by Li, Veronica
A wave of fatigue washed over me. The floor rolled under my feet. I held on to the desk to steady myself. When I looked up, the white wall was spinning toward me like a typhoon, the heavens and earth were tumbling round and round, and Miss Archer was swirling in the midst of it all. I closed my eyes and the last I remembered was the cool surface of the desk on my cheek.
The bell woke me. For a second or two, I didn’t know where I was. Around me echoed the scraping of chairs, the scuffling of shoes. My classmates were walking out of Great Hall. The open page of a notebook stared up at me, a half-finished sentence leading to a large empty space that should have been filled with my handwriting. I wanted desperately to pick up my pen and resume writing, but exam rules were strictly enforced. All pens must be down at the sound of the bell. Anyone who disobeyed would be disqualified. Tears welled up in me. I fought them back and stumbled out of the hall.
My head was still swimming when the class returned for Part III. During the break my classmates had avoided me as I’d avoided them. Nobody seemed to have noticed my blackout. Clenching my teeth, I picked up the pen and wrote as fast as my bloated fingers allowed. Having missed two-thirds of economic history, only a close to full mark in policy could save me.
I fell two points short of passing. It was a particularly bad year for economics majors. Out of my class of thirty, a third failed. The company was no consolation, especially when out of the three girls, I was the only one who flunked. Amy, a brilliant hybrid of Chinese and Japanese parents, led the class. The other girl, called Yolanda, became cockier than ever. Her nickname was "Number One Under the Sky," so you can imagine what a loudmouthed braggart she was.
I spent most of that summer closeted in Sam-Koo’s room. Brother Kin sent me money to visit him in Thailand, but again I couldn’t go because of the monthly treatments. It was just as well, for I couldn’t stand the thought of facing my horde of nosy relatives. Repeating a class was a tremendous shame, and I didn’t want to go around explaining the reason for my failure. Only Sam-Koo understood. Instead of beating me as Mother would for crying so much, she was tireless in consoling me. She did her best to put my misfortune in a philosophical light, but by the end of summer I still couldn’t see how a disaster could produce anything good.
TAPE THREE
SHOOTING AN ARROW AT THE SUN
1
I went on to the new school year. New, yet old for me, as I had to redo an entire year of coursework. It was a strange term in more ways than one. While my eyes were on my books, my ears were tuned to the radio. Japanese troops had gathered on the Kowloon border. Japanese intentions couldn’t be clearer, yet at the same time, people couldn’t believe that Japan would dare take a bite off the British Empire. The authorities in Hong Kong took measures to prepare for the worst. British garrisons conducted military exercises; the population was drilled to respond to air-raid sirens; and young men were urged to join the reserve. Many of my classmates registered. After a number of hours of training, they were issued guns and uniforms. They were full of militaristic zeal, swearing to defend their homes to the death.
I had the same dream night after night. I was running away from a dragon. It had many heads, each spitting fire in a different direction. I was on an open field with no place to hide. The more I tried to run, the more my feet felt tied to the ground. The dragon was closing in. I always woke up with a jerk.
On the night of December 7, 1941, I was preparing for mid-terms the next day. In the background was a radio broadcast of Japanese troop movement. Again, the newscaster sounded as if the Japanese were going to invade within twenty-four hours. Most people had learned not to run for shelter, for the newscaster had been making the same prediction every day for the last three months. I plugged my ears and buried my head in Miss Archer’s notes. War or no war, I couldn’t afford to flunk again. I studied deep into the night and managed to catch a few hours of sleep. The next morning, while Renee and I were getting dressed, the air-raid siren screamed over our heads. What a nuisance, we said to each other. Whoever timed this emergency drill must be brainless. Exams were starting in an hour, and we hadn’t had breakfast yet. While we were debating whether to evacuate, the dorm warden sauntered onto our floor.
"No need to panic, girls," the English matron said calmly. "It’s only a practice."
The drone of airplanes drew us out to the balcony. A group of us stood watching as three fighter planes flew over StonecuttersIsland, which was uninhabited and used only as a munitions storage. We couldn’t make out the flag on the planes, but there was no doubt in our minds that they were part of the exercise.
Pellets fell off the planes like bird droppings. How curious, I thought to myself. A boom shook my eardrums and flames shot up from the island. My dorm mates and I looked at each other in shock. This wasn’t a practice! The explosions were real, and the planes couldn’t be British. We ran back into the room and turned on the radio. Over the next several hours we heard one piece of bone-chilling news after another: Japanese planes had attacked Pearl Harbor and sank two British battleships in the Pacific. The United States and Great Britain had declared war on Japan.
What my friends and I witnessed was a turning point in world history. Up till then separate conflicts had been going on in Europe and Asia. The wars in one region had little to do with the other. However, the moment the Japanese crossed the line to attack the West, the two theaters merged into one war encompassing the entire globe. This day was truly the beginning of the Second World War.
Exams were canceled. The university’s administrators ordered the student body to return home. They also announced that students in their last year would be granted wartime diplomas. I cried when I heard the announcement. My peers were graduating that day while I was held back in third year.
With Mother in Thailand, Ngai and I had no home to go to. A classmate of Ngai had offered him shelter, but I wasn’t going to invite myself. I decided to go to Sam-Koo’s dorm at Yeung Jung. The buses had stopped running, so I walked to the school. People were dashing around on the street, looking fearful and lost. Storekeepers were busy pulling down their shutters and turning away frantic customers who had waited too long to stock up. When I arrived at the school an hour later, Sam-Koo was running around looking for something. In the panic of the bombing, she’d gathered all her valuables, including several hundred dollars Brother Kin had sent me, and stashed them away in a "safe" place. When I asked her where the cache was, she could only blink, then blink some more. No matter how hard her brain worked, she just couldn’t remember where the hiding place was. The more I pressed her, the more confused she became. Hours later, in a moment of lucidity, Sam-Koo remembered. She’d put the money in a paper bag and threw it in the wastepaper basket in her classroom. We ran to salvage the "trash," but it was too late. The school janitor had emptied the basket.
*
Japanese troops marched into KowloonPeninsula. Living on the island side, I could hear the exchange of gunfire with the British. The battle went on for several days. Then all was quiet. British troops were seen scrambling onto ferries and sampans to cross over to Hong KongIsland. The peninsula had fallen.
Sam-Koo and I decided that two women shouldn’t be alone at such a dangerous time. I approached Ninth Uncle, Father’s eldest brother. He and his wife agreed to take us in. Their children were all in Thailand, so they had plenty of room for two. Sam-Koo and I stuffed our clothes in two canvas bags and walked halfway up VictoriaPeak to Uncle’s apartment. His unit was on the ground floor, giving him access to a basement dug deep into the mountainside. It was normally used for storage, but on the day I moved in, I discovered how useful a basement could be in times of war.
The bombardment started just after dark. The Japanese had placed a ring of cannons on top of the Kowloon mountains. From their high vantage point, they could lob shells down on the island with their eyes closed. Uncle, who seemed prepared for this, guided everyone by an oil lamp down to the basement. Sam-Koo and I grabbed a blanket and
made ourselves a nest in a corner. As I was settling in, a pounding on the door startled me. Voices called out Uncle’s name. "It’s the neighbors," he said, and groped for the door. A throng of shadows filed in. I scooted closer to Sam-Koo to make space. Soon I was shoulder to shoulder, toe to toe with the other residents of the block.
Frightened but still curious, I peeked out of the window. Tongues of fire flashed at me from different directions. It was my dream come true. The ring of cannons was the many-headed dragon in my nightmare, and it was coming after me. The explosions were getting closer and closer. The building shook, windows rattled. I clamped my ears, certain that the next shot would hit me. But it skipped over me and fell on the other side. The explosions moved on, farther and farther away. Everyone in the basement let out a breath. But our relief was short-lived. The cannons were sweeping back, closer and closer, until we were at the center of their target again.
An earsplitting boom struck the building. My spirit flew out of my body. Around me Buddhists were yelling "Omitofu" and Christians were bellowing "Jesus, save me." I flung my arms over my head. Seconds passed, but the building didn’t collapse. The wall I was leaning on was standing erect as before. The explosions were receding again.
A desire to laugh seized me. How hilarious people sounded when they called to their gods. Although I’d attended a convent school and gone to temples with Sam-Koo, I hadn’t felt the need to enroll in either camp so far. If the building had collapsed, the Buddhists would die thinking that they would come back in another life, and the Christians would hope to go to heaven. As for me, what did I have to look forward to? The question sobered me. I realized I had no right to laugh at other people’s religion.
The murmur of prayers went on, rising and falling with the loudness of the explosions. I must have dozed off leaning against Sam-Koo’s shoulder. When I opened my eyes, the sun had risen. I could see that the floor was littered with people. Uncle was telling everyone to return to his apartment. As I followed him up, a gust of cold air blew away my grogginess. We rushed in to see where the wind was coming from. In the kitchen the sky stared at us where the wall used to be.
Night after night, residents of the neighborhood took shelter in the basement. When the shelling was light, we passed the time by telling stories. Squinting under the oil lamp, Ninth Uncle read to us from a book by a Chinese Nostradamus written several hundred years ago. It was a tattered paperback that he’d bought at a used bookstand in Swatow. It was full of pictures, like a comic book, and the text was written in an obscure classical language that few could understand. Ninth Uncle, who had been a titled scholar in his youth, deciphered the prophecies for us. One picture showed corpses strewn on both sides of a door. According to Uncle, this was a portrayal of two events that happened around the same time. One was the Chinese revolution that overthrew the Manchus in 1911, and the other was the First World War that started in 1914. The result, the death of thousands, was represented by the corpses lying inside and outside the Chinese door.
Another picture showed a man shooting an arrow at the sun. This, Uncle said, was the current Sino-Japanese war. The sun was the Japanese national emblem and the archer was China. "Who’s going to win?" we asked. We were all eager to find out the outcome of this chapter. Uncle read on while we waited anxiously. "We didn’t win or lose in this war," he finally said. A collective moan resounded. Everyone was disappointed that he didn’t proclaim China the winner. Only years later did I realize that his interpretation was right. China didn’t defeat Japan. It was American atomic bombs that brought the Japanese to their knees.
The last page depicted yet another war. This time a man was pushing a button. Can you imagine? Several hundred years ago, the author was foreseeing a push-button nuclear war. "Who’s going to win?" we asked eagerly again. Uncle, without consulting the book, made his own prediction—China, of course!
Another night, the men got into a heated discussion. The shelling had been going on for two weeks. Patience was running low, and tempers high. In the eerie glow of the lamp, people’s eyes had sunk into deeper and darker holes.
"Why haven’t the British sent more troops?" Uncle said to no one in particular.
"The British can’t even protect themselves," a male voice replied. "They have to fight the Germans on one side and the Japanese on the other. Hong Kong means nothing to them. Why would they waste money and lives on us?"
"We should surrender then," Uncle said. "Without reinforcement, the island is indefensible. Resistance is as futile as a grasshopper trying to stop the wheels of a carriage. We will be crushed, and many people will die for no reason."
"We should never surrender. They say Chinese troops are on their way. Any day now, we’ll see them marching across the border. They’ll whip the Japanese all the way back to Tokyo!"
Although I couldn’t see the speaker, I could tell that he was a young man. His patriotism set off a round of clucking and sighs.
"Only cowards surrender," the young man declared with bravado. "I’d rather die than kowtow to the enemy!"
"If you’re so brave, why are you hiding in here? Go out and fight the Japanese!"
"All right, that’s enough. Let’s not fight among ourselves," Uncle intervened.
A fresh voice said, "We have to fight the Japanese at all costs. Not because I’m brave, but because I’m afraid. Do you remember the tens of thousands they killed in Nanking? From that example alone, you can tell what the Japanese will do if they take over. The soldiers will prowl the streets looking for women. They’re capable of committing worse brutality than animals."
Shudders rippled through the cellar. We were silent for a long time.
*
On Christmas day, seventeen days after the Japanese attacked, the inevitable happened. The Japanese landed on Hong KongIsland. Hours later, the government surrendered. Although it came as no surprise, the news was nonetheless shocking. The Japanese must have obtained intelligence from their spies, for they couldn’t have picked a better spot for landing. It was a beach at North Point, close to where I’d learned to swim. Only three hundred reservists were guarding the post. The volunteers were like children playing war against the professional soldiers. The bloodbath was terrible. Only one, wounded and left for dead, survived.
I was in tears all day. Many of the volunteers were my classmates. I cried for them—promising young men cut down before their lives could begin. But most of all, I cried for their mothers and fathers, lovers and spouses, who would carry on their lives on earth in torment. Having gone through my own loss, I sympathized deeply with them. My father died many years ago, yet never a day went by without my feeling a hole in my life.
*
During the first days of occupation, all the women in Uncle’s building stayed behind locked doors. Only the men ventured out in twos and threes. They always returned buzzing with news. They told of Japanese troops rampaging in a hospital, bayoneting wounded soldiers, and even murdering doctors and nurses. They also said that the Japanese had rounded up all the British and herded them into Stanley Fort. Several of my professors at Hong KongUniversity had been taken prisoner, including a Canadian, Dr. Gordon King. Although he was dean of medicine and had little to do with nonmedical students, everyone knew him. I’d seen him striding across campus, tall and dashing in his lab coat. Unlike the British, he was down-to-earth and treated his students like equals. My heart ached to think of him in a Japanese camp, subject to torture, humiliation, and diseases.
Uncle also brought home reports of looting and raping. Japanese soldiers were hungry for "flower girls," their term for young women. Those who resisted faced death, while those who didn’t resist would wish they were dead after the soldiers were through with them. I was a young woman of twenty-three, with a willowy figure, fair skin, and features that some had mistaken for Eurasian. Afraid that my uncommon looks would attract attention, Sam-Koo put herself to work to make me ugly. First, she forbade me to wear the tailored cheongsams that accented my contours. Then s
he got hold of a coolie’s black pajama suit, complete with dirt and patches, and pulled it like a paper bag over me. Finally, to make my face match my outfit, Sam-Koo marinated me in soy sauce. My light skin turned dark and wrinkly, and the itch was something awful. I had to keep my "cosmetic" on even at home because the soldiers could barge in at any time.
Law and order fell apart. Cut off from all sources of supply, our food shortage became more and more acute. Even respectable citizens took to stealing and robbing to keep their families alive. With the Hong Kong police disbanded, Japanese soldiers became the law officers, but the law they enforced was nothing like what we were used to. For looters, the punishment was beheading on the spot. Without asking you a question, a Japanese soldier could make you kneel and lower your head. In one swoop he would bring his sword down on your neck. This extreme penalty was supposed to stop people from stealing, but it didn’t. What choice did a hungry man have? If he didn’t break into the store and get that sack of rice, his whole family of old and young would die of starvation.
I was lucky that Uncle had filled his storeroom before the war started. But every time Ninth Aunt opened a can of food, I would think of the day when our supplies would run out. What would happen to us then? Uncle was an old man, and the rest of us were women. Dismal days lay ahead.
One night as I was sleeping in Uncle’s guestroom, a frantic clanging woke me. I’d heard it before, this banging of pots and pans. People often made such noise to scare away burglars. The commotion sounded only a building away. I got up and looked out. A truck rolled past me, its harsh rays blinding me for a second. Several Japanese military police jumped out of the vehicle. They pointed their rifles at a figure, and fired. My heart felt as if a bullet had blasted it open.