Nanjing Requiem

36




MY HUSBAND HAD WRITTEN me that he had left Sichuan for Kunming and joined the faculty of the National Southwest Associated University. He couldn’t write regularly, because he was afraid those who wanted him to serve in the puppet government might find out his whereabouts and mistreat us here. As long as he was safe, Liya and I could feel at ease. My son-in-law, Wanmu, also wrote. He’d been moving around a lot with his intelligence unit but was well and devoted to fighting the Japanese. He missed his wife and son but couldn’t possibly come back to see them. Liya sometimes got depressed and cried at night, though during the day she always looked normal and did what she was supposed to do. She once confessed to me that she had often dreamed of Wanmu and was worried that they might never be together again. What if he hit it off with another woman? she asked me. Nowadays the servicemen tended to live an unrestrained life, grasping at every small pleasure that came their way, because they might be killed at any time. I told Liya to scrap such silly thoughts. Wanmu was a dependable man, though I had never liked him that much. He was capable but somewhat nondescript, with a curved scar beside his nose. Liya could have done better than accepting his proposal. Yet I was certain he’d take good care of his family; that’s why I agreed to her marrying him.

To my astonishment, I received a letter from Mitsuko in late March. It contained a photograph and a piece of paper stamped with a baby’s handprints and footprints in black ink. Those must be Shin’s. Apparently Mitsuko didn’t know enough Chinese to write a note. The photo showed Shin smiling, with his eyes glittering a little and his mouth widening. He looked happy and healthy. On the back of the picture his mother penned: “Shin, 100 days.” Seeing those words, I couldn’t help my tears. If only I could hold him.

At night after Fanfan went to sleep, Liya and I sat in our large bed leaning against each other and talked about Mitsuko and Shin. I wondered if we should write to them. “Mom, Mitsuko probably can’t read Chinese,” Liya said. “Maybe we should send her something instead.”

“But what can we send?” I thought aloud. Besides the difficulty in coming by something nice, I wasn’t sure that the international mail was reliable.

We stuck to our former decision not to write Mitsuko, because we still had to keep our Japanese relations secret here. If people knew about Haowen’s Japanese wife and child, they might find out where he was and then condemn us as a traitor’s family. As long as the war was going on, we’d better not exchange letters with Mitsuko. On the other hand, I felt uneasy just ignoring her.

“Do you think you can accept Mitsuko as a member of our family?” I asked Liya.

“She’s Shin’s mother, so we may not have a choice.”

I liked her answer. Liya had her father’s head, acute and rational. “Plus Haowen loves her,” I said.

“I hope I can have a Chinese sister-in-law, though.” Her pointy chin jutted aside while her short nose twitched.

“You mean Haowen should have a second wife?” I had never liked the custom of polygamy, which was still practiced.

Liya smiled, displaying an eyetooth. “I don’t know. We’re in the middle of a war and anything can happen.” She drew the toweling coverlet up to Fanfan’s chin and then pulled the string to turn off the light.

“Sleep tight,” I said.

Outside the latticed window an owl was hooting. I thought about Liya’s words. What she’d said about a Chinese sister-in-law could be a possibility, but that should be up to Haowen and Mitsuko. According to what I knew about her, she was a good girl and a loving mother. If only I could get to know her. I would try to persuade her to come to live here after the war.

I SHARED my grandson’s new photograph with Minnie. She observed him carefully and told me, “He has your mouth.”

“Liya said the same.”

“If I were you, I’d go to Tokyo this summer.”

“I can’t get travel papers,” I said, without telling her that I couldn’t afford such a trip either. We used to have a few valuable paintings, but the Japanese soldiers had made off with them, and there was nothing else I could sell to raise the money.

“What are you going to do, then?” She put her elbow on the glass desktop and looked me in the face, her eyes clear and warm.

“I’ve no idea.” I sighed.

“Can’t you write to Mitsuko?”

“She doesn’t know Chinese, Haowen told me. If my husband were home, he could write to her in Japanese, but I don’t think it’s safe to get in touch with her at this time.”

“Why not? She’s your family, isn’t she?”

“You know how crazy people could get here if they knew we have Japanese relations. We have to be very cautious.”

“Oh, I see. Everything becomes complicated when it happens in China. But if you’re afraid of using your own address, you can use mine and let Mitsuko send her letters to my care. I’ll pass them on to you.”

“That’s a wonderful idea. It’s so kind of you, Minnie. When Yaoping’s back, we might need your help with the letters that way. Thank you in advance.”

“No problem. Anything I can do, just let me know.”

I dared not write to Mitsuko in Chinese, because she’d have to ask someone to translate such a letter and then our family’s connection with Japan would become known. After that conversation with Minnie, I felt even closer to her. I knew that Mrs. Dennison disapproved of her, but I’d do anything to help my friend.