And soon enough, one evening, the past engulfed her all at once. She was preparing for just her fifth dinner out with Ames when she cut herself shaving, the blood running freely from her calf. She was in the tub and instead of stepping out and blotting the wound with a tissue she propped her foot against the tiled wall and let it bleed, accelerating the flow with another quick gash, letting the blood stream past her knee to her thigh, the streaked pale limb fallen asleep and coldly tingling but still existing outside her sensation. It looked as if a wave of blood had washed over her leg but it was merely a surface current, and she was never in the remotest danger; the sight froze her, however, and although she heard the doorbell (her aunt was out of town) she didn’t stir, seeing only the bodies of Reverend Lum and his wife lying uncovered in the courtyard of the mission, a splotch of dark red that had spread over Mrs. Lum’s face the lone mark on the ground, light snow descending upon them. It was odd, for it was never an image of her parents, but rather of the Lums, which would always spark her mind.
She could hear Ames shouting up at the opened window of the bathroom, and when she didn’t answer right away he shouted again. He called her name and when she weakly responded with his he must have heard something wrong in her voice, for he pushed through the unlocked front door and bounded up the narrow stairs of the modest row house. He anxiously called and banged on the bathroom door, and when she didn’t answer he came right in, his eyes instantly drawn wide in horror at the dyed hue of the water, the smears of blood on the tiles, on the rim of the tub; her leg had slipped down below the surface. He instinctively grabbed her wrists and pulled them out of the water, but when he saw they were untouched he shook them in panic and cried: “Where is it? What have you done to yourself?”
She was listless from the still-hot water and feeling she could open her throat and disappear within it when Ames reached in and lifted her out in one swift movement. She glanced toward her feet and he quickly found the two tiny slits above her heel; he dressed them with bandages from the medicine cabinet. She was dripping and now cold, but when he knelt and covered her with a towel she bared herself and blotted his drenched suit jacket and trousers. He tried averting his eyes and kept asking what was wrong, but she felt him aroused underneath and hardly knowing what she was doing undid his belt and put him in her mouth. He said no but his face was bound up and he shuddered. In just a few minutes he was ready again and they lay down right there and it was then that blood came from her once more, the ruined towel beneath them like a shock of color in new snow.
The next day Ames proposed to her, something that he was planning anyway but which was certainly accelerated by what occurred, as well as by their assumption that she might be pregnant, which she was. They were married within the month. Yet she didn’t stay pregnant, nor could she remain so the next time, or the next. It was not his problem; she would become pregnant at least five times that they knew of, her body simply unable to nurture to term. The last time would be several years before they went to Korea, a three-month-old fetus with nothing obviously wrong with him, a devastating fact, though ultimately not as disturbing to him as was Sylvie’s demeanor afterward. She wasn’t inconsolable as she was the other times, even as those pregnancies were much shorter-lived, lasting barely a month, or two. This time after recovering from the extraction of the lifeless child Sylvie had simply showered and dressed and with hardly any despondency folded her hospital gown and placed it on the bed and silently waited for the nurse to come with the chair to wheel her out of the hospital. At their small home in Laurelhurst she left the nursery they had set up intact, which heartened Ames for a while, until he realized that she was slowly removing items from it, a book or picture, a stuffed toy or rattle, one piece at a time, until eventually the room was bare, save for the furniture and the crib. He blamed her, blamed her for the dire force her frailty and sexual abandon could have on him, and he more than she grew to be haunted by the idea that they had tainted themselves with the debased, confused desire of that first coupling. Out of anger or spite or desperation he began asking her about what had finally happened to her parents in Manchuria, as if he were sure that it was where the source of all her troubles might be found.
She refused to answer him. But was he right? Were they so easily derived? She didn’t think so, and yet who could dismiss the insistent push of those memories?
For it was too easy to recall how she and her parents had watched through the classroom window as the soldiers dragged the Lums’ bodies outside, her parents not shielding her from the sight. They were still in shock from the easy brutality of their deaths, Sylvie’s father perhaps most of all. After the Lums were left there, he had sat back down on the blanket with his head in his hands, her mother hotly whispering something to him in the roughhewn Provençal dialect they used when they wished to obscure their talk.
Sylvie could have gleaned the gist of their conversation if she had concentrated, as she had countless others over the years; she had never let on that she could understand them at all, not intending at first to deceive but rather, like any child, simply fascinated by the sound of her parents’ unrestrained engagements, whether it was joking or arguing or lovemaking. But Sylvie wasn’t listening now, or even trying to listen; she could not look away from the Lums. Her eyes were alive and working but as might a bright screen playing in a suddenly emptied theater. She had fled to somewhere inside herself, and was still running, and yet the horrid sight was strange in that they didn’t appear so terribly perturbed, in and of themselves, the Lums lying there almost peacefully in the gathering snowfall, the reverend’s hand accidentally come to drape upon his wife’s forehead, as though he were checking her temperature.
Her mother gasped, “You knew about him, Francis? My God!” with a fury Sylvie had never heard from her before. But they were done talking and her father stood up and took Sylvie in his arms and embraced her so tightly and suddenly that all the air in her chest was squeezed out, her vision near blurring. He smelled sharp with soured, dried sweat but she breathed him in as deeply as she could, burying her face in his thick brown hair. He was not a large man and she was nearly as tall as he but she felt like a little girl again in his grasp and without knowing it was coming she found herself breaking down all at once, sobbing and pressing her mouth against the smooth, curved bone behind his ear. She wasn’t afraid for her own life so much as stricken by the fear that she might not see one or both of them ever again. Her mother caressed her back. It was only the three of them in the classroom now. The officer and soldiers had taken away Benjamin Li, to interrogate him one last time. The Harrises, too, had been removed, forced back to consciousness with smelling salts and half-carried to their quarters in the corner of the compound, a sentry posted in front of their door. Through all their travels they were a constant trio, Sylvie schooled by them or by someone else (like Benjamin Li), the three of them slumbering together and eating together and often enough bathing together because of the usually meager supply of hot water-she would always picture their nakedness much more easily than her own-but now it seemed that they could never be close enough, that if it were possible she’d slip inside one of them and fill herself with their tears and their blood and become an indistinguishable plenitude.
And despite everything that had transpired, did she continue to wish the same in regard to Benjamin Li? Was it still possible that all of them could get past this wretched day? Her parents, she could see, might not have any feeling left for him, but they had shown him a lasting grace and Sylvie would lead them back to accepting him and convince them to plead for his life. For her father had been ever so right: Benjamin was not the cause of the situation; he had intended no one harm; he was nearly as much a victim of the cruelty as the Lums, perhaps equally so for the mountain of guilt he would forever have to shoulder. He was a gentle and lovely man and a dedicated teacher, and that he was a stalwart freedom fighter who could refuse under such horrid duress to divulge his secrets only painted him more valorously in her min
d. He was indeed a person of principle and it was why he would never take advantage of her desires, why he’d given his school medal to her instead and exhorted her only nobly, why she must wait patiently, until she knew herself to be less blatant and childish, before she could ever hope to attain a lasting, worthy love.
“Your mother and I need to talk to you now, sweetie,” her father said to her, cupping her cheek. “We may not have much time, so please just listen.”
“Why? What’s going to happen? We’re going to stay together, aren’t we?”
“We will try our best,” her father said, trying to smile at her now. “We’ll stay together as long as possible. To the last minute. But you must promise us that if you can get away safely, you’ll go. Whether it’s with us or with the Harrises or by yourself. You must not hesitate. You must not think twice. You cannot be concerned with anyone else. Including us.”
“What are you talking about?” she cried righteously, her face hot with a flush of angry fear. “How can you expect that of me, when all you’ve taught me was to put first the welfare of others? How could I possibly leave?”
“But you must, if you have the chance. Please. Your mother and I would never forgive ourselves…”
Sylvie shook her head, pushing away from him. “I’m sorry, Father, but after all the dangerous times over the years, you can’t ask this of me now. You just can’t! It’s too late.”
“It’s not too late,” her mother broke in, with her full-throated voice. She squeezed Sylvie’s hands with a fierce grip. “You’re going to get out of this, with or without us. Do you hear me, darling?”
She nodded. Her mother was twice as steadfast as she could ever hope to be and a certain gaze from her was enough to both diminish and exalt, often simultaneously. Her father might be the beacon, the light conveying them forth, but even now, amid even this, her mother was the great clarifier, the person who could always make her know her exact place, who could always show her what she must do, and for this reason hers was the picture Sylvie would behold brightest in her mind, this serene and beautiful figure, alabaster for flesh, marble-dust for blood.
“Say you do.”
“I do.”
“Say it again.”
“I hear you, I do!” she said miserably, new tears wetting her cheeks.
“Here, we’re going to give you these things,” her mother said. “Just to hold for now.” She took off her husband’s wedding band and put it on Sylvie’s finger, where it hung loose. She removed her own and fit it on top, the second ring a good, tight fit.
“We love you more than anything,” her mother murmured, kissing her brow, her cheeks, her messy nose and eyes.
“I know,” Sylvie answered, if not quite believing it was true. They loved her, yes, but the whole world was woeful, all the places they had been were so bereft, that no one could blame them for having to care for it equally or perhaps even more than for their own child. She should be more wise and serious and realize again the necessary scale of their devotions. How capacious their hearts truly needed to be. For only such would lead them now as it had before, as long as they were steadfast, the force of benevolence lighting the way. And wasn’t there some hope? The Harrises were injured, yes, but had walked away mostly under their own power; she and her parents were untouched; and while Benjamin was in grave danger, he must finally see now that there was no other way, he had witnessed the vile consequences and would relent, tell the officer whatever he wished to know.
The sudden report of footfalls made her mother grip Sylvie’s side with an urgent, pincering force. “Careful now,” she whispered in her ear. “Stay quiet.”
Before Sylvie could answer the officer entered. Three soldiers followed, pushing in Benjamin Li before them. He was still shackled. As far as she could tell he hadn’t been harmed further, and was even cleaned up, his swollen face swabbed clear of dried blood. She tried to catch his eye but he kept his head bowed, as though he were still deeply ashamed.
“It’s all right, Benjamin,” she cried out, not able to help herself, “we’ll be fine now!”
At that moment the officer’s lightless eyes met hers.
“Still this man refuses to answer my questions,” the officer said in the plainest, uninflected voice. “So it has led us to this.”
He spoke a few words gruffly in Japanese and there was an odd pause and then without warning one of the soldiers grabbed her mother by the hair, wrenching her up on her feet. A low, feral sound came from her father and he hurled himself at the soldier’s face with both hands. Her mother screamed, “Francis!” but it was too late; another soldier lunged at him from behind with his rifle, a dull glint of metal flashing in the lamplight. Her father groaned and fell. Sylvie scrambled to him, not sure where he was injured; then she felt a warmth emanating from his side. Her hand came away damp; he’d been stabbed just below the ribs. In the lamplight the blood stained her fingers dark, almost black. He was grimacing terribly, unable to speak, and he pulled her down to him. His face frightened her and she resisted but then she realized what he was doing, what he desperately did not want her to see.
The two soldiers were pushing her mother about, pulling off and tearing at her clothes as though they were flaying her, piece by piece, and Sylvie could hear her mother gasping, the rents of the fabric, the taunts of the soldiers.
The officer had forced up Benjamin Li’s bowed head by the chin, to make him watch.
“Don’t!” Benjamin said, his eyes closed. “Don’t do this.”
“Speak!” the officer cursed at him. “Speak now!”
But Benjamin shook his head, hoarsely crying out as though it were his own mother or sister before him. By now they had stripped Jane Binet naked. The officer repeated his demand but Benjamin wouldn’t comply, tightly shutting his eyes. He was shuddering and weeping. He had crumpled to his knees, scraping his face against the rough, splintered boards of the floor. On the officer’s command one of the soldiers dragged Benjamin to Jane as she was held down by the others and shoved him on her, making him kiss her on the mouth and the neck and the belly and down below. Then they forced them to copulate. They kicked him when he balked, but when that did no good they began kicking her instead, until he finally assented. His grunts were low and fitful; there were no longer any sounds from her. The soldiers were deriding him and laughing and when he couldn’t seem to finish the large soldier with the thick neck hurled Benjamin aside and threw himself on top of her. Benjamin ended up a few feet away, suffering a few more kicks in the groin and chest before lying in a curled heap, weakly coughing up blood. When the big soldier was done the other two began bickering for their turn but the officer silenced them with a sharp order.
It was only at that point that Sylvie was able to glance up. She herself was breathless, shaking, her own throat as if throttled by a pair of invisible hands. Her mother gathered her ruined clothes and began dressing. She did so without looking at anyone. She simply threaded her arm through the torn sleeve of her blouse and then crawled back over to Sylvie and Francis, immediately checking her husband for his wounds. He tried to embrace her but he had no strength.
She rolled her coat and gently laid it beneath his head.
“I’m so sorry, darling,” her father said, hardly audible for how weak he was. Tears were streaming down his face. The color seemed drained from his cheeks, his lips. “Will you forgive me? Please?”
“Stay quiet now,” she said, wiping his eyes. “Don’t try to move. You’re bleeding too much.”
“I don’t care,” he said. “I only care about you and Sylvie.”
“We know that,” she said. “Just stay still.”
“I love you so much, Jane,” he said.
“We love you.”
“Please say you do,” he said. “Please.”
“I love you.”
He was going to answer but his breathing suddenly became labored, his torso heaving hard upward, once, twice, and then down. Her mother was crying. Sylvie kissed his temp
le and there was warmth. He was still alive. She kissed him again and it was the same. It was over now. She felt a hand on her neck, slightly rough, as if her mother had instantly, terribly aged, and for an instant she leaned her cheek into it before she horridly realized it was the hand of the young officer, his short, narrow fingers chapped and scarred.
“Get up,” he said to her.
But it was Jane Binet who rose instead, her expression strangely icy and dispassionate, only her hands leaping out in fury at his holstered revolver. For a moment she had it in her grasp before he wrested it from her, striking her in the ear with its grip. But she did not pause and came at him and he shot her twice in the chest. After she fell to the floor he shot her again. The officer pulled Sylvie from her father’s side and dragged her toward Benjamin Li. She was too frightened to resist, or even move; her mind was bounding but in place, disconnected from her limbs. Everything came to her through the small end of a spyglass. When he shoved up her skirt she heard her own meager voice, blunted as if through a cold horn, calling out for her mother, for her father, even as she knew neither would answer.
The officer was now shouting, though not at her; he had Benjamin by the throat. He was shouting thunderously at him, lividly, if almost wearily, as if he himself were finally sick of the torment.
“You are a worthless human being! Do you hear me? Less than that! Not even a rat! A piece of dung! You are nothing! You will make no difference! You will not be remembered!”
He thrust him toward Sylvie, making him eye her nakedness. “You wish to see what will happen to her now? You wish to, yes? Is that it?”
Benjamin was shaking his head, crying something over and over to himself, his eyes now tightly shut.
“Tell me who they are!”
Benjamin curled up in a ball, as though he were trying to make himself disappear.
“Ahhh!” the officer cried. He kicked him in frustration. Then he gave an order to the soldiers and two of them held Benjamin down so that he couldn’t move. The officer kneeled over him and took a straight razor from his back pocket. He unsheathed it and worked quickly. Benjamin was groaning, guffawing; then he began to scream. When the officer stepped back Benjamin’s eyes were bloodied; they looked as if they had been gouged out. But the officer roughly wiped them with his sleeve and it was clear what he had done: he had cut away only the eyelids. The eyes themselves were intact, the orbs monstrous, for being so exposed. His was a fleshy skull. They retied his hands so that they were secured behind his back.
The Surrendered Page 23