Geling Yan - The Flowers of War

‘Xiaoyu, you said you’d take me with you!’ Sophie whined.

Shujuan was aghast at Sophie’s self-abasement. She turned to look at her—and met Xiaoyu’s eyes instead. Xiaoyu’s gaze was kindly, she discovered, but in a superior way. Shujuan just had to open her mouth and call her name, it seemed to say, and Xiaoyu would be content to forget all about the past. Shujuan could be best friends again with her old companion, Xiaoyu, the girl who had always got the same marks as her through all their school years.

Shujuan felt frantic. She could not open her mouth to speak, though her eyes were still fixed on Xiaoyu. Only she knew how degraded, how hopeless, she felt at that moment.

But then Xiaoyu turned her gaze away. She had toyed with Shujuan’s feelings again. And she was still toying with her classmates.

‘Let’s draw lots,’ said Xiaoyu.

She pulled a page from her notebook and tore it into fourteen pieces. On one of these pieces, she drew a flower.

‘I don’t want to. Draw lots among the rest of you,’ said Shujuan, turning her back valiantly.

‘Come on,’ said Xiaoyu. ‘My dad can’t take all of you…’ She seemed almost to be begging Shujuan.

Shujuan shook her head.

The winner was one of the girls who had hardly even exchanged a word with Xiaoyu, and she was duly taken away by Xiaoyu’s father. The remaining thirteen girls were left sharing a bar of chocolate which he had brought with him. To be precise, twelve of them shared it. Shujuan volunteered to give up her portion to the rest. If Xiaoyu thought she could buy off the ones she had abandoned with sweets, she had another think coming. Shujuan would not give her the satisfaction.

On the other side of the curtain, Nani was heard muttering: ‘That girl’s dad must have money … he must be very, very rich. If you have money, you can make anything happen.’

‘Didn’t your Wu have a bit of money? The one who butchered ducks for a living?’

‘Nani let him get away. She didn’t squeeze him tight enough with her legs!’ said Hongling.

‘Keep your filthy mouths shut!’ said Yumo.

‘Last year, he said he wanted to pay back the bond on me and make me his second wife,’ said Nani.

‘You’re a complete idiot! You fancied yourself as a duchess but you ended up as a duck!’

‘Even people’s ducks have been killed by the Japs! If a Jap saw a stupid duck like Nani, wouldn’t he like a bit of her?’

‘Just let him try it on, I’d give him one in the balls!’ Nani said angrily.

‘Will you keep your mouth shut, Nani?!’ Yumo intervened once more.

A few moments later, Nani began to cry. ‘I’m not that stupid! Being with Wu was better than being in this hellhole! The way we’re stuck down here now, we might all end up like Cardamom!’

On the other side of the curtain, the girls huddled close to each other.

Suddenly Nani’s crying stopped. It sounded like someone had put a quilt over her head.

The girls squeezed up together and slept. Later that night, they did not know what time it was, there was a commotion from the women on the other side of the curtain. The doorbell was ringing.

As soon as Father Engelmann heard the doorbell he went to the kitchen and whispered down to the women and girls through the ventilation shaft. ‘Don’t worry. Fabio and I will deal with them. Don’t let me hear a single sound out of any of you.’

Then he went to the workshop and gently pushed open the door. He was startled to find Major Dai standing inside, looking grimly ready to fight to the death. Behind him, the tables had been pushed together to make a bed for Wang Pusheng, who was drifting feverishly in and out of consciousness.

‘You’re not to come out unless it’s absolutely necessary. Fabio and I will get rid of them,’ said the priest, patting Dai on the shoulder and smiling slightly.

Then he went to the side entrance, where the bell was ringing … and ringing … and ringing. It was foolish to open up to night visitors, but even more foolish to refuse. Father Engelmann’s thoughts were in a whirl. Finally Fabio emerged, his breath sour from the rice wine he had drunk.

Father Engelmann opened the small spyhole in the door, and moved his head to the left, out of range of any bayonet which might be thrust through from the outside. A bayonet did indeed come through so it was lucky his eyes were not in the way. The headlights of the vehicle outside streamed under the door.

‘Would you mind telling me what it is you want?’ asked Father Engelmann with the utmost courtesy, in English.

‘Open up!’ came a voice in Chinese. It was said that Japanese soldiers and junior officers had all learned a few words of Chinese during their week of occupation: ‘Open up!’ ‘Get out!’ ‘Food!’ ‘Petrol!’ ‘Sing-song girls!’

‘And how may I help you?’ Father Engelmann’s monotone Chinese was designed to pacify the most aggressive of intruders.

He was answered by the butts of their guns. They pounded on the door so hard that a crack opened up between the two panels. Light from the car headlamps outside streamed through the gap.

‘This is an American church and we bought this land decades ago. Letting you in is like letting you onto American soil,’ Fabio expostulated in his thick Yangzhou accent. If the Japanese were not swayed by Engelmann’s genteel English, perhaps they would take notice of something a bit tougher.

A Chinese voice answered.

‘The Imperial Japanese Army has accurate reports that you are harbouring Chinese soldiers –’

‘Nonsense!’ Fabio cut the man short. ‘The Japanese troops have been using that excuse to loot all across Nanking. Do you think we’re still taken in by nonsense like that?’

There was a moment’s silence outside the door as the collaborator-interpreter translated.

‘Father,’ he began again, ‘these people have guns. Please don’t try their patience!’

Father Engelmann heard a movement behind him and looked round to see shadowy figures toting guns emerging from behind the church. The Japanese must have discovered they could save their breath by just getting in over the wall.

‘They’re already in,’ said Father Engelmann in low tones. ‘We need to be ready for the worst.’

Fabio blocked the entrance. ‘You’re trespassing!’ he shouted. ‘We’ve already told you, there are no Chinese soldiers here! I’m going to the Safety Zone now, to fetch Mr Rabe –’

There was a gunshot and Fabio cried out. He felt as if he had been knocked sideways by a punch to the left shoulder. As he dropped to the icy flagstones, he felt something hot spurt from the wound. He heard a furious shout from Father Engelmann: ‘How dare you shoot an American priest!’ and Engelmann rushed over to him. ‘Fabio!’

‘I’m all right, Father,’ said Fabio. Looking at the elderly priest, he suddenly recalled the man who, twenty years ago, had descended from the lecture podium and made straight for him. Twenty years ago, Father Engelmann had seen in him an apostle whom he would take under his wing. Yet, twenty years later, Father Engelmann, in his impersonal, distant, even eccentric way, actually depended on Fabio rather than the reverse.

Just then, a couple of dozen Japanese soldiers burst through the entrance doors and rushed towards the church.

Father Engelmann hurried after them. ‘There are absolutely no Chinese soldiers here. Please get out.’

Fabio strode off to the far end of the compound without bothering to examine his wound.