Escape from Shanghai

by Paul Huang

  A large covered well was located just to the right of the main entrance.

  When the job as Director of the YWCA became available, Mom took it. She wanted and needed to do something while waiting and bribing her way through the Passport-visa process. She took the job to assert her independence and to show her father that she was, indeed, one of the new generations of Chinese women. The Sun family had been advocates of modernization since the nineteenth century. She wanted to continue the family tradition.

  Mom and I occupied a two-room suite on the second floor of the YWCA. Our two windows looked down squarely at the well below. There were no bathrooms in the building. A neat row of stone bath stalls had been built behind the building, and a row of toilets had been placed some distance behind them. This was a woman’s residence. The only other male was the caretaker. As there was no running water in the old building, the caretaker’s main function was to bring water from the well to the kitchen and to the bath stalls.

  I slept in the room with the windows overlooking the courtyard, directly above the well. One night, the sound of water splashing woke me up. Knowing that something was wrong, I woke Mom. She had heard the splashing sounds, too. She opened the window and shouted: “Who’s there?”

  The splashing slowed and a small voice answered: “It’s only me,” the caretaker responded sheepishly.

  “What are you doing down there in the middle of the night?”

  There was silence for a long time. “I...I fell in.”

  “Oh my God,” Mom said.

  “I’m sorry I woke you ma’am. I didn’t want to disturb anyone with my foolishness,” he said.

  Mom rushed downstairs turning on the outside lights as she went. The bucket was in the well. “Grab the bucket,” she shouted.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Grab the rope,” she told me, “let us try to pull him up.” We pulled, but he was too heavy. “Go get help, wake some of the women.”

  I ran into the building.

  “Hold on to the bucket until help comes.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The women arrived and we pulled him from the well.

  “What happened?” someone asked.

  “I was getting water for the kitchen, like I always do, but I slipped and fell in.” The caretaker hung his head in shame.

  “It is all right,” Mom told him, “accidents do happen. Now go dry yourself.” Then she turned to the rest of the people: “He’s fine. He’s fine,” she said as she waved everyone inside.

  The poor man had been willing to stay in the well until daylight just so he wouldn’t wake anyone. Mom realized how prevalent this sense of deference was with the average Chinese. This was being polite and considerate to the extreme, but that was the mentality promoted by the Confucian ideal. The lower the class, the more deference and politeness one showed, regardless of gender. And this was the Confucian social order—all the way up to the Emperor. The pecking order was clear. You always deferred to and obeyed the rank above you. Women deferred to men, because men ranked above women. Wives deferred to husbands. But having lived in America gave Mom a different perspective.

  Mom was clearly annoyed at the caretaker for being so meek and subservient, but she couldn’t reprimand him for being who he was. Instead, she told him that everyone at the Y counted on him. That the Y wouldn’t have water for cooking, cleaning and bathing were it not for him. She told him how important he was to the organization—the Y couldn’t function without him. She tried to instill a new sense of self worth in him, and as a consequence, he became even more productive. No one had ever empowered him like this before. His new-found sense of confidence actually expanded his horizon and made him a bigger contributor to the organization. For the first time in his life, he had been told that he was important and that he had value. While he still drew water from the well to supply the needs of fifty people, he was now conscious of his contributions. He was no longer just a mule that hauled 50-pound buckets of water to the kitchen and the baths.

  Mom also encouraged him to expand his skills and duties, knowing that he would, one day, be replaced by a few pipes and a pump.

  On Sunday evenings, the Y’s courtyard was turned into an outdoor movie theater. News footage from the United States about the war against the Germans and the Japanese were shown to overflowing crowds. The people of Shanghai saw the atomic bomb explode over Hiroshima and Nagasaki. And when the Japanese signed the unconditional surrender on the Battleship Missouri, the crowd cheered even though that was old news. But the people turned silent when they saw the liberation of the German concentration camps and heard the horrible tale of the mass murder of millions of Jews. The sight of those starved skeletal bodies with deep, blank sunken eyes told a horrifying story. But everything was all right now. America had saved the world. No one doubted or disputed it. Everyone in China knew it. Even the Communists.

  We all hoped that the world was now a better place.

  It was clear that America had fought the war for Freedom, while the Japanese had fought for loot and booty.

  Meanwhile, Mao’s Communist revolution was gaining strength and pace. Mom knew we had to leave as soon as possible. Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek was going to lose this war, too. The fact of the matter is that the Generalissimo hadn’t ever won a major battle against the Japanese. Why would the war against the Communists be any different?

  Mom developed a carefully planned ritual whenever we went to see a government official about our travel documents. She would wedge a small envelope into her purse, then make certain that she could take this envelope out easily, even without looking. She practiced until she was comfortable with the procedure. She had set things up so that there would be no fumbling around with her purse to get the envelope. She wanted to do it smoothly to impress the bureaucrat with her business-like efficiency. And as a safety measure against pickpockets, she closed the flap to her purse, hung the leather strap on her shoulder then tucked the black bag securely beneath her armpit. As always, she made sure that I walked next to her purse.

  She hailed a rickshaw and haggled with the coolie over the price of the ride. This ritual sometimes ended up with her going to another rickshaw in search of a better price. There was never any hurry in these small financial negotiations. It was part of the cultural process back then to negotiate to get the best price. One rickshaw driver might value his time differently from another. The price a rickshaw man charged is totally under his control. He can sell himself cheap or dear, depending on his circumstance of the moment. If his belly were full, then he might want to charge more because he’s not desperate for food. Conversely, if he’s hungry, then he might be willing to charge less just to get the job so he can eat. This is the classic Chinese supply-and-demand, labor-intensive economy. When in China, you negotiate because each person sets his own value for his time.

  And take your time. Life should be leisurely. In the old days, no one in Shanghai was ever on time. There was a social stigma to showing up on time for any function.

  This tradition took form in early Imperial times. The emperor always showed up late for his appointments. Naturally, no one dared to comment on his lateness. After all, he was the emperor. He could do as he pleased. In time, other important members of the Court began to follow the emperor’s lead. No socially-aware person criticized this practice because it would have meant being critical of a superior’s behavior. With time, this practice trickled down the ranks until it became socially acceptable with the upper crust and finally among the wealthy middle class. The tradition flourished as a status symbol. Being late was both fashionable and a statement of your social position.

  The bureaucrat kept us waiting for forty-five minutes, even though we had arrived late. Obviously, this man held an important position because he was so busy that he could keep us waiting for as long as he wanted. At least that was the unspoken message he wanted to convey. This was a standard tactic because the payoffs got bigger as you went up the line. Finally, the bureauc
rat welcomed us into his office.

  “Please, have a seat,” he said with a polite bow.

  “Thank you, sir,” Mom said respectfully as she sat down.

  The bureaucrat sat down after he saw that Mom and I had taken our seats. He smiled as he picked up his lit cigarette from the ashtray. He took a drag as he studied the papers on his desk. The genial-looking civil servant glanced up from a file folder and flashed an insincere smile. He leaned back in his chair then tapped his cigarette in the ashtray. “Ah, let me see,” he said coyly, “you and your son wish to go to America, is that not so?”

  Mom nodded and smiled warmly at him. “My son is an American citizen, you know,” she said with a hint of pride. “According to American law, the mother of an American citizen has the right to accompany her under-aged son to the United States.”

  The bureaucrat smiled benignly at her, nodding his head as she spoke. “Yes, yes. You are one of the lucky ones,” he said with a hint of impatience. “Do you realize how many applicants we have?” He pointed at a long row of four-drawer, gray-metal file cabinets against the wall. He leaned forward for emphasis. “Hundreds of thousands!” he lied. “Yes, that many. It would appear that all of China wants to go to America.” He sat back. He wasn’t smiling anymore. “Clearly, that is impossible, is it not, Madame?” He did not utter Mom’s name though it was right in front of him. Using her name would have meant that she was an individual, and he wasn’t ready, as yet, to recognize her in that particular way.

  “Of course,” Mom agreed somberly. Judging from his strident tone, she wondered whether she had brought enough of a bribe.

  The man shifted in his chair as he dragged on his cigarette. He exhaled and blew two thick columns of blue smoke through his nostrils. The civil servant lifted then dropped his pack of Camels in an impatient manner. At that time, a pack of American cigarettes was better than Chinese money. People used it as currency. Mom understood the significance of those cigarettes. “Now, then, considering our backlog, how may we help you?”

  “Ah, you are so kind for asking, Mr. Director,” Mom said obsequiously. She made a minor event out of opening the flap to her purse, then looked up at him and smiled. “My husband is in New York,” she said as she reached into her wallet and removed the letter that she had so carefully placed there. “He has written you a personal appeal. I believe it would be worth your while to read this.” She leaned forward, the envelope clasped delicately between two fingers.

  “Ah, so,” the bureaucrat said with interest. He dropped his pack of cigarettes for the last time.

  He took the envelope and opened the flap as he sat back in his chair. He blinked at the small portrait of President Jackson. That was all he needed to see. He opened his drawer and tucked the envelope inside. Slowly, deliberately, he slid the drawer shut.

  Mom nervously watched his every move.

  The bureaucrat reached across his desk, picked up a rubber stamp and pressed it firmly on the black ink pad. His deft fingers moved like a money-counter’s as he flipped officiously through a series of pages, stamping each page in rapid succession as he did so. Then, as if it were beneath him to look directly at her, or because he felt some slight sense of guilt, he held out the papers to her.

  Mom reached over and took it. She quickly studied the pages, knowing that to do so in front of him is an insult to his integrity. But she didn’t care because she had paid dearly for them. The niceties of normal social behavior no longer applied. Mom looked up and smiled.

  “Thank you,” she said, after making certain that all the appropriate pages had been stamped. He didn’t look happy at her performance. He knew Mom had insulted him on purpose.

  It had taken her about a year to get permission from the Chinese government to leave the country. During that time, the bureaucracy moved her file from one civil servant’s office to another. Each time she had to give the new civil servant money. And it was always in American dollars. At first, she gave dollar bills just to get the proper forms. And as she went up the bureaucratic chain, the bribes became more expensive. Ten dollars was equivalent to roughly two weeks’ salary for some civil servants. With each step along the way, she had been assured that progress was being made. The procedure was complex they told her. We went there nearly every other week to follow the path of our papers, leaving a trail of dollars behind.

  She often wondered whether the money she had spent would make a difference, or whether they would deny her permission anyway. There was no telling what these government officials might do. What if they claimed to have lost the papers? She had heard such horror stories. People had to start all over again.

  Fortunately, Mom had been smart from the start. From day one, Mom used American money. She wanted to establish a reputation. In time, the bureaucrats expected dollars from her. Consequently, her papers exchanged more hands than was necessary. While this procedure cost more, it also guaranteed progress. Everybody got a piece of the action.

  That’s how the government worked in China.

  My granduncle’s house, or better yet, residence, was a huge courtyard home. There were three large, independent structures designed along the traditional Chinese lines with the curved roofs and glazed-roof tiles. The compound looked like three smaller structures from the Forbidden City had been moved and plunked down in the middle of Shanghai. In the center of two of the buildings was a square, formal garden. There was a goldfish pond fed by a running brook; various and numerous exotic plants and trees; and one octagonal gazebo with a jade-green roof. Under the center of this roof was a large, round white marble table capable of seating twelve people.

  My granduncle wanted to treat me to a special Sunday brunch—just the two of us.

  It was a warm spring day and a soft breeze danced its way between the green columns of the gazebo. Tea was served first in a glazed green teapot—and green cups—both designed to match the green tiles of the gazebo roof.

  We sat opposite each other. He was a rotund man who obviously enjoyed food. This was probably why he ran the food portion of the grocery business, while my grandfather ran the real estate portion. This division of labor suited both men. The two brothers got along extremely well. The only thing that separated the two of them was their individual lifestyles. Grandpa was a practical engineer, while granduncle was a larger-than-life salesman with a touch of the showman brimming around his waist. His banquets were famous and usually bigger than anyone else’s.

  And then the servants proceeded to serve dumplings, or dim sum, in small white porcelain plates. Naturally, they matched the white marble table. There were thirty varieties of dumplings, three to a plate. It took the chef and his three helpers all morning to prepare the brunch.

  Most of this food went uneaten. My granduncle didn’t want me to forget him or Chinese food while I was in America. He told me that I would most likely never see the likes of such a spread again. And I haven’t.

  The night before our departure for America, grandpa took the whole family, his children and grandchildren, out to dinner. Dinner for eleven people cost two large suitcases packed full of large denomination bills. The owner of the restaurant didn’t even bother to count the money. He just counted the bundles of bills. That’s how absurd life was in Shanghai.

  Mom had booked passage to America on one of the ships in the President Line, the General Gordon. The last time we saw this ship had been at the Li’s bon voyage party. They had occupied a spacious suite on the upper deck of the luxury liner. Now, anchored in Shanghai bay, the ship once again received its passengers from motorized junks. Large luxury junks ferried the first-class passengers to a grand stairway that angled up to the promenade deck. Small ordinary junks shipped the steerage passengers to a big black gaping hole that was ten feet or so above the waterline of the ship.

  The junk bobbed up and down in the waves as two crew members, one on each side of Mom, held her by the arms and hoisted her onto the teak platform at the foot of the ladder. Then the sailors hoisted me over. We climb
ed the short angled stairway onto the ship. Bits and pieces of lettuce, cabbage and broken eggshells littered the steerage reception area. The stink of wet rotten garbage wafted from the steel deck. Mom wasn’t sure whether this was where the ship discharged its garbage or took on its fresh food supplies. Anyway, it really didn’t matter. What was important was not the accommodations, but that she had found a way for us to leave.

  The ship’s crew tossed our bags onto the wet, filthy metal deck. Large wet stains mingled with bits of lettuce stuck to the leather. We picked up our belongings and followed the directions of the American crew. They inspected the green, four-by-five tag that hung around each passenger’s neck. They pointed us to the forward section of the ship. Mom led me down the dark, dank passageway. Gradually, the damp smell disappeared only to be replaced by the odor of human bodies. The smell reminded me of the gym at the Y.

  The forward cargo hold was a large cavernous space that had been outfitted with bunk beds stacked four deep. Two stacks were mounted side by side with khaki canvas separators between them. Row after row of these bunks stretched across the hold. Two people could pass each other on the narrow aisles but only if both turned sideways, and even then it was a squeeze. This luxury liner had been converted into a troop ship during the war. Now, the shipping company used its carrying capacity to haul Chinese immigrants.

  “Come on, Mom! Let’s go upstairs,” I said the moment we had located our bunks.

  “Let’s put our things away first,” she said.

  “Do we have to?”

  She glanced around pointedly at our surroundings and I knew what she meant. Mom unpacked our clothing and placed them into our assigned footlockers under the bottom bunk. Then she stored and locked her valuables in the metal lockers that lined the walls. She made sure that her belongings were secure before we went topside.

  The first things Mom bought at the concession stand were two bottles of Coca-Cola and a bright yellow pack of Juicy Fruit chewing gum.