by Janie Chang
His brother Tienming sat down briefly for some soup, then excused himself as soon as Shao gave him the letter from Mrs. Deng.
“Third Son,” his father said, at the end of the meal, “you’ve just recovered from fever. Stay at home and rest for a few days. Spend time with your mother.” It was a command, not a request. He couldn’t go out now. He would have to send Sparrow to check on Lian.
After his father left to return to work at Xinwen Bao, Shao sought out his brother. Tienming sat upstairs in their childhood playroom, his tall frame doubled up in a small chair by the window, as if he’d dropped into the seat forgetting he was no longer a boy. His hand clutched the letter from Mrs. Deng, his expression blank.
“She’s left me,” his brother said. Grief and bewilderment seeped into his features. “By now she’ll be gone from our house in Wen-chou.” His voice choked slightly. Shao had never seen his brother show so much emotion. He’d always been the most reserved of the three. The most self-sufficient.
“How did Mrs. Deng seem to you?” he said.
“Very pleasant, very calm,” Shao said, “although I did wonder why she wasn’t in Shanghai with you, since you’ve been here such a long time.”
“I met her only a short while ago, you know.” His brother blinked and looked at the paper in his hand, smoothed it out carefully. “At some restaurant. It’s so hard to remember now. I thought she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. She never asked me for anything. But she liked it when I did anything nice for her. Clothes, jewelry, the flat.”
He’d been so happy when she agreed to live in Wen-chou with him. There, he could pretend they were married. It was like living in a dream.
“And now she’s gone,” he said, looking down at the paper in his hand. “Back to her family, she says. But I know nothing about her family or where she’s from. I never thought to ask. Why didn’t I ask?”
Tienming pulled out his wallet and looked at a small photograph before handing it to Shao. The face that looked out from the photograph was pretty, but not exceptionally so. It was a poor likeness of Mrs. Deng. It barely hinted at her heart-stopping beauty.
An image flashed through Shao’s memory. Mrs. Deng and Sparrow sitting together, bright as moonlight, their faces so similar, so lovely. A fever dream. He dismissed it from his thoughts.
“In fact,” Tienming said, “I didn’t really know her at all, did I?”
But at that moment the nurse rapped on the open door and beckoned to Shao. His mother was asking for him.
HIS MOTHER HAD made an effort to dress up for him. Her nightdress was different, one with ruffles around the neckline that hid the gauntness of her throat. Her skin was dry and papery, but her face lit up when she saw her son. This time, when Shao took her hand, she squeezed back.
“You look thin,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I will tell Old Zhao to make that pork belly dish you like so much.”
“How do you feel today?” he said. Her hand was as light as a sheet of paper, her hair brittle, no longer lustrous.
“I’m happy you’re home,” she said, “but that’s not what you meant, is it?” She struggled to sit up. “It’s frustrating, Third Son. No one believes me when I say something’s wrong. But never mind that. I got your first letter from Changsha but nothing since. Tell me everything.”
He didn’t tell her anything that would make her worry. Nothing about his own illness. He made light of the hardships and the long miles, the tragic sights along the way. He didn’t mention Lian. His mother listened but soon she grew restless and distracted, her eyes darting around the room. Then she gestured to the nurse.
“Just a small amount,” the nurse said, holding out a spoonful of brown liquid. Shao’s mother swallowed eagerly, then leaned back on the pillows, her face pale, all strength spent. Her eyes closed but she held on to his hand.
“Will you send Sparrow to see me later,” she murmured. “She’s such a good girl. A good servant.”
The rest of her words were inaudible. He sat beside his mother until she sank into sleep.
SHAO’S FATHER INVITED him for lunch downtown, a signal that he considered Shao sufficiently recovered to go out again. Rather than take one of the family cars, Shao had the gatekeeper call him a rickshaw. All the way to his father’s office, he took in the streets of Shanghai. So familiar, yet completely changed.
At exit points where Shanghai’s residents were allowed to cross in and out of the Settlement stood unsightly and intimidating barbed-wire barricades, the guardhouses were manned by Japanese soldiers. Refugees from outlying areas struggled to enter the safety of the Settlement. They feared the Japanese guards but lined up anyway. One man carried a birdcage, his only possession.
At the barriers, the backdrop behind the anxious crowds was one Shao had only seen so far in news photos. The bombed-out buildings of Greater Shanghai, blackened and bullet-ridden.
“Go some other way,” Shao called out to the rickshaw puller. “I don’t care if it takes longer. I don’t want to see those barricades.”
The staff at the newspaper office, most of whom Shao had known since he was a boy, greeted him enthusiastically. They wanted firsthand accounts of his evacuation, the conditions China’s schools faced during their evacuation. He recounted a few stories about Minghua 123’s long journey. After repeating them so often to his own family over the past few days, the narrative was now so familiar he felt as though he read from a script, his memories replaced by the words he spoke.
The long nighttime journeys and walking on moonless nights to avoid aerial attacks. The duty of transporting the Library of Legends, a heavy responsibility that also lifted their spirits. The day they learned the secret of tying straw sandals over cloth shoes. The never-ending pain of blisters. With each retelling, he’d made the experiences sound more amusing, the horrors he’d witnessed less unnerving. He even made their constant battles against vermin entertaining, small enemies they had to outwit. And all the time, west, to the west.
He didn’t mention Jenmei, only Mr. Shen, when asked whether Minghua 123 had lost any of its members to enemy attacks.
“Weren’t you afraid?” a junior reporter asked. The young man had been scribbling madly in his notebook while Shao talked.
He paused. “It’s strange, but I always knew I’d be safe as long as I followed the university and did as our professors instructed.” Then he realized the truth of his words. “This may sound ridiculous, but even after Mr. Shen was killed, we all believed we would get to Chengtu unscathed, as long as we carried the Library of Legends. How could fate be so cruel as to destroy the Library and those entrusted with its safe passage?”
And afterward, on the journey east, why had he been so confident? Even through his bouts of fever, he had been sure they’d reach Wen-chou. He had been a burden to Lian and to Sparrow, but he’d never doubted. As though he were exempt from catastrophe.
The restaurant they went to for lunch was one his father often patronized near Xinwen Bao’s office, just around the corner. It served Western food and was also inexpensive and quick. After ordering, they talked about the war, his father asking his opinions, listening to him as though he were another adult.
“What’s been going on in Nanking is far worse than anyone knew,” his father said. “The Japanese won’t let journalists into the city and they censor heavily. But there were foreign reporters in Nanking when the Japanese marched in. They got out of China and the stories they filed are now being published.”
“But no one outside China seems to know or care,” Shao said.
His father nodded. They were both thinking of the USS Panay. The Japanese air force had mistakenly sunk the American ship and foreign newspapers devoted more coverage to the Panay than the fall of Nanking.
When their food arrived, his father leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, a sure sign that a serious topic was imminent.
“I received a letter from Minghua University yesterday,” Liu Sanmu said. He handed
Shao an envelope. “The town of Shangtan was bombed. The university is very sorry to inform me that you are missing, presumed dead. You didn’t think to tell the school before you left? What if your Miss Hu hadn’t come to see me until after this letter arrived?”
The envelope was postmarked Chengtu. So Minghua had finally reached its wartime campus. The stationery was Minghua letterhead, signed by the new director of student services. Mr. Lee’s replacement.
Many students were in town and able to hide in air-raid shelters. At first, we hoped your son was one of these. But he is still missing, so we must reluctantly accept that he was killed.
The letter didn’t mention whether any other students had been killed. Nothing about Sparrow.
“And your friend Miss Hu,” his father said. “Does the university know she left with you before the air raid?”
Shao looked down at his omelet. He knew Lian had hoped the university—and Wendian especially—would believe she had died, a victim of the air raid. He had to protect this fiction, keep her trust. He didn’t know how much Lian was willing to reveal about her mother and it wasn’t his story to tell.
He couldn’t lie to his father. But he didn’t have to tell him everything either.
“The three of us left without saying anything,” he said. “Lian was afraid they’d stop us from leaving. That’s why we escaped in secret.”
“I hope her parents don’t get a letter before she reunites with them.” His father’s expression remained grim. “You realize I’ll have to write the university so they know that you’re alive and in Shanghai.”
“Father, please don’t mention Lian when you write the university,” Shao said. “When I see Lian, I’ll tell her you got a letter from Minghua. That her . . . family will be getting one.”
There was a long silence as his father sliced into a piece of fish. He tapped his finger on the table and a waiter rushed over to refill their tea.
“Well, her family is none of our business,” he said, finally. “If her parents get a letter of condolence, that’s for her to deal with. But it was irresponsible, not well thought out at all.”
His father signaled the waiter for a chit. “I’ve made some inquiries regarding your classmate Yee Meirong,” he said. “All we can do is wait for news.”
“Thank you, Father,” Shao said.
“In the meantime, you can’t sit around Shanghai,” Liu Sanmu said. “I’ve had you enrolled at Jiao Tong University for the summer semester.”
And just like that, Shao was the youngest son again. His father making decisions for him again.
“You need to register for classes before June,” his father said. “I have no preferences, just sign up for whatever will complete your degree.”
“Yes, Father,” Shao replied, quelling resentment. He had to speak to his father about another issue. “Father, Sparrow has changed. She’s more restless now, impatient.”
Now that he was well enough to notice, Shao perceived her frequent absences. No one in the Liu household expected her to resume her previous duties as a house servant right away. She did a little housekeeping then went out. Exploring Shanghai, she said, getting to know it again. Although Shao told himself it wasn’t any of his business, it did bother him.
“What she’s seen, what she’s had to endure, it changes people,” Liu Sanmu said. “China itself has changed, Third Son.”
“She can’t work just as a house servant anymore.”
“You’re right. Sparrow deserves more,” his father said. “Perhaps Second Aunt can find a husband for her. A small merchant who’d like closer connections to our family. It’s time she got married, started her own family.”
Shao put his cutlery down. Sparrow, married. He stared at his father, who continued talking.
“This is your last year of university, Third Son. Once you’re back taking classes again, look around for a young woman. All I ask is that she come from a good family.”
Some families put their daughters through university to prove they were rich enough to waste their money educating girls. Others did it to improve their daughters’ marriage prospects. There were girls in Shao’s social circle who regarded university as a sort of finishing school.
But not Lian. Lian’s pursuit of knowledge was pure and uncomplicated. Sincere. She was going to write her term paper on the legend of the Willow Star despite all that had happened, she’d told him. Her rucksack had been heavier than his because she’d brought all her notebooks. She’d never once complained about their weight.
He cleared his throat. “About Mother,” he said, changing the subject. “Is our doctor doing everything possible?”
“I’m having doubts,” his father said. The waiter brought the chit, and Sanmu signed it. “I’ve been slow to act because Dr. Wu has been our doctor for decades. He’ll lose face if we change doctors but I’m going to ask some of our friends for a recommendation.”
“Mother’s health matters more than Dr. Wu losing face,” Shao said. “We should get in touch with Dr. Mao, who looked after me when we were in Wen-chou. I have his card.”
“I’m not sure,” his father said. “A small-town doctor? A refugee?”
“A doctor,” Shao said. “A doctor who had to flee his home.”
On the sidewalk, they went their separate ways. Shao got in one of the many rickshaws lined up along the street to go back home, still pondering his father’s words.
Sparrow, married.
EVEN THOUGH MEMBERS of the Liu clan from three different cities had come to sit out the war in Shanghai, the Lius weren’t suffering or even inconvenienced much. Other, less favored households squeezed a dozen people into three-room flats, sharing incomes and even garments with relatives who had fled with only the clothes on their backs. But a number of Liu relatives from out of town already owned property in Shanghai and simply moved into those homes. The rest installed themselves with varying degrees of comfort inside the eight-mansion estate, living in guest quarters and spare rooms. Servants grumbled at having to make room for their guests’ servants, but their complaints remained behind closed doors.
Each household took turns hosting dinners for their guests. Shao braced himself the night his least-favorite great-uncle came to dinner. Judge Liu and his extended family had left Changchow as soon as the Japanese began marching down from Manchuria. Although the judge’s only son lived in a palatial flat, the judge refused to stay with him. His son’s notoriously beautiful wife had left him for a Hong Kong film director. She was now an actress, living in Hong Kong. It was a scandal for the conservative judge, but Shao couldn’t blame the wife. The judge’s son was about as intelligent as a houseplant, with a personality to match. And he was an opium addict.
Judge Liu generally held a low opinion of the younger generation, especially his nieces and nephews in Shanghai, but for once, he spoke approvingly to Shao.
“That you valued your education enough to follow Minghua University through so much hardship is admirable,” his elderly relative said. “That you risked your own safety to give your mother peace of mind during her illness is even more commendable.”
Shao bowed his head to hide his smile at this unexpected praise. “Thank you, Great-Uncle.”
“How is your wife?” the judge said, turning to Liu Sanmu. “Has your doctor any new insights?”
“I’m going to find a new doctor for my wife even though my mother is against it,” Shao’s father said. “She is loyal to Dr. Wu and thinks it will make him lose face. But it’s been months and my wife is no better.”
“Have you a doctor in mind?” the judge asked.
“Fifth Uncle suggests a British doctor,” Sanmu said. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a card. “But my son wants me to get this doctor, a refugee. Dr. Mao Ba, the one who looked after Shao during his bout of relapsing fever.”
“Dr. Mao! Can it be?” the judge exclaimed, taking the card. “Physician and surgeon. Yes, the same. So, he’s here in Shanghai. I must pay my respects.”
“Dr. Mao is no simple country doctor,” Judge Liu said. “When word gets around that a physician of such excellence is in Shanghai, you’ll have to stand in line for days.”
“If you recommend him, Uncle, then there’s no question,” Sanmu said. “I’ll send for the man first thing tomorrow.”
Chapter 33
Minghua University left Shangtan a few days after the last bombing. Officially, six members of Minghua University were reported as missing, presumed killed, a list that included Liu Shaoming, Hu Lian, and Sparrow Chen. Professor Kang consoled himself in the secret knowledge that the three had already left town when the bombs fell. Perhaps by now they had reached Shanghai.
But there were three other young lives to mourn and the next leg of Minghua’s evacuation would be hard enough already without the memory of lost comrades weighing down upon them all. They were making the final push for Chengtu, more than a month of walking, the longest continuous journey they had ever faced. They would stop only to rest and sleep.
The professor, however, had another duty to fulfill and would not be with the main group. Colonel Chung, their liaison officer in Changsha, had loaned him a truck and driver. The purpose was to deliver the Library of Legends as quickly and safely as possible to the caves near Zunyi. Both Minghua University and the government were in complete agreement on this.