Last Boat Out of Shanghai

by Helen Zia

They exchanged views on food: Shanghainese love delicious food, said Doreen. Cantonese love healthy food, countered Andrew, pointing out that Shanghai dishes were stewed in soy sauce, salt, and sugar until everything turned brown. Cantonese steamed their food and preferred clear sauces, using less oil and salt. “What’s so great about those Shanghai hairy crabs?” Andrew asked Doreen. “Too much trouble for so little meat.” Soon the two were joking about their own narrow-mindedness.

  Andrew invited Doreen on drives around the colony, showing her the place through the eyes of the local people. The Chinese in Hong Kong had no say over their lives, he explained. Instead, they were treated as the inferior underlings of the British Empire, deemed incapable of governing themselves. “His Excellency the Governor” ran their lives while foreigners on the other side of the world at the Home Office in Whitehall made the rules.

  The two drove around the shantytowns of Diamond Hill in Kowloon and North Point on Hong Kong Island—areas where there were so many Shanghainese that the refugees could get by speaking just their own dialect. Even in the more expensive neighborhoods in the Mid-Levels, there were pockets of Shanghai exiles, clustered together. The children of those Shanghainese could be found loitering in such enclaves: girls like Matilda Young, who chose to play in the streets rather than go to school because she couldn’t understand a word of Cantonese; boys like Sydney Chang who became troublemakers in Hong Kong, setting fires simply to get out of school. Doreen knew that in Shanghai these former high-society youth would have spent their time going to tea dances and socials. In Hong Kong they were misfits without a society to connect to. They were as dislocated as she’d been.

  At least she had Andrew to help ground her. He opened her eyes to the thousands of Nationalist soldiers retreating from the Communist forces across the invisible pencil-line border into Hong Kong’s New Territories. Bringing another crisis to the colony, these defeated soldiers suddenly found that they were men without a country, unclaimed and unwanted by any state. Their former Nationalist commanders in Taiwan refused to take responsibility for them, unwilling to assume their costs and suspicious that Communists had infiltrated their ranks. Their former adversaries in the People’s Republic considered them enemies who should be prisoners of war. Meanwhile, the British colonial administration didn’t want to acknowledge or appear to harbor them, lest it provoke its giant Communist neighbor. The stranded soldiers sheltered themselves in ramshackle tin and cardboard encampments until the British administration finally moved them to Rennie’s Mill, a remote, abandoned site in the New Territories.

  The British colonial government continued to ignore the humanitarian crisis engulfing Hong Kong until a terrible fire on Christmas Day 1953 destroyed a huge squatter shantytown in the Kowloon area of Shek Kip Mei, leaving fifty-three thousand homeless. Finally the British had to acknowledge that the refugees in Hong Kong were there to stay. In the face of constant agitation from both Nationalist and Communist protestors, the Hong Kong government embarked on building large-scale public housing with running water and sanitary facilities to house the million-plus new residents.

  It began to dawn on Doreen, too, that she might not return to Shanghai, the port city that had been her family’s home for four generations. She’d never intended to stay in Hong Kong, but maybe there was some magic here after all. Thanks to Andrew, Hong Kong began to feel more like a home to her. In him she had found a beau and, perhaps, a future. Maybe she could make a life there—but how could she feel at home without Benny, the one family member she was closest to? All she had were his brief letters that contained nothing but platitudes. At least she knew he was alive.

  With each passing year, even those letters came less often. She couldn’t be sure that he received the money or packages she sent. Then his letters stopped.

  TAIPEI, 1957

  In the spring of 1957, Annuo had nearly completed her undergraduate law program at Tai Da, having spent four miserable years in a course of study that was of no interest to her except to keep her father at bay. With her college degree in sight, she could possibly leave Taiwan by going to graduate school abroad.

  Brother Charley had already left to study in America two years earlier, after serving his mandatory year of military service. Luckily, the war in Korea had reached its stalemate by that time, and the continued American presence had discouraged an attack from the Communist mainland. Charley had yet another obligatory service to fulfill, this time mandated by their father: to bring the rest of the family to safety in America. “One by one, you children and cousins must leave Taiwan, like cars in a train,” her father strategized. “Charley is the locomotive.” Annuo, the second car in the train, was his main backup. This was an assignment that she embraced wholeheartedly.

  But once again, her father intervened with his own idea. He saw an advertisement for nursing personnel in the United States. The ad claimed that, because of a nursing shortage in America, anyone who passed the nursing school admissions test would be guaranteed a spot in an American school.

  Nursing fit perfectly with her father’s grand design. A nurse would be almost as good as a doctor when he grew older and needed medical care. And of course it fell neatly into his plan to send his children to the United States as a means of escape for him one day. But to Annuo, the prospect of nursing school was as repugnant as medicine, and besides, she was sure that she could get accepted to a graduate school in a subject of her choosing. She bristled at her father’s insistence that she take the upcoming nursing school test.

  Ignoring Annuo’s objections, her father registered her for the exam. To prevent her from finding an excuse to miss it, he sent his car and driver to pick her up at school and take her to the test site. Just like a prisoner, Annuo concluded bitterly. She took her seat in the test hall. When it was time to begin, she stared at the test booklet. Without answering a single question, she handed in her blank answer sheet and left. Days later, the results were posted in the newspaper. Annuo’s name was dead last. Livid, her father accused her of sabotaging his plan, his face turning bright red. For once, she had prevailed over his authority. She said nothing, savoring her victory.

  Annuo hurried to apply to graduate schools in the United States before a new battle with her father could erupt. The process of obtaining an exit visa for foreign study was unchanged from the days when the Nationalists had run all of China: She needed a bachelor’s degree from a Taiwan university, an acceptance letter to a foreign graduate school, a passing mark on the Ministry of Education’s patriotic “good citizen” test for study abroad, and enough money for tuition and living expenses. She hunted for the schools with the lowest tuition and fees that might accept her and then applied to several. Soon she heard from the University of Oregon: She had been accepted as a graduate student in journalism. It wasn’t the literature that she had once hoped to study, but it would still make use of her love of writing.

  The required Ministry of Education exam didn’t faze her: Chinese history and general knowledge, Nationalist principles, English proficiency. Annuo passed easily. But she was less confident about the next test, the English exam required by the U.S. consulate. Like most other college graduates in Taiwan, she had a basic reading knowledge of English but with little opportunity to practice speaking, she was far from fluent. Still, she passed and was approved for a U.S. student visa.

  Freedom was finally within Annuo’s grasp. She couldn’t wait to escape her domineering father and her stagnant life on an island ruled by military law. She felt no attachment to Taiwan. Having spent her entire childhood running from one hiding place to the next, she didn’t call any place home, not even her birthplace of Shanghai. To Annuo, Taiwan was just another way station.

  The last hurdle was the money. Annuo needed five hundred dollars to deposit in a U.S. bank as soon as she arrived in America, to show that she had enough money to support herself. Her father grudgingly loaned her the money—which she sent back as soon as
her college paperwork had cleared, depleting her bank account. She also decided to take on a new name when she reached America. Instead of Annuo, she would call herself Annabel. She’d have a new name and a new life. At last.

  * * *

  —

  IN SEPTEMBER 1957, ANNABEL arrived in Portland, Oregon, after a rough voyage on a Taiwanese freighter. It had been the cheapest passage she could find, with thirty other passengers, mostly students. A professor from the university met her and another female student at the dock. In exchange for light household chores, they stayed at his home temporarily while preparing for the English proficiency exam required by the university. Annabel cleaned while her classmate cooked, and they both slept on the floor of his apartment. One month after arriving, they took the scheduled English test. Annabel passed, but her roommate did not and had to leave school.

  Annabel moved to a housing cooperative and quickly realized she had a problem. Though she had passed three English proficiency tests, she was struggling in school. English words flowed too rapidly, a fast-moving stream that she couldn’t catch. When other students laughed at jokes, she stood by and felt stupid. But three months later, she began to find her roommates’ chatter irritating. With a start, she realized that she could understand their inane conversation.

  Yet Annabel found herself miserable and terribly alone. She had lived a tightly controlled life for so long that it was unnerving to be out of her cage and on her own. She didn’t like martial law or the domineering rule of her father, but she missed the security and safety of that insular life. It had been familiar and safe. At school in Taiwan, she’d had a good name and reputation. In America, she was a nobody. It didn’t matter to anyone if she existed or not. She went to a few school socials because she still loved to dance. But she was always the last girl to be asked.

  Annabel Annuo in front of her cooperative dormitory in 1957, at the start of her graduate studies at the University of Oregon. Though she could communicate in English, she was most comfortable wearing her qipao.

  Returning to Taiwan was out of the question. She couldn’t afford a ticket and didn’t want to face her father’s scorn for failing to execute his grand plan. Mao and the Communists were as determined to take Taiwan as Chiang and the Nationalists were committed to taking back the mainland. Her father was equally adamant: Taiwan was a sitting duck, and he had to get his family away from the Communist threat.

  To counter her loneliness, Annabel signed up for a program to welcome international students. She was matched with a “Friendship Family,” a local couple and their young children, who volunteered to introduce her to American life. They showed Annabel many kindnesses, inviting her to meals and family occasions that helped ease her isolation. Their cute four-year-old daughter would take her by the hand, happy to see her. One day, they told her how they loved Chinese food and asked her to cook them an authentic Chinese meal. Caught by surprise, Annabel couldn’t say no. After all, they had been so generous with her. She was also too embarrassed to admit that she barely knew how to boil water. With trepidation, she agreed.

  Her Friendship Family eagerly awaited their Chinese banquet while Annabel grew more anxious. Her stomach was twisted into a knot for weeks. What could she possibly cook? Then she remembered the cookbook her mother had given her when she left for America. Annabel scanned the recipes and rejected any that called for “condiments readily found at any market in Shanghai.” Finally she chose a recipe with just a few ingredients: “rock ’n’ roll eggs,” a famous Suzhou dish, the cookbook claimed. It seemed simple enough: Make a small hole in each egg, remove the contents from the shell, and mix with soy sauce, salt, sugar, minced green onions, and ground pork. Then replace the mixture into the shells, steam, and serve. Easy, she thought.

  On the appointed day, Annabel brought two dozen eggs and other ingredients to her Friendship Family’s home. Their table was set with flowers, candles, and polished silver. “We’re so excited,” her hosts told her, beaming with anticipation.

  As they relaxed and watched TV, Annabel went to work in the kitchen. She encountered her first problem immediately: She had never cracked a raw egg before and didn’t know how to do it. An hour later, the lady of the house peeked in. “Is everything okay in here?” In one swift glance, she saw broken eggshells and raw egg splattered all over her counters and floor. Her husband was dispatched to get another dozen eggs for Annabel while she began cleaning the mess.

  Armed with more eggs, Annabel gamely tried again, this time piling the mixture into some eggshells. But she hadn’t anticipated that the eggs would roll over, turning her concoction into a sloppy pudding. Hungry, the four-year-old cried, “Mommy, I don’t want Chinese food. I want a peanut-butter sandwich!” Red-faced, Annabel feared that her first cooking foray had strained her relationship with the family—and forever ruined Chinese food for them.

  * * *

  —

  IN TIME, ANNABEL ADJUSTED. After a year in Oregon, she decided to transfer to a school that would offer better job prospects. She was accepted into the noted journalism department at the University of Missouri. There, she honed her writing skills and grew more confident with the English language.

  In 1960, with her master’s degree in journalism in hand, Annabel headed straight to New York City. She was sure she’d find a job. Each day, she went from one publishing company to the next in search of work as a typist, unaware that staffs in journalism and publishing were almost entirely male. She was quickly shown the door at Time magazine, The New York Times, Ladies’ Home Journal, Doubleday, Random House, and a host of other companies. Not long after, she was back, this time asking the same companies if they’d hire her to sweep their floors. She received the same unequivocal no.

  Annabel thought of giving up. She’d had no idea that doors would be shut to her as a woman and an “Oriental.” But then she’d remember her father’s harsh words. “You’ll never amount to anything,” he’d said, voice full of disdain. She had to prove him wrong. Stiffening her back, she kept on looking.

  Just as she was running out of money and hope, Annabel received a call back from Scholastic Magazines. They needed someone to work as a copywriter in their rights and permissions department. Her education in law and journalism was perfect. It wasn’t on the creative side of publishing, where she’d hoped to be, but it was her chance. She took the job, right across Forty-second Street from the New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue. There was even a fancy Shanghai-style Chinese restaurant nearby on Park Avenue—not that she could afford it, but its presence was comforting. She had made it! She was working in the heart of the publishing world in New York City. She had done it on her own, and best of all, there was no one to disparage what she had accomplished.

  Annabel didn’t know many people in the big city yet, but she didn’t feel alone. There was so much for her to explore in New York. And Charley, who was working on his doctorate in agricultural economics at Iowa State University, had once introduced her to a friend of his from graduate school. The young PhD—a physicist named Sam—was planning to move to New York for a job, and he seemed to enjoy her company. His family, too, had fled the mainland for Taiwan, and like her, he had no desire to return to the island. Sam would understand her father’s plan to bring her family out. Annabel had a chance, she believed, to please her father at long last by helping to get her relatives away from the ever-present Communist threat. Then, maybe, she’d prove that she was a person of worth and substance.

  NANJING, 1957

  After enduring the repeated interrogations of the anti-Rightist and san fan and wu fan—Three Anti and Five Anti—mass movements, Benny had retreated further into his solitary life. Apart from going to work at the library and taking his meals at the university canteen, he kept to himself. One day, as he approached the canteen for lunch, Benny noticed a young woman standing by the entrance, looking lost. She was a new teacher, about his age, and unsure how to get foo
d at the canteen. Benny showed her where to hand in her meal chit, where to wait in line, how to order her food. Grateful, she flashed him a smile. When he invited her to sit at a table with him, she accepted. He felt his cheeks grow warm and was glad that she had gone to get hot water while his face blushed red.

  Her name was Chen Ling, and she was from Hangzhou, the ancient city built around the West Lake, long revered by poets and painters for its scenic pagodas, arched bridges, and weeping willows. She had just joined the faculty of Nanjing Agricultural University, having graduated from Fudan University in Shanghai. Fudan was one of the top schools in China—without the missionary connection and baggage that St. John’s had had. A biologist, she would be teaching embryology and histology to undergraduates. In the new China, the party and the constitution declared that women were no longer subservient to men, but were their equals. They were to work at the same jobs as men and receive the same pay. Chen was an educated woman of the new society, a full-fledged teacher in the natural sciences, a field designated as top priority by the Chinese leadership. She could look forward to a good future.

  Benny liked her friendly, open face and the way her eyes sparkled when she smiled. With her permed hair, fitted clothes, and pumps with low heels, she had the Shanghai sense of style. He asked if he could join her at the canteen the next evening. She agreed, and it was then that Benny got his chance to learn more about her. Chen Ling also came from an educated family—not black like his, but not red either. When the Communists came to power, her father had run away to Hong Kong, leaving her mother to raise Chen and her brother.

  In the next months, Benny and Chen continued to meet each other for meals in the canteen. Benny gradually told Chen about his family. Everything. He had been afraid that she would pull away and shun him. But she didn’t. Instead, she showed empathy, understanding that the war had affected people’s lives in complicated ways. When he was with Chen, he felt lighter. He had almost forgotten how to feel happy. Chen helped him remember.