by Janie Chang
The Wei girls were delightful company but now that she knew, Lian felt uncomfortable riding in a railcar commandeered for a general’s family. From the way Meirong and Ying-Ying quieted down, she could tell they felt the same. The Wei girls chattered on, oblivious to their unease. They gasped upon hearing of Minghua 123’s run-ins with Japanese aircraft, shook their heads in sympathy at accounts of walking at night for long miles with nothing but starlight overhead, of the cold and hunger. But they’d never suffered through any of it.
“Did you know the nickname for West China University is ‘Mistress College’?” one of the Wei cousins said. “Warlords used to send their mistresses to this university. They wanted sophisticated, beautiful hostesses to show off. The warlords donated a lot of money to the university so their women could attend school in style. That’s why the campus is so beautiful.”
“Our dormitory is like a palace,” said another. “Don’t get off in Changsha. Stay on the train and enroll at West China when you get to Chengtu.”
“We can’t abandon our school after all we’ve been through,” Ying-Ying said.
“Anyway, your school sounds too fancy for us,” Meirong said. “We prefer listening to lectures in drafty temples while sitting on hard slate floors.”
“You’ll love Chengtu when you finally get there,” Fanling said. “The climate is so temperate, the air so soft and warm. Promise you’ll come find us at our university when you get there.”
FROM THE ROOF of the railcar, Shorty had a view of the road beside the tracks. Normally, rail travel from Wuhan to Changsha wouldn’t have taken more than six hours, but the locomotive had been damaged during an air raid, and the conductor stopped every hour so his engineer could make sure the repairs were holding. Each time they stopped, the railway tracks were besieged by people hoping to climb on for a ride. Soldiers on the train had to stand guard and wave their rifles to push back the crowd.
Shorty noticed that a few still managed to clamber on at each stop and once they did, the soldiers turned a blind eye.
“They sleep, eat, shit up there,” one soldier told him. “They don’t dare get off in case they never get back on again.”
“We lose a few when we go through tunnels,” his companion said. “On the last trip, some of them fell asleep sitting up. They got knocked off even though the conductor blew the whistle several times to warn them.”
By now Shorty could tell from the activity around the locomotive that their train was getting ready to move again. He reached down and thumped the boxcar door. It slid open and the two classmates who had been riding on the roof with him climbed down the handholds to go inside.
“Next shift,” he shouted. Their boxcar was crammed with cargo and badly ventilated. They’d agreed to take turns sitting on top of the car to free up enough space so that the students inside could actually sit down. Shorty didn’t like closed spaces and was taking an extra shift on top.
When the train began moving again, he sat facing the back of the train. It was better to have the rush of air at his back rather than blowing down the front of his padded vest. The steel panels of the railcar roof were slippery, but he pushed his feet against the raised edge of a metal seam and felt more secure.
The three students shared the roof with six men from the town of Changchow, all members of a carpenters’ guild. The men had bribed soldiers to let them get on the roof; they were also riding south to Changsha, chasing work. The carpenters deferred to the students, who were legitimate passengers, but they defended the roof fiercely, demanding money from those who tried to climb on. “We paid to sit on this railcar, eh,” they shouted. “Pay up or stay off.”
The rocking motion of the train was soothing. The tracks passed through a forest dense with bamboo and pine. Tall yellow stalks and dry leaves waved above Shorty, splitting the sunshine into strips of light that flashed over the railcars, a rhythmic and hypnotic effect that made him sleepy. He jerked up, knowing how easy it would be to roll off the roof. When the train emerged from the shadows of the forest, Shorty blinked up at a sky no longer blue but fading into dusky sunset, shades of pink and amber staining the horizon.
He watched the forest recede, fought off drowsiness. Just for a few moments, he told himself as his eyelids closed and his mind strayed into the realm between sleep and waking.
If he hadn’t closed his eyes, if he had been one of those who could truly see, he would’ve noticed jeweled glimmers shining out from the forest’s depths and the fluttering of bamboo leaves that had nothing to do with a train rushing past. He would’ve witnessed a giant bird rise out from the forest canopy, its crimson head crowned in feathers like silver spikes. Then the flurry of lapis-blue wings and the flash of gold tail plumes as the phoenix shot into the sky. Then another. And another. Until an entire flock of phoenixes soared to circle above the bamboo forest. When they were all airborne, the birds veered northwest and vanished into a saffron-gold sunset.
A DOZEN SENIOR students from the first four groups that left Nanking ahead of Minghua 123 greeted them at the Changsha train station. They were there to guide the new arrivals to their lodgings. Lian and the other girls followed the senior assigned to take them to the boarding school that housed all Minghua’s female students. They were anxious to get to the dormitory but they couldn’t help slowing down as store signs and enticing smells caught their attention.
The huge influx of refugees had transformed Changsha, and its enterprising citizens rose to the challenge of profiting from the flood of new arrivals. Every block was noisy with the pounding of construction work. Private homes hung out signs for room rentals and restaurants overflowed. Restaurants put signs on the sidewalk touting their house specialties.
“Pork belly steamed with pickled vegetables. Rice noodles with stewed beef,” Ying-Ying read. “Oh, look! Bean curd and red peppers.”
“I’m tired of steamed buns,” Meirong said. “Let’s come back here as soon as we’ve put away our luggage and get something nice to eat. Eggs cooked in spiced soy sauce.”
“In Changsha, food is still cheap and plentiful,” the senior called over his shoulder, “but expect prices to go up as the war goes on.”
“All I can afford are sweet potatoes,” Lian said with a sigh. They hurried to catch up with him.
“We’ve been here for weeks,” he said, “and our classrooms are at Hunan University, across the bridge. We share the campus with two other universities.”
They were being housed at Hande Girls Boarding School. Because of the war, Hande had closed its boarding school and kept it open only for day students. When they reached the school dormitory, classmates waiting at the entrance greeted them with cries of welcome. There were hugs and tears.
“I’m so happy to see you!” A tall girl with a long ponytail threw her arms around Meirong. “So the Literature Department is finally here! And the Agriculture Department, too?”
“Finally is right,” Meirong said. “How long have you been in Changsha, Tan Wendian?”
“A month,” Wendian said, tossing back her ponytail. “Too bad your group missed the last boat. You really fell behind. But you’re in time for the Lunar New Year. The celebrations begin in two weeks and we’re decorating the dining hall at Hunan University. There’s an interuniversity team planning all the festivities.”
“With so many universities in town, there’s lots to do,” another girl said. “On weekends and after classes, the streets are full of students. It’s like Wuhan, but with fewer military uniforms.”
“What about air raids?” Ying-Ying asked.
“We get them, but so far they’re not very frequent and antiaircraft defense is very well-organized,” Wendian said. “We get plenty of warning. Come see your rooms and then we’ll treat you to noodles. We’ve been here long enough to get money from our families.”
“We bumped into so many students on the way here,” Ying-Ying said as they trudged up the staircase. “How many schools are here?”
“The big three—Beid
a, Qinghua, and Nankai,” Wendian said. “They were the first to arrive, so they got the best accommodations.”
“Did everyone in your group get here safely?” Ying-Ying asked.
“Do you remember Huang An? He caught dysentery and died before we could get him to a hospital,” Wendian said. “And thirty of our boys enlisted after Shanghai fell. What about you?”
“We lost a graduate student, Mr. Shen, when a Japanese plane strafed the road we were on,” Ying-Ying said. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “And Wang Jenmei was murdered.”
Wendian gave a little cry, then covered her mouth with her hands.
“We think it was political, a Nationalist agent,” Meirong said, looking at Wendian. “Because Jenmei was leader of the Communist Students Club.”
“It happened when we were in Zhongmiao Village,” Ying-Ying said, “not far from Hefei. She was killed the night before we were supposed to leave. The local police didn’t do much to investigate.”
“Hefei is run by a fairly moderate faction of the military,” Wendian said. She seemed to have regained her composure. “Here in Changsha, it’s different. If Jenmei had been murdered here, I wouldn’t have been surprised at all. The left-wing elements here keep a low profile.”
“So how does one get in touch with left-wing elements in Changsha?” Meirong said. She saw Lian’s horrified expression and rolled her eyes. “I’m joking, Lian.”
“It’s no joking matter,” Wendian said. “The problem isn’t the military. In fact, the military liaison officer for universities is very tolerant. The problem is the Juntong.”
The dreaded military intelligence agency. Lian glanced over at Meirong and was glad to see her friend’s sober expression, all teasing gone. It was a good thing Wendian knew so much about the situation in Changsha.
“Oh, and there’s a big assembly tomorrow morning,” a third-year girl said. “Mandatory for all students. Some general making a speech because of Nanking.”
“Why, what about Nanking?” Meirong said.
“You don’t know?” Wendian exclaimed.
While they’d been chatting on the train with the Wei cousins, Nanking had fallen. The Japanese now occupied China’s capital city.
IN THE MORNING, a stream of university students crossed the bridge to Hunan University. The sports field was the only space large enough to hold them all and a stage had been erected in front of the stands. General Chen of the Eighteenth Army, one of the nation’s most respected military leaders, would be addressing them.
Stern and handsome, General Chen stood at attention while the national anthem played. The microphone screeched as an aide adjusted it, then the general stepped up.
“Out of China’s five hundred million people, we can recruit enough soldiers,” he said. “But China has only forty-three thousand university students. Students, you are our nation’s treasure. You are the ones we need to rebuild after the war. You are China’s last drop of blood. If we lose you, we squander our future. Do not enlist. Evacuate to safety with your schools. Complete your education. It’s your duty to the nation, to your families, to your own destiny.”
But by the end of the day, fifty-one students and eleven servants from Minghua University had enlisted. Four more, all from the coastal town of Ningbo, decided to drop out and travel home together. They were worried about their families. Ningbo was south of Shanghai and Lian wanted very badly to join them. But the only way her mother could contact her was through the university. She had to wait for her mother’s letter.
Chapter 22
In Changsha, university life felt almost normal to Shao. The buildings at Hunan University were reasonably warm, the electric lighting miraculous. There were lectures in real classrooms with real desks and chairs. There weren’t enough classrooms to accommodate all the universities at the same time, so room rotations and long idle periods between classes stretched school days into the evening but no one minded. It was a relief, no, a pleasure, getting back to a routine of classes and study. Although they’d tried to keep up with their courses while on the road, how much studying could they really manage after eight or twelve hours of walking? How could they concentrate on lectures or take notes when their hands were numb from the cold, their stomachs growling with hunger?
Between classes Shao worked on assignments and met with his tutorial group, which had reassembled. They met in quiet corners and corridors. Their eager questions made him smile, and there was new urgency to their discussions. The war made them search for answers in literature of the past since present-day news only brought uncertainty.
Shao ran into several friends from Shanghai, all in Changsha with their universities. Some had been in Changsha for many weeks; they’d already received letters from home. Flush and generous after cashing in money orders, they treated the new arrivals to cheap meals at Changsha’s many small restaurants. Shao was learning to enjoy the region’s distinctive style of cuisine, generously seasoned with mouth-numbing chilies.
“My tongue’s still on fire,” Shorty said, breathing in cold winter air through his mouth.
“I need to wash my face,” Shao said. “Those noodles made me sweat more than a basketball game.”
“Liu Shaoming! Shorty Ho! Hey, stop!” A uniformed soldier was puffing up the hill after them, waving madly. “Ping! Chen Ping!”
“I know that voice,” Shao said, squinting. “But not that face.”
“It’s Wei Daming,” Shorty said. “Thirty pounds lighter. And in a medic’s uniform. And here, in Changsha.”
“Daming! You dumb ox!” Shao shook the younger man by the shoulders. “What are you doing here?”
Daming’s face shone with exertion from the climb, but his wide grin almost split his face in two. “I heard there were Minghua students billeted at Yali Middle School, so I came to see if I could find some of the old gang.”
“Are you here to enroll?” Chen Ping asked.
Daming threw back his head in laughter. “What university would take me? Even if I hadn’t been expelled, I would’ve flunked out. But the army was glad to take me.”
“But a medic,” Shao said. “How did you qualify for that?”
Daming laughed even harder. “Apparently, it was because I could read. They handed me the field surgeon’s manual.”
“Where’s your cousin?” Shorty said. “Both you and Jin Ming were expelled for that prank.”
The smile faded. “Jin was killed, old friend. I had to write my aunt and uncle. I really hope the postal system takes its time with that letter.”
The cousins had been expelled from Minghua partway through the second week of classes. Daming and Jin hosted a farewell dinner at a favorite restaurant in Nanking, spending lavishly on food and drink for their friends. The next morning, they woke up in a hotel room with queasy stomachs and sharper minds. The gravity of their situation made their stomachs roil more than the bottle of brandy they had drunk so freely the night before. They knew what awaited them back home in Shanghai. Their fathers’ wrath, their mothers’ tears of shame. The disapproval of elderly relatives.
“Jin remembered our great-uncle in Anhui Province, a general,” Daming said. “We bought train tickets, rode as far as we could, then walked the rest of the way to the front lines to enlist in his regiment. We thought if Great-Uncle wrote to our parents praising our patriotism, they might not be so angry with us for getting expelled.”
“And did he write to praise your patriotism?” Shorty said.
“No. He gave us a tongue-lashing for getting expelled. Then told us that for the family’s sake, he would try to keep us safe.”
General Wei assigned Jin and Daming to the field hospital, where a doctor gave them medical manuals to read. They followed behind doctors and medics, helped out in the hospital tents. It all seemed like a big adventure. Then came their first battle.
The wounded poured in, lifted on stretchers, carried in blankets, helped in by their comrades. Some were reduced to screaming animals from pain, some were shocked a
nd stupefied, others mercifully unconscious. Daming worked in the operating room, a small shack beside the main hospital tent. They ran out of morphine and Daming held down patients as the surgeon dug bullets out. He bandaged sawed-off limbs, stitched wounds. The air-raid siren howled but the surgeon kept operating.
Then a blast and darkness. Then silence.
He struggled up to see the roof and two walls gone. Tattered canvas flapped outside but there was no sound. A soldier, mouth open and contorted, screamed in the silence. Daming stood up but his legs felt as though he was pushing his way through a bog. He stumbled out and knew that Jin, that everyone in the hospital tent, was gone. That he was lucky he hadn’t been sliced open by shrapnel.
It had rained while he was unconscious and the ground was soft. He skirted around small ponds of muddy water, bomb craters that had filled up. But it was a beautiful morning. A high wind fanned thin white veils of cloud across a clear, clean blue sky to skim the mountaintops. He remembered that so vividly.
Daming’s great-uncle had been sick with remorse. “I should’ve sent the two of you back to Shanghai the minute I saw you,” he said, glaring at Daming. “I should do that now before I have to write another one of these letters to the family.”
“I’m not a very good field medic but the army can’t afford to be picky right now, sir,” Daming said. “Please, Great-Uncle, I’d rather stay and do my duty than go home.”
“Hmmm,” General Wei said. “I understand. I’d rather face the Japanese than Jin’s mother.”
He assigned Daming to oversee the transport of wounded soldiers from the front to hospitals inland. Now Daming spent his time shuttling back and forth on trains and trucks.
“I’m in the thick of it,” Daming said. “Great-Uncle offered me a way out but I didn’t take it. And it wasn’t just because of Jin’s mother. Call it patriotism or hatred of the Japanese, but I wanted to do something useful for once.”