by Doug Allyn
After a short stay, a stay too short considering the length of the journey, they part in the knowledge that this is the last time they will ever see each other. They put a cheerful face on it, not to depress the other one, of course. It’s the way you leave life that matters. After all, none of us could help the way we came in. In the meantime, they urge each other, remember to keep in touch.
One day my mother received a letter from her old friend Frau Josefa Hsueh. Under the attempt at euphemism, in her stilted Germanic English, old Frau Hsueh was “preparing to go.” Before she went, she would love to see someone, anyone, to remind her of some of the old days.
My mother, in her turn, wrote to me, beginning her letter with the ritual formula the circumstances required, “Old Frau Josefa Hsueh is about to prescribe you long life...” Having got the ritual part over, Mother asked me to visit the old lady. I was always gadding about on the Continent and heaven knows where else, she wrote. Instead of wasting my time and money on such idle pursuits, why not visit old Frau Hsueh. Such an act would be written down for me in the world to come (while my mother is neither modern nor trendy, her theology is remarkable).
I wrote back and said my holidays weren’t for some time, as she well knew.
Mother wrote back and said she had already taken the precaution of sending the dates of my vacation to Frau Hsueh, when she was “most likely” to expect me. Would I please, please remember, continued Mother, how we had done things in the old days. Get a really nice basket, not one of those plastic carriers with the name of a supermarket chain printed in ugly letters over it, and fill it with goodies. Cover the basket with a nice cloth, perhaps something in Irish linen. Frau Hsueh is very poor, Mother concluded, please don’t skimp on the size of the basket. Go to a good continental delicatessen in your own area and explain what it is for. If the proprietor comes from the Continent, Mother wrote pointedly, everything will be fresh and of the best quality for such a purpose, never mind what they sell to everyone else.
In my sarcastic reply I wrote that I had no doubt there was a delicatessen not far from Frau Hsueh where I could buy the nicest things. My German wasn’t all that good, but it would stretch to shopping for food. Germany is a rich country these days, I pointed out, and I was sure the goodies there equalled those in my corner shop, run by a lovely Indian family with preconceptions about our diet that antedated the Raj.
My mother’s reply was both anguished and angry.
It seems, she wrote to me, that I had forgotten the good old ways after all. To bring food to Frau Hsueh from her own corner shop was mere charity. To prepare the gifts before one left on one’s journey, to wrap each item individually, to pack them in a beautiful container, was to demonstrate care and forethought towards an old friend. And, for heaven’s sake, no duty-free label on the cognac. Finally, don’t forget Frau Hsueh’s initials on the tablecloth, napkins, and towels, which she hoped weren’t to be purchased at a sale.
I set off sure that I looked like Little Red Riding Hood. Security men at airports gave me that extra frisk. Airline stewardesses raised their elegantly pencilled eyebrows to indicate what they thought of my hand luggage. A youthful German customs officer tried to chalk a mark on the basket, gave up, laughed, and said, “You are come from dem old days, nein?”
In the event, like Little Red Riding Hood, I arrived too late. The coffin was already in a side room of the cemetery chapel. In accordance with the ecumenical spirit of our times, or mere functionalism, it served for Catholics and Protestants alike.
A youthful Herr Pastor, who looked as if he had been a village baker and joined the church when a conglomerate had taken over supplying bread, shook my hand in a friendly manner. I was taken aback. In Tientsin, Lutheran ministers and missionaries, believing in the word becoming flesh, were an aloof lot, concentrating on the power of their words. The later commissars of the Eighth Route Army had been like that. But Herr Pastor Weber was as friendly as the English missionaries I had once known; he held me by the hand and elbow and told me that the news of my impending arrival had given great comfort to the old lady. Fortunately, Herr Adolf (here he lowered his voice and said he was afraid that name had been rather common then) Fleischmann had arrived before she died. That, too, he said, had been a great consolation to her. Herr Pastor insisted that I should call him David, as he knew that in English-speaking countries everyone used first names. So much friendlier than the old German ways. Next I was introduced to Adolf, who didn’t seem to enjoy being addressed so familiarly. He wore the sort of look that said, “Don’t drop dead in front of me. I’ve got other things to do than call the undertaker.” However, he recognised my surname and condescended to state he had seen it in Tientsin.
In the equally ecumenical chapel Herr Pastor in his address said that whilst there was no family, two very old friends had journeyed a long way to be present. This led to us being treated as chief mourners. Herr Pastor led us to the grave, Fleischmann and I in front of those in attendance, mostly very old people.
Fleischmann stood naturally impassive as Herr Pastor performed the graveside ceremony. Two shovels stuck out of the earth, one on each side of the open grave. He and I motioned to each other to throw the first clod of earth, and when he said, “You are a guest in our country,” I went first.
The rest shovelled a clod of earth and shook hands with Fleischmann and me, offering their condolences, as if we were closely related to the departed. Fleischmann tried to look as if it was no concern of his, but after the third or fourth handshake his mouth set in a firm line.
All those who had shaken hands with us walked away. Herr Pastor motioned Fleischmann and myself to stay, “It is our custom for the family to stay behind. Perhaps you will act as her family and utter your farewells.” Fleischmann shook his head, indicating he had nothing to say, and gestured at me, as if to signal that I was more likely to say something. I cursed him mentally, and stretched my German to its uttermost limits with the trite hope that the earth would be as soft as a pillow under her head.
Herr Pastor invited us back for coffee. I was still clutching my luggage, including the basket, and when we got to his house, offered to open it up. We had the usual argy-bargy as they refused and I insisted, opening the cognac and pate.
“I knew Frau Hsueh had a great tragedy in her life,” said Herr Pastor, “but she never spoke of it. Perhaps one of you...”
Fleischmann had already tossed off his cognac. I poured him another one. For the first time I was aware of a prolonged nervous tic. He raised his head, inclined it to one shoulder, and then moved it to the other shoulder in a long arc. An uncle of mine who had been beaten by Japanese soldiers occasionally did this when under stress. “This gentleman,” said Fleischmann, breathing in deeply as if to stop himself from stammering, “has travelled farther than I have. Perhaps he knows more. I should like the pâté.”
Since my childhood, in fact, virtually since I began to learn English, I have always been a great fan of the crime novel. With all due respect to the authors of the Haliburton Readers, it is Edgar Wallace and Leslie Charteris I have always considered my English teachers. It was probably the reason why I had always wanted to see England. I visualised every country lane concealing a body, every cathedral city at least one murderer. As for London, it must be full of murderees, though I was to discover, to my chagrin, the word did not exist.
Alas, there weren’t any murders in Tientsin. We had war and revolution, we lived through civil wars, but a real murder, in the English style, there was not for a long time.
As usual, when it happened, it was too close to home.
The Hsuehs had been our neighbours when we lived in the former German concession. The German concession had reverted to the Chinese authorities as long ago as the end of the First World War, but everyone still referred to it as the German concession.
Josefa Hoffman, as she had been on arrival, came from Germany to join the German Lutheran Mission and married a Chinese convert, Mr. Hsueh. They had one daughter, M
arianne.
Like so many mixed-race girls, Marianne took your breath away. She inherited an olive skin, high cheekbones, long straight jet-black hair from her father. From her mother, she inherited a curvaceous figure. She could dress in both European and Chinese clothes and be taken as easily for one as for the other. Her German and her Chinese were fluent, as was her English.
At school she was a bit of a tomboy, but her mother said this was high spirits, and if she had been a boy, nobody would say anything.
She began going out with boys at fourteen or fifteen, but Frau Hsueh claimed her daughter was a serious girl and “senior” boys stimulated her school work. True, she did well at school.
As soon as Marianne left school and went to work, she got in with a fast crowd. People tittle-tattled to Frau Hsueh, but she said Marianne was a loyal girl and not one to shun people just because they were in trouble occasionally.
Once Marianne was brought home after an opium party, but Frau Hsueh said she was feverish and put her to bed with an aspirin.
Everyone said Marianne would come to a bad end, and it was such a pity because she came from a good family and was such a lovely-looking girl.
Mr. Hsueh and his wife visited us often, but after she left school, Marianne stopped coming. I suppose we were very boring for someone like her. Even our cafes didn’t seem to draw her. Her favourite place was Maxim’s, our top nightclub, and the Jai Alai Club, which was notorious. She was always with a large crowd.
Mrs. Vogelmann first came to us with the news that Marianne Hsueh had been murdered. My mother was shaken at first, and then asked if she was sure. Mrs. Vogelmann had got hold of the wrong end of the stick often enough before. Mrs. Vogelmann said she had no doubt. Hadn’t everyone said Marianne would come to a bad end? Mother ordered a trishaw. Telephones were a rarity in those days.
Mother came back in a state of considerable shock.
It wasn’t Marianne who had been murdered.
Marianne was charged with murder.
The trial purported to establish that Marianne had had an affair with a married man. His wife had refused to grant him a divorce. So he and Marianne murdered his wife, rolled up her body in a carpet, and asked a friend to store it in his attic till they had made arrangements to have it removed. This was not an unusual request. Tientsin is a famous carpet-manufacturing centre (they are sold under the name Tientsin carpets all over the world). It wasn’t unusual to buy a carpet, have it rolled up in heavy-duty paper or cloth, and ask someone to store it because one wished to surprise a wife or anyone else for a birthday or anniversary.
Unfortunately for the conspirators, there had been a hot spell. The carpet gave out an odour... the friend tried to get in touch with the two, as it wasn’t being collected as arranged. Neither was to be found. In fact, both had gone to the seaside, proclaiming that his wife had returned home. The odour grew worse. The friend undid the carpet... and called the police.
The lovers were sentenced to life imprisonment.
Mr. Hsueh had a stroke that paralysed him completely. Frau Hsueh nursed him, looked after the shop, and visited Marianne. The prison was far from the foreign concessions. Mr. Hsueh died and Mrs. Hsueh gave up the shop. She was no longer the bubbly hausfrau she had been. Her voice grew shrill, her movements jerky and nervous, her eyes wild. She would frequently open her eyes wide in horror and then shut them again for a few seconds before opening them wide again. “I would like to go back to that moment when... when... and cut it out of time... you know what I mean.” For the first time I realised that what crime writers do not tell you in their lighthearted entertainment is the havoc murder leaves behind in the lives of the innocent. Mother, incidentally, swept all crime books out of the house, nor were we permitted to discuss the case, under the severest penalties. Newspapers were banned from the house till the trial was over and sentence passed.
Mrs. Hsueh went to visit her daughter as often as she could. She would stop at our place on her way to the prison, never on the way back. She saved every penny she could to take food to her daughter as well as money to bribe the warders to ease Marianne’s miserable condition.
When the Communists arrived, one of their first concerns was, obviously, social reform. They began by sweeping beggars off the streets into camps, where they were to be taught a trade. Some of the beggars escaped, for as far as they were concerned, begging was their trade. They knew how to make sores appear on their legs, how to keep an arm or leg hidden out of sight. If you grow up in the Orient, you must learn to distinguish genuine poverty from the professional variety. It took two or three tries before the beggars realised their ancient trade was over and done with. After beggars came the reform of the criminal population, starting with those serving sentences.
Frau Hsueh still brought us news of Marianne. First, that she was to be reeducated, which made her mother apprehensive. The apprehension gave way to gratitude, then delight. How wrong everybody had been about Communists, Frau Hsueh used to exclaim, clasping her hands before her in deep emotion. She was writing to the Lutheran authorities in Germany to commend Communist reeducation.
A little time passed and Frau Hsueh became very quiet, very passive again. Marianne had been a trusted prisoner. Then a member of the prison council supervising the reeducation of fellow prisoners. Finally, she came out on parole and went to live with the prison governor. There was no word of her former lover.
The day came when Frau Hsueh confided to Mother that her daughter no longer needed her. She would return to Germany. Thank heavens, despite her marriage, she had retained her German passport. The Lutheran church had offered to pay her fares and find her a place in an old people’s home.
By that time we were used to poignant farewells. Nevertheless, Mother insisted on all formalities being strictly observed. We all had to dress up to show respect. I had to wear a tie. Money was tight, but Mother gave her a farewell tea. At the end of the tea, out came the inevitable bottle of cognac. We drank to Frau Hsueh’s health and Mother summoned up her German to say she hoped the journey would be as smooth as a tablecloth, an old bit of Siberian idiom. For anyone from Russia, there should have been the inevitable sitting down and then the accompanying to the end of the street. Frau Hsueh was a German Protestant. Convention dictated that she should be farewelled according to the custom of her kind. Father had been sent to school briefly in Leipzig, but could not remember any peculiarly German method of saying goodbye. My mother gave him the inevitable lecture that there was no point in knowing other people’s languages if one wasn’t acquainted with their customs as well. When in doubt, Mother created her own. Anyone starting a new religion would do well to invite her to sit on its committee for inventing traditional rituals.
From her friend the baroness, who had suddenly become Citizeness Kursel, she acquired a German Bible. Mr. Paradissis of the Tientsin Bookshop yielded a portrait of Martin Luther, which was framed. Both were gift-wrapped in ribbon which the baroness assured Mother were Germany’s national colours. These were presented to Frau Hsueh at the moment of leaving us, together with the inevitable gift of food from Mother, in case the ship bearing her foundered on a desert island.
After Frau Hsueh left, my mother sat down and howled. This was quite a sight for us. We had always considered Mother made of cast iron. I only discovered later that she already knew I was headed for internment, and for internees there was neither reeducation nor parole.
The food and cognac was gone.
Adolf Fleischmann turned to me, “You began by saying you enjoyed crime novels.”
“Yes,” I said.
“They don’t seem to have sharpened your wits,” he said. His head was moving round and from side to side. I thought he would have a paroxysm.
“In what way?” I asked.
“There is something wrong with your story,” he said. Actually what he said was, “Zer iss ssomessink wrong mit your history.”
I looked at him uncomprehending.
Herr Pastor said, “I, too, lik
e criminal romances.”
Both looked at me as if I was not very intelligent. Fleischmann half rose from his chair. “Did you know the parties concerned?”
“Well, I knew Marianne,” I said.
“But not even the name of the person who unwrapped the carpet and who must have been an important witness at the trial...”
“Like I told you, Mother forbade any newspapers in the house at the time.”
“Or the lover’s name?”
“Look, this was thirty-five years ago,” I said.
“Let me give you another scenario. Marianne has a lover. He murders his wife for whatever reason. Or she has an accident and he knows nobody will believe him innocent.”
“Yeee...s.”
“He goes to Marianne and says, T did it for you.’ Frau Hsueh had told you Marianne was a... loyal girl? You thought that’s just a mother talking about her daughter. But if Marianne was loyal to her friends...”
“She became a Communist official when it suited her,” I said hotly, watching his head go from side to side in a nervous frenzy.
“Or because she felt the need to evince loyalty. People had failed her, why not a cause!” I felt he was running ahead of himself.
“Or because she wanted to help someone,” said Herr Pastor quietly. “It was very sad here, too.”
“Go on,” I said, ignoring the pastor’s intervention.
“So she arranges for one of her other friends... she had a very wide circle of friends, to employ a euphemism... in your English language also there are many euphemisms... so, she arranges for a friend or lover to dispose of the body. The other lover discovers he is not the only man in her life. She has gone to Tsing Tao for the hot weather...”
“Where’s your evidence?” I challenged him, the usual response from someone caught out with the wrong story.
“Unlike you, I knew the parties. I knew all the parties.”
The movements of his head subsided. He drained at an empty glass nervously, put it down irritably, and rose, first offering a hand to the pastor. He seemed to recollect something, reached into his pocket and handed him a cheque. “This should pay for a headstone. There will be arrangements for flowers.”