Ha Jin - War Trash

Nanshan went to the gate alone the next morning to talk to the Indian guards. He couldn't speak English but pleaded with a lieutenant in Chinese, "Please, please tell me where Blackie is!" The thick-bearded officer kept shaking his head as I approached them. In desperation the boy, assuming they really couldn't make out what he was trying to say, began barking and got down on all fours like a dog. The Indians burst out laughing.

I went up to the officer and asked him if they had seen Blackie. He rolled his gray eyes and told me matter-of-factly, "That dog was a secret courier, so we had him executed."

I told Nanshan, "They killed him."

At those words the boy sprang at the officer, wielding his small fists, but I restrained him in spite of my own tears and dragged him back to our barracks. Together we wept in the kitchen.

When the same bearded lieutenant came in to do the head count that evening, two inmates suddenly lunged at him, each holding a brick. The officer tore away toward the fence while more men pursued him, some brandishing short clubs. They all looked murderous. I was so shocked that I didn't know what to do. I wouldn't have minded if they'd roughed him up some, but killing him might bring disaster on ourselves. Fortunately, before they could corner him, a squad of Indian guards rushed over from the other side of the fence, raised their rifles, and pulled the bolts. So the prisoners let him go.

Blackie's death disrupted our communication with the outside, but except for Nanshan and me, most inmates forgot the dog in a matter of days. Their attempt on the Indian officer's life in fact had little to do with vengeance. Uncertain of their future, most of them were desperate and irascible; they had seized the occasion to vent their emotions.

Wang Yong assigned Dajian and me a job: to talk with the Indian soldiers as often as possible, gather information about the persuasion, and report it to him in the evenings. He issued each of us some extra cigarettes for the job. So every day I tried to approach the guards and chat with them. From them I began to get a better picture of our situation, about which, unfortunately, the more we learned, the more disheartened we became. Two Chinese divisions were less than three miles away in the north. If they attacked, the Imjin River would block our retreat. Furthermore, the Indians who ran the Demilitarized Zone seemed partial to the Communists and might connive with them to send us back to the mainland. We estimated that our chances of reaching Taiwan were at most fifty-fifty. One afternoon, while talking with an Indian officer, I heard something I had never thought of before. The square-chinned man told me that if you were reluctant to go to either mainland China or Taiwan, you could apply for a third country. "Where is that, Chuck?" I asked him, not knowing his last name. His men called him Officer D.

He fluttered his pomfret eyes and said in a nasal accent, "Like India, Brazil, or Argentina."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive\y." He stressed the third syllable of the word in a chipper voice. "There's already a group of such POWs, you know." He touched his green turban, his hand holding a cigarette I'd given him.

"How big is this group?"

"Seven or eight people."

"What are they going to do in those countries?"

"I don't know. There'll be jobs for them for sure."

"Like what?"

"That'll depend on what skills they have."

This information set my mind spinning for the rest of the day. For better or worse I must not go to Taiwan, because that would amount to declaring I was an enemy of the Communists, who would definitely punish my mother and my fiancee for that. On the other hand, unless I could free myself from the suspicion of treason, I shouldn't return to the mainland either, where a person with my background and my association with the pro-Nationalists might be kept under surveillance all the time, if not reimprisoned. If I knew for sure that Pei Shan and Chang Ming were back in China, I might take the risk, because they might help clear me. But again, how could I be certain they'd be willing to save a man like me? They had already meant to sacrifice me once, hadn't they? By comparison, a third country would be a better choice, though I had no idea what kind of life I'd lead there. And I wasn't even sure if I could survive in a foreign land.

But wouldn't the Communists hurt my mother and Julan if I went to another country? They might not, because I didn't mean to be their enemy. Perhaps I was naive, but I was driven by the instinct for self-preservation and felt that a third country would be a better destination for a man like me, who had often been an outsider and couldn't fit in any political group among my compatriots. Once I settled down in a foreign land, I would send for my mother and Julan. But would the Communists let them leave and join me? They might or might not. Still, a third country seemed to be the best choice, a risk I was willing to take.

The next question was where I should go. Brazil and Argentina would be difficult because I spoke neither Portuguese nor Spanish. Although English was used in India, it was a country with a large population and a high unemployment rate, where I had heard there was the caste system. If I went there, I would almost certainly live at the bottom of society. Was there another neutral English-speaking country where I might go? This would be the first question I would ask when I was summoned to listen to the persuasion. I would avoid talking with the persuaders from China and instead speak to the arbitrators directly in English. If there wasn't another country, maybe I would go to Brazil, which was vast and might have more space and more opportunities to make a living. I wouldn't mind subsisting as a drudge for some years; I was still young and should be able to restart my life. On the other hand, I would have to prepare to be a solitary man without a country, condemned to speak a language in which I could never feel at home.

Although I had now made up my mind, I grew more nervous, and a numbing feeling kept rising to my throat, which I had to tamp down continually. That evening I drank a cup of rice wine with the mess officer, trying to calm down before I went to the battalion headquarters to give the daily report. When I relayed to Wang Yong the information I had collected that day, I didn't mention that some neutral countries would also accept POWs. I was afraid he might suspect me. I just informed him that the Communists' persuasion was a total fiasco – as the Indian officer had told me, to date they had persuaded only about eighty men to go home.

The next evening two fellows from another compound who had just gone through the persuasion came to speak to us. We gathered in our largest tent, sitting in front of a table at which the two men were seated. The first speaker was quite handsome, with a thin nose and sparkling eyes. He was tall but slightly hunched. He started:

"Brothers, when my name is called, two Indian guards come up and take me to the fifteenth tent. Lots of people are in there, from different countries. At one glance I can tell who the Reds are. They stand up, smiling and bowing at me like Pekinese. One of them says, 'Dear Comrade, we represent our motherland to welcome you back.'

I spit on his face and say, 'You can't represent China, you work for Russia. Why should I listen to you?'

They continue to smile at me after I sit down. Another of them says, "Comrade Wan Ping-han, your parents are waiting for you to come home. They're heartbroken, crying day and night."

'Screw your grandma!' I yell. 'You Commies beheaded my dad five years ago. My mom wept herself blind and died three months later. Now you have the gumption to tell me they're still alive and miss me!'

'Think about this' – the man won't give up – 'you're a good son of China. When I mentioned your parents, I meant the millions of Chinese people of the older generation who expect you to come home.'