by John Wilson
“Okay, Neil, but what’s your point?”
“My point is that two civilized nations can go to war, sure. But we’ve moved on from Attila the Hun and Genghis Khan. Literature, music, theater—these things are universal. They cut across national borders. Look at Shimada. For all your misgivings about him, he’s going out of his way—even in the middle of this war—to try to get Hill a permit to study traditional theater in Kyoto. We’re safe here. I promise you. In a few weeks we’ll look back on today as the end of a bad dream.”
“I truly hope so,” Lily says, “but—”
“There you are. I’ve been looking all over.”
Lily and Peterson draw apart and turn to see Hill coming up the balcony stairs. He’s wearing loose pants and a padded jacket against the cold. His face is pale and drawn.
“Where have you been?” Lily asks, stepping away from the window.
“I’ve been talking with my father. He arrived two days ago from Shanghai and made it into the Safety Zone only yesterday.” Hill rubs a hand across his forehead and blinks. He looks close to collapse. He glances nervously at the fires on Purple Mountain.
“Let’s sit,” Lily suggests, taking his arm and leading him to the nearby seats. Peterson moves to the side and lights some candles in holders along the wall. There has been no electricity for three days now, and the generator hasn’t been switched on yet for the evening. Either that or it has run out of fuel. The candles flicker but do little to dispel the gathering gloom.
Lily and Hill sit down side by side, Lily still holding his arm. Peterson stands behind them in the half-light and stares thoughtfully toward the empty stage.
“You should get some rest,” Lily says.
“I will, but not yet.” Hill shakes his head. “There’s something I need to do.”
“Is your father okay?”
Hill smiles weakly. “He’s completely worn out. I found him some rice, and he’s sleeping now. His journey here was a nightmare. He’s not even sure how long he was walking, struggling to keep one step ahead of the Japanese. He stopped at Suzhou, but the Japanese attacked there. The same thing happened at Jiangyin, Changzhou and Danyang. He could never rest for long, and the food he carried with him was gone in the first few days. He’s not a young man anymore. It was torture.”
Hill lowers his gaze and blinks hard.
Sensing that he wants to talk more, Lily gently squeezes his arm and waits, but Peterson says, “He’s safe now, Hill. Everything will be better in a few days.”
“I don’t think so,” Hill says with a catch in his voice. “I don’t think things will ever be right again.”
“Hell, you’re as depressing as Lily. It’s war, goddamn it. But your father made it through. We’re safe here, and things will—” Something in Hill’s expression stops him in midsentence.
“My father saw things.” Hill speaks so softly that Peterson finds himself leaning forward to catch what he’s saying. “Deserted villages. Buildings burned out, and blackened bodies scattered everywhere. Ditches filled with the stripped and mutilated bodies of girls and women, their bellies ripped open and their throats cut after the soldiers had had their pleasure with them. Rows of decapitated bodies, their heads arranged neatly on their chests. Not a single thing alive. A landscape as silent as at the beginning of the world—or at the end.”
Hill drops his gaze and for a long moment stares at the floor. Eventually he shakes his head and continues. “Outside Changzhou, Father joined a group of several hundred refugees—women and children, old men and wounded soldiers. All of them, like him, fleeing from the Japanese. They traveled together for several days, sharing what little they had. Whenever a Japanese plane flew over, they took shelter in the ditches beside the road, but no one attacked them.”
Hill stops again, and Lily and Peterson wait. When he speaks his face is grim in the candlelight. “Then a Japanese patrol came out of the woods on one side of the road. The officer in charge was polite. He said they were looking for Chinese soldiers. An old man stepped forward and respectfully said there were mostly families in the group. Any soldiers were unarmed and wounded, and no threat to the Japanese. The officer nodded and smiled, then pulled out his pistol and shot the old man in the chest.”
Hill shrugs off Lily’s arm and stands up. “Everyone was lined up along the roadside,” he goes on, his voice gaining strength as he speaks. “The soldiers picked out every male between ten and fifty years of age, regardless of whether they were wearing a uniform or not. Mothers were on their knees, pleading for their sons’ lives, but it did no good. All the men and boys were herded down to a nearby farmer’s pond and machine-gunned. Those who survived were bayoneted. The bodies were thrown into the pond.”
Peterson stares at Hill, his eyes wide. “Ten-year-olds?” he stammers. “Your father must be mistaken.”
“There’s no mistake,” Hill replies, his expression cold and hard. “How much longer can you go on believing in the secure bubble of American safety? How much longer can you believe we’re not surrounded by savagery? That there are not roadsides where ten-year-old boys are bayoneted and their bodies thrown in a stagnant pond? Your comfortable little American world is surrounded by chaos and horror, so don’t tell me we’re safe here.” He turns on his heel and strides out of the theater.
For several minutes Lily and Peterson stand in the flickering candlelight, staring at the empty doorway. Lily is crying silently.
Finally Peterson says, “I can’t believe it.”
“You don’t want to believe it. What do you need—photographs?”
Peterson recoils at the violence in her tone, but Lily’s anger vanishes at the sight of the shock on his face.
“I’m sorry,” she says, stepping forward and embracing him. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. What kind of nightmare are we living in?”
“We’re safe here,” Peterson repeats, patting her comfortingly on the back.
She pulls away from him and wipes the tears from her cheeks. “What did Hill mean?”
Peterson looks at her questioningly. “I don’t understand.”
Lily chews her lip before answering. “He said there was something he needed to do, but he never told us what it was.” She moves toward the door.
“Where are you going?”
“I want to make sure he’s all right.” She pauses in the doorway and looks back at Peterson. “A moment ago you thanked God that the worst was over. But you and your God are wrong. The worst is just beginning.”