by Paul Huang
We finally exited the wide streets into downtown Shanghai. Ever cautious, she clutched her purse tighter against her body. People overwhelmed the sidewalk and overflowed onto the main thoroughfare, choking traffic. Drivers maneuvered their cars and trucks with one hand on the wheel and an impatient palm on the horn. Rickshaw drivers ignored the cacophony and made their way through the mass of bodies by following their own invisible path.
Mom led the way to an open plaza in front of the large white, Greco-Roman-style bank.
Moneychangers hovered about its grand white marble steps. They converged on her like prospectors after gold.
“Best price for American dollars!” they shouted as we approached.
“How much?” Mom said.
That was what they wanted to hear. The rush was on.
“How many dollars?”
“Twenty,” Mom said.
“1,400,000,” said one voice.
“1,450,000,” said another.
With that quote, most of the moneychangers left.
“1,500,000.”
“1,600,000.” said a gambler. He knew that in a few days, it would reach that height.
That ended it. The winning bidder motioned to his subordinates. They brought over a suitcase. Mom inspected the bundle of neatly wrapped 10,000-yuan bills. Satisfied that she had received all 1,600,000 yuan, she gave the man her twenty-dollar bill.
Mom hailed a rickshaw and she securely wedged her bag of money between us. When we reached the old section of the city, she covered her mouth and nose with her handkerchief. She made me do the same because she didn’t know whether the smell was raw sewage or rotting flesh. In either case, the air was not healthy to breathe.
We followed this routine whenever Mom needed Chinese money. The moneychangers in front of the bank gave better exchange rates than the official banking system.
The dollar and the British pound sterling were the only currencies that people wanted. She used to give me a 1,000-yuan note to buy an after-school snack. As the hyperinflation continued, my daily snack allowance increased to a 10,000-yuan bill a day.
Mom exchanged her U.S. Dollars for yuan only when absolutely necessary. American dollars were as good as gold.
The news article wasn’t a long one, but it did include a picture of Governor-General Li and his family. “Well, look at this. Isn’t this the same fellow you worked for?” grandpa asked.
Mom came around to her father’s chair and looked at the picture. “Yes, that’s him,” she said in a subdued voice.
Grandpa looked up. Her tone of voice was a giveaway. “Tell me about him. What kind of man is he?”
Mom hesitated. “Well, he was all right, I suppose.”
“You haven’t said a thing about him since your return. That’s unlike you,” grandpa said.
I started to say something, but Mom hushed me.
“I promised to keep certain information confidential,” she said. “But I suppose it’s all right for family members to know.”
Grandpa looked at her with disbelief in his eyes. “What has this world come to if you can’t even tell your own father about him, hey?”
Mom had wanted to tell grandpa, now his insistence opened the flood gates.
“Father, I was hesitant to tell you because I had promised not to say anything about the war. But I know this is simply nonsense. They are just trying to protect themselves and hide the truth.”
“Hide? What is there to hide?”
“Well, I saw some documents that I wasn’t supposed to see. They were bank statements from Switzerland—two numbered accounts. But don’t worry father. Nobody knows that I saw them.”
“Go on,” grandpa said, leaning forward in his chair.
“Nobody knows about Chiang’s participation in the scheme to move the gold from the Bank of Canton to numbered Swiss accounts. Outside of General Li, I’m the only one who saw those documents, but I have not told anyone that I saw them. And the general does not know that I saw them. As far as the world knows, the gold was never stolen. It just mysteriously disappeared. They claim that all the documents had disappeared in the chaos of war, too,” Mom said.
“The money could have been used to fight the war—to buy arms and ammunition from the Americans. But they acted selfishly and sacrificed the country instead. I think what they have done is hateful,” she said angrily. “Thousands of people died from starvation during the last year because of poor planning and stupidity. We couldn’t even manage our own precious supply of gasoline. Li’s security guard fell asleep and accidentally set the gas on fire. It was an accident that never should have happened. The man just didn’t understand how flammable gasoline is. No one explained it to him. He warmed himself with an open brazier full of hot coals. It tipped over and the gas went up in a cloud of smoke. This was the man that Li put in charge of our gasoline!”
“You are certain that Li does not know that you saw the Swiss bank statements?”
“Yes,” she said firmly. “The only way he would know is if I told him I saw them. As far as Li is concerned, nobody has seen those papers, except himself and his co-conspirators. His story is that nobody knows what happened. Bandits might have taken it during those last chaotic days. And of course Chiang went along with this story. They just wanted to keep the entire affair a secret, and they have. Who is going to contradict these two powerful men?”
“What about the Americans?”
“As far as they are concerned, this is an internal matter for the Chinese government. It is none of their business, but they know.”
“Then why did they ask you to go to Chungking?”
“The Americans didn’t ask me—Chiang, or rather, his staff asked me.”
“Oh,” grandpa said. “What did they want to know?”
“They were investigating the fire and they wanted to know if anyone had heard anything about the gold, or the anonymous letter that they had received. They were investigating the whole story. Naturally, the administration wanted to keep things quiet. Chiang’s best response was to fire Governor Li before things got out of control. Before his own local party members rebelled against him. It was encouraging that he acted so quickly. Only it wasn’t the corruption that did it. I think it was the gasoline explosion that finally ended Li’s career. That explosion was not something that Li could hide. Especially when people found out that his own hand-picked guard had set the fire, and not a Japanese bomb.
“But Li told Chiang that the fire was an accident. So Chiang gave him the benefit of the doubt and a chance to save face. He suggested that Li take a leave of absence to do a diplomatic tour the world. Chiang told his friend that going abroad and studying the war-torn capitals would bring him respect and restore his luster. He told Li he could have his job back after his grand inspection tour. After he learned how other countries dealt with the aftermath of war, Li could apply his newfound knowledge to China. His newly acquired international credentials would enhance his position in Chiang’s government.”
“Unfortunately, that is the old Confucian way,” grandpa said. “Education and then re-education can transform anyone. This also gives Li a chance to save face. It is certainly civilized of Chiang to let his friend off so easily. But then he has no choice, does he?” grandpa asked rhetorically. “Well, your former employer is about to leave on his face-saving world tour,” grandpa said, angrily stabbing his finger at the picture in the newspaper.
“Madame Li has invited us to their bon voyage party,” Mom said with a nod in my direction.
“They get to go before we do? That’s unfair,” I whined. “I’m an American citizen and they’re not.”
“I know. I know. But you do understand, don’t you? This is how things are.”
“You must go to their party,” grandpa said. “Keep up the pretense. You will be fine, although I find it rather humorous that you have been sworn not to disclose the circumstances surrounding the fire.”
“And the corruption by Li’s cronies. They wanted to keep
that a secret, too, but that didn’t work because Chiang fired all of them, so everybody knew. And I was afraid that they had discovered my role in the secret meetings. Worse, I thought they knew I had somehow stumbled onto those secret Swiss accounts. Thank goodness it was none of those. Being a woman has its benefits. They always underestimate me. Perhaps the most ironic thing was the rumor that Madame Li circulated about me being related to Dr. Sun Yat-sen. When the rumor became as good as fact, it enhanced my reputation and it probably helped save our lives.”
“You must not say anything to anyone about this, do you understand? This could be very dangerous for you and your mother,” grandpa warned me.
“He understands, father.”
“Of course he does! A boy who can walk past a Japanese guard with a money belt under his clothing can do anything. I am very proud of the both of you,” grandpa said. “Now, tell me, how much longer will it take for you to get your visa to go to America?” Suddenly, grandpa wasn’t so sure that we should stick around Shanghai much longer.
“A few more months, perhaps longer,” Mom replied. “The corruption in Shanghai…” her voice trailed off. “Father, Chiang’s government will not last long. We should sell our properties in Shanghai before the Communists take everything,” Mom said hoping to get a positive reaction.
“I know the Americans,” Grandpa said. “They will support Chiang, not the Communists. We will be all right. Besides, I cannot sell what my father left to me to hold and protect, you know that.”
“But these are not ordinary times, father. I don’t believe that Chiang will survive. Too many people are going over to the Communists. They are tired of the corruption. They are afraid of the total collapse of our economy. We are on the verge of going back to bartering to do business. The yuan is worthless. The Americans may say one thing in public, but in private, they think of Chiang as a little peanut. The Americans have no respect for him. They may support him with words, but they will not support him with their army.”
“I have devoted my life to modernizing China, to build new infrastructure that will benefit the country for years to come. I will not abandon my principles. Regardless of who is in power, I will work with them to rebuild our country.”
My great grandfather was illiterate. It is questionable whether his ancestral village even had a school. He learned everything from listening to people. His grocery stores were post offices and centers of communication. Returning workers from America told him how they laid mile after mile of railroad tracks over the Rockies and into the desert. About how the fire-breathing dragons slithered across the endless land that was America. They told of rail cars that carried people and freight across thousands of miles. Mainly, they told of the riches that the fire dragons bestowed on Mei Kuo or Beautiful Country, the name that the Chinese coolies gave to America.
Though he had no formal education, he knew that China had once been the center of the world. In fact, the Chinese name for “China” is Tsong Kuo, or literally translated: Center Country. He saw China’s River Dragons, the Yangtze and Yellow Rivers, as the country’s lifeblood flowing across the land. Over two thousand years ago, the First Emperor completed the 1,100-mile Grand Canal that connected the southern city of Hangchow with the northern Imperial Capital of Peking. (Now Beijing) This north-south waterway helped control the floodwaters of the Yangtze and the Yellow Rivers. The Grand Canal was known as the bridle for the dragons. Additionally, grain from the south came up the canal to feed the northern cities. Commerce flowed freely over the River Dragons. China’s wealth and commercial vitality came from these arteries.
Great grandfather Sun believed that China’s waterways were similar to the great American railroads. When he compared China to America, he compared the speed of the steam locomotive, the fire dragon, with the snail’s pace of the canal barge. He knew that China would have to change.
It was no accident that his number one son, Carlos, studied railroad engineering at Cornell.
Carlos Sun at his office in Shanghai.
My Bou Bou was a tiny woman. Standing on her bound and mangled feet, she barely reached five feet. She came from a well-to-do family, one that was comparable to grandpa’s. Her feet had been broken and bound in the traditional Chinese manner when she was a child. All of this pain and lifelong discomfort just to show society her status. She would never have to work and she would always be waited on. But times change.
When grandpa moved his family from our bombed-out compound to his town house in the city, there wasn’t enough room to hold the family members and the staff. He had a staff of eight at the compound, but the town house could only accommodate three. The chef and his wife cooked for the family like they always did while the Amah took care of the children. After the move, the adults pretty much had to take care of themselves. Bou Bou was no longer waited on hand and foot.
Grandpa’s house was a three-and-a-half storied structure. The kitchen and the servants’ quarters occupied the ground level. The large French doors of the kitchen opened onto the backyard. There was a set of two, semi-circular stairways that wrapped themselves around the French doors. They were cantilevered over the doors and acted as a cover against the afternoon sun. The matching stairs curved down from the second floor to the garden. There was a wrought iron gate that opened out into the service road where the garbage cans were kept. It was on one of these service roads that I had seen the dead baby girl on top of a garbage can.
My cousins and I used to play in the walled-in garden. One hot afternoon, I was thirsty so I ran into the kitchen for a drink. Sitting on the work counter was a bowl of water. I picked it up and took a healthy gulp. Instantly, I gagged and spat out the rice wine. I couldn’t spit out the remaining liquid in my mouth fast enough. Then I heard the heavy laughter. The chef had seen the whole thing. He ladled a cup of water into a bowl and handed it to me. I rinsed my mouth and then drank. I looked up at him with tears in my eyes. He gave me a spoonful of sweet black bean paste and told me to hold it in my mouth. The sweetness took the bitterness away.
From that day on, I used to go watch him prepare and cook dinner. On weekends, when he and his wife made dim sum for brunch, I would go watch them make the delicate dumplings and assorted delicacies. Because I took such an interest in their work, they would take the time to teach me how to prepare and cook. I’ve been cooking ever since. It was better than playing hooky.
Upstairs, Bou Bou used to play a game with me. When I did something good or said something funny that pleased her, she’d stop whatever she was doing and hold her finger to her lips. “Shhhh,” she’d say. “Don’t tell anybody, but come into Bou Bou’s room in two minutes. I have a surprise for you.” Then she’d glide off on her tiny bound feet like an angel walking on air.
Naturally, I couldn’t wait the two minutes, so I followed her. Her door was slightly ajar. Bou Bou had a box of chocolates hidden on top of her bureau—just high enough and out of my reach. She took a chocolate out of the box then replaced the box.
“You may come in now,” she said in her small singsong voice.
“Which hand,” she’d ask, holding out both arms.
If I guessed wrong, she’d squeal with delight and show me the chocolate in her other hand. If I guessed correctly, she’d frown as if she had lost the game. In either event, she’d give me the chocolate.
One afternoon, I hadn’t seen her that day, so I went looking for her, hoping to play her game. Her bedroom door was slightly ajar. I peeked in. She was sitting in her chair with her left foot resting on a small low stool. She had taken off her tiny silk shoe and was in the process of unwrapping the gauze bandage from around her foot, something that her maid used to do. She was having a difficult time of it because it was hard for her to bend her back. She couldn’t hold that bent position for long. She’d unwrap one round, then sit back and rest. Then do it again, each time with obvious discomfort.
Having seen enough, I walked into her room, silently sat down on the floor next to her stool and began u
nwrapping her bandage. She didn’t say a word.
Her foot had been broken at the arch, and her malformed toes had been bent under her foot. In effect, she was walking on her shriveled-up toes.
I looked up at her. “Slide that basin over here,” she said softly. “Use the cloth to wash my foot.”
“Does it hurt, Bou Bou?”
“No, but it smells if I don’t wash it,” she said with a laugh. She gave me a towel. I dried her foot. “Here’s some scent. Rub it on, then you can bandage me again.”
Former Governor Li, his wife, two daughters, two sons, one interpreter and the children’s Amah left China in January, 1947. They traveled First Class on their way to their first stop, America.
We saw them off and wished them well.
The Li’s got an apartment on the West Side of Manhattan. Once their children had been enrolled into the proper schools, the former governor and his wife left on their global tour. First they visited Europe, then South America.
Li was getting his international credentials in preparation for his return to Chiang’s government. True to the Confucian tradition, education would cure all past transgressions. Knowledge equals enlightenment, even for the worst of the sinners. (The ardent revolutionary, Mao Tse-tung, believed in re-education as a means of rehabilitation. This practice still goes on in China today.)
Meanwhile, the political situation China was deteriorating. Chairman Mao’s Army was growing by the day.
The YWCA in Shanghai was a large block of a building built from yellowish-gold slabs of stone. The four-story structure included a square walled-in courtyard guarded by a massive black, wrought iron gate. The concrete courtyard had a number of parking spaces, but the gates were shut and the yard was not used for parking anymore. A shortage of gas meant few cars. And in keeping with the symmetry of the structure, a balcony on the second floor matched the width of the front steps below.