Shanghai Story: A WWII Drama Trilogy Book One Page 3

  “What about you?” Tang asked. “What are your plans now that you’re back?”

  Clark raised his brows. “My father no doubt can use my help.” His family ran one of Shanghai’s largest import and export companies. His grandfather built it up from scratch, shipping cotton, silk, and hides, as well as food items such as rice, tea, and condiments overseas. The business expanded to include import of luxury goods. French soaps, European watches, handbags, fountain pens, and whatever people would buy in droves. Later on, his father, who had the foresight to see that industrialization was where the money was at, forayed into the energy sector and added import of oil, kerosene, and batteries for electronics such as lamps and machinery. His father’s bet paid off. He grew their family business more than tenfold. Eight years ago, he bought out a battery manufacturing plant on the outskirt of Shanghai, producing batteries for both industrial and home uses. By cutting the cost of import, their revenue soared.

  Tang took another drag of his cigarette. “Have you kept up with news in China when you were abroad?”

  “I tried.” Clark lowered his head with an apologetic smile. “News of Asia was hard to come by on campus.”

  “The KMT is officially in control of China. Reality is, it’s a fragile regime lacking in resources. It’s barely holding on to a third of the country.”

  Clark knew that much. The weakness of the Nationalist government was something he didn’t need to read the news to know. Shanghai was an exception. An anomaly. Outside of this city in the rural areas, everything was backward. From education to infrastructure, to ordinary people’s living standards. He’d witnessed firsthand how far behind his own country was when he lived overseas. It could be decades before China could catch up.

  “I’m aware of that,” Clark said. “One thing I want to do now that I’m back is to help improve education. I want to talk to my father about opening a new school for children whose families can’t afford to send them. Especially children who are working. Perhaps if we subsidize their parents so they won’t need their children’s income—”

  “Never mind that,” Tang cut him off. “Education right now means a lot more than opening up a new school. Take what I do, for instance. I keep the people informed about what our country really needs to become strong. Education is a problem, you’re sure right about that. A lot of people don’t have what it takes to think for themselves. They believe lies and rumors, or worse, superstitions.”

  Clark raised his head. What was Tang getting at?

  “We have a more urgent need to educate the public than improving the school system. There are two things right now that can ruin the progress we have made. The first is the Communists.”

  “The Communists?”

  “Yes. The Party sees them as an immediate threat.”

  “Really?” Clark was surprised to hear that. He thought the KMT had them under control. When Chiang Kai-shek took power in 1927, he’d purged the party of Communists. Clark was still young then, but he could recall memories of Chiang’s army storming into Shanghai in April of that year. Thousands were massacred. Worker militias were disarmed, arrested, or killed. All labor unions were disbanded. That whole month, his parents kept him and his sisters away from school and in the house.

  “I thought Chiang Kai-shek had driven the Communists from the KMT. He even came to a truce with Wang Jing-Wei,” Clark said. Wang Jing-Wei was the left-wing Party leader sympathetic to the Communists. He and Chiang had competed to succeed the Nationalist government’s founder, Sun Yat-Sen. Chiang ultimately won.

  “Within the Party, there’s truce, but the Communists are still a threat. Here in Shanghai, the problem isn’t obvious. But out west, this Mao Ze Dong whatever has led the Red Army to regroup. Their influence is spreading. The farmers and laborers they rallied don’t really understand what they’re up to. Mao and his gang incite peasant uprisings to raise riots. They’re instigators of instability. We have to eradicate the lies they spew. They’ll be trouble if we don’t stop them, and I’m doing my part. I’m educating the public to let them know what is really good for us.” He looked at Clark, his eyes probing and serious. “How are you going to do your part?”

  “My part?”

  “The KMT could use someone like you. We need more support from Western powers. We need foreign aid, both financial and military. We need more advanced arms and weapons if we’re going to put down the Communists, not to mention securing our borders up north to keep out the Japanese in Manchuria. Speaking of the Japanese, they’re the other problem. Do you know about the January 28 Incident?”

  “I heard about it,” Clark said. “Some of our old classmates told me the gist of it in letters.” His friends wrote that the Japanese had instigated a skirmish between several Chinese locals and Japanese monks near a factory in Shanghai. This was back in 1932. The incident escalated into a riot and the Japanese used the outbreak as an excuse to bring their armed forces into Shanghai. They proposed a series of outrageous concessions and demands they knew China could never accept. Everything was a front to start a war. On January 28, the Japanese launched a surprise attack in Shanghai. The bombardment only ended when the League of Nations arrived and negotiated a ceasefire. “I was sick with worry when I first found out. My parents wired me and told me they were fine. The Japanese stayed out of the International Settlement, so luckily they never came near my home. My father’s factories had to close for a while though. He found temporary shelters for a lot of his workers in the foreign concessions.”

  “Well, the Japanese aren’t going away. We can see them crouching there like a beast near Soochow Creek.”

  “I’m only an ordinary citizen. What can I do?” Clark asked.

  “The Foreign Affairs Bureau needs someone to liaise with the American China Hands in Shanghai. Not just someone bilingual, but someone who can navigate easily between both the Chinese and the Americans. We need a person who can advocate for us. Get the Americans on our side.” Tang looked pointedly at him. “You spent six years in the United States. You’d know how to do that.”

  “Are you asking me to become a KMT agent?” The idea had never entered his mind. It was so different from what he’d thought he would do. Not only that, how would he navigate the treacherous world of politics in China?

  And what about his family business? The reason his father sent him overseas to study abroad was to prepare him to become the head of their company. “What about my father? He needs me.”

  “The country needs you,” Tang said. “Do you remember what we learned back in school? What Sun Yat-Sen said about the Three Principles of the People that will make China a free, prosperous, and powerful country? Nationalism. Democracy. And the livelihood of the people. You and I are the future of China. If even you can’t commit yourself to the country, what hope do we have of making our country strong?”

  Clark took a deep breath. A surge of national pride began to swell inside him.

  “Nationalism. Safeguard ourselves from the Japanese. Don’t give them an inch.”

  “Yes.”

  “Democracy.” Tang squeezed his fist. “That’s what makes the Western countries a success. That’s what makes them so powerful. Communism is the direct threat to that. If we let the Communists take hold of our people, China will be doomed.”

  Clark could see that. He’d witnessed the power of democracy in the six years he’d lived in the United States. America offered its people equal opportunity to get ahead. Communism sought to destroy private ownership. It would take away the motive for people to excel. It was an ideology intended to help but in reality would never work.

  “Livelihood of the people. Making sure they have adequate food, clothing, healthcare, and housing. We can give them all that if our government becomes stronger. Right now, we’re unable to do everything we want for them. Don’t you want to see our peoples’ lives improve?”

  “Of course I do,” Clark said. A sense of urgency grasped his chest.

  “Well, then.” Tang tossed h
is burned-out cigarette into the ashtray. “You have no reason to hesitate.”

  “But government and politics . . . it’s a dark world. I’m not sure I’m fit for it.”

  “You’ll be dealing with only foreigners. The Americans.”

  Clark didn’t reply. He tried to let everything Tang said sink in.

  “I know you have reservations because your father and your family already have plans for you.” Tang relaxed his voice. “But think about it. As long as the country remains unstable, your family’s business will also be vulnerable. And know this. If the Communists win, they’ll have no hesitation taking away everything your family has built.”

  Clark’s fingers twitched. Tang’s words cut to the point like a knife. Still, his proposal came so sudden. “I have no experience in diplomacy.”

  “So what? I believe in you,” Tang said. There was not a hint of doubt in his voice. Clark never knew Tang thought so well of him.

  “Think about it.” Tang relaxed and sat back. “You just returned. You ought to take some time off. Enjoy being home. Visit with old friends. You can weigh your options.” He smiled. “I’m sure you’ll make the right decision.”

  Clark’s breath quickened. All things aside, he would not want to disappoint Tang Wei.

  “We have a lot at stake.” Tang sighed. “Chiang Kai-shek is our best hope.”

  3

  Eden

  Returning home from an afternoon tennis match, Clark entered his house, not at all expecting to see the maid waiting by the front door with a large glass of cold water on a tray.

  “Good afternoon, Young Master,” she cheerfully greeted him.

  “How did you know I was back?” he asked.

  “I’ve been watching out for you. I saw the car pull in. Would you like some water? You must be thirsty after exercising.” She held up the tray. Of course she was watching. That was her job. For him, though, it all felt so stifling. The servants were always watching his every move.

  “Thank you.” With a stiff hand, he picked up the glass and gulped down the water. A glass of water sure quenched his thirst in this heat, especially after an hour of exercise. But he’d gotten used to taking care of himself during the six years he was away. Having a full staff of servants catering to his every need felt so excessive.

  “Would you like anything else? Do you want me to cut you some fruit? I can draw you a bath, too, if you like.”

  “No, no. It’s fine.” He grabbed the towel around his neck and wiped the sweat on his forehead. “You can go back to work.”

  The maid bowed her head, then turned to walk away. He wished she wouldn’t do that. People bowing at him with such deference made him feel uneasy.

  Draw his bath. Feed him food. He wasn’t a little child. He supposed he’d have to get used to it all again. Complaining about being served wouldn’t be right either, like he didn’t appreciate all the blessings in his life.

  He entered the living room and found Wen-Ying listening to the radio news while his mother and Mei Mei paged through the latest copies of Ling Long, a ladies’ magazine, the title of which meant “elegance.”

  “You’re home?” his mother called out.

  “Yes,” Clark replied on the way to his room.

  “Wait,” Madam Yuan said. “I want you to take some zongzi over to Dr. Levine’s home this afternoon.”

  “Zongzi?” Clark balked. The sticky rice snack wrapped in lotus leaves and filled with red bean paste or fatty pork and sun-dried egg yolk? “Foreigners won’t eat that stuff.”

  “You don’t know that,” Madam Yuan said. “Our cook makes better zongzi than anyone. They’re so tasty. How could anyone not like them? The May Festival is next week. It’s proper that one of us go personally to give Dr. Levine a little gift for helping your father get well.”

  Clark slumped his shoulders. He’d planned on spending the afternoon reading up on China’s current state of affairs. The conversation he had with Tang Wei two days ago weighed heavily on his mind. He’d hoped the tennis match would clear his head, but even that did little to help him think. “Do I have to? Wen-Ying can go. It’ll be the same.”

  “It’ll not be the same.” Wen-Ying turned down the volume of the radio. “You’re the son of the family. It’ll show more of our sincerity if you go.”

  Clark wanted to tell her the Westerners wouldn’t take it differently whether she or he went, but he knew it would be useless to argue. Wen-Ying and his mother wouldn’t believe that.

  “Go on,” Madam Yuan said. “Go wash up. I’ll tell Peng Amah to pack the zongzi for you to take.”

  “Fine.” Clearly, it was not left to him to refuse. He took the towel off his neck and slogged back to his room. He might as well get this errand over with quickly so he could get back to his own plans.

  On the way to Dr. Levine’s apartment on Route Doumer, Clark told the taxi driver to stop at a Viennese cafe he knew so he could pick up a selection of cakes and pastries to bring along. Huang Shifu, their family chauffeur, had offered to take him, but Clark decided to take a taxi instead as he didn’t want word to get back to his mother that he’d brought along alternatives to the zongzi. Taking taxis was one way to keep everyone from knowing all the time his every move and every whereabouts.

  The cafe was close enough to where Dr. Levine lived in Frenchtown. Only when he got there did it occur to him that the place might not be there anymore after all those years he’d been away. Luckily, it remained exactly where he remembered it. Even better, it had expanded and gotten bigger.

  The taxi dropped him off at an apartment building on a quieter side street away from the main avenue. The doorman behind the reception desk directed him to go up.

  Carrying the two bags of zongzi and the box of pastries, Clark entered the lift. A little blond boy ran toward him into the lift before the door closed. His amah chased after him and entered. The boy giggled as the lift operator smiled and said in Chinese, “Slowly, slowly. No hurry.”

  Panting, the amah said, “Excuse us.” She grabbed the boy’s hand and said to him in Pidgin English, “Say ‘thank you’ to Auntie.” By ‘Auntie,’ she meant the lift operator. “Auntie nice to you. Say ‘thank you.’”

  The boy pursed his lips and hid behind his amah. Twisting his waist, he glanced at the lift operator and at Clark. Clark gave him a friendly smile, but the boy turned and buried his face against his amah’s back.

  Uninterested in the child’s antics, Clark looked away and glanced at his watch. If Dr. Levine were Chinese, this visit could easily last for hours, as the Chinese had no real concept of time or schedule. It wasn’t uncommon for visitors to show up unannounced, like he was doing now because his mother made him. It was normal, too, for people to keep their guests for hours, serving them tea, fruits, and snacks, and insisting that their unexpected guests stay for dinner. But Dr. Levine was a Westerner. A half an hour visit should be enough for Clark to show his family’s gratitude without taking away too much of the doctor’s time.

  The lift arrived at the sixth floor and Clark got out. He came to the front door of Dr. Levine’s apartment and knocked. The door swung open and before him stood a young woman. She had the most luscious, deep brown hair he’d ever seen. It flowed down the side of her face and shoulders like a cascading wave. Her eyes, rich chocolate brown and so alive, captivated him like nothing ever before. They were eyes with a soul.

  Like a fairy descended upon the earth.

  “Hello. Can I help you?” the young woman asked. Clark watched her lips move. Even the best painter in the world could not have created such a gorgeous contrast of colors as her red lips and her brown hair and eyes set against her white porcelain skin. The whiteness of her skin was not like the pale white that Chinese women strived to maintain by remaining indoors too much and carrying parasols around on bright sunny days. This girl’s skin had a subtle tone that reminded him of soft white sand.

  “Hello?” she asked again.

  “Uh . . . yes . . . uh . . .” Clark put h
is free arm around the box of pastries. “Dr. Levine. I’m Clark. My mother sent me here.”

  The girl frowned, her eyes confused.

  “I mean . . .” Clark tried to focus. “Is Dr. Levine home? I’m Clark Yuan. Dr. Levine treated my father. I came to thank him, and my mother wanted to send you all a little gift.”

  “Yuan? The patient with hematuria?”

  “Yes.”

  She broke into a smile. “I remember Mr. Yuan. You’re his son? I’m Eden, Dr. Levine’s daughter. Pleased to meet you. Come on in.”

  Still stunned, Clark followed Eden inside. The apartment was not huge, but it was tidy with just enough furniture to make the home comfortable. A boy of around eleven or twelve looked up from his schoolwork at the table. The man on the couch put down a newspaper, revealing his gold-rimmed glasses and receding hairline.

  “Papa, this is Clark Yuan, Mr. Yuan’s son,” Eden said. “He’s come to see you.” She turned to Clark. “This is my father, and my brother, Joshua.” She pointed at the boy.

  “How do you do?” Clark asked.

  Dr. Levine stood up. “I’m well. Good to meet you, Clark.”

  A woman in a green cotton dress came out from the kitchen. “Hello.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “Clark? Welcome. I’m Mrs. Levine.”

  “Pleased to meet you, too, ma’am.” Clark looked at the box and bags he was carrying. “I brought you all a little something.” He placed them on the table. “Just small tokens of thanks from my mother for your making my father better.”

  “Why, thank you!” said Dr. Levine. “You shouldn’t have. I’m the one who has to thank Mr. Yuan. I didn’t have any Chinese patients before I treated him. And now? I can hardly fit them all into my schedule. Every one of them mentioned Mr. Yuan. They think I’m a magic healer or something.”

  Clark chuckled. “My mother must’ve told all her friends about you. She and her mahjong lady friends can spread news faster than the radio. If they find something good, it wouldn’t be long before everyone in the whole world knows about it.”