Pearl Buck - Peony

“My father came of a strange people, Elder Brother,” he said. “I do not understand them altogether myself. Yet in one part of me I do understand them. You must know our history, perhaps—”

“Tell me,” Kung Chen said gently.

“A small people, a few among many,” Ezra said. “We were enslaved in Egypt—”

“How came you to be slaves?” Kung Chen inquired.

“How do I know?” Ezra returned. “The tradition is that we made Jehovah angry — somehow.”

“Jehovah?”

“The God of the Jews.”

A veil of gentle laughter passed over Kung Chen’s face, but he spoke courteously and with respect. “This is the tribal god of your people?” he suggested.

Ezra hesitated. “My father considered him the God of the Universe — the One True God.”

“We have never heard of him here,” Kung Chen said, “but go on, Elder Brother.”

“My father’s people were delivered from slavery by the hand of one of our leaders. He promised us — that is, God promised — that if we obeyed Him perfectly we might return to the land of our fathers.”

“And did your father return?” Kung Chen asked with interest.

“No, but some did,” Ezra said hesitating.

“Then how is it that you are scattered again?” Kung Chen inquired.

“Our people disobeyed God — mixed with the heathen and so on.” Ezra found it difficult to explain all this before the clear, tolerant Chinese eyes. He gave up abruptly. It was impossible. It did not sound reasonable.

“But what has all this to do with you now, my friend?” Kung Chen asked when Ezra was silent.

“I could say it has nothing to do with me,” Ezra replied, “except that Kao Lien brought evil news that now our people are being killed — thousands of them — across the mountains.”

“What evil did your people in those lands?” Kung Chen inquired.

“None,” Ezra said with energy. Of this he was sure.

“Then why do they suffer?” Kung Chen asked.

“That is what I should like to ask you,” Ezra said. “Judge of us who are here.”

Kung Chen shook his head. “I have no answer,” he replied. “I have never heard of such a thing. I should like to inquire of Kao Lien myself.”

This was Ezra’s opportunity. “I was about to invite you to feast with me this night,” he said. “I will bring Kao Lien also.”

“Thank you for your kindness,” Kung Chen replied.

“At the Stone Bridge?” Ezra suggested.

“The best place,” Kung Chen replied.

“When the moon rises?” Ezra said again.

“The best time,” Kung Chen replied. “But do me this further kindness, that I be host.”

After some polite argument Ezra agreed, and since business should not be discussed before a feast, after a little more talk he rose and bowed and the two friends parted, promising to meet again in the evening.

Each spent the day in his own fashion, but Kung Chen sent for some of the men in his countinghouse whom he trusted and he put certain questions to them concerning the small colony of Jews remaining in the city from ancient times. Two of the men were older than he and one was a partner of his father’s time, long past his seventieth year and at his desk only because he was loath to leave it. His love of work shamed his children very much but they could do nothing with him, and so every noon his eldest son, disapproving and silent, brought him here, and before sunset the son came and fetched him again, to show that however stubborn the father was, the children were filial.

He was an old man, Yang by surname and Anwei by name, and Kung Chen talked with him and from him he found out about the Jews.

Yang Anwei said, “These people from the country of the Jews have from time to time taken refuge in our country and especially here in our city because it is near the great river. I remember that my great-grandfather said that once or twice hundreds of them came together into this city and our elders met in the Confucian temple to decide whether they were to be allowed to stay in such numbers. So many of them, our elders thought, might change our ways. But some of these Jews spoke our language, having been here before as traders, and they told the elders that their people asked for nothing except to live here quietly and according to their laws and traditions. They have a god of their own, but they do not ask others to believe in him, and only to be allowed themselves to continue their own traditions and laws.”

“Why did they leave their country?” Kung Chen asked with lively interest.

To this Yang Anwei replied, “As I can remember, and I have not thought of these things for many years, it was because a warlike savage nation attacked them. Some of the Jews resisted, but others were for compromise.” The ancient man paused here and shook his head. “I can remember no more,” he said.

“One more question,” Kung Chen urged. “Was it the compromisers or the resisters who came to our city?”

But Yang Anwei could not answer. Yet after a little while he said with his wrinkled smile, “I daresay it was the compromisers, for see how they have settled into our people! You have only to look at their ruined temple. Who goes there now to worship on their sacred day except a handful of them?”

“The Jews are being killed again in the countries west of the mountains,” Kung Chen said.

Yang Anwei’s old jaw dropped. “Why now?” he asked.

“That is what I ask and no one can tell me,” Kung Chen replied. Then he went on in a different voice, “None of this matters to me, except that I am considering allowing my Little Three to join the family of Ezra. If there is something strange in the Jewish blood, then I must ponder for a few moons before deciding.”

Old Yang Anwei heard this. “There is something strange in them,” he declared. “It is not in all of them but it is in some of them. Ezra himself is a man like us, and indeed he carries our blood in him. But there are others who are different.”

“What is the difference?” Kung Chen asked.

The old man hesitated and then he said shrewdly, “If they worship their god they are strange; if they do not worship him they are like other men. In my long life in this city I have seen that the worship of a special god makes a special people.”

Kung Chen listened to this with the utmost silence and respect. There was deep wisdom in this old man, wrinkled and dried with age until his body was like a preserved fruit. But his mind was clear, and indeed he had become all mind.

“Then what we should do,” Kung Chen now declared, “is to steal them away from their god, so that they will become like us.”

Yang Anwei laughed noiseless old laughter. “Or else destroy their god,” he retorted.

“How can we do that?” Kung Chen asked. “This god cannot be seen, he is not of stone or clay, as the gods of our common people are. He is a subtle god who lives only in their minds.”

“Then destroy the god in their minds,” Yang Anwei said.

The two Chinese looked at one another.

“It is not hard to destroy that god,” Yang Anwei went on. “Let us be kind to this Ezra, let us grant him his wishes, heap him with favor, help him to grow rich, remove all his fears, teach him to enjoy our city with all its pleasures, urge him to know that however they ill-treat Jews elsewhere, here there will never be anything but kindness for him and his people.”

“What wisdom!” Kung Chen exclaimed in admiration. “I pray you, Elder Brother, never leave our house.”

“I thank you,” Yang Anwei replied modestly, and getting up he took his leave and returned to his desk, where by the light of a small latticed window he spent his days copying entries of goods into a large ledger. His characters, which he brushed slowly one by one, were exquisite in their perfection. The work demanded about one tenth of his mind, and with nine tenths he thought about everything of which he had ever heard in his long life.