ELEVEN

 

Late in the afternoon of the twenty-third of February, my mother summoned us all. She sent Sheung and Tang to gather us up from around the house, both families into the library. Mrs. Yee entered leaning on her son’s arm. I hadn’t seen her for two days and was shocked at her appearance — though I’d also been avoiding my own face in the mirror. I was tired, my clothes smelled, and when I touched the contours of my face in bed at night, I could feel how thin it was getting.

My mother sat stiffly on a chair next to my elder brothers. Wei-Ming ran over to her, and my mother gave her a quick kiss and had her sit by Sheung. She looked around at us.

“Children, you all see how bad things are. We’ve held up in here as best we could, but there’s little left for us to eat. I know it must be safer in the countryside.” She looked at me and Leuk with these last words. “Boys, you and Wei-Ming can go to live with your uncle. You’ll be safe there. Yee-Lin will take you, and the rest of us will stay here. But don’t be afraid, it won’t be for long.”

She said this in a very flat voice, as though she couldn’t believe she was really saying it. I looked at her and nodded. I believe she saw me. I need to believe that she saw I understood. Even now that moment has a sharpness, like the day I heard my father had died. I still see the evening light fading behind her, and the orange trees trembling in the windy courtyard. In the chilly air of the library, a small draft of warm air drifted up from my shirt and passed under my chin. The stale odour of our clothing hung over me and Leuk; and staring numbly past my mother at the rows of books, I thought of the scent of their pages. I longed to retreat into them, to become someone whose pain was just a story.

How the others responded, I don’t remember. But we all got up and returned to our rooms to prepare.

 

The plan was simple and terrible, and it was the only one my mother could devise. We would break up into three groups. Mrs. Yee and her children would have to leave for her sister’s in Wan Chai. As for my family, my elder brothers and my mother would stay in the city, where the danger was greatest. My older brothers expected the Japanese would want to confiscate our firm and keep them on as slaves to run it, and if they disappeared with us, we would all be hunted down. Yee-Lin, Leuk, Wei-Ming, and I would leave for our uncle’s house in the countryside, where we would be safer and could perhaps attend school. My mother said we would reunite as soon as we could.

I didn’t know what “as soon as we could” really meant. No one did. It could mean when the war was over — but what if the Japanese won? I imagined us retreating into China, deep into its mythical West, where I imagined the Japanese might never go. That evening I stared at a map of Guangdong, trying to grasp what my mother had said and where we might end up. It was incomprehensible. Even the nearest villages seemed far away.

I had so little to take, it took only a few minutes for me to pack my bag. Ah-Tseng helped me, keeping her back to me as she leaned over the clothing on my bed. I caught a brief glimpse of her face, swollen with tears. Everything fit into my backpack, the same bag I’d taken on trips to the park or market. She packed clothes for me, some soap and a toothbrush, and a small paper package of dried fruit and sweets.

Then I went downstairs with it, and set it down next to all the others, which were propped against the wall by the front doors.

My mother and older brothers gathered Leuk, Wei-Ming, and me, and told us that Yee-Lin would guide us to our uncle’s house in a village called Tai Fo. My mother reminded us that Yee-Lin was nearly twenty and we should listen to her as though she were our mother. As if to emphasize this, my sister-in-law and Sheung brought out a map and began explaining the journey to Leuk and me. We would go up the Pearl River at night by boat, to Tai Fo, a town I’d never heard of. Sheung wrote the names of my uncle and aunt on a piece of paper, folded it, and put it in Yee-Lin’s bag. He couldn’t spare the map, so he had meticulously made two copies of it on plain paper, which he gave to Leuk and to Yee-Lin.

Sheung called Leuk and me into my father’s study and said he had something for us.

“I know your pants aren’t fitting very well these days,” he said. I was so hungry that I felt angry at his attempt at humour, but I didn’t say anything. He instructed us to take off our cloth belts. We stood there holding our pants up by the belt loops while he went to a small cabinet and took a few things from it.

“Here’s a new belt for each of you,” he said. “If you’re careful, it will do more than keep your pants in place.”

I unrolled my belt and puzzled over it. Its leather was even more worn and scratched than my old belt. But the buckle was different. In my hand it weighed more than the rest of the belt. It was solid gold. Leuk’s was the same.

“We’ll give you a little bit of money,” said Sheung. “But that’s for ferries or small favours. The buckle is for when you’re really in a bad spot.”

I started to loop the belt around my pants, but he told both of us to wait. He knelt down in front of Leuk and took a small bottle and a cloth from his pocket.

Sheung tipped the bottle very slowly over the cloth, and a small silver ball rolled out. It was the first time I’d seen mercury, and I was fascinated. He cupped the cloth to keep the little ball from rolling out of his palm, and then he took Leuk’s buckle and carefully rubbed the mercury over it. Almost instantly the gold turned a dark, dull brown. He made sure to cover every spot, including the pin, and when he was done, the buckle was as ugly as the belt itself. Then he took my buckle and did the same. He put the bottle and cloth away and told us to put the belts on. Now that they were stained and scratched, the belts suited our old pants and also fit well.

“You’re wearing more money than any villager will earn in a lifetime.”

I cupped the buckle in my palm. The gold was still warm from being rubbed, warm like skin. “If I need to sell it, how do I get it off?” I asked.

“Only do that if you have to. Scratch it carefully, and do it in secret. Smash it up with a rock so no one knows how it was disguised. If someone knows one of you has gold hidden, they’ll guess the rest of you must too.”

By the time all these last details were taken care of, it was late in the afternoon, and we realized it made no sense to leave when it was nearly dark. My mother agreed that we would stay in the house one more night.

That evening, I sat at the dining room table with my small bowl of millet dotted with chopped, salted turnips and a sliver of egg, listening to my family eat as slowly as they could. I hadn’t expected to stay another night. In the house sealed like a tomb, and with my belly shrunken, listening to Yee-Lin weep at the thought of leaving her husband, I could still touch the smooth white floors and see the faces of those I knew, and believe that I was lucky.

 

I knew it would be hard for me to sleep that night. I sat in the library facing the garden and looked outside at the trees, which seemed to have grown. In the countryside, I thought, there would be trees everywhere, wild and taller, impenetrable walls of forest along the road. I felt cold and wanted to find Leuk, but didn’t want to leave my favourite seat in the old library.

Around ten, I heard the familiar tentative click of Mrs. Yee’s shoes and others walking behind her. She and my mother came into the library, talking in low voices, while Shun-Po and Shun-Yau trailed behind, all three carrying bags. I moved to leave the room, but my mother said I could stay. She turned and took Mrs. Yee’s hands in hers.

“Mrs. Yee, I would never want to turn you and your children away. I wish this were the safe place it used to be. Maybe one day soon it will be again.”

Mrs. Yee thanked my mother for taking her family in. “My sister’s home in Wan Chai isn’t far. On quiet days I may be able to walk back here.” I knew what she meant when I looked at Shun-Yau. He was carrying two bags over his shoulders: his own and Shun-Lai’s. The handle of her hairbrush was sticking out of a side pocket like a signal, as though she had merely forgotten the way home.

“Please be safe,” my mother said and called me over.

I bowed to Mrs. Yee and wished her good luck, and then said goodbye to Shun-Po. I shook Shun-Yau’s hand. “See you back at school, I hope.”

“I hope so too,” he replied.

My mother and I walked them to the entrance. Chow was waiting to walk them all the way to Wan Chai, and had plotted a safe route for himself back to the house. He checked the street and then ushered them outside, past the broken gates.