by John Rabe
21 SEPTEMBER 1937
All the rich or better-off Chinese began some time ago to flee up the Yangtze to Hankow. In courtyards and gardens, in public squares and on the streets, people have feverishly been building dugouts, but otherwise everything remained calm until two days ago, when I received my baptism by fire during four air raids on Nanking.
Many Americans and Germans have departed as well. I’ve been seriously considering the matter from all sides these last few nights. It wasn’t because I love adventure that I returned here from the safety of Peitaiho, but primarily to protect my property and to represent Siemens’s interests. Of course the company can’t—nor does it—expect me to get myself killed here on its behalf. Besides, I haven’t the least desire to put my life at risk for the sake of either the company’s or my own property; but there is a question of morality here, and as a reputable Hamburg businessman, so far I haven’t been able to side-step it.
Our Chinese servants and employees, about 30 people in all including immediate families, have eyes only for their “master.” If I stay, they will loyally remain at their posts to the end. I saw the same thing happen before in the wars up north. If I run, then the company and my own house will not just be left deserted, but they will probably be plundered as well. Apart from that, and as unpleasant as that would be, I cannot bring myself for now to betray the trust these people have put in me. And it is touching to see how they believe in me, even the most useless people whom I would gladly have sent packing during peacetime. I gave Mr. Han, my assistant, an advance on his salary so that he could send his wife and two children to safety in Taianfu. He quite frankly admits: “Where you stay, I stay too. If you go, I go along!”
The rest of the poor servants, most of whom are actually from northern China, simply don’t know where to go. I wanted to send off the women and children at least, offered their husbands money for the trip, but they don’t know what to do. They want to go back home to the north, but there’s war there, too; and so they would rather just huddle here around me.
Under such circumstances, can I, may I, cut and run? I don’t think so. Anyone who has ever sat in a dugout and held a trembling Chinese child in each hand through the long hours of an air raid can understand what I feel.
Finally—subconsciously—there’s a last, and the not least important, reason that makes my sticking it out here seem simply a matter of course. I am a member of the NSDAP, and temporarily even held the office of local deputy leader. When I pay business calls on the Chinese agencies and ministries who are our customers, I am constantly asked questions about Germany, about our party and government, and my answer always is:
Yes indeed—
We are soldiers of labor;
We are a government of workers,
We are friends of the working man,
We do not leave workers—the poor—
in the lurch when times are hard!
To be sure, as a National Socialist I was speaking only about German workers, not about the Chinese; but what would the Chinese think? Times are bitterly hard here in the country of my hosts, who have treated me well for three decades now. The rich are fleeing, the poor must remain behind. They don’t know where to go. They don’t have the means to flee. Aren’t they in danger of being slaughtered in great numbers? Shouldn’t one make an attempt to help them? Save a few at least? And even if it’s only our own people, our employees?
And so we have put our filthy dugout, which the Chinese had excavated during my absence but that was already close to collapse, back in top-notch order.
I’ve equipped the dugout with my personal first-aid supplies, plus some from the apothecary in the school, which closed down some time ago. We plan to use vinegar compresses as face masks in the case of gas attack. I’ve also stored food and drink in baskets and thermos bottles.
22 SEPTEMBER
Once the long wail of the siren announced the end of the second attack, I went for a drive through the city. The Japanese had made a particular target of Kuomintang party headquarters, where the offices and studios of the central broadcasting station are also located.
My war diary begins as of this date.
DURING THE WORST of the bombing on 19 and 20 September, I sat with my Chinese in our homemade dugout, which is certainly not bombproof, but at least provides protection against shrapnel and bomb fragments. Out in the garden we’ve also spread a 20-by-10-foot piece of canvas with a swastika painted on it.
The government has set up a very good alarm system. About 20 to 30 minutes before an air raid, sirens start howling loudly, and by the time a certain shorter signal sounds the streets must be cleared. All traffic stops. Pedestrians crawl into dugouts that have been built alongside all the streets.
The final bomb intended for the Kuomintang party landed behind the buildings, making a direct hit on a dugout built into the clay of the city wall. Eight people were killed. One woman had been peering out of the dugout—her head was nowhere to be found. Only a ten-year-old girl miraculously survived, and she herself has no idea how. She could be seen running from group to group, telling her story. The area was cordoned off by the military. Sacrificial paper was burning beside the last coffin.
23 SEPTEMBER
Herr Scheel, the baker at Café Kiessling, had moved into the home of one of Hapro’s1former employees in the new residential section, which was considered a particularly safe area until yesterday’s attack badly stained its reputation, so that he has had to move again—I’ve been unable to find out where to. The worst part is that Scheel has closed his bakery. There is no more bread.
I just returned home with an order in the amount of 1,500 pounds sterling from the National Resource Commission. Not bad in the middle of a war, if only as a moral success. There’s a very nice letter from the board of directors in Shanghai, expressing concern about my well-being and giving me permission to take any measure I consider appropriate for my personal safety, even to leave Nanking if necessary. Many thanks! The letter did me good.
Rabe in his garden with the swastika flag, which he hoped would deter Japanese bombers. It later became a makeshift tent for some of his Chinese refugees.
24 SEPTEMBER
In the long hours of crouching in the dugout during the recent bombardment, I turned on Radio Shanghai to take my mind off things with a little music, and they were playing Beethoven’s Funeral March, then to make matters worse they announced to their listeners: “This music is kindly dedicated to you by the Shanghai Funeral Directors.”
25 SEPTEMBER
According to an article in the Ostasiatischer Lloyd,Germany’s ambassador, Dr. Trautmann, has made arrangements to provide for the safety of those Germans still remaining in Nanking. We’re all very curious how he is going to manage this.
At a conference in the embassy yesterday he disclosed his plan, and it’s not all that bad. He has chartered the Kutwo,an English steamship owned by the Jardines line, which is to transport those of us Germans not needed here farther up the Yangtze and so out of danger.
26 SEPTEMBER
Yesterday evening Mr. Chow, an engineer from Shanghai, arrived after spending 26 hours on the train. He has been ordered here by Mr. Tao of the Communications Ministry to repair the telephone system. Chow is one of our best people.
When I asked if his family was worried that something might happen to him on the trip, he answered—and a remarkable answer it is: “I told my wife, if I am killed you can expect nothing from Siemens and should go to my relatives in the north where you and the children can live from the yield of our little parcel of land there. I undertook this trip not only in the company’s interest, but also, and above all, in the interests of my fatherland.”
It reveals an attitude one generally doesn’t credit the Chinese with having, but it is there, and it is gaining ground, especially in the lower and middle classes.
3 OCTOBER
It’s said that people at the highest levels, especially Madame Chiang, have no great sympathy for
Germany, because we have concluded a pact with Japan against the Soviets and have refused to take part in the [Nine Power] Conference in Brussels, since we don’t want to sit at the same table with the Soviets.
He who is not for us is against us, Madame Chiang is reported to have said. And what about the German advisors? Who introduced the flak battalions and antiaircraft artillery that the Chinese are so proud of today? German advisors! Who trained the troops fighting so bravely near Shanghai, while untrained soldiers in the north are simply fleeing? German advisors! Who are staying at their posts in Nanking? German advisors and businessmen! From our perspective here, my countrymen are staying on in the capital at a considerable sacrifice, something the Chinese here in their own country simply do not appreciate.
I was just at the bazaar and for 80 dollars bought four suitcases in which I want to pack the 16 books I’ve written. Chow, our Chinese engineer, who will be coming back from Hankow in about two weeks, wants to take them back with him to Shanghai. Perhaps they can be stored more safely there than here.
Medicine is in short supply. The Tien Sun Apothecary was badly damaged by the blast from the most recent bombs and is closed. Every bottle on its shelves was broken. And it was the only shop that still had six bottles of insulin. Why didn’t I snap them up before the bombing began? Because I wanted to save money. What nonsense! We’re always wiser in hindsight! I am going to try to get 20 to 30 vials shipped from Shanghai. Let’s hope it works. Soon there won’t be a single shop open in Nanking. I just managed to scare up two bottles each of ether and alcohol, plus a package of cotton wadding, at a wine shop.
Trucks are arriving daily now full of those not too severely wounded, but what a sorry sight they are. They’re covered with filthy bandages and crusted with mud as if they have just come from the trenches. I’m glad we have Dr. Hirschberg with us here at least. His family is still here, too—they have returned, or perhaps they never left.
6 OCTOBER
Ambassador Trautmann was here for tea from 5 to 6 o’clock. We sat together for an hour and discussed the general situation. We are both in a rather pessimistic mood. The north is lost, and nothing will change that. The Chinese appear to regard Shanghai as the main theater of war because Shanghai protects Nanking. But for how long?
9 AND 10 OCTOBER
Rain, putting everyone in the best of moods. Sunday afternoon, just for a change of scenery, I went on board the Kutwoagain for coffee. There were only a few visitors. Dr. Rosen from the embassy has now become a permanent guest on board. In his own way, the man impresses me. He frankly admits that he is frightened by the bombardments and is acting accordingly. Not everyone can be as candid as that. I don’t love being shelled either; but I simply cannot bring myself to save my skin just yet.
13 OCTOBER
Scattered clouds and sunshine. The forecast for a very unsettling day. But it all took place at some distance. The alarm sounded at eight o’clock, but then was called off fifteen minutes later. At each alarm, a large number of poor neighbors—men, women, and children—all come running past my house, fleeing in the direction of Wutaishan Hill, where dugouts have been built into the slopes. What a wretched sight, I’m tired of just watching their torment, especially the women with little children in their arms. The crowd stormed past here three times today.
I’m experiencing some growth in my dugout, too. Mr. Sen and Mr. Fong, who both speak German, have been sent by their former branches to Nanking and are living close by, so that they take refuge here whenever the alarm sounds. Plus the two postmen who have always brought my mail are now among my permanent guests. I’ll soon not know where to put all these people. I’ve made no appearance in the dugout the last few days. Herr Riebe, a Siemens engineer sent here from Shanghai, came home ill today— dutzebuhau.2
14 OCTOBER
Radiant sunshine at 7 a.m.—splendid weather for flying! Herr Riebe is doing better, thank God, it was only an upset stomach, and is happily returning to work today, that is, to the electricity works in Hsiakwan.3
Herr Riebe has never seen Sun Yat-sen’s tomb, so I drive him out to see it. Good luck! The gates are surrounded by bamboo scaffolding draped with cloths. Even the old Ming grave is off limits. The entire memorial park is filled with military trucks, all of them empty but ready to go, because in each one sits a dozing Chinese driver. Word is that the marshal is living somewhere near the Great Pagoda. No one has ever resided in the Chia Hung Chang, the actual presidential palace, which has been painted black from top to bottom. Looks awful!
There’s a lot of talk about the Japanese using gas. An article in a local paper announced that the hospital here has determined that some Chinese soldiers who have been admitted are suffering from gas poisoning.
We’re all very worried about the possibility of a gas attack, because Nanking’s civilian population has not been issued gas masks. There have been some announcements about how you can protect yourself by soaking a cloth in vinegar or some other liquid and using it as a face mask, but that’s all just a poor makeshift that would be absolutely useless in a real emergency.
17 OCTOBER (FROM A LETTER)
People want to be taken so “dreadfully seriously,” and that’s not my way. I just happen to have an unfortunate talent for tripping people up with my so-called humor at the oddest moments.
I don’t mean to claim these are not serious times. They are serious; they are very serious and will probably get even worse. But how are you supposed to deal with all this dreadful seriousness? It seems to me by gathering up some last snatches of humor to defy fate’s absurdities. Which is why my prayer each morning and evening goes: “Dear God, watch over my family and my good humor; I’ll take care of the other incidentals myself.”
You want to know, I’m sure, what we are still doing here and what our lives are like. Well, let’s admit it: At such a time a man tries to behave decently and doesn’t want to leave in the lurch the employees under his charge, or the rest of his servants and their families, but to stand by them in word and deed. It’s the obvious thing to do really!
LATER
All the movie houses, most of the hotels, the majority of shops and apothecaries are closed. Impeccable order reigns in the streets. The military, the police, and civil defense do their duty modestly and correctly. Westerners— there aren’t that many left, among the Germans maybe 12 women and 60 men—are not harassed, on the contrary! People show amazing goodwill toward those of us still staying on here as their guests.
Rabe, with characteristic lack of pomposity, in plane-spotting gear
People are scrambling for a spot in my dugout! I really don’t know why. It simply has the reputation of being rock solid. When I built it I was figuring on 12 occupants at most. As things turned out once it was finished, I had badly miscalculated: There were 30 of us in all, and there we sat like sardines in a can.
Where do all these people come from? Very simple. Every “boy” has a wife, children, a father, mother, grandfather, and grandmother, and if he doesn’t, then he adopts some. A very profitable business, might I add! In addition, my neighbor, a cobbler with whom I had been feuding before the war because he always calculated a 20 percent “squeeze” into the price of his boots, had to be included, along with his family, after it turned out that he was one of my boy’s relatives. What could I do? I let them all in. I didn’t want to lose face!
Someone had placed an office chair in the little cellar for me; all the others squatted on low benches. It was perfectly clear to me that I had to join the others in the dugout, at least when bombs were falling too close and making too much racket, and as I sat there, and saw how the women and children were reassured simply by my poor presence, I knew that I had done the right thing in deciding to return as quickly as possible from Peitaiho.
If I were to write that I was not afraid, I’d be lying. When the dugout began to do some respectable shaking, a feeling came over me, too, that said, “Damn—we’ll be lucky to get out of here!” But fear is there to b
e conquered. A few cheerful words, a really rotten joke, grins all around—and the bombs had already lost much of their effect.
Women with nursing babies have priority in the dugout. They are allowed to take the seats in the middle; then come the women with bigger children, and then the men: an arrangement on which I always stubbornly insist, much to the amazement of the men.
Whenever there’s an increase in the number of bombs landing too close, everyone just sits there in the dugout, silent, mouths open. Women and children get wads of cotton for their ears. As soon as things calm down a bit, one hero after the other emerges from the cellar to have a look around. And how the Chinese applaud happily whenever an enemy bomber takes a hit from antiaircraft fire and plunges to the earth in a beautiful fiery arc. Only the funny, inscrutable “Master” is behaving strangely again. He silently touches the brim of his hat and mutters, “Hush! Three men are dying!”
18 OCTOBER
Herr Riebe spent the whole time standing beside his turbines at the electricity works, the silly ass! But he had only just got the machines running today and didn’t want to shut them down again. If the Japanese had really come any closer, he said, he would have taken cover of course. Yes indeed, my friend, if there’s still time!
19 OCTOBER
The Japanese really mean business today! Alarm at 2 a.m., and by the time I was pulling on my other boot, bombs were already falling, setting the whole house shaking. Riebe, however, was not to be disturbed, but went right on sleeping as if nothing was happening. Just as I shouted, “Hey there, Riebe! Second alarm!” a couple more bombs exploded, and our friend Riebe calmly replied, “Yes, I hear.”