by Iris Yang
Peter sucked in a sharp breath. “I can’t believe what happened to her. How horrible! I told her not to go, but she was so determined to save her parents.” His soft face became stern. He sat up straighter. “Well, all the more reason for her to leave. If, God forbid, Chungking should fall, she may not survive another massacre.”
“This is a great match,” exclaimed Mrs. Bai when they returned home. They were sitting around a mahogany table in the dining room. Dressed in a high-necked lavender cheongsam, she leaned forward and placed her hand over Jasmine’s. “A golden opportunity—go with him!”
Jasmine shook her head.
“What are you waiting for?” Mrs. Bai asked. “Where can you find a better husband than Mr. Peterson? He’s gentle and kind. He’s well educated. He’s an American. Why wouldn’t anyone want to leave this war-torn country?”
“Your aunt is right,” agreed Colonel Bai, relaxing in his chair. “Mr. Peterson is a real gentleman. He cares about you, Jasmine. I feel good about this marriage. Your parents would have approved of this arrangement.”
“Marriage,” Jasmine said, “is the last thing on my mind right now.” She paused, winding the hem of her blouse around her finger. “I can’t forget what happened in Nanking.”
“I understand. It’s only been a few months.” Mrs. Bai gave her a sympathetic look.
“But think ahead. Think about the future,” urged Colonel Bai. “Moving to a different place will help to lift your sorrow. New people to meet; new things to learn.”
“I don’t want to leave. Mom and Dad are here.”
“Your parents wouldn’t blame you for leaving. They—”
“They would feel so much better”—Colonel Bai interrupted his wife—“if they knew you were safe.” He ran a hand around his jaw and leaned closer. “In fact, they would be worried sick if you stayed here. Chungking isn’t safe.”
“Believe me. I’m a mother. I wouldn’t give a second thought about sending Daisy away.” Mrs. Bai squeezed Jasmine’s hand. “What can you do for your parents now?”
“That’s right. What could you do, even if you’re here?”
Jasmine pulled her hand away from the table. “I may not be able to fight, but I can still help. I’ve painted posters. Too bad I can’t handle blood. Otherwise, I’d become a nurse. I—”
Colonel Bai waved a hand. “You think you’ll help to win the war by painting a few posters? Don’t be naïve.”
Jasmine lifted her chin. “I have to try.”
Mrs. Bai sighed. Colonel Bai ran his fingers through his hair.
Deep down Jasmine had another reason. She liked Mr. Peterson as a teacher, but she didn’t love him. Not enough to share her life with him. From the start, she’d sensed something was missing. There was no chemistry, no romantic feelings. Highly influenced by Western culture—and unlike most Chinese women who were much more practical—she had a strong desire for romance.
“I want to find a man I’m madly in love with and can’t live without,” Jasmine confided to Daisy the next morning. “Someone with whom I won’t hesitate a second...”
“Where will you find someone like that?” the thirteen-year-old asked.
They were sitting on a bench in their backyard with its green trees and colorful flowers. It was early June. The air was cool, dampened by a night shower. A ray of sunlight fought through the clouds. No bombing. No gunshots. No sign of the war.
They didn’t notice the colonel standing behind them.
Jasmine’s face was still as thin as it was four months ago, but her eyes again gleamed with undeniable willpower. “I guess I’m looking for a hero, a courageous man, one who is brave enough to avenge my parents’ murders. I want someone I can look up to.”
“Like our Big Tiger Brother?”
“Yes, someone like Birch.”
“Why don’t you ask him to introduce you to his fellow airmen? They must be very courageous.” Daisy giggled, her eyes twinkled. “How about Meng Hu? He’s tall and handsome, just like our Big Tiger Brother. Then we’ll have another pilot in our family.”
Colonel Bai could no longer keep silent. “Stop it,” he scolded his daughter, stepping in front of them. “Don’t be so naïve, Jasmine. Not going to the U.S. with Mr. Peterson is foolish enough. This is dangerous thinking. Give it up.” Concern deepened the creases in his face.
He went on. “A hero suffers more than his share of pain. In wartime, a hero is someone who tastes too much blood and sees too much death. He has probably killed more people than he can imagine, and that can change a man.”
He clamped his lips together before pressing on. “A hero faces his own death constantly. He must pay for his bravery—he pays with pain, with his body, and sometimes his life. Those pilots you girls are talking about don’t even know if they’ll be alive tomorrow!”
He was thinking of Birch. As a colonel, he was more than proud of the brave fighter pilot, but as a father, he worried constantly about his son’s safety. “Don’t romanticize the notion of falling in love with a war hero. It’ll hurt you in the end.”
Chapter 19
Since the start of the bombing more than three years earlier, Mrs. Bai had often suffered insomnia. On the early morning of June 5th, 1941, she was half asleep when a shrill sound jolted her awake. Siren! Her first instinct was to jump out of bed and hide. Only a split second later she realized that it was just the alarm clock.
Lying in a tangle of sheets, she forced herself to open her eyes. One look at the empty side of the bed, and she sighed. Colonel Bai hadn’t come home. He now worked incessantly as the war deepened.
She shut off the alarm as the first glint of dawn peeked through the edges of the window where the burgundy drapes were drawn. She rolled onto her side. Feeling the onset of a headache, she plopped back onto the pillow, closed her eyes, and tried to relax.
Ten minutes later she hauled herself into the bathroom and swallowed two pain relievers. Back in bed, she tried to sleep, but her head kept throbbing. Don’t want to go to work, she grunted.
Mrs. Bai had been running a kindergarten for over ten years. She didn’t have to work. Both she and her husband came from affluent families. But she loved being with children, and Sunflower Preschool was her pride.
“Close the school,” Colonel Bai had suggested. “It’s dangerous.”
The town center, where the kindergarten was located, was often bombed. The Japanese targeted business districts and residential areas. Their house on the outskirts of the city was relatively safe. Mrs. Bai had considered his suggestion, but every time she looked at the innocent children, she was motivated to keep the school going.
“It’s only a block from Jiaochangkou Tunnel,” she argued, “I’m safer there than at home.” She’d been right for over three years, so Colonel Bai didn’t press the issue.
Should I take the day off? She debated as she pressed her temples with the heels of her palm. She had three staff members, enough to handle a dozen kids.
It was ten after nine when Mrs. Bai arrived at Sunflower Preschool. She wore a tailored turquoise pantsuit and jade earrings, which she received from Daisy and Jasmine on her forty-fifth birthday a week earlier. “I’m sorry,” she apologized to her staff as she walked into the large open room full of books and toys. “I didn’t sleep well and had a bad headache.”
“No need to worry about us,” a young woman replied. Deng Dandan was in her late teens, trim and petite, with a heart-shaped face and two braids to her shoulders.
“You should have stayed home,” said a lanky woman. “We can handle it.” Lin Ling was in her late twenties, older than the other staff members. She’d just finished braiding a girl’s hair.
“I know.” Mrs. Bai gave one of the girl’s pigtails an affectionate tug. “But…” She trailed off, her face thoughtful.
The girl was five, short and rail-thin, with eyes too sad for her age. Her mother and grandparents had been killed during the terror campaign. Depressed and distraught, her father had no energy to
take care of her. She often showed up with messy hair and dirty clothes. The little girl was bright, but she hadn’t talked much since the tragedy.
Mrs. Bai moved to a skinny boy in a yellow shirt and black pants. He was sitting in the corner on the floor surrounded by toy animals. She sat down with him and picked up a stuffed tiger.
Nicknamed Fatty, the six-year-old used to be chubby. His father, an Army major, had been killed a year ago. With a poorly paid factory job, his mother struggled to support two young children. She couldn’t have afforded the preschool if Mrs. Bai hadn’t waived the tuition.
Sunflower Preschool had once served the needs of fifty to sixty children. Since the aerial attack, more and more parents kept their kids at home. These dozen youngsters had nowhere else to go. Either one parent had died, or both parents had to work.
Two hours later, a siren wailed.
“Get out,” Mrs. Bai ordered everyone.
No matter how many times they’d heard it, the kids were terrified by the loud and piercing noise. Some held their hands over their ears. Others cried.
“Remember what we’ve practiced?” Mrs. Bai shouted. “Don’t be afraid. Let’s run together,” With the help of other staff members, she herded the youngsters out of the classroom then turned to make a final check. A yellow “ball” in the corner caught her eye—surrounded by stuffed animals, the boy curled up on the floor. “Fatty!”
Mrs. Bai dashed back. As she pulled the boy to his feet, she noticed a small puddle on the hardwood floor. His pants were wet and smelly. “Let’s go!” She half-dragged and half-carried him out of the room.
Outside, the sun hung directly overhead in a rare cloudless sky. Chaos had broken out in the street. People were running and screaming. On her right, the children and staff raced around the corner. The Jiaochangkou Tunnel was only a block behind the kindergarten. Mrs. Bai picked up her pace. As she caught up with the group, she watched the rail-thin girl trip on her loose shoelace and fall. She took two large strides. With one hand holding onto the boy, she picked up the girl in her other arm and hurried toward the tunnel.
Chapter 20
Between the Tibetan Plateau and the Yangtze Plain, Chungking was built on mountains and surrounded by rivers. Known as the “Mountain City,” it became the wartime capital after Nanking fell. Its air-raid shelters were deep and sturdy caves dug into the hillsides.
The children and staff members were the first to enter Jiaochangkou Tunnel. Thousands followed. Light bulbs dangling every few yards from the ceiling lit the area. Leaning against the dirt wall, Mrs. Bai panted to catch her breath. Perspiration dripped from her forehead despite the cool temperature. Waiting for the raid to end, she thought about her family.
Ever since the bombing had begun in 1938, she’d made it a point to say “I love you” every time she said goodbye to someone in her family. Few Chinese were outspoken when it came to affection, but highly influenced by Western culture, Mrs. Bai was open and expressive. But she hadn’t had a chance to say it to anyone this morning. Daisy and Jasmine had already left for school by the time she’d risen, and Colonel Bai hadn’t even come home the night before. Have they all reached shelters in time, she wondered? Are they safe? Her brow creased with concern. Nowadays in Chungking, no one knew if he or she would live through another day.
At least she didn’t have to worry about Birch today. Her son was on an assignment in Yunnan. But was he safe there? His job was dangerous, and with planes and other essential equipment outdated, the Chinese Air Force was no match for the Japanese. She worried about him constantly.
“I’m hungry,” complained Fatty, interrupting her thoughts.
“I know. I’m hungry too.” She stretched her arm and rubbed the boy’s flat-topped hair. “We’ll have lunch as soon as we get out of here. It won’t take long.” Even as she spoke, she was afraid it might not be true. This raid seemed heavier than usual. She heard the muffled noise of bombs dropping and felt slight tremors.
“I want to go home,” the rail-thin girl sobbed. “I want my daddy.”
“Come here.” Mrs. Bai motioned the girl closer and enfolded her tiny body in her arms. “Hey, would you like to hear a story? How about jing zhong bao guo—serve the country with the utmost loyalty?” she asked, trying to sound cheerful. “There was a boy named Yue Fei in Southern Song Dynasty…”
The children huddled closer and listened. Her soothing voice provided temporary relief from their fear. But then the lights flickered out, plunging the tunnel into darkness. Screams and cries filled the air.
“Don’t be afraid!” called Mrs. Bai. But her voice faltered. Fighting her own terror, she repeated the phrase louder. Her hands reached out in the darkness, trying to touch the children. Seconds later the lights came back on. The crowd let out a collective sigh. Then people turned on heel and raced toward the entrance, eager to flee the shelter.
“Should we leave?” Lin Ling asked.
Mrs. Bai shook her head. “We have to wait. The kids will get lost in the crowd.”
While they waited, shouts rose from each end of the tunnel. Nervously the teachers glanced at each other. What now? A sick feeling clutched Mrs. Bai’s stomach. “Dandan, why don’t you take a look?” She pointed to the entrance on the right. Turning to Lin Ling, she asked, “Do you mind?”
Twenty minutes later Deng Dandan returned to the group. “That entrance is damaged—completely blocked,” she said, panic-stricken. Her hair was a mess, her braids untwined.
Before Mrs. Bai could think of a response, Lin Ling also came back. One of her shoes was gone. “We can’t get out.” Eyes wide with fear, she pointed toward the other entrance to the tunnel. In silence, the four adults looked at each other. The implication was clear—they were buried underground.
The eighteen-year-old Deng Dandan began to sob, realizing that the last route to salvation was now closed. Several other girls’ expressions mirrored the fear that was so obvious on the faces of the adults.
Fatty shrieked; he was nearly hysterical.
“Open the gate!”
“Let us out!”
“Help!”
The screams of thousands echoed throughout the tunnel. Mrs. Bai shuddered. Steeling herself, she lifted her hand and signaled everyone from her kindergarten to sit. “Don’t worry.” She forced the words through her trembling lips. Looking at the terror-stricken children, she swallowed twice before reassuring, “They will clear the entrances. It will take time, but we’ll be fine.”
Mrs. Bai did not want her life to end in this dark and stifling place. She couldn’t leave her family now: Daisy was only sixteen, and Jasmine had already lost her parents. Both her husband and her son were tough men, but she so loved being a wife and a mother to them. Her maiden name had been Luo Lan—Violet. Maybe that was the reason she loved flora. She’d named their daughter Bai Chuju—White Daisy, their son Bai Hua—White Birch, and she’d suggested Jasmine’s name—Bai Moli.
She had met Bai Wu only once before they were married. It had been an arranged marriage. He was a good-looking officer fresh out of college. She was the seventeen-year-old daughter of a wealthy family. They had been strangers when they bowed and vowed to live together for the rest of their lives. In time they had grown to love each other and nurtured a proud family.
The lights flickered again. Then total blackness enveloped them. The air smelled of body odor and urine.
The children and their teachers huddled into a tight circle. Tears seeped from Mrs. Bai’s eyes as she braced herself for the worst. She bit her lip and stifled a cry, unwilling to scare the already petrified youngsters. As the air grew thinner, she began to feel lightheaded. In the darkness the children thrashed about. Gathering her waning strength, she tried to comfort as many as she could, but soon she began to choke. She raised her hands to her throat, but no oxygen entered her lungs. Slumping to one side, her body convulsed and twitched. Before long, death took her.
Chapter 21
Hundreds of mourners moved through the stre
ets toward a cemetery outside Chungking. A week after the bombing, the damage was evident everywhere: the city had become an inferno after the attack. Black smoke still curled up from smoldering fires, and the offensive odor of burned flesh fouled the air.
The Japanese had flown twenty-four sorties on that day, dropping countless incendiary bombs upon the city for over three hours. The barricaded Jiaochangkou Tunnel had turned out to be a death trap, killing several thousand civilians. After the bombardment, it had taken several days to remove the bodies from the shelter turned tomb.
Birch was at the front of the line, holding a framed black-and-white picture of Mrs. Bai. He wore a white garment from head to toe, his handsome face a mixture of grief and anger. Even though he wasn’t in uniform, his back remained ramrod straight. All dressed in white clothing, his family walked behind him.
Colonel Bai held a bouquet of violets, the name of his wife. A grim shadow ran over his features as he walked with fortitude and purpose.
Jasmine put her right arm around Daisy’s waist. Tears trickled down her cheeks. Three and a half years after her parents had died, grief still haunted her, and now her aunt had become another victim of the war.
Daisy leaned her head against Jasmine’s shoulder as she shuffled her feet. Her eyes were red and puffy, but she had no more tears to cry. At age sixteen, she looked angelic and heartbroken. If not for Jasmine’s arm around her for support, she might have fallen to her knees.
Behind the family, a casket with wooden shoulder poles was carried by four young men, Birch’s friends. They wore black and dark gray clothing.
The group moved in silence. No music with gong, flute, or trumpet was performed. No fake paper money was scattered. “Your mother wouldn’t like loud noises or littering the street with zhigian,” Colonel Bai had said. And his family had agreed. Now the silence seemed more powerful than loud noise. People in the street lowered their heads to pay their respects. Some followed the mourners. The line grew longer as it snaked through the city.