by Lilian Lee
She felt a vague but comforting awareness of a masculine presence.
"Mr. Uno sent me to see how you were feeling."
Yoshiko managed a faint smile as she tried to prop up her sagging spirits.
"It's really not that serious," she said.
The aide took out a velvet-covered box, which opened to reveal a necklace of astounding beauty. Shaped like a phoenix, it was set with nearly a thousand diamonds of every shape and size. It seemed to be spreading its wings to fly. It was an exquisite piece, and priceless.
"Please accept this small token of Mr. Uno's friendship, Commander Chin."
Pleasure and excitement filled Yoshiko's face as she stroked the necklace. There was a reward for her suffering, after all.
The aide was still speaking, blandly conveying his superior's messages.
"Mr. Uno says he hopes that you will get some rest so that you can make a full recovery from your injuries. You mustn't worry about your work—it can be handed over to others. The most important thing is for you to rest. Please do not worry. Your duties are in good hands, and you may rest assured everything will be fine without you."
He spoke very politely, as if he were only concerned for her welfare, but he was too polite. As Yoshiko listened, her expression gradually changed, ever so subtly. The smile never left her face, for she was good at hiding her feelings, but she went pale. The implications of Uno's message were all too clear. This was the prelude to being shut out of power entirely. Shunkichi Uno thought she was a burden, did he? He'd decided she had outlived her usefulness, had he? After she helped them found Manchukuo, by spreading propaganda, giving out bribes, putting the squeeze on politicians, spying, and bringing the populace to heel, was this how they showed their gratitude? Were they unwilling to forgive her even one tiny slip? It would have been much more convenient for them if that bullet had killed her. But she lived.
She was an aristocrat, a princess, a member of the Ching imperial family, who fought bravely for their common cause. The founding of Manchukuo was the fruit of her labors; but now that Manchukuo was secure, was she to be forgotten? Were her dreams of grandeur to be stripped from her?
She couldn't believe life was so cruel; but even if it was, she refused to be daunted. She would fight until the bitter end. Nobody could just use her up and spit her out. She wouldn't permit it!
Her smiling face still brimmed with excitement.
"Please tell Daddy 'thank you' for me!"
Uno's aide took his leave.
Yoshiko regarded the ice-cold phoenix. It was just a bunch of dirt and rocks, she reflected. Things were only as valuable as people thought they were, diamonds included. She was still worth something, she thought defiantly.
The shadows of night slowly gathered, encroaching bit by bit on the snowy whiteness of Yoshiko's hospital room. There was something lonely and empty, and a bit melancholy, about all that white; but as the shadows invaded it, Yoshiko burst into uncontrollable tears. It wasn't fair! It was all that sniper's fault! She despised him!
Life was cruel, but she would beat it at its own game!
When the tree falls, the monkeys scatter—so the old saying goes. And if you cut off the head, the rest of the body dies with it. Yoshiko wanted to get to the bottom of the plot against her—she wanted the ringleader.
Her wound still wasn't healed, and she needed daily injections of morphine for the pain, but her thirst for revenge drove her on. She sat in the dank underground prison, eyes glowering and jaw clenched, personally interrogating each day's fresh batch of suspects. Most of them served under her as pacification troops, and one by one they were rounded up and brought in. Anguished shrieks and moans reached Yoshiko's ears from time to time, like the cries of the damned suffering the torments of hell. The prisoners were all guilty until proven innocent, but the ones whom the jailers hated the most, the ones who would rather die than submit, were members of the anti-Japanese resistance. Their captors devised many different ways of dealing with their stubbornness.
They used awls and needles to turn prisoners into men of blood, and if their victim happened to glare back at them or curse them, they poked out the offending eyes so that the blood gushing from those empty sockets covered the victim's entire face. This only made the torturers laugh. Sometimes they took red-hot irons, which, when dipped into buckets of water, made such loud hissing and billowing clouds of steam that the victims were frozen with terror. Then the interrogators laid these irons on their victim's chests; the cooked flesh gave off a foul odor. They hung the more difficult prisoners from the walls by their thumbs and left them there to die.
Or the torturers might make a strong solution of chilies mixed with water and force it into a prisoner's mouth and nose. The peppers were so hot that the man's face grew red and swollen, and blood oozed out of his ears and mouth. They liked to pour water down a man's throat until the skin of his belly was as tight as a drum, but they didn't stop there. They just kept on pumping it in until he swelled up like a big balloon; and when they could force no more water in, the interrogators stepped onto the victim's belly, killing him instantly as water gushed from every orifice.
Even the toughest prisoner couldn't hold up when he lay on his back with his body roped tightly to one wooden stool and his feet tied to another stool, while they placed a brick on his knees every time he refused to answer a question. They loaded on the bricks until the man's joints bowed backward under the weight, making a gut-wrenching crack.
They also lashed their captives with bullwhips, hung them from their heels, put them on the rack, drew their blood, injected them with air, stuck thin strips of bamboo under their fingernails, shone blinding lights into their eyes, or slowly hacked them to bits, one piece at a time, as they lay helpless and unable to move. This was the price of resistance.
The Kwantung Army had been carrying out the day's round of tortures for some time when Yoshiko arrived at the prison, eager to confront her would-be assassin and exact her revenge.
He was a young man, in his twenties, with strong eyebrows, large eyes, and thick lips that gave him a somewhat idiotic expression. Closer inspection revealed that the torturer's art had thickened his lips. He was covered with blood, but when he still refused to speak, a pair of wardens held him down and pried open his mouth while a third took a file and began to grind down his teeth. Each stroke sent a shock through his skull, and his whole body shuddered.
The very sight of him sent Yoshiko into a rage, and she grabbed him roughly with one hand. The motion was too hard and fast for her unhealed wound, and searing pain made her break into a cold sweat.
"Who put you up to it?" she demanded harshly.
He didn't respond and tried to turn his head away, but she wasn't going to let him off.
"Speak! How many are there in your organization?"
The man's teeth dangled loose in his gums, swimming in a sea of blood. He refused to look at her, and she shook him furiously.
"I'm in control here—so don't think that I won't find out who they are!" she shrieked hysterically. "Every one of my pacification troops will be interrogated—all five thousand of them, one man at a time—until I find the others. If you refuse to talk, the blood of many innocent men will be on your hands. Tomorrow—"
She was cut short by a huge, bloody gob of spit. The rotten, slimy mixture of blood, saliva, and chunks of teeth struck her squarely in the face. His features were no longer recognizable, but he was still human, and he knew that he did not have long to live, so he bravely plunged on, cursing her:
"I'd rather die than tell you anything! The people of China spit on you! Traitor! Whore!" He could barely speak, but she heard every word loud and clear as he unleashed a torrent of abuse. "You'll die like a dog!"
Shaking with fury, the veins on her temples throbbing with each rasping breath she took, Yoshiko snatched up a red-hot poker and, without a moment's hesitation, thrust it straight into the man's mouth and ground it from side to side in a frenzy. He died instantly.
"I owe you one, you bastard!" she screeched as she pulled out her pistol. She fired wildly all around her, and the bullets whizzed into the prison, popping and spitting like a raging flame. Prisoners fell left and right, struck down by this wanton barrage. Her gun was empty, but she was still filled with rage.
She hadn't slept well in nearly a month. Nerves on edge, she was constantly on guard against other conspiracies. Lying awake at night, she stared up at the ceiling. The tiniest sound made her sit bolt upright in bed and fire her gun at the wall. There were bullet holes everywhere.
She finally left Jehol and went back to Japan to recuperate, although it was just as good as being under house arrest.
Meanwhile, the Japanese Army was tightening its stranglehold on China. Setting out from its base in Manchuria, it marched across North China, occupying one place at a time, establishing racial-quarantine areas where the conquered people could be watched and controlled. Resistance against Japan was a contagion—its spread had to be stopped.
There were militiamen, military police, spies, and traitors everywhere, and they arrested and murdered people as they pleased. During this reign of terror, famous people were kidnapped, and ordinary folk simply kept quiet. The Nationalist government did not put up a fight, and many good men were dragged off to be tortured to death as a result. Women in the city and countryside were raped, often gang-raped. Later, they would be found, with their clothing torn, their breasts cut off, their bellies sliced open, and their vaginas stuffed with wood, bamboo poles, or wadded-up newspaper.
Young patriots, many of them students, marched in the pouring rain, carrying their protest to the streets and alleys of China.
"Down with Japanese militarism!"
"Invaders go home!"
"Down with Manchukuo! Down with Japan!"
"Boycott Japanese goods!"
"Down with stinking spies and traitors!"
"Oppose the policy of Nonresistance!"
"Chinese people unite!"
"Give us back our countrymen! Give us back our country!"
"Debts of blood must be repaid in blood!"
The marchers were like a mighty sea, surging and cresting. They were the indomitable soul of the Chinese nation. No rain, no matter how torrential, could quench the fires that burned in these people's hearts.
United in spirit, they endured the shame of occupation and oppression. Many hot-blooded idealists lost their jobs and left their homes and families to join the resistance. Until they had a country, they couldn't really say they had homes. And what was one life, compared to the fate of an entire nation? They were prepared to lay down their lives at a moment's notice.
In the middle of the throng of demonstrators, proudly scrubbed clean of his greasepaint, was Yun Kai. Onstage, he was the center of attention, commanding all that he surveyed; but swept up in this mighty current, he was only one of many staunch patriots. He had no regrets.
One night, in a dark corner of the opera company's tent, a dozen or so shadowy figures huddled together in the darkness. Somebody had angrily drawn a big X across an official portrait of Yoshiko Kawashima and Shunkichi Uno.
A map lay to one side. It was a floor plan of a restaurant called Tung-hsing Lou.
17
After three years in Japan, Yoshiko had returned to China, this time making Tientsin her base of operations. Not far from Peking, Tientsin was an important military and diplomatic center. It was also a very prosperous city, and in the Japanese concession, on Matsushima Road, there stood a splendid and imposing building that housed an elegant Chinese restaurant: Tung-hsing Lou.
Shunkichi Uno provided this place for Yoshiko. But it was not just a place for her—it also served as a gathering place for the various soldiers, irregulars, and bullyboys of the all but defunct Pacification Army. That pseudo-army was as good as disbanded, but Yoshiko clung stubbornly to the now empty title of "commander in chief—it was just about all she had left. Her subordinates couldn't go home because anti-Japanese feeling was at a fever pitch, and they sought refuge and a few bowls of rice at her place. They had nowhere else to go.
Today, a festive atmosphere filled the restaurant—in sharp contrast to the rest of China, where the streets ran with blood. Half of the country was already in enemy hands, and Japan was poised to deliver the fatal blow.
Meanwhile, Pu-yi temporarily left behind the illusory glory of his Manchukuo court and paid a visit to Japan, sailing from Dairen on a Japanese ship. In Tokyo, he paid his respects to the emperor Hirohito, and together they reviewed the troops and worshiped at the Meiji Shrine. Puffed up with false pride, the "emperor" Pu-yi issued a sycophantic decree called the "Returning Emperor's Edict to His Obedient People" as soon as he returned to Hsinching. Everyone in Manchukuo—old and young, rich and poor—was summoned to meetings held in public places of all kinds: schools, military barracks, and government offices. There, everyone had to memorize the edict as a demonstration of goodwill and respect for Japan.
All over the Northeast, Pu-yi installed Shinto shrines in which he placed relics like the ones he brought back from Japan—a sword, a brass mirror, and a jade hook. Services were held at the appropriate times, and he further decreed that whenever anyone passed by the front of such a temple, he must bow no fewer than ninety times.
The edict was the emperor's in name only—the real author of this decree was a Kwantung Army staff officer, Pu-yi's puppeteer, Yasunori Yoshioka, officially a royal adviser.
Yoshioka was speaking slowly to Pu-yi, a false smile pasted on his face.
"Japan is like Your Majesty's father, you see? And the Kwantung Army is Japan's representative here. So you see, the commander of the Kwantung Army is also Your Majesty's father, isn't he?"
Japanese troops poured across Manchukuo and North China, heading straight toward their goals: Peking, Shanghai, and Nanking. The status of the puppet emperor of Manchukuo slipped ever lower, until he found himself a mere "child" in the political arena. Even his own personal weapons were confiscated.
Pu-yi's younger brother, Pu-chieh, submitted to military orders and married Hiro Saga, the daughter of Duke Masaru Saga, in Tokyo, and the Japanese issued a decree based on the laws of imperial succession:
Should the emperor die, he would be succeeded by his son. If he should die without sons, then he should be succeeded by his grandson. Should there be no living sons or grandsons, then his younger brother should succeed him. However, if his younger brother does not survive him, then his younger brother's son would succeed.
The Kwantung Army wanted an emperor with Japanese blood, but in the event that Pu-yi had a son, he would be sent to Japan to be raised by militarists. These facts remained hidden from Pu-yi behind the smiling faces of his Japanese advisers.
Tung-hsing Lou was an impressive restaurant indeed, and like a duplicitously smiling face, it welcomed the puppet commander Chin Pi-hui. Nobody could accuse the Kwantung Army of treating her badly.
The magnificent restaurant was festooned with flowers: garlands, wreaths, and baskets brimming with flowers. A huge red banner over the front door read closed for owner's birthday banquet. In addition to the main dining room, there were private rooms upstairs and open-air gazebos in the garden. Today, the main dining room was set up for a big birthday party.
Yoshiko appeared to put the finishing touches on the preparations. She still often liked to dress in men's clothing. Today, she wore a long gray robe of silk and linen embroidered with clouds and with the character for "Long Life" woven in. Over this, she wore a tunic. Coupled with these, the ivory folding fan she held in one hand made her a portrait in gray and white, which was set off by the intense black of her eyes and brows and the crimson of her lipstick. Her makeup came across as overly the
atrical and somewhat tawdry; but even with her overdone makeup, she still looked unfinished. Something was missing—something indefinable.
Before any of the guests arrived, an intriguing package was delivered, and Yoshiko's secretary Chizuko signed for it. After lifting the contents out of their box, she pushed aside the cloth draped over it, revealing a brightly polished silver plaque inscribed with the words happy birthday yoshiko kawashima,
FROM COMMANDER SHUNKICHI UNO, NORTH CHINA EXPEDITIONARY FORCE.
"Miss Yoshiko," Chizuko reported, "the silver plaque has arrived."
"Is it engraved as I ordered?"
"Yes, miss. The inscription says that it is a gift from Mr. Uno."
"Good. Please display it in the center of the main hall so that everyone can see it!"
Chizuko nodded discreetly.
"When Mr. Uno shows up," Yoshiko reminded her, "let me know right away!"