The Library of Legends

by Janie Chang

  Like everyone else, Lian and Meirong walked to Shiama every day after classes, not to shop but to read the newspapers. Shiama, the larger of the two towns, had a post office. Its manager pasted up newspapers on the outside walls, papers from Shanghai, Wuhan, and Nanking. They were always at least two days old, but it was better than nothing. Many of the townsfolk couldn’t read, but during these extraordinary times, everyone deserved to know the news and there was no shortage of volunteers to read articles out loud. The students were only too glad to do so when asked. They read avidly, not just for news of the war’s progress but also to gain some sense of which routes were still safe, which railways still available.

  Lian devoured the headlines but was also drawn to smaller articles, descriptions of refugees on the road. Men and women swarming railway tracks, hoping to catch a ride that would save them hundreds of miles of walking. Families crammed into freight cars, those outside hanging on to doorframes and handholds, those inside packed together so tightly they stood upright despite their exhaustion. Reports of underequipped and undertrained soldiers being sent to the front lines. Photos of disheveled recruits in military camps outside the city of Changsha, some not even in uniform.

  The papers from Shanghai shocked them. An editorial in Xinwen Bao left the students speechless.

  Some of Shanghai’s foreign residents treat the war as spectacle. Never before has a great metropolis given its residents a ringside seat at a killing contest involving nearly a million men. They stand on apartment roofs and watch as Japanese airplanes dive on our soldiers in the trenches. From the safety of Bubbling Well Road, guests at the Park Hotel’s popular dining room gaze out through large picture windows and sip cocktails while commenting on the marksmanship of the Japanese batteries. One gets the impression the audience is disappointed their views of bloodshed are obscured by buildings and barricades.

  “How can they be so heartless!” Meirong exclaimed, her face red with indignation.

  “The white foreigners consider us inferior. Therefore, our suffering is insignificant,” Wang Jenmei spoke from behind. The tall girl shrugged. “One million or twenty million dead, Chinese or Japanese, it doesn’t matter to them.”

  Several of the townspeople dawdling around the newspaper wall drew closer. Jenmei noticed their interest and straightened her shoulders. She lifted her chin and her expression took on a dramatic intensity as she turned to face her small audience.

  “There’s only one way we can drive back the Japanese,” she said loudly. “And that’s if the Nationalist government would stop fighting the Communists. All Chinese must unite against our common enemy, regardless of our politics. Then we wouldn’t need to beg for help from foreign allies.”

  There were murmurs of agreement. Jenmei’s striking looks won her as much attention as her words. Lian pulled at Meirong’s sleeve.

  “I’ve heard that speech before,” she said. “We should work on that assignment, the one where we pick a story from the Legends to research. It’s worth twenty percent of the final grade.”

  “You go,” Meirong said, “I’ll come find you later.”

  But she wasn’t looking at Lian. She was watching Jenmei, admiration for the older girl shining out from her face.

  TO LIAN’S RELIEF, only a few other students occupied the library. It was a half day, and most students were in town. Minghua 123’s temporary library occupied the largest hall in the temple complex. The walls were lined with shelving built from bricks and boards. There weren’t enough shelves, so open crates of books sat in rows on the floor. She settled into a corner and pulled some writing paper from her rucksack.

  A girl at the opposite end of the hall caught Lian’s eye and gave her a half wave before returning to her own work. It was novel to Lian, this unsolicited warmth. She still hid behind Meirong, who was gregarious enough for them both, but the niceties of friendship came more easily to her now. Lian had learned that a compliment could break the ice, a question encourage conversation.

  She wished Meirong would stop teasing her about Shao just because he walked with her sometimes or sat beside her at the library on occasion.

  “It’s because we survived the bombing at Nanking West Railway Station,” Lian said. “He’s being kind, that’s all. He treats me like a younger sister.”

  “That’s how these things begin, Lian,” Meirong said, wagging her finger. “Then it grows into something deeper. Don’t deny it. You’d like to be more to Liu Shaoming than a younger sister.”

  Now, after crying on his shoulder by the waterfall pool, Lian did wonder how Shao truly felt about her. He had been so understanding, had known she didn’t need words of comfort, only his shoulder to cry on. Then there was that look on his face, the thoughtful questioning expression that made her feel as though she could tell him anything.

  She’d become alert to his presence. Unbidden, her ears sifted through the hubbub of chatter for mention of his name and her mind tucked away overheard scraps of conversation.

  That Liu Shaoming. He’s like a young god.

  When Shao looks at you, you can tell he’s really paying attention, not like other boys.

  That servant Sparrow, though. What do you think she means to him?

  Lian tried to concentrate on the pages of the book in front of her. She shifted to a more comfortable position on the rickety library bench.

  “Miss Hu. May I sit?” The soft voice was cultured, smooth.

  Mr. Lee, the director of student services, smiled down at her, a porcelain mug in his hands. His face was already thinner than it had been a week ago. His eyes, distorted behind the lenses of his wire-rimmed glasses, were disconcertingly bright, giving him an eager, predatory look.

  Lian quickly stacked the books she had spread all over the table to make room. He sat down and put his tea mug on the table.

  “You’re from Peking, am I right?” he said in a whisper. He lifted the lid from his blue-and-white mug. The steam from his tea wafted up, wonderfully fragrant. “Did you hear from your family before we evacuated? Are they still there?”

  “It’s just my mother,” she said. Her chest hollowed out, as it always did when she thought of her mother. “She wrote before the Japanese attacked to say she was fleeing Peking. I hope she’s safely in Shanghai now. But I won’t know until I get a letter.”

  “If she reads the bulletins,” Mr. Lee said, “she’ll see Minghua on the list of evacuated schools. She’ll know the stops along the way, the ones where we will stay for weeks, not days. Her letters might reach you en route. And if not, there’s always our final destination, Chengtu.”

  Lee didn’t have to explain this to her. They all knew there was no easy way to get in touch with their families while on the road.

  “I came to talk to you about Liu Shaoming,” Lee said. “A fine young man from an extremely influential clan.”

  Shao was the last thing she expected Mr. Lee to bring up. She drew back slightly from the director of student services.

  “The Liu family is connected to the highest levels of government,” he continued. “It would be terrible for their reputation if Liu Shaoming joined the Communist Party.”

  “Why do you think he might?” she said. There were left-wing student organizations at every university and Minghua was no different. All the students were interested in politics, or at least pretended to be. Some only knew the names of important people on either side, could repeat a few slogans. A small number, such as Wang Jenmei, were truly serious.

  “Students debate politics, of course. That’s normal.” He removed his glasses and pulled out a handkerchief. Spotlessly white, edged with a blue stripe. “But it would be quite the coup for the Communist Party if he joined. It would be humiliating for his family and by extension, the government.”

  “I don’t understand why you’re telling me this, Mr. Lee,” she said.

  “I think Liu Shaoming is fond of you,” he said. He breathed on his lenses and began polishing them. “I want you to keep an eye on him. Le
t me know if he starts going to Wang Jenmei’s Communist Students Club meetings.”

  “You want me to spy for you?” Her expression must’ve betrayed her feelings of shock. And disgust.

  Mr. Lee put his glasses back on and leaned in to whisper even more quietly. “You will, if you don’t want your friends to know your father was shot for being a Japanese spy.”

  She gasped. “He was a railway engineer. Not a spy.”

  “And Shao,” he said. “I wonder how he’d feel about you if he knew. Come now, I’m not asking for much, Miss Hu. Just let me know if you think he’s getting involved in left-wing politics.”

  Lian remained on the bench after he left, pretending to read, her eyes stinging. What had gone wrong? Her mother had guarded their privacy so carefully during their years in Peking, sacrificed friendships that could’ve made their lives less lonely. But those efforts had been in vain. They—whoever had given Mr. Lee his information—knew about her father. Which meant he knew their false identities. All her mother’s caution, all her tactics, had been useless.

  Hands trembling, she wrapped up Tales of Celestial Deities and stuffed it back in her rucksack. She tried to walk out the library doors calmly. Outside, the temple buildings were shuttered against the cold, the courtyards empty. Winter winds did not encourage lingering in the open. If only she could find a quiet corner, a place where she could think. Perhaps one of the smaller classrooms in the side courtyard.

  But when Lian pushed open the heavy wooden door, Professor Kang was at the front of the room, writing on a chalkboard. The creak of hinges made him turn around.

  “Miss Hu. You’re not at the market.” His voice was gentle, his smile open and kindly.

  “I’ve been already. To read the newspapers,” she said. “I . . . I wanted to spend some time reading my book of Legends. To work on my term paper.”

  “You’re in Professor Song’s class, aren’t you?” he said. “Which book of Legends do you carry?”

  “Tales of Celestial Deities,” she said. “But I haven’t selected a story yet for the term paper.”

  “Ah. That volume contains one of my favorite stories,” he said. “‘The Willow Star and the Prince.’ Please stay here, Miss Hu. I’m finished.” He gestured at the lines of poetry, elegantly written even though in chalk.

  The professor closed the door softly behind him and Lian slumped with the relief of being alone. She sat on the ground. All she wanted now was to escape from Minghua 123, vanish into the mass of nameless and homeless. She wanted to find her mother, for the two of them to run away. They would become invisible as foxes in hiding. She had to warn her mother. If only she knew whether her mother had reached Shanghai.

  Chapter 11

  After her father died, Lian’s mother got rid of their servants. The cook, the housekeeper, even her amah. Her mother told Lian she didn’t need to go to school for the rest of the month.

  “We’re in mourning,” she said. “Your teachers will understand.”

  There had been visitors, but none stayed long. One of them, the elderly man in the blue scholar’s gown, had handed her mother a large brown envelope. Afterward, her mother seemed excited, almost exuberant. She went out on errands several times that week, leaving Lian alone in the house with strict instructions not to answer the door.

  And then the announcement. “Little One, we’re going to stay with friends of the family in Hangchow. We leave in a few days.”

  The day before they were supposed to leave, her mother took her visiting, farewell courtesies. She had never been to their homes before but Lian vaguely remembered some of the women, guests at her parents’ parties.

  “We’re taking a long holiday,” her mother said to each lady. “To Hangchow, where we have family friends.”

  Lian had never heard her mother mention anything about Hangchow before. But she said nothing, just ate the sweet biscuits they put in front of her and sat politely until each visit was over. There was something forced about it all, a brittleness to her mother’s conversation, an avid gleam in the eyes of their hostesses.

  Except at the last house, where the woman greeted her mother with genuine warmth. A woman taller than most, her complexion and features Eurasian. Many of Lian’s classmates were Eurasian. This was not unusual in Harbin, a city with a large European population, mostly Russians who’d come to build the railways and then stayed. A servant took Lian to the kitchen, where a tabby cat and her kittens dozed contentedly in a box beside the stove. When the servant came to get her again, Lian stood up reluctantly, wishing she had cats of her own.

  At the front door, their hostess was helping her mother into her coat. “I wish I could do more to help,” the woman said.

  “It helped just talking to you, Jialing,” her mother replied. She clasped the woman’s hands. “No one else understands what it’s like to live in fear.”

  When they got home, her mother slammed the front gates shut and leaned her back against them. “You were very good, Lian,” she said, her eyes shut. “Very obedient. Thank you.”

  “The lady with the kittens,” Lian said. “Can we go back some other time? After we come back from Hangchow?”

  Her mother didn’t seem to be listening. “Oh, those women, Lian. They didn’t want to let me in the door, but they didn’t want to miss the opportunity to look me over either.”

  That was when Lian realized her mother was crying.

  They boarded a train the following day. Once they’d settled in their compartment, Lian’s mother locked the door. She wouldn’t let Lian explore the rest of the train, not even walk to the dining car. Lian could only go out of their compartment to use the toilets. Lian read the few books she’d brought and gazed out the window at the wintery countryside, stripped bare of greenery.

  Her mother lay down on the opposite seat, a wool shawl pulled over her legs, but her eyes were wide open. At noon the porter knocked on the door and Lian let him in to fill their teapot with boiling water from a huge kettle. Then Lian’s mother roused herself and brought food out from their wicker picnic basket. They ate a small meal of hard-boiled eggs with rice, a dash of soy sauce to add flavor. They shared a tangerine.

  “Let me show you something,” her mother said, after putting away their food. She opened her travel case and took out a large brown paper envelope. She unfolded a document stamped with multiple red seals. “This is who we are now.”

  Lian frowned as her mother ran her fingers down the words and read out loud. Hu Yinglien. Status widowed. Dependent, Hu Lian, daughter. Her own name, “Lian,” was the same. But their family name was “Jin,” not “Hu.” And her mother’s name was “Beihua,” not “Yinglien.” And her mother’s birth date was wrong. So was hers.

  “Those aren’t our names,” she said, “someone made a mistake.”

  “It’s not a mistake,” her mother said. “We’ll be using different names when we get to Peking.”

  “Aren’t we going to Hangchow?” she asked.

  “That’s what I told everyone, Lian,” her mother said, “so that if anyone looks for us, they’ll go to Hangchow instead of Peking. Peking is a huge city. We’ll be safe there.”

  All she needed to do, her mother said, was remember that their family name wasn’t “Jin” anymore. From now on, she was Hu Lian. They would never go back to Harbin. Lian’s mother poured a little hot water into a napkin and wiped tangerine juice from Lian’s hands.

  Lian sounded out her new name quietly. “Why are we Hu? Why not Chang or Lee?”

  “Because ‘Hu’ sounds like the word for ‘fox,’” her mother said. “It will remind us that we must be as cunning as foxes. We must be invisible as foxes in hiding.”

  For the first time since Lian’s father died, her mother smiled with real warmth. There was even a look of mischief in her eyes. Lian still didn’t understand why they had to change their name or hide away in Peking, but if it meant her mother smiled more, she would.

  There were so many things they’d had to leave behind. T
he shelf of toys beside her bed. The kitchen table and the high chair where she perched to watch her mother and the cook wrap dumplings. The blue bicycle she rode around and around the courtyard garden. Her father’s Library of Legends. There were just too many volumes. More than anything, she regretted leaving his books behind. She hoped she wouldn’t forget the evenings curled up beside her father, his quiet voice reading the stories out loud to her.

  In Peking, they moved into a poor but quiet neighborhood inside a maze of narrow lanes. In their new home, her mother’s determined efforts to erase their previous life meant they lived a frugal and secretive existence. Instead of selling the house in Harbin and closing out all bank accounts, her mother had taken some of their money but left enough behind to support the fiction that they had intended to come back.

  Her mother had been an orphan at a mission school run by Americans. In Peking she found work as a typist for an American tobacco company. She went to work with her hair pulled back in a matronly bun, wore dowdy, drab colors that made her look ten years older.

  When Lian was thirteen, her mother began worrying about a neighbor. He was a widower, a dry goods merchant with two small children and a sickly, elderly mother.

  “He’s always hanging at the shop door, watching for me,” her mother said as Lian set bowls, spoons, and chopsticks on the table. “I think he’s a spy.”

  “All shopkeepers stand by their doors,” Lian said. The man always rushed to the counter whenever she and her mother entered his store. She thought it more likely the man found her mother attractive. He was tall and large-boned, with a big nose and bold features that hinted of northern ancestry, perhaps Russian blood.

  “No, no,” her mother said. “He’s been sent by the secret police. We must get out.” Her porcelain spoon rattled against the bowl, her voice grew shrill.

  “Then let’s move,” Lian said, putting an arm around her mother. “We’ll move to the other side of town. We’ll be invisible as foxes in hiding.”