by Sandi Tan
The planes whizzed by and we were given a moment’s reprieve. Frantic civilians emerged from nearby buildings to push by me, hundreds of them, racing toward the city’s colonial core with nothing but the clothes on their backs. The poor frightened souls; they still believed the Brits could save them.
And it was on the backs of these terrified runners that I saw the dark shadows announcing the reemergence of both planes.
This time, the gunman on the roof got what he wanted. The first plane came for him. Having run out of bullets, the rebel stood fast, screaming taunts. The jet responded with a torrent of its own. The man’s body twisted as if each hit was a quick tug of a puppeteer’s string; his silhouette crumbled from view.
The other plane dived low, as if to scoop up the fleeing crowds. The wind from the passing plane pulled at me, even as I hugged the ground. Seconds later, the people running ahead began dancing themselves—puffs of red smeared their backs just before they fell, their flesh hitting the asphalt in sickening wet thuds.
Even over the din, I heard mad giggles from the sky. I thought it was my imagination at first, but I’d made no such mistake:
“Banzai! Banzai! Banzai!”
An eerie silence took hold as the planes vanished from view. I stood up again, hypnotized with disbelief. The street’s population was doubling before my eyes. The ghost halves of the newly dead bloomed into view and began stumbling around their former shells. Some wailed, piercing the hush, but most were simply too stunned.
A hand grabbed me and pulled me toward a dust-covered row of shops.
“Are you crazy?” It was one of the girls with the injured mother. “I’m surprised you’re still alive, standing there like that!”
She dragged me into a debris-laced watch repair shop, its glass window bashed in by looters. The display cases were shattered and empty; yet we were surrounded by a cacophony of ticks and tocks, as if the shadows of the missing timepieces were still here, declaring their presence. It didn’t take long to realize that the ticking was coming from a row of grandfather clocks in the middle of the shop, evidently too bulky to steal. Behind this row, the girls’ mother was lying on the floor, in a spot cleared of broken glass. Her eyes were open but registered little. The other daughter held her hand and sobbed. The girls, I discovered with a jolt, were identical twins.
“We just arrived from Hebei Province,” the first sister told me, finally releasing my arm. “We don’t know anyone, and we don’t speak a word of English. Please, miss, you have to help us! Mama needs the hospital.”
There was no telephone—it had been taken. I went behind the shop counter and rummaged through the drawers. All empty.
“Have you checked the storeroom?” I asked. Both girls shook their heads.
I dashed to the back of the shop, where a door was ajar. Inside the tiny space were a desk and a chair and multiple upturned boxes spilling order slips and other documents. Wedged behind the desk and the wall was an ancient, rusted bicycle. Pegasus brand. Nobody had thought of stealing this. I eased it out and wheeled it into the shop, its wheels squeaking as they rolled.
“Where are you going?”
“To get help.”
“But the planes may return.”
I was moved by her concern for my safety, as her own mother lay dying. She was right. I could hear a bomber circling back.
“What’s your name?” I asked her.
“Our family’s name is Liu. I’m Liu Shanling.” She shook my hand. “My sister’s name is Shanmin.”
The rumbling sent us hiding behind the counter. We hunkered wordlessly as the plane dropped two shrieking presents onto Spring Street that left the entire shop rocking. Liu Shanling and I both knew, in the day’s deepening gloom, that her mother wasn’t going to survive. Neither of us needed to voice it.
When a graveyard silence blanketed the street outside and the ticking of the grandfather clocks became suffocatingly loud, I rolled the bicycle toward the door. Liu Shanling grabbed my arm again.
“Promise me you’ll return for us.”
“I promise.” She released my arm. I looked over at the dying woman. “I’m very sorry about your mother.”
“Hurry!” wailed the quieter twin. “Please, whatever you do, hurry!”
All along Spring Street, the ghosts of the newly dead called out to me in a Babelian crush of dialects: Hokkien, Mandarin, Cantonese, Shanghainese, Teochew, Hakka, and smatterings of other tongues still more obscure.
“What happened? Will you tell me what happened?”
“Why can’t I move? Why can’t I move?”
“Look at me! Why won’t you look at me?”
“My whole body’s on fire!”
“It hurts! Oh, it hurts!”
“Save me!”
The black tower loomed before me, its top floors burning. Despite my promise to Liu Shanling, I had to check on my own family first. But just outside the building’s entrance, medics had set up a roadblock. Khaki-clad volunteer troops were unspooling thick bales of barbwire and police were turning people away. A Gurkha guard pointed up: The top floor looked ready to crumble, like the chalky corner of a block of cheese.
“Is anyone up there?” I cried.
“No idea! But we’re doing our best! Come back tomorrow!”
I was about to argue when a section of wall, complete with glass window, came plummeting down the side of the building. We all ran. The white lace curtains on the window frame billowed in the air, almost balletic, but when the crash came, there was no grace at all—just rubble, dust clouds, and heart-stopping screams.
I fled. With its dented front tire, the Pegasus made for a wobbly ride, but given the devastation around me, I had no complaints. I pedaled toward home.
The colonial district was deserted except for the dead. Here, too, some buildings were flattened while others were curiously unscathed. From three streets away, I could see Robinsons, that great department store, blazing like a matchstick mansion. But city hall, with its friezes and Corinthian columns, looked confident as ever. The planes had targeted the concert hall next door instead, having reduced its Victorian clock tower to a smoldering cairn.
Hanging from city hall’s largest windows were the banners of surrender—light-colored flags improvised from tablecloths and sewn-together shirts—but it was unlikely that these were what had saved the building. Instead I sensed in the bombers a more demonic perversity.
You see, city hall faced the large rectangle of green known as the Padang, or “open field” in Malay. To the flying killers, it must have seemed a grander canvas. Cricket and rugby were played here, Europeans only, except on parade days when members of the lesser races were asked to dress up in their “national costumes” and exhibit themselves as part of some colorful marching block. But now, as I glimpsed the white bodies strewn across the grass like abandoned rag dolls, I knew more than ever that the Padang’s exalted green was just like any other green—all it took was a single blast from a cheap Jap bomb to form a perfect crater in the center of the field.
I cycled on. The reek of alcohol smacked me as I approached the Cricket Club, a Georgian pile at the Padang’s north end. Shattered glass glittered across its concrete front steps, but not from any enemy bombardment. Weeping, ruddy-faced sots were gathered at the upstairs windows, letting bottles of gin slip from their hands and smash to smithereens on the ground below. Inside, a piano pounded out “We’ll Meet Again,” accompanied by an off-key chorus. The Union Jack, meanwhile, hung clammily on the flagstaff by the main door—it had never seemed more irrelevant or forlorn. Kenneth had been right: This was the death of the British Empire.
I paused there, horribly enthralled by the waste. Most of the sacrificial bottles had not even been opened.
But home, I had to get home to Tanglewood. I forced myself to concentrate as I pedaled, as if picturing the Wee mansion would bring me there sooner. My clothes were soaked with sweat and dust and the smell of death; my leg muscles ached with every rotation of the wobbly
wheels.
After an eternity that was only three miles, I left the city limits and turned down the long road into the suburbs. The crickets chirruped hysterically in the banyan trees, threatening to drown out all thought. Perhaps not thinking was better, but I had to remember my mission. I murmured the names of the twins as I chugged along, feeding steam to my engine: “Liu Shanling, Liu Shanmin…Liu Shanling, Liu Shanmin…”
My legs gave out when the rain trees of Tanglewood finally came into view. I had to push the bicycle the last hundred yards, reminding myself what I had to do: Ask if Kenneth was all right, let Daniel know I was all right, enlist help finding Father and Li, get aid for Liu Shanling’s family. What I actually craved was food, water, and a long cool bath. But those, of course, could wait.
The Bentley sat in the driveway, unscathed. I relaxed—Kenneth had made it back. I let the bicycle fall in a rusty clatter and ran the rest of the way to the door.
“Stop!” A stout man emerged from the side of the house, his face concealed by a khaki cap and large black kerchief. He pointed his rifle at my face and added in Mandarin, with a Shanghai accent so thick it pricked up my ears, “Identify yourself!”
I raised my hands but said nothing. Was he a looter?
“Identify yourself, I said!” He closed in on me, pressing the rifle tip against my throat. Then I saw something in his beady eyes shift as he studied my face, and from his unseen mouth came a shrill whistle, perhaps some kind of a bandit’s signal. Running footsteps quickly ensued.
A reassuring face materialized at the door.
“Kenneth!”
Kenneth gestured for the gunman to release me. “She’s the young master’s fiancée. She lives here.” He turned back toward the house without so much as a hello or glance in my direction.
“Did you find your family?” I asked.
“No,” he said curtly.
“Did you even try?”
“Look, I have to get back to the meeting. Mr. Wee is waiting.” At last he met my gaze. “Glad you’re fine.”
With Kenneth gone, it was just me and the masked gunman at the front step. Now it was my turn to question him. I used our native dialect.
“Who are you? Show me your face.”
“No.” He stepped back.
“What are you hiding?”
“My identity is meant to be secret. I work for Mr. Wee.”
“Which means you work for me, too. Now, off with your mask and your cap.”
With one reluctant tug, the black bandanna fell, revealing a rubbery, sullen face that looked oddly familiar. Then, as he lifted the cap from his spiky, sweat-matted hair, I saw the distinctive pink birthmark on his forehead.
I had been right—I had seen him on the tram.
“Cricket!” My delight equaled my astonishment. “It’s you, isn’t it, Cricket?”
The chunky young man averted his eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, miss. Now may I put my mask back on?”
I felt my lips quivering at the coincidence, and at his denial. I didn’t know whether to embrace him or pound him with my fists.
“You worked for my family in Shanghai! Don’t pretend you don’t remember. We were twins, my brother and me. You were our cook’s godson. You kept spiders. And that birthmark. Sister Kwan always said it looked like a—”
“You’re sadly mistaken.”
“No, I’m not. Tell me! Do you know what happened to my mother and my sisters? Did they leave Shanghai?”
The fleeting look of panic that crossed his face made me feel sick.
“I don’t know anything, miss.” He scrunched up his features, feigning irritation. “I don’t know you at all!” Then something rose in him. A conscience? He realized he couldn’t maintain the charade any longer and heaved a sigh. “All right, all right. I may be who you say. But I don’t know what became of your mother. I fled as soon as the Japs arrived. The irony is that I came here, and now they’re here, too.”
“But surely you heard news from…the cook?” I’d already forgotten her name.
“Everybody fled. We took our things and we ran. All of us, except…”
“My mother.”
He nodded, painfully. “And your sisters. Your mother wouldn’t leave the house, and she refused to let us take the little ones.”
The little ones. My babies who were no longer babies. I shuddered thinking about them trapped in those dark rooms with the Gorgon while bombs fell overhead. Tears began streaming down my cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” he added with a new softness. “I really shouldn’t have said anything. I’ve been dreading this day ever since I came ashore—running into you.”
“Was there any chance…”
“Miss, I really can’t tell you any more. I simply don’t know.”
Kenneth reappeared at the door, puzzled to find me still standing there.
“Cassandra? Dan’s been waiting for you. He’s beside himself with worry.” He cast a stern look at Cricket. “Zhang, where’s your mask?”
Cricket seemed relieved to be given the order to cover his face. I turned to enter the house, still shaken by the unexpected visitation from the past. Cricket…Oh, how the walls were tumbling down! In the chaos of war, I could feel my various, separate worlds begin to collide—past, present, rich, poor, dead, alive.
Kenneth grabbed my arm in the doorway.
“Cassandra, before you go in…” He paused, trying to find the right words; then he whispered, “This may seem forward of me to suggest, but Zhang and I will be leaving for the jungle tonight to join our camp. Issa, the driver, is already there.”
Issa, too?
“I was thinking that you might want to come with us. I know you have your obligations, but dammit, it’s your life we’re talking about. One can argue about loyalties later. You’ll be safer there. The Japs won’t ever find us, and we’re armed to the teeth.”
I was beginning to understand. Kenneth Kee, present at all the secret meetings. Kenneth Kee, always sure of what to do in a crisis. Kenneth Kee, who spoke so casually of arms. I stared at him.
“What are you? The Resistance?”
“Officially, we’re Communists. Unofficially”—he smiled—“we’re survivors. Think about it. We leave at midnight. And, please, I beg you, not a word to Dan.”
Of course, I breathed none of it to Daniel. After an artificially cheerful meal eaten out of cans and lit by candlelight, we went to bed that night, chastened and a little embarrassed by the previous day’s drama. Daniel was not one for explosive emotions. From his gentle caresses, I could tell he was quietly apologizing for his violence of the night before.
“Don’t worry. Daddy will help you find your relatives tomorrow.”
While he spooned me and anointed my back with kisses, I gazed at the bedside clock and pondered Kenneth’s offer. It was ticking toward eleven. But how could I give this up? Would I throw away all the security I’d worked for by joining a band of outlaws in the muck? I saw Kenneth’s intelligence and knew firsthand Issa’s powers. But who could put faith in any of that during wartime? Mr. Wee’s plan of diplomacy seemed the wiser, safer way. At dinner, he’d seemed utterly convinced that our house would be spared by the Japs—the result, no doubt, of complicated negotiations he’d made. If I remained in Tanglewood, I would have bed, board, a clean bath. If I went into the jungle…It wasn’t a difficult choice.
Nevertheless, when the clock struck twelve and I heard a car drive off, I felt a sharp twinge of regret.
I fell asleep in Daniel’s arms out of sheer exhaustion and anxiety, only to be woken before dawn by the rumble of planes.
“Shhh…” Daniel held me to him and kissed my neck. “We’ll be all right. Daddy said our house will be all right. There’s no place as safe as home.”
We heard the air-raid sirens wailing from the city, followed too soon afterward by bombs. Even miles away, the walls of our room shook.
I sat up, ice-cold. In the excitement of returning home and seeing Cricket
, I’d forgotten all about the Liu twins and their mother!
“I left them in that place. With no food, no water.” I wept. “Oh, Dan, I promised I would save them! I promised!”
He clamped his arms around me, somehow fearing I would bolt into the night. “Calm now. I’m sure they’re okay. We’ll find them in the morning. Daddy can help. There’s nothing to be done now. There’s nothing to be done now but rest.”
I couldn’t rest. I jumped out of bed and began dressing.
“Wait.”
Another ten minutes passed as Daniel got dressed. In the hallway, at Daniel’s insistence, we waited for Mr. Wee to get dressed. Another five minutes. Through the half-open door to Violet’s room, I glimpsed her still asleep, sucking her thumb like an infant. It still shocked me to see her hair looking so short and ragged. After what seemed like half an hour, we finally walked down to the Bentley, whereupon Mr. Wee slipped into the driver’s seat.
“Where’s Issa?” Daniel asked his father, his sense of order violated.
“He wanted to join his family. So I let him.”
“In the countryside?”
“Yes, Dan, something like that.”
The streets were deserted. The only vehicles about were either military or medical, and these drove urgently, ignoring all traffic signals. We found the watch-repair shop on Spring Street with some difficulty, between a mountain of rubble that had once been a cafe and a black hollow that had been a provision shop, neither of which I’d registered in the madness of the previous day. The watch-repair shop had not been spared. Seeing through the debris of the shop, I found beige glimpses of what remained—two young bodies wrapped around their mother, the three of them buried under tons of plaster and stone. The Liu women had waited loyally for my return, when I’d given them no proof of my worth apart from my word. Country girls. Decent, trusting country girls.
I covered my eyes in case I saw their ghosts and wept so hard that even Mr. Wee was moved.