Escape from Shanghai

by Paul Huang

  “One day, a blind soothsayer stopped her on the street. The soothsayer put her hand on the woman’s pregnant belly and said: ‘You will give birth to a healthy, strong son. As a child, your son will slay a mighty beast. Dip your son in the beast’s blood and he will forever be invincible.’ Then the soothsayer disappeared as magically as she had appeared.

  “Well, the woman gave birth to a boy, just as the soothsayer said she would. When he was a week old, he grabbed his mother’s finger with his little hand. His grip hurt her finger! As he grew, she taught him to be gentle so that he would not hurt his own mother.

  “A few years later, she and her son were walking near the woods. Suddenly, a giant, fire-breathing dragon stood in their way. But the mother was prepared. She took out a sword that she carried beneath her dress and gave it to her little boy. ‘Here,’ she told him, ‘kill the dragon before he kills us.’

  “The boy took the sword and with one mighty stroke, he slew the dragon! The dragon’s blood flowed freely to the ground. Quickly, the mother grabbed her son by his right heel and dipped him into the pool of dragon’s blood.

  “After that nothing could hurt him. Not swords or arrows. The only place that he could be hurt was on the heel of his foot.”

  My mother as she looked in 1946.

  My grandfather, Kai Loh “Carlos” Sun, was a slight, studious, bespectacled man with a subtle sense of humor and a quick wit. He was one of the first Chinese students to attend Cornell University, Class of 1909. He had arrived at Cornell in his traditional Mandarin robe and a three-foot-long queue down the middle of his back. He turned heads wherever he went on campus. Many Americans had never seen a Chinese man before. Especially one with long black hair braided down the middle of his back.

  He had two roommates, both mid-westerners. There’s a photograph of him flanked by two tall, hefty Americans. Both of them were about six inches taller than he. In his Mandarin robe, he looked almost like a woman standing between two men. Grandpa had the typical, thin-boned Asian build.

  Once his roommates realized that grandpa had a sense of humor, they began to needle him about his braided pony tail, or queue.

  His long hair was difficult to wash and even more difficult to braid. Back home, there was a servant dedicated to doing the men’s hair. In America, he had to do it himself. And it took a long time to wash, dry and braid a three-foot-long queue. “Carlos, you’re worse than a girl,” they told him. They didn’t know it, but this comment did not sit well with a man who came from a male-dominated society where women still had bound feet. Nevertheless the proverbial glove had been thrown down.

  His roommates had also Anglicized my grandfather’s name from Kai Loh to Carlos. They wanted to Americanize him and make him one of their own. But as much as grandpa wanted to fit in and be one of them, he couldn’t do it.

  “Under Chinese law, all Chinese men have to have a queue. You see, China was conquered by the Manchu Dynasty in 1644. The Manchu Emperor could not tell the difference between his Manchu officials and his Chinese officials. So, the Emperor decreed that under the pain of a beheading, all of his Chinese subjects must have a braided queue,” he explained. But Grandpa knew that explanation sounded ancient. 1644 was well over a hundred years before the American Revolution.

  Grandpa learned to love America and its Constitution. He had hoped that one day, China would become a democracy and adopt a version of the American Constitution. After all, both Cornell and his roommates had made a huge impact on him.

  Here’s what the Cornell Magazine wrote: “…Carlos Sun, of Shanghai, China, has been elected president of the Cornell Cosmopolitan Club. Mr. Sun is a senior in Sibley College. This is the first time that a Chinaman has been the head of the organization.”

  Grandpa had learned how to win a democratically run election.

  Then, on November 15, 1908, the Empress Dowager Cixi died. The new Emperor, Puyi, was only two years old when he took the Dragon Throne. Grandpa figured that a corrupt and weak Manchu Dynasty could not survive without strong leadership, especially when the old-line Manchu officials were fighting among themselves for power and control.

  More importantly, Dr. Sun Yat-sen, soon to be known as the George Washington of China, began to solicit financial and political support from America and other foreign nations to help him establish a democratic Republic of China.

  It was then that grandpa went to the barber to cut off his queue.

  His roommates were aghast and shocked by what he had done. They thought that he had risked his life because of their ribbing.

  Proudly, grandpa ran his fingers through his short, American-styled hair. Then he told his roommates that it was time for China, and him, to enter the twentieth century.

  A year after the Empress Dowager’s death, grandpa graduated with a Mechanical Engineering degree. Here’s what the Cornell Class Book of 1909 wrote about him:

  “Kai Loh Carlos Sun, Shanghai, China. Prep school: Cook Academy. Univ. course, M.E. Years in Cornell: 4. ‘Above all nations is humanity,’ so above all the Cosmopolitan is ‘Sun.’ Adventurous, yet not rash, steady, yet not stagnant, fine-apparelled, yet not coquettish, good-mannered, yet not effeminate, he is everywhere Washingtoned by the gentlemen and Romeoed by the weaker sex. The glorious Sun is certainly not to desist from his work until every nook and corner of the globe has felt the light and warmth emanated luxuriantly from him. President of the Cosmopolitan Club.”

  By the time he got home, rebellion against the feeble dynastic regime was already happening. He fit right in with the rest of the young foreign-educated rebels. They had cut off their queues, too. They would no longer obey the Manchu Emperor even on pain of death.

  The sight of an army of queue-less Chinese men made a stronger impression than slogans and chants. The old-line Manchu officials were shocked and outraged by this sight. But civil disobedience was here to stay. The rebels had made an irreversible stand. And they won.

  In 1911, the Republic of China was born. Dr. Sun Yat-sen became the first president. (Though the president and my grandpa had the same surname of Sun, they were not related. But the similarity would play a significant role in our survival.)

  Armed with his degree from Cornell, grandpa began work on building a modern China. He built railroads. He thought that the railway system in America was what made the country wealthy and great. And he wanted the same things for China.

  My grandfather’s study was almost a holy place that was forbidden to the third generation in his household. For a child to be asked to see him in his study was an awe-inspiring event. You would have had to done something unspeakably naughty to be called in front of him. In grandpa’s house, it was up to the parents to discipline their children. That rule had never been broken. Still, I was shaken by his summons.

  I’ve never been in his study before. In fact, none of his grandchildren had ever been summoned to appear before him in that room. I knew because I had asked.

  Grandpa opened the door and motioned to the chair that was directly in front of his massive desk. I sat down while he ambled to his ornately carved, high-backed chair. He sat down and proceeded to talk to me as if I were an adult member of his family. From my position, I could just about see his head and shoulders. His desk was in my line-of-sight. It was both an intimidating and awe-inspiring moment.

  “I have decided to send you and your mother to take care of our house in Canton. Shanghai is much too cold this time of year, don’t you think?” he said with a smile. Nobody liked living in our house with no heat. “Taking care of our house is a very important job, you know,” he said in a serious tone of voice. This had been the reason given on our travel applications to go to Canton. Then he leaned closer and whispered: “But what’s more important is taking care of your mother. You take good care of her on your trip. You obey her. And be a good boy,” he reminded me. “Always remember, you are my Number One Grandson, and the youngest soldier in China.” He looked at me for a long time. This was the theme that he had repeated
ly drummed into me. And every time he said it, pride swelled in my chest. I knew I was the youngest soldier in China because my grandfather had told me so.

  Then he stood. “Come with me. I want to show you something.” He turned to a door behind his chair and opened it. “I want to introduce you to your great grandfather,” he said.

  The room was dimly lit by two candles. The smell of incense hovered in the air. Thin lines of blue smoke curled up from the joss sticks. Two large portraits painted on silk hung majestically against one wall. My great grandfather and great grandmother’s pictures occupied the entire wall. The light from the two candles flickered over their faces.

  Grandpa lowered his voice and spoke in a reverential tone: “You were meant to follow your great grandfather’s footsteps. Honor him. Never let the Japanese, or anyone outside of our family know what you are doing.”

  Like all Chinese children, I had been raised to listen and obey, and speak only when spoken to. And when your revered grandfather speaks to you in this way, what else can you do but nod affirmatively?

  1909 Cornell Class Book

  Grandpa took all three generations of his family to the Bund to see us off. He had deliberately hired eight rickshaws to take us to the coastal steamer because the number eight means good luck. The long line of rickshaws crossed the wide waterfront area along the Huangpo River known as the Bund. The one-hundred-fifty foot steamer sat by the famous Shanghai dock peacefully waiting for her passengers. Japanese soldiers had roped off the area by the ship. Three long tables had been setup with two inspectors standing behind each table. Half a dozen guards with bayonets affixed to their rifles made sure that the passengers remained in a neat and orderly line. By the time we got there the inspection process had already begun. Suitcases and trunks had already been opened on the tables and the khaki-uniformed inspectors were digging through peoples’ belongings as if they were searching for treasure.

  Grandpa, grandma, five uncles and aunts along with two young cousins came to see us off. It was a typical melee of a Chinese family saying goodbye. Exactly the image that grandpa wanted to show. He knew that the Japanese were watching. He wanted them to see us as a normal family with nothing to hide. The goodbyes were subdued but busy. Everyone wanted to say a few words to Mom and me so the jockeying of bodies looked like bees in a beehive.

  Finally, grandpa knelt down, looked me eye to eye and said: “Remember: you are the youngest soldier in China.” He smiled that gentle, good-humored smile of his as if this were just another ordinary day. Then he stood up and beckoned a waiting coolie. The goodbyes were officially over.

  The coolie took our luggage and led us to the inspection tables. Mom took my hand and we followed. Her palm was damp.

  The inspector reached out and said: “Papers.”

  He looked at the papers, then at us, then back to the papers again. The soldier nodded with disdain as if he were doing us a favor, then with a contemptuous look on his face he held out our papers. Mom had to bow and lean across the table to retrieve the papers from his fingertips. He smirked as he watched her bow to him.

  The coolie put our suitcases on the table. He opened them and waited. The inspector shuffled through our belongings, deliberately messing up what had been neatly packed clothing. Then, with a dismissive wave of the back of his hand, he haughtily sent us on our way.

  Mom rushed to tuck the disheveled clothing back into the suitcases. The coolie reached over to help. Quickly they stuffed the loose clothing inside the suitcases then hurriedly closed them. It would not have been politic to test the patience of this particular Japanese. You never know what might set him off.

  The coolie once again took our baggage and led the way. He asked to see our tickets, found the cabin number then led us right to it. Mom paid him and he left. Interestingly, I have a vivid visual memory of the ship’s cabin with its louvered doors and dark wood paneling. The events of that day still rolls through my mind like a movie.

  We looked at each other thinking that the ordeal was over.

  Just then, the loud speaker came on the air. The electrical voice ordered the passengers to line up on the promenade deck. Men in one line, women in another facing the men. Six feet separated the lines. “Don’t worry,” Mom said. “You stand in line with the men. I’ll be right across from you.”

  She reached for my hand and put the roll of money in it. “You know what to do. Give it to the soldier when he gets to you,” she said. Then we dutifully walked out onto the promenade deck and obediently lined up for the inspection. Unfortunately, when we lined up, I wasn’t right across from Mom. There were more males than females, so the line for the women was shorter. Mom ended up being some fifteen feet away from where I stood. Mom nodded and smiled at me, mouthing that everything would be OK. I nodded silently in reply.

  Suddenly, there was a commotion. A woman screamed. I leaned forward and saw a group of soldiers take a struggling couple away.

  “Stand still,” the man next to me volunteered. “The Japs do that just to see how the rest of us will react, so don’t move.”

  Two officers casually sauntered down the line looking us over. One inspected the women, the other, the men. On they came. The soldier got to me, stopped and bent down to take a closer look. I was the only child on the ship.

  Dutifully, I raised my hand and offered the money.

  He smiled, took the money with one hand and patted the top of my head with the other, then he straightened and turned to the next person in line.

  Years later, when we were reminiscing about the events of that day, I asked Mom whether she had been scared or nervous because I remembered feeling the dampness on her palm.

  “Of course I was scared,” she said. “But I knew we would come through it without any difficulties. You see, the Japanese have a very low opinion of us. It would never occur to them that a woman with a small child would dare disobey their rules. It would never occur to them that a little boy like you could do anything daring to outwit them.”

  Naturally, I was proud of what I had done. Mom made sure of that by praising me to the skies. But more important than pride was the feeling of accomplishment. I had accomplished what grandpa had told me to do. I was the youngest soldier in China. I kept my mouth shut to protect the secret I was hiding. And, most importantly, I was doing what my great grandfather had done when he left home.

  I wore my money belt throughout the entire war.

  Perhaps the most significant epiphany occurred when I got to college. In a Greek Mythology class, I realized that Mom had told me the story of Achilles. His only weakness was on his heel where his mother had to hold him to dip him in the River Styx—only I liked my mother’s version better. Dipping him in the Dragon’s blood sounded Asian and more exotic. When I asked her why she chose to tell me this particular story, she replied: “What little boy wouldn’t identify with Achilles’ invincibility?”

  Canton is about a thousand miles south of Shanghai. Grandpa used to call Canton Province the “Florida of China.” The family owned a winter home there. The house wasn’t anything big or fancy, it was a utilitarian three-storied stucco located on the waterfront. Grandma used to go south during the cold winter months, but once the war started, she didn’t want to leave grandpa’s side. The family relied on our long-time caretaker to look after the property.

  When we got to the house, Mom wasn’t surprised that the storm shutters had been removed and that the windows had been opened. She reasoned that the caretaker must have prepared the house for our arrival. She opened the door, but suddenly stopped before she could take a half step. The room was packed with people. Men, women and children occupied nearly every inch of the first floor. They stopped whatever they were doing and turned to look at us. We looked back at them in astonishment.

  “There’s no more room here. Try upstairs,” a man’s voice said.

  We went upstairs. All the rooms were occupied, even the hallways. We started to go up to the third floor but a fierce and angry-looking man gl
ared down at us. “Try someplace else,” he said gruffly.

  “Come,” Mom commanded as she grabbed my hand. We rushed out of the house. The squatters watched our every move with fearful, hostile eyes. (Canton had been occupied by the Japanese since October of 1938.)

  “Mom, call the police,” I said.

  “Where would they go? The Japanese destroyed their homes. They have no place to live,” she explained. “It wouldn’t be right to send them away, now would it?”

  “Where will we live?” I asked with fear and concern. We had planned to stay there until arrangements could be made to move us further inland to unoccupied territory.

  Mom knelt down and took me by my shoulders. “It is not houses or money that makes you who you are,” she said. “It is what you do with your life that matters. Do you understand? These people have no place to go. We do. I know you are scared, but try not to be. We will be all right, I promise you. We cannot throw these people out of our house.”

  Mom hired a rickshaw and headed for the waterfront. Even though Canton was an occupied city, the Japanese allowed us to conduct life as normally as possible. Those who couldn’t or wouldn’t adjust to the new reality either left or died. There was no in-between. Perhaps the worst off were the displaced and homeless refugees with no jobs. The Japanese had not bothered to rebuild the homes that they had destroyed, nor did they try to create jobs. It made no difference to them whether the Chinese lived or died. All they cared about was taking the riches from the land. And in this part of the country, it was rice.

  “I hope our old caretaker is all right,” Mom said. But she knew in her heart that he wasn’t. (We never found out what happened to him.)

  The rickshaw stopped in front of a massive, opulent, ornately decorated two-storied houseboat. Rows of Chinese-red columns supported the upper deck. Jade green shades protected the interior from the scorching sun. And intricately carved golden dragons swam along either side of the hull.