The plain was bounded to the north by the Great Wall and the hills leading to Mongolia, to the east by the Yellow Sea and the mountains of Shantung, and to the west by the mountains of Shansi. To the southeast there was not such a definite border; it eased gradually into the valley of the Hwang Ho, or Yellow River, and the Yangtze Plain.
The place was also similar to Oklahoma in terms of weather; it too had a climate of extremes. Winter days could be bitterly cold, with the temperature dropping well below zero and the Yellow River frozen for months. In spring the wind covered the plain with sand from the Loess Plateau to the north and the Gobi Desert to the west, sometimes burying whole cities. A sandstorm in Ch’eng An Fu once turned day into night and made everything we touched gritty in the space of an hour, even with the doors and windows tightly shut. Summers were fiercely hot—110 degrees Fahrenheit is the highest temperature I remember—and late summer brought torrents of heavy rain that made the Yellow River overflow its banks. Autumn was the reward, long and beautiful.
A view of the plain from a small rise was one of green tilled fields punctuated with pagodas and ancestral grave mounds, yellow dried-up riverbeds, and villages of flat gray roofs. Homes faced south because north was believed to be the side of darkness and for protection from the northwest wind. They were built on mounds of earth five to ten feet above the ground because of flooding, a continual threat. A boat sitting on dry ground miles from any river in November might be adrift in a field of water by the following August, as farmers struggled to salvage what they could of their underwater crops.
The plain was ancient; most of the country’s oldest capitals had been located there, and it was the birthplace and burial place of Confucius and Mencius. Most of the people were farmers as their ancestors had been, and intensely connected to the earth. Rather than the land belonging to them, they seemed to belong to it, and they tended the fertile brown soil unceasingly, growing winter wheat, millet, cotton, and kaoliang—sorghum—working for three harvests in two years. A good harvest meant three meals a day; anything less meant deprivation. Meals were simple: vegetables with boiled millet, bean curd, steamed bread, or noodles made of wheat. Meat was the exception and rice an extravagance, unlike in the south, where it was a staple.
The region was so densely populated that the next city, village, or town was nearly always in sight. A village could be a dozen homes, a town one or two hundred households and a dozen or more shops. These estimates are my own; the people had no interest in statistics, and, when asked how big a town or city was, the answer was usually along the lines of “not a few.” Most cities were surrounded by walls, archaic brick structures with odd curves and angles meant to bring good luck or discourage bad luck, and four arched gates corresponding roughly to the points of the compass.
I came to know the region wall during my first few months in Ch’eng An Fu, as Edward asked me to do many errands for him. I went twice to Shanghai to accompany new missionaries back to Ch’eng An Fu, escorted three children to a school for the blind in Peking, delivered a farm wagon that Edward was loaning to a Presbyterian mission in Tsinan, and accompanied him on many of his trips to nearby villages.
When I wasn’t traveling, I continued my study of the language with Katherine and our tutor, which I was eager to do for several reasons, among them the fact that I knew I wasn’t of much value until I could speak and understand Mandarin. Our teacher was Li Lao Shih, an elderly gentleman who wore the usual attire of a scholar: a long gray robe slit at the sides, white trousers tight at the ankles, a short black satin jacket, and a black skullcap. The first time we met I greeted him with respect, telling him in Mandarin that I was happy to have come to Ch’eng An Fu and to be able to meet such an honorable teacher, and that I wanted to become a Ch’eng An Fu person. He nodded, unable to hide his amusement at my pronunciation, and replied that he was unworthy of such earnestness in a student.
Li Lao Shih came to the compound each afternoon at one o’clock and worked with us for the next four hours, our primers and dictionaries spread out around us, and when he left I continued studying alone until dinner and afterward. Despite Edward
’s assurance that I was progressing well, the language seemed to mock me, which was all the more humiliating as Katherine was often witness to my mistakes.
When I voiced my frustration, Li Lao Shih quietly reminded me that the function of study was to build character. At the close of one particularly difficult lesson, he called Naomi. Pulling the long hair on his chin, he spoke to her softly in Mandarin then asked her to translate, as he spoke little English. Naomi turned to me.
“Your teacher says that the Chinese language has always been this way. It is this way now and it will continue this way. It will be here far longer than you.” She added, “I believe he is suggesting that it is for you to adapt yourself to China, not the other way around.”
January 26, 1907
I have been in Ch’eng An Fu for two months today and have been treating patients for several weeks. On the opposite side of the kitchen from my room is another smaller room the size of a pantry, and that is my makeshift clinic. Edward put up shelves for medical supplies and brought in a small bench and table. “Pretend you’re still on the houseboat taking care of the boatmen,” he said cheerfully. He looked around at the cramped space and winked at me. “Only here you can spread out.”
This odd little clinic is something he has wanted for some time. Naomi is too occupied with their children and the details of the compound’s daily life, so a week after we arrived he smiled at me and said, “Katherine, you’re the man for this job,” then he posted signs in the city announcing free medical care at the compound. I was apprehensive. I pointed out several times that I am not a doctor; I’ve had only two years of nursing training and am very aware of how much I don’t know and how limited my experience is. Nor do we have adequate equipment or supplies—or so I thought. Each time I brought up these concerns, Edward listened patiently. Then he said, “You’ll see,” and moved on to something else.