A Choice of Evils

by Meira Chand

  December frost hardened the ground, and wet leaves were slippery underfoot. She picked from a cupboard a padded Chinese suit and pulled on thick underwear and sweaters beneath it. She would appear no different from afar than the fleeing refugees. Her red hair she hid under a woollen cap. She packed some food in a rucksack and pushed in the last volume of TECSAT, ready just that afternoon. It would be needed in Nanking; Chiang Kai-shek and W.H.D. had not yet departed the city. She left a note for Bradley who was soon to return to America. The office was disbanding. With the completion of TECSAT, her work with Bradley was finished.

  She left in the early morning, when mist still hung upon the road. At first it did not seem too hard. A stream ran alongside the railway. Few people were about. The land was charred as far as she could see, an unrecognisable landscape. She kept close to the railway line, hoping at each station to find a transport train. The Chinese refugees kept their distance from the line and any chance of contact with the Japanese. The first stations she passed were deserted. She sat on the bank of the stream to eat breakfast and later some lunch. Shanghai was already a distance behind her.

  At places the track had been bombed and repaired. She cycled on the clay border paths beside the rails. The day was cold but sunny. Some distance ahead was a shallow ravine. Bombing had destroyed the bridge and it was crossed now by makeshift struts. She started across, cycling carefully over the narrow planks. Immediately she became aware of a stench rising up from the ravine. Looking down she saw the bodies of Chinese soldiers. They had been machine gunned and appeared to have lain for days in the narrow furrow. Their shabby blue padded jackets, not unlike her own, had been ripped open by bayonets or animals, the white quilting strewn about like candy floss, burnished by days of rain. The stench made her retch. She was terrified of losing her balance on the bridge and plummeting down upon the bodies. She pushed forward, not stopping until distance was achieved. The day had turned rancid upon her.

  At the next station were six Japanese soldiers. They had no English but were jovial, offering food. They examined her press pass and its red seal. Already the dusk faded into darkness. They showed her a station bench with a pillow and blanket and she accepted the offer. She felt no fear, surprised at the affability of the soldiers. She slept fitfully and in the morning they gave her a breakfast of dried apricots and small loaves of Chinese bread. She set off again with replenishments of food in her rucksack.

  Late in the day she stopped a group of peasants, asking in her broken Chinese the distance to the next station. They stood beside the railway line, scratching their heads. She saw a sudden flash of light ahead. A trolley-car, used for running up and down the track, was coming towards them, filled with soldiers. There was immediately panic amongst the peasants. They jumped over the steep bank beside the rail, pulling Nadya with them. She rolled down the slope, scratched by shrubs and undergrowth. There was a sudden, sharp pain in her head.

  When she awoke it was night and cold. Above, the stars were like chips of ice in the black sky. She sat up, but felt sick and lay down again. She must have hit her head as she fell. The peasants and her bicycle were gone. When she awoke next it was daylight, and there was a pain in one eye. She pulled herself up to the top of the bank and lay beside the railway line. If a trolley-car passed, they would see her. Eventually she heard a rumble, and saw a train had stopped. Japanese soldiers peered down at her and she was lifted aboard.

  ‘I want to go to Nanking,’ she said, showing the soldiers Donald’s press pass, and remembered nothing more. At times she awoke to the rhythm of the train and the voices of the soldiers. Miraculously, they left her alone, and for this she was grateful, knowing the tales of rape and assault. She had the feeling it was the official nature of Donald’s press pass that kept her so safe. Occasionally it seemed day, occasionally night. She had no sense of time until shaken awake. The train had stopped. She was helped out and sat upon a wooden box. One of the young soldiers spoke some English.

  ‘Wait, please,’ he said.

  It was a large station, and beyond it there appeared to be a sizeable town. The boy returned and escorted her to another area. ‘The Major want see you. You are feeling better now?’ he enquired. She stumbled and the boy put a hand beneath her elbow to help her along.

  ‘You like this war?’ she asked.

  ‘I must fight for our Emperor. Maybe I must die for him.’ He sounded cheerful.

  The press pass was already upon the Major’s desk, as were the contents of her rucksack. A small, swarthy man with bandy legs introduced himself as an interpreter. She did not like the look of him. The edition of TECSAT was open before the Major.

  ‘You are Russian,’ declared the interpreter as the Major held up some papers of identification from her rucksack. He spoke fluent English. ‘Where are you going to, walking alone in the middle of nowhere? The Major says we must decide if we will shoot you.’

  The Major had a square, protruding jaw. The whites of his eyes were yellowed, like old eggs. He stared at her red hair, and instinctively she took a step back. Her head ached badly still.

  ‘The Major says, all Russians are spies. If you were a Chinese we would shoot you, right now. Or, if you were carrying a gun or a knife. What is this book?’ The interpreter looked from Nadya to the Major. The Major glared at Nadya and prodded the pages of TECSAT. He struck the desk with his fist and shouted.

  ‘Major wants quick reply. Speak at once,’ the interpreter urged. She explained about TECSAT and her involvement in it. The Major rapped the desk again.

  ‘Is it not a code book? Are you not a spy? What organisation do you work for?’ the interpreter enquired. The absurdity of the charge made her want to laugh, instead she felt she might cry.

  ‘You can see what the book is,’ she shouted.

  ‘Do not raise your voice to the Major,’ the interpreter said. He lifted an arm, as if he might hit her. ‘The Major says you are to get off this railway. You cannot walk here, it is highly strategic. You are near the front lines. You will stay here until the morning. We will then decide what to do with you. It is better to tell us now who you are working for.’

  ‘I have told you all there is to tell,’ she began to shout again. The interpreter hit her across the face.

  She was given a straw mat in a small room. A filthy toilet led off it. Some rice, tinned fish and pickles were brought to her. She lay down on the mat. The odour of excrement filled the air. At moments she felt she might vomit. It grew dark and finally she fell asleep. The next morning the young soldier who spoke English returned with green tea and Chinese buns. He brought also a mirror and hot water, which she took gratefully. Looking into the mirror she saw that her hair stood on end and bits of leaves adorned it. Her face was streaked with mud, her eye was ringed by a bruise. In her pocket she found a comb and a handkerchief and did what repair work she could. It was midday before she was summoned again by the Major. Beside him in the room sat an Indian man. Nadya looked at the foreigner in surprise, wondering if he too was a captive.

  ‘The Major tells me you want to get to Nanking,’ the Indian said. His eyes protruded slightly behind a sharp nose, his hair was thickly oiled. From his manner it was clear he was no captive. He spoke in Japanese and the Major appeared respectful.

  ‘Who are you?’ she scowled. It was as if she had entered a maze.

  ‘My name is Tilik Dayal. I am on my way to Nanking. I can take you there.’ He smiled.

  ‘Will he allow it?’ Nadya glared at the Major. Tilik laughed.

  ‘I have come down the line from the town ahead to pick you up. They do not know what to do with you here. You have some kind of official pass, so they are a bit wary of you. Ordinarily, they might already have shot you dead. I am also on my way to Nanking. I have a car, we are to go by road. The railway line ahead is bombed. We can leave at once if you wish. I will be your chauffeur.’

  A battered car, food and flasks of water were provided. Tilik drove out of the station, a Homburg hat on the back of his he
ad, as if in a holiday mood. Nadya was bewildered at this sudden release, everything seemed unreal. Now, on either side of the road, she saw devastation. Corpses were everywhere, limbs stiffened grotesquely, half-eaten by dogs. Surviving villages flew Rising Sun flags. Planes droned overhead and Nadya held her breath. There was nothing to stop them being machine gunned in the car, no indication of who they were. Tilik conversed in Japanese whenever soldiers stopped them and showed his documentation.

  ‘How is it you can drive to Nanking in an army car?’ she demanded, unsure of what to make of the man.

  ‘I have safe passage. I am on my way back to Manchukuo from Shanghai. The hostilities there detained me,’ he explained, his eyes upon the road.

  ‘You are in league with the Japanese military. Maybe you are the spy, not me.’ No ordinary foreigner commanded such co-operation from the Japanese Army.

  ‘But for me you would be interrogated today by the Military Police. No doubt you have heard of their methods,’ Tilik replied, turning his head to look at her.

  ‘You haven’t answered my question,’ she insisted. She felt no fear of this man. ‘Are you in the pay of the Japanese?’

  ‘I work from here to free my country of alien rule. Japan supports the freedom of India. I can turn you out of this car, right here. I can report you as a spy to the nearest command,’ he answered. There was something disturbing in her presence beside him. He kept wanting to turn and observe her. In spite of dishevelment her hair glowed in the sun like burnished copper. He had never seen hair that colour.

  ‘You do not frighten me,’ she replied and settled back in the seat.

  ‘There are many thousands of Indians all over Asia like myself. One day we will march with the support of the Japanese military into India. We will set the country free.’ He was anxious to impress her.

  ‘And then India will be part of the Japanese Empire instead of the British, and you will have brought it about,’ Nadya retorted. ‘I fled Russia with my husband, to Harbin. There too there were people working to free the Motherland with the help of the Japanese. I know the kind of things they did.’ She spoke bitterly, remembering Harbin and Sergei’s admiration of Konstantin Rodzaevsky, whose vile crimes were reported in the newspapers.

  ‘So your husband escaped to Harbin? Why is he not with you now?’ Tilik had orders to find out more about Nadya. The Major was certain she was a spy.

  ‘I do not know where he is. He ran off with a man called Shepenov, to America. That Shepenov was a real spy. Tell them to go after him.’

  ‘Shepenov?’ Tilik frowned. The name was familiar. He was sure the man was listed as a double agent, part of a Russian organisation recruited to work for the Japanese. He had been used for responsible work but had vanished with his male lover and a suitcase of Japanese money. If he was in America that was news. The woman must know more.

  ‘So you were alone, a young woman with no work. How did you keep yourself?’ Tilik asked, swerving to avoid a bomb crater.

  ‘It is none of your business,’ Nadya replied. ‘I am going to sleep.’ She closed her eyes, soon exhaustion overwhelmed her. Occasionally then he turned his head and looked his fill at her. She awoke as the car stopped abruptly.

  ‘We cannot go on. It’s too dark and the headlights are damaged,’ Tilik announced, turning the car off the road. ‘There’s a building over there.’

  He left the car, carrying a torch, and returned a few moments later. ‘There’s a barn. We’ll rest for the night and go on in the morning.’

  Nadya followed him to the ramshackle structure. Inside, she sat down on the piles of dry hay that still filled the barn. Tilik lit a hurricane lamp and set out a meal of cold rice, tinned fish and pickles.

  ‘Is this all they ever eat?’ Nadya asked. Tilik nodded.

  ‘Japanese army fare requires little cooking. They are the most mobile of armies. They need no kitchen. The Major gave me some Chinese wine.’ He poured some into a chipped cup and handed it to Nadya. She drank it back and asked for more. Tilik sipped sparingly at his cup.

  ‘Drink it up,’ Nadya ordered. ‘In Russia we throw back our vodka like that.’ She snapped her fingers in the air. Tilik refilled their cups. Nadya reached for a ball of cold rice and began to eat. There was nothing to say. They ate in silence until the sparse meal was almost finished, keeping aside something for the morning.

  The lamp threw long shadows about the barn and the rafters were black above them. Her eyes were like a cat’s, Tilik thought. In India cats were evil creatures. Tilik had been taught from childhood to avoid them. He looked at her apprehensively. With those cat-like eyes and flaming hair she appeared a creature from another world. She unbuttoned her padded jacket upon a close-fitting sweater. He was unused to women who displayed their bodies so unconsciously. She began to arrange the bales of straw into a bed for herself. Soon she turned her back upon him and settled for the night.

  Tilik lay down a distance away. The moon thrust in through the rotted roof, washing the barn in colourless light. Nadya breathed evenly, her shoulders rising and falling. Tilik could not sleep; the barn seemed full of the woman. He moved nearer, wanting to look again at her cat-like face; he had seen Western women only from a distance. In the half-light he could smell the scent of her skin and see the shadow of her eyelashes. The drink had made him bold. In the moonlight her face took on a translucence. The red hair was drained to a yellow fire. He had seen such faces in American movies, and Christian pictures of angels. He breathed quickly.

  Suddenly she stirred, and he drew back hastily. She turned and saw him, inexplicably near, pushing awkwardly away. Her eyes blazed up in fury. She rolled clear of him in a single movement and picked up a hay fork from a corner. He fell back in fear.

  ‘I would not touch you,’ he protested. ‘I was just looking at you.’

  She stood over him with the fork, as he retreated on all fours. He was out of his depth. Michiko’s modesty and predictability had not prepared him for this harpy. The fork was poised in her hand, as if she would castrate him. He pulled back against the wall.

  ‘You can sleep in the car for punishment.’ The absurdity of the moment struck her and she began to laugh. Tilik crawled from the corner, pleading his cause, but Nadya prodded him firmly towards the door, pushing him out into the night like some unsavoury insect. She wedged the door shut behind him.

  It was icy in the car, and humiliation filled him. Even the wine was inside the barn, and also the remains of the food. The sound of her laughter still filled his ears. He struck the dashboard with his fist, he would report her as suggested by the Major with all the additional details of Shepenov. There was no doubt she was a spy. What right had she to dismiss him in this manner? She was one more example of the arrogance of the white-skinned race, even if she was not English.

  He had been eight years old the day he saw his first Englishman, a sweaty, sunburned soldier. In innocence he had swaggered up to the man and demanded, ‘Why is your face so red?’

  ‘Because I eat only tomatoes,’ the soldier replied, lowering his gun.

  From nowhere then Tilik’s father appeared, sweeping him up like a sack of grain, backing away in apology. The soldier’s laughter arched over the carts and people crowding the narrow road.

  Tilik had not asked the question in disrespect but rather in admiration. However much his father might rant about the injustice of British Rule, it was clear to a child who was superior. For a week Tilik had refused all food and ate only raw tomatoes. His mother screamed and locked him in the storeroom. The doctor was called and laughed. His father shrugged and declared, ‘Let him find out for himself.’

  He had emerged from the experiment chastened. The mirror showed the same dark eyes and skin like the bark of the mango tree. He knew then he was bolted forever to his limitations. Anger overwhelmed him. When he listened then to his father speak of the persecution of Indians upon their own soil, his rage was no longer directed at his father for deprecating a people who should be admired. For the fi
rst time he identified with the powerlessness his father must always have felt. It was as if in those weeks he left childhood behind. Something awoke, like a seed that has stirred, and begins the first movement of growth.

  He did not sleep well in the car, the cold biting into his bones. He dreamed of Michiko and longed for her familiarity. Nowadays fatigue was always with him. The journeys he was sent on from Hsinking by Jun Hasegawa seemed endless. He repeatedly traversed barren rocky land, to people who welcomed him apathetically. He worked more to consolidate Japanese power than for Indian Independence. He was a paid puppet on a string who jumped to the command of the military. Nobody cared about India; the talk was all of Japan. Hasegawa laughed if he dared to grumble.

  ‘Have we limited your activities on behalf of India? Our Empire is at your disposal to spread your propaganda.’ Then Hasegawa would outline the next journey to some far-flung perimeter.

  ‘Send me to places where people have at least heard of India. What do camel herders care?’ he insisted.

  ‘Asia is one. An Asia for Asians will work to your end. Only keep your mind on that. All things will come in time.’ Hasegawa dismissed him.

  Tilik knew Hasegawa well enough to sense a distancing. Since the collapse of his wool trade project in Pao-tao Tilik felt a diminishing interest in him. In Tokyo the blame for this loss of trade had been placed squarely upon him. So also had the deaths of Japanese soldiers killed by the Chinese in revenge for the lowering of the wool tariffs. The tariffs has been lowered against Tilik’s advice by a new Military High Command. Yet it was suggested Tilik had put the cause of India before the safety of the Japanese. One hundred Japanese soldiers had died because of his plan, including Captain Nakamura. His protests had not been heard.

  Rash Bihari had not been happy at this news, when Tilik visisted him on a trip back to Japan. ‘This is not the way to help our country. You have allowed yourself to be trapped. Even if you were not directly to blame, do you think they will recognise that? In all these years I have made sure I kept my independence. But you have become their creature.’