by Meira Chand
‘This is Colonel Zayazeff of the Irregulars,’ Vespa turned to introduce the man, and Donald extended his hand.
‘Everyone here is with the Irregulars,’ Zayazeff said, gesturing to the men with him. ‘Hengtao is about to be attacked. The town was surrounded by us this afternoon. It is the avowed purpose of every Irregular to do what he can to destroy the Japanese, who call us common bandits. Bandits! They have stolen our country, our property, and massacred our families. They wish to discredit us in the eyes of the world and justify their activities in Manchuria.’ Zayazeff’s beaming face turned suddenly dark.
Fatigue gutted Vespa’s thin cheeks and hawk-like eyes, his beard was two days old, but his voice as he spoke was spirited. ‘I’ve been in the Secret Service since 1916. I worked for Chang Tso-lin for eight years. He was a man of honour; fearsome but fair in my opinion. Manchuria has always been a seedbed of violence. After they murdered Chang, the Japanese wanted my expertise. Unlike the Japanese, Chang Tso-lin killed no one who did not deserve to die. But now on everything the Japanese Army in Manchuria hold monopolies. From these dark trades they make much money.’
‘Some people say the Occupation has grounds, that it has saved the country from Russia, and from the chaos of other parts of China,’ Donald interrupted and saw he had hit a nerve. It was difficult to know how much to trust the opinions of the Italian. His colourful life had started early when he ran off to Mexico from Aquila, to join the Revolutionary Army there. From Mexico he had travelled the world and, surviving escalating adventure, come to rest in Manchuria with Chang Tso-lin, and taken Chinese nationality.
Vespa glared at him. ‘Manchuria is a disillusionment for the Japanese. Manchukuo was to be their Utopia. It was always a mirage and is now a burden of increasing weight.’
‘Some men must have had a vision for the place?’ Donald insisted. He pulled his notebook from his bag and began to write.
‘My Japanese Chief promised the Chinese new land, new seed and implements for themselves. But instead I saw farmers turned over to the Japanese Army to be used for bayonet practice by new recruits.’ Vespa’s eyes grew fierce. His voice became hoarse.
‘I saw these atrocities, and many more. The Japanese use the Chinese like slaves to work land that once belonged to them. Japanese immigrants, who were impoverished farmers themselves, find they are now members of a ruling class by virtue of their race alone. Overnight they who were serfs are now feudal lords. I protested to my Chief after those Chinese farmers became bayonet fodder. “Do you fish?” he asked me. “No one is sorry for fish. You must assume the same attitude.” ’
Vespa accepted the vodka Donald poured from the bottles he had brought for this purpose. He took a gulp and continued. ‘Military expenses are their heaviest burden for the Japanese. Today after six years of occupation there are still Irregulars and bandits left in Manchuria, harassing as they can everything Japanese. And of course, the Soviet Government maintain several hundred thousand crack troops near their border, which obliges Japan to keep at least as many men ready to face them. Things are not easy for Japan in Manchuria.’ Satisfaction edged Vespa’s words.
‘Away from the railway lines, we are the real masters of this land. We may present only a small threat to security, but we irritate the Japanese as would a mosquito bite.’ Zayazeff’s deep voice filled the carriage. ‘The sheer vastness of the land will defeat the Japanese eventually. They make a point of concealing their losses. But I can assure you, hardly a day goes by without an attack by us, and we seldom fail to destroy what we go after. Very soon we shall attack this town and you will see.’
Donald scribbled down notes but was stopped by the sound of machine guns. The crack of bullets ricocheted through him. He gritted his teeth, so that his reaction would not be seen. Vespa and Zayazeff looked at the door.
‘The attack has started,’ Zayazeff announced. ‘Our part was done in the prior arrangements. Let us drink, we’ve a few hours now to spend together.’ He tossed back his vodka.
Outside the carriage the firing continued. Soon Zayazeff squeezed his great bulk into a corner, yawned loudly and closed his eyes. Sleep settled suddenly upon the men in the carriage. Only Vespa seemed in no need of repose.
‘You have family?’ he asked.
‘I’m divorced,’ Donald replied.
‘No children?’ Vespa questioned. Donald shook his head.
‘Then you don’t know what it’s like to sell your soul to save your children. In the beginning they gave me some money, now it’s like getting water from stone.’
‘What does your Japanese Chief have to say about that?’ Donald enquired, stifling a yawn, his hand ached from taking notes.
‘ He says, “Japan is poor,” he says. “Our first task is to lighten the burden of our military expenses. We did not take Manchuria to spend millions on it.” Then he gets excited and jumps up and down. “Make money,” he screams. “Increase the rackets, multiply the monopolies, arrest more people, more kidnappings, bigger ransoms. Money. Money. The Japanese Army must have money.” The cold-blooded exploitation of narcotics is their best revenue, you know. They manufacture the stuff themselves. The whole of Manchuria is hooked on it, from schoolchildren to old men. Only the Japanese don’t touch it. Their Army Handbook proclaims, The use of narcotics is unworthy of a superior race like the Japanese.’ Vespa shook his head sadly, and continued with detailed revelations.
Eventually Zayaeff grunted and sat up. ‘There has been no shooting for an hour,’ he said, shaking people awake.
‘How do you know? You were asleep,’ Donald inquired with a smile. Zayazeff gave a loud laugh.
‘You are mistaken. I never sleep. Let’s go.’
Outside, in the dark early morning, their breath froze on the air. Donald buttoned up his coat. Vespa looked at his watch. Zayazeff walked off to speak to a group of Irregulars who had been involved in the attack.
‘My work is done here,’ Vespa said, clasping Donald’s hand. ‘I have a train to catch, when trains begin running again. I must report to my Chief that the town has been taken by Irregulars.’ He gave a bark of a laugh and then walked away, his lean frame quickly obscured by ground mist and the smoke of a belching train.
Soon Zayazeff returned to Donald. ‘Tbe attack has been a success. Many Japanese soldiers were killed in their barracks and the rest taken prisoner. The officers were all in the brothels and unarmed. They too have been taken prisoner and have already started the march to our mountain camp. You too must come to our camp. You would think it a Japanese encampment. Everything we have is taken from them: uniforms, caps, bedcovers, radios, canned food, knives and forks, not to mention rifles and grenades. We have also two mountain cannon. Of course we badly need an airplane, but we have not succeeded in capturing one yet. With our two Japanese anti-aircraft guns we have brought down five of their planes, but they were too damaged to be of use,’ Zayazeff finished sadly.
‘Will you kill your Japanese prisoners?’ Donald asked.
‘Oh no,’ Zayazeff laughed. ‘We’ll hold them hostage and then Vespa, no doubt, will be sent by his Chief to negotiate their release in exchange for captured Irregulars held in Harbin. How we laugh when this happens. Whatever the Japanese may suspect, they have no proof of Vespa’s real work. I pray they never will.’
They walked into town. People were beginning to emerge from their homes. A few soldiers strode about. Walls were poxed by bullet-holes, bodies were strewn around. The first light was breaking and already Japanese planes circled above, looking for the raiders. Zayazeff shaded his eyes, squinting up at the sky.
‘Brave, hard fighting enemies have always paid each other the tribute of admiration. But not the Japanese. The better the enemy fights the more resentful they become. They have only contempt for those who oppose them, no matter how heroic the defence. There can be no heroes but Japanese heroes, no bravery but Japanese bravery.’ Zayazeff sighed and turned to face Donald. ‘Well, I too must now leave you now.’
Donald wa
tched him march away.
The sun broke through the clouds. Donald unpacked his camera. He adjusted the focus, squinting through the lens at bullet-scarred walls, the circling Japanese planes and prostitutes shivering outside their burnt brothel. This was what he liked: to frame emotion, pinning it down to consumable size, allowing nothing to escape. He looked into the camera and things filtered through in a manageable way, distanced from his emotion. Even as a child he had felt like this, from the day he owned his first camera. His father had laughed.
‘Following in my footsteps?’ There was pride in his voice. He had been presented the week before with an award for photo journalism.
‘Not all your footsteps, I hope,’ Donald’s mother replied. Even now he remembered the tightening of her voice. She wore a green dress, close about the midriff. The colour reflected her sea-coloured eyes. He remembered the brittleness of her laughter. That night, like most others, she cried.
Now, in Hengtao, he walked forward to frame the prostitutes in his camera, their clothes bright against the charred remains. He stumbled against something and found the corpse of a half-dressed soldier at his feet. The man must have rushed from the brothel, pulling on his breeches. Donald pointed the lens to the ground. The man’s head appeared before him in the camera frame, a bullet through his brain, another in his jaw. He stepped back quickly.
The shock lasted with him as he walked back to the Railway Hotel. It was the first dead man he had seen since his father’s suicide. Now, in the cold early morning, he could no longer escape his memories. He cursed aloud. Crows replied from the bare branches of a tree. He saw Cordelia again, slim, immaculate, sitting at her office desk, the noise of Fleet Street drifting up through an open window. Cordelia.
The next day Donald returned to Harbin. He began to look for copy again. The Japanese Military Command were helpful, anxious to show their best to the world. An expedition was suggested.
Donald flew in a military plane to Pao-tao, a dusty Muslim town on the edge of the Gobi Desert. From there, by camel caravan, he would journey to a Japanese military outpost some distance beyond Ujino. The town was one of the last Mongolian settlements on the border of Inner Mongolia. A month before fifteen Japanese soldiers had been sent to this outpost with a wireless set. Their presence was intended as proof of Japanese expansion into Inner Mongolia. There had been no news for some time from them. A Japanese military group was on its way to investigate.
Pao-tao was a rough trading town with a predominance of mosques. Dust dried the throat and settled in a powder over skin and bread. The town was a centre for wool. Great camel caravans coming down from Tibet and Mongolia and Sinkiang converged on the town before travelling south to Tientsin to trade. Donald did not know what he hoped to gain by this journey. The opportunity had presented itself, and the thought of the desert drew him. Its vastness would empty his mind. He knew nothing of the region.
There were ten camels and four mules. Captain Nakamura was going to Ujino with four other army personnel. Travelling with them was a monk in robes that seemed Tibetan, although he appeared of Indian origin. He sat aloof upon his camel, speaking only in Japanese with Captain Nakamura. He looked at Donald and then turned away.
Tilik Dayal was not happy to see an Englishman as a travelling companion. His face took on a sullen look.
‘Who is he?’ he asked Nakamura. ‘Is he a merchant, a dealer in wool? Why can you not get rid of him?’
‘He is a reporter,’ Nakamura replied. ‘We’re supposed to take him to Ujino. He has papers with him from some military high-up, and has been put under our command. I don’t know what he thinks he’ll find; a lot of sand and camels?’
‘You know why I’m here. What will we do if he finds out the purpose of my journey? He could spoil my plans if he wanted. It is better for him to think I do not speak his language. Remember, please. I don’t like Englishmen. I have no wish to talk to him. An Englishman killed my father. I will pretend to go into deep meditation the moment he troubles me,’ Tilik warned. Nakamura laughed.
‘Why are you wearing these ridiculous robes?’ he enquired.
‘I always wear them while travelling in this area. It fits me into the religious lifestyle of the people, inspires their confidence and gives me instant information. There is nothing these people respect more than a religious man.’ Tilik grinned.
In Hsinking, the new Japanese capital of Manchukuo, Hasegawa had thought Tilik’s disguise a splendid joke. So much humour had been generated at his cost in the Japanese Military High Command that Tilik’s feelings were ruffled. He himself could see little humour in the disguise, only a brilliant convenience.
Surveying the sea of sand beyond the dusty town, he wondered what this journey would yield. He stared surreptitiously at the Englishman, so obviously awkward upon his camel, resisting the animal’s lurching gait. Soon he would have sore buttocks. Tilik smiled at the thought of the man’s discomfort. His face was red as a pomegranate from exposure to the sun. Bitterness curdled in him. How far had he been forced to travel in life by this arrogant, red-faced race?
Children ran about the camel’s legs, begging from the man. Tilik watched Donald Addison empty his pockets of small coins. No white man knew how to deal with poverty. Either they arrogantly ignored it or, like this man, made fools of themselves. They had no idea who to give to or when, nor even how much. They had no knowledge that in some places organised begging was a trade like any other. The animals stamped their feet and sand blew up in a fine cloud of dust. A hot wind stung his cheeks. Tilik wound his draperies about his face.
He had woken one night with the plan fully formed in his mind. He shook Michiko awake and told her. He had continued talking long after she went back to sleep. The next day he discussed it with Hasegawa who became uncharacteristically excited. He had immediately spoken on Tilik’s behalf with the Military High Command who appeared taken by the novelty ofTilik’s idea.
‘Anything that minimises British influence in China is to our mutual advantage,’ Hasegawa declared. ‘If all the wool in this area can be shipped to Japan instead of Britain, that is also to our advantage. Go and see what you can do, then we will work on Tokyo,’ Hasegawa had ordered.
It was a good plan. All the wool of Tibet, Mongolia and Sinkiang entered Pao-tao on the backs of endless camel trains. From there it travelled on to Tientsin where it was bought by British merchants for transhipment to Britain and the mills of Lancashire. Just as Gandhi had brought about the boycott in India of British goods and textiles, so Tilik wished to prevent Mongolian wool from ever reaching England. One more round of meetings with the headmen in this area and the plan would be ready to implement. Before the wool caravans reached the British merchants in Tientsin, a Japanese purchasing commission would buy up the wool in Pao-tao at the same price it was sold in Tientsin. After this trip, with his facts complete, Tilik would return to Hsinking and maybe to Tokyo for discussions at government levels. In collaboration with the great textile combines of Japan a purchasing depot would be organised in Pao-tao. In one stroke he would cripple Britain and enrich his adopted country. On his camel Tilik surveyed the desert, stretching void to the horizon. The useless, barren landscape now appeared a place of power.
The land was shifting, the wind moved dunes overnight. Day ran into day upon the camel’s meandering gait. The desert did not have the effect upon him that Donald desired. Instead of erasing sensation, the emptiness appeared a crucible for his blackest feelings. Emotions burned through him, more painful than the desert heat searing his skin through his shirt. He was powerless to stop the vivid intrusion of unwanted thoughts, like a reel of film gone mad, flapping about in his mind. His father. Cordelia. His father again. The sobbing of his mother. The sound of the gun, and the dripping, bloodied wall down which had slid his father’s brains. Against this bitter, inner world, the wastes he traversed faded to nothing.
Hour after hour the sun beat down, eroding will. At night the moon and stars appeared magnified. Donald lay on th
e cool sand in the dark and stared up at their strange beauty of the heavens, finding relief. He thought of the remoteness of this tableland between China and Russia, once the domain of Genghis Khan and his grandsons. The Land of the Blue Sky, it was called. He had the feeling he stood at the top of the world. Distance meant nothing to those of this soil, endurance was in their genes. Even now, in terrain that flattened him, others spent lives of transit. Caravans of a hundred thousand animals and men, traversed without thought thousands of miles. From these wastes Kublai Khan had swept down to conquer Japan. In sight of the country, but before he could land, a typhoon destroyed his ships. Now, seven hundred years later, the Japanese returned the gesture, sweeping over Manchuria, struggling like ants over an unsubduable wilderness. He wondered at the need in man to conquer and to kill.
‘What are you Japanese going to do here, in this dust bowl?’ Donald asked Nakamura the next day as their camels lurched forward together. Nakamura sighed. He spoke good English, and had taken a degree in the language at university.
‘In Japan the eye is never stretched but pulled up short everywhere by mountains, hills, forest, cultivation. Everything is scaled down, knitted together, compressing the individual,’ explained Nakamura, as he rode beside Donald. ‘Here the eye is pulled to its limit, there are no boundaries. And I do not mind telling you, I am frightened by this space. We Japanese are not used to such freedom. We are comfortable only where there are limits. We have a need for tight controls about us in all areas of life. In a larger figurative expanse we are lost and do not know what response is demanded of us.’
It was clear something of this anxiety filled the Japanese soldiers with Nakamura. They constantly enquired of their guides if they were lost. Only the Indian Lama sat immobile on his camel; Nakamura told Donald he had come this way before. The day’s purpose was always to locate the next source of water. The guides gave prayers of thanks before removing the planks that covered each well and pitching camp. Gradually, Donald learned to trust the guides, knew water would be there at certain points, as would, eventually, a destination. He made several attempts to communicate with the Lama, but each time the man turned away.