Now across China all rapeseed flowers had disappeared, flowers eaten, stems chewed, roots cooked.
“I don’t know why I’m telling you this, Ying. I just want to say I remember this, an episode of our childhood, the things we did, the memories we have.”
When people came into your life, there was a reason for that; when they were gone, there were explanations for that. But we must remember them, for if we remembered well and reflected right, then we would be lovers, siblings, cousins, and friends in the next life. Karma, like Mother said. Yuan, like what I told Ernest.
“I know he meant a lot to you, Ying.”
He kicked the wall. “You have no idea what he means to me. He was more than a brother to me.”
“I knew.”
“How would you know? No one knew. No one. Not even Cheng himself.” He twisted his head away, but he was sobbing.
The firecracker of a man, my brother, a fearless spy, a secretive man, an enigma. I put my hand on his shoulder.
He sniffled, walked into the bedroom, and shut the door.
Whenever I raised the topic of Ernest, Ying clammed up.
He talked to me about other important events of war at least, turning on the transceiver’s switch, the volume a buzz of a mosquito. In June, the Allies had staged an attack on Normandy, and they successfully captured the ports in France. In July, the British began their fight to drive the Japanese out of Burma. Paris was free from the Nazis by the end of August. Also, the Allies had achieved momentous victories in New Guinea and were ready to take control of the Philippines.
Yet victory was scarce in my country. In the same summer the Allies landed in Normandy, the Japanese deployed more than 360,000 troops to attack Changsha, a vital city with important railroad networks that connected the south and central parts of China, Burma, and India. But months of resistance by the Nationalist army failed. Relentless, Japan swooped down to the neighboring cities. In a series of devastating defeats, the Nationalists lost thirty-eight cities in the Henan province in thirty-seven days. All over Shanghai, the few newspaper stands sold stacks of papers printed with exultant headlines. “Great Victory to the Empire of the Sun!” “The No. 1 Plan of Japan Has Succeeded.” “Mission of Controlling Central China Has Completed.” “Japan Has Conquered Central China!”
“I need bombs,” Ying mumbled one day under the bed. Yamazaki was still alive, he said, working in the military base, following his emperor’s order, actively destroying China.
“You should go shopping.” I couldn’t hold back my sarcasm, irritated by his stubbornness.
“I need men too!”
“Are you going to help me find Ernest or not?”
He released a loud groan and turned to his radio transceiver. “No.”
85
FALL 1980
THE PEACE HOTEL
“I saw him at the border of the ghetto. It was a surprise. I wish I had forgiven him.” The music. It’s gone.
Ms. Sorebi clears her throat. “I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to tell you this, Ms. Shao. After our meeting yesterday, I tried to find more information about you, and I went through the photos I brought in my hotel room. Guess what I found.”
She digs into her handbag and takes out a manila folder. From inside she retrieves two photos and places them by my hand. “I hope these will bring you fond memories. I might be able to use them for the documentary as well. However—forgive me, Ms. Shao—it appears I have more questions.”
I put on my glasses and squint. The photos are black and white. The first photo is me inside the Jazz Bar with Sassoon. The caption, in Sassoon’s handwriting, says, Shao Aiyi, the owner of One Hundred Joys Nightclub, 1940. The second photo is an image of a woman and a little girl beside an old-fashioned rickshaw, dated 1946. The woman appears to be dirty and tired, like a refugee, but anyone can tell this is still me. The girl next to me has messy hair and wears a tunic that looks like a trash bag.
I don’t want to make a fool out of myself, but tears run down my face despite my effort. “I can’t believe it. This picture. She’s perfect . . . Where did you get this?”
Ms. Sorebi takes a napkin from a table next to us and hands it to me, her eyes glowing. “As I’ve mentioned, I found a treasure trove in Sassoon’s collection in Dallas, Texas. He took many photos. There were photos of Mr. Reismann playing the piano, photos of Sassoon himself and his friends at parties, photos of street scenes. This picture of you and the little girl appears to be part of a street scene in Shanghai. But look at the child. She looks about four, and she is the spitting image of you. And you said you regretted giving your daughter away and you were looking for her.”