Nanjing Requiem

7




ARTILLERY POUNDED the southern and western parts of the city throughout the night of December 12. After two a.m. I returned to the inner room in the president’s office to steal a moment of sleep. Bursts of machine-gun fire broke out now and again. With my coat on, I dozed off in an armchair. In a semiconscious state, I saw Chinese soldiers scrambling onto junks, sampans, and rafts on the Yangtze while Japanese planes were strafing them. Some of the boats caught fire and some were overturned, dumping thousands of men into the roiling water. Some of them were dog-paddling and some clinging to boards and poles, while others sank, screaming for help.

Then an explosion woke me. “What a catastrophe,” I muttered, shaking my head. I sat up, fumbling my feet into my shoes. I reached out for the floor lamp, then realized there was no electricity anymore—our college had a generator, but it hadn’t started producing power yet. Tears blurred my eyes as I stood and made for the door.

While I was plodding to the front gate, the eastern sky was already aglow with rust-colored clouds, and all was quiet on campus. Luhai greeted me and said that groups of Chinese soldiers had passed by, some begging for civilian clothes. The men at the gate had given them whatever they could spare.

Along the front wall were clumps of uniforms tossed over by the soldiers, and there were also some rifles, daggers, and cartridge belts. We gathered the clothes and set fire to the pile. As for the weapons, I told Luhai to drop them into the pond behind the Library Building.

When it was light, scores of neighbors appeared at the front entrance, begging the guards to let them in. Minnie went over and told them through the steel bars of the gate that since their homes were already within the Safety Zone, they would be safe and should give the space to the refugees who had no place to stay. The neighbors groused some more, then left unhappy. A few men who had offered to work started swearing, because we could use only two of them as water carriers. Jinling had its own well for tap water, but drinking water had to be delivered to the people who stayed in the open. By now the camp was full, with more than twenty-five hundred refugees.

On December 13, the day that the Japanese took full control of the city, the porridge plant, a doorless shanty about seventy feet long, was finally set up beside the sports ground. It sold porridge to those who could afford it, at three cents a bowl, but it also gave free meals to those without money. The refugees went to the food stands building by building, one group after another. Even so, at mealtimes, crowds swarmed there with bowls and mess tins in their hands. That outraged me, and I couldn’t help yelling at them. Breakfast lasted more than three hours, until half past ten. After that, the kitchen staff could take a breather for two hours and then would serve porridge again in the midafternoon. They provided two meals a day for the camp.

When breakfast was under way, many women washed laundry and toilet buckets at the four ponds on campus, mothers now and then calling to their children. A bunch of boys ran around as if eager to explore this new place, a few small girls following them. For the rest of the morning the camp was quiet, but around noon a clamor broke out at the front gate. “Japs, Japs are coming!” a boy hollered. Minnie and I went over and saw an officer slapping Luhai, and a soldier, rope in his hands, about to tie him up.

“Stop! Stop!” Minnie shouted, and hurried up to them. “He’s our employee.”

The squat lieutenant turned to her in amazement, saying something none of us could understand. He then motioned dismissively to the soldier behind him, and the man let Luhai go.

As the platoon of soldiers was moving away, a voice called out, “Save me, please!”

We rushed over and recognized Hu, the janitor of the Library Building, his arms clutched by two soldiers, one of them carrying Hu’s new serge parka in the crook of his elbow. Minnie grasped Hu’s belt from behind and forced the two soldiers to stop in their tracks. “He works for us,” she shouted at the stocky officer. “Coolie, coolie, you understand?” Her brown eyes were smoldering with rage. “You cannot arrest people without any charge.”

The officer looked at the Red Cross badge on her chest as though unable to make head or tail of it. Then he waved at the two soldiers, who released Hu.

“Save me too, Principal Vautrin!” another voice cried. That was from a boy named Fanshu, who was also being dragged away. He was struggling to break loose while still holding a basketball under his arm.

We ran toward Fanshu, but a soldier spun around and held out his rifle, its bayonet pointed at Minnie. She had no choice but to stand there watching them pull the boy away, together with three other Chinese men we didn’t know, though one of them looked strong, like a soldier. Fanshu worked for an old American couple who had just left town. He was supposed to stay and watch over their property, but he had snuck here to play basketball. He was merely fourteen, though tall and big for his age, so the Japanese caught him as a potential soldier.

“Thank you for rescuing me, Principal,” Hu said, bowing to Minnie and showing his splotched scalp. “I spent a whole year’s savings on that parka they robbed me of.”

“Damn them!” Minnie stamped the ground, puffs of dust jumping up around her feet. “Ban, Ban, where are you?”

“Here, I’m here.” Ban, a skinny boy of fifteen, who was our messenger, came over.

“Go tell Mr. Rabe that the Japanese took people from our college.”

“I don’t speak foreign words, Principal.”

“Mr. Han, his secretary, knows English. Let him translate for you. Ask them to come and help us stop the soldiers.”

Ban broke into a trot, sticking out his elbows as he ran, his police boots too big for him. He was short for his age, about five foot one. I wondered if it was wise to send him on the errand, but I didn’t share my misgivings. Even if Rabe was notified, what could he do? Such random arrests must have been happening everywhere in the city.

Around two p.m. Rulian arrived; she was nicknamed Lady Fowler thanks to her love of Emily Brontë and because she kept our domestic fowls. She panted, “Some Japs are on the hill.” She pointed at a hillside to the west, beyond our Poultry Experiment Center, which was in her charge.

“Do you think they’ll break into the fowl house?” Minnie asked her.

“Sure they will.”

“Let’s go have a look,” I said.

Minnie had to remain at the front gate, so Luhai, Holly, and I hastened west with Rulian. I looked askance at the young woman; she was wearing a countrywoman’s dark blue jacket, her smooth face smeared with soot. She was thirty-one and comely, but had deliberately made herself look dirty and diseased. She even walked slightly bandy-legged to reduce her height. Yet there was no way she could conceal her prettiness altogether. I wanted to tease her by saying she couldn’t possibly rusticate herself so rapidly, but I refrained.

Chickens, ducks, and geese were squawking like mad in the poultry center. We entered the enclosure and saw two soldiers there, one gripping a goose by the neck, the bird treading the air in silence, and the other man chasing a long-tailed rooster. He tripped and almost fell in an attempt to catch the cock, which landed on top of a shelf, shaking its red and black feathers while peering at him with one eye. The man cursed the rooster and spat on the ground.

“Hey, hey,” Holly shouted, “they’re not for food!”

The soldiers stopped and came up to us. The taller one pointed at a hen and rapped out some Japanese words none of us could comprehend. Then the shorter one said in Mandarin, “Eat … chicken … meat.”

“No, no,” I said, glad he knew some Chinese. “These are for experiments, not like the birds raised by your mothers. Don’t eat poison, all right? If you eat any of them, you will bleed from every orifice.”

“Poison?” the man asked, then mumbled something to his comrade. They both looked puzzled.

“Yes.” Rulian pointed at a line of brown bottles along the wall, containing herbs and medicines for poultry diseases.

The short man again spoke to his comrade, who then dropped the goose and kicked a terra-cotta water bowl. Together they strode out, blustering as if cursing their rotten luck.

The four of us smiled, because the fowls were all healthy. “My goodness, ‘you will bleed from every orifice,’ ” Holly said to me. “You must’ve scared the heck out of them.”

Rulian giggled. Without delay we went back to the camp, where rice porridge was being doled out to the refugees for the afternoon meal.

Ban hadn’t returned yet, and Minnie was worried. The headquarters of the Safety Zone was just a stone’s throw away, and he should have come back long ago. We couldn’t help but wonder if he had run into trouble. The boy was an orphan, whose keep in a nearby orphanage had been paid by our college for years before we hired him, so he was more than just an employee to us.

After the refugees had finished their meal, we went to the dining hall to have supper. Most of us hadn’t eaten anything since the morning. Minnie and Holly collapsed onto chairs, saying they preferred a nap to food. They closed their eyes, ready to drop off.

“Please, you ought to eat to keep going,” I said, placing a bowl of porridge in front of Minnie. I moved a plate of fried soybeans closer. As I was getting another bowl for Holly, Luhai rushed in.

“Minnie,” he said, “some Japanese broke into the house where we store our rations.”

“Did they take the rice?” she asked.

“I’m not sure.”

“What did they tell you?” I said.

“They just punched me.” While speaking, he rubbed his bruised cheek.

The three of us went out with Luhai. The house in question was across the street from the front gate, and the rice was actually not ours. It was the Red Cross workers manning the porridge plant who’d left the ninety sacks in there, about twenty thousand pounds of rice. If the Japanese took the grain, the refugees here would starve. Approaching the house, we saw a lamp wavering at its entrance. A soldier barred our way, shouting in stiff Mandarin, “Stop! Stop there!”

“This is our college’s house!” Minnie cried back, and tried to push in. Then a young officer with a short beard came out of the room that held the rations. Minnie fluttered a small U.S. flag at him and said, “The rice is American property. You can’t have it! Get your men out of here. Are you in charge?”

The officer didn’t understand her; he turned around and said something to the men behind him. Two of them came up and shoved the four of us away. Then the officer pulled out his Yamato sword, cutting the air right and left while screaming as if he were performing onstage. The blade whirred and whistled. Frightened, none of us dared step closer again.

Without delay we went down Ninghai Road to the Safety Zone headquarters, which was just steps away. John Rabe was there alone, wearing a steel helmet like an officer. On his desk were some old issues of Ostasiatischer Lloyd, a small German-language newspaper published in Shanghai. Minnie asked him if Ban had come to inform him of a random arrest at our college. “I didn’t see him,” Rabe said, puzzled and wringing his plump fingers.

“Oh God, I hope he didn’t fall into Japanese hands!” Minnie said.

“He didn’t show up here at all?” I asked Rabe.

“No. I’ve been here since nine a.m.”

“I should never have sent him out,” said Minnie.

Holly described the rice situation. Rabe replied, “Maybe I should go and talk to them. Let’s hope we still can reason with those hoodlums.”

As Rabe stood up, ready to head out, the telephone rang and he picked it up. I was amazed that his phone still worked. The call was from Rosen at the German embassy; he said that squads of Japanese soldiers were at Rabe’s home and his German school, about to break into the compounds. Some of them were brandishing torches and threatening to toss them onto the properties if the gates remained shut. Rabe’s home and the small school sheltered hundreds of his Chinese friends, neighbors, and servants’ families in addition to many refugees, so he had to run.

Before leaving, Rabe called over Cola, the Russian who knew some Japanese. Young Cola wrote a short official letter for us to take back so we could show it to the soldiers occupying the house where the rice was stored the first thing the next morning.

Cola had grown up in Siberia, where his ancestors had done business with the Chinese, Koreans, and Japanese for generations. He had lived in our city for almost a decade, and children called him “the yellow-haired Russian.” He told us that the Japanese had arrested thousands of men suspected of being stragglers and deserters from the Chinese army and had raped hundreds of women in the southern and eastern sections of the city, where streets were strewn with dead bodies. There were also Japanese “fire squads” torching houses and buildings in different areas. Worst of all, some soldiers killed the women they raped to avoid being identified by them to the military police later on; in fact, there were very few policemen in town at the moment. Reports of atrocities within the Safety Zone had come nonstop for a whole day, but Rabe had been unable to contact the top officers of the invading force. We could only hope that the military would soon be able to control the soldiers who were running amok.

“I don’t think those brutes would kill and rape without their officers’ consent,” Holly said.

“The army certainly hasn’t bothered to rein them in,” Cola agreed.

“Who could have imagined such brutalities?” Minnie said.

“What should we do?” Holly asked.

“Nothing I can think of.” Cola shrugged.

When we returned to campus, we saw dozens of women sitting back to back in the front yard, along the cypress hedges. The buildings were already too packed to take in any more people, but more continued flocking to the camp. Agitated by the disappearance of Ban and wanting to pray for him, Minnie said good night to us and headed back to her apartment.