Nanking
January 4, 1938
The sky was gray with a thick cloud cover. A soft, intermittent drizzle was just enough to dampen the street and drive in the chill. But the weather made no difference to Wei. For the past two weeks, ever since the Japanese soldiers had beaten her and raped her, she felt nothing.
This dreary afternoon, she was stoically working the kitchen of the small noodle shop owned by her husband’s family. Wearing the humiliation and shame of not only herself, but also that of her husband and family, Wei silently boiled noodles and chopped meager portions of duck.
There were only a few ducks left, and nearly all the pigs had been shot and butchered by the invading army. That which the soldiers did not gorge upon was left to waste. To the invaders, it made little difference if the population of Nanking slowly starved. There was still an abundance of men and boys for bayonet and sword practice and a seemingly inexhaustible number of women and young girls to satisfy the soldiers.
The reign of terror had begun twenty-three days earlier when the Japanese Imperial Army entered Nanking and swept through the civilian population like a plague, only the suffering was far worse than could be wrought by any disease. The unimaginable brutality inflicted on the defenseless Chinese left most, like Wei, emotionless—hollow shells devoid of feeling other than physical pain, and there was plenty of that. They simply functioned, doing what was necessary to survive from one minute to the next.
Three elderly men and a small boy sat around one of five tables in the main room adjacent to the cramped and tiny kitchen. Only a waist-high partition separated the kitchen from the dining tables. The front of the store was open, the roll-up metal door raised as it always was during business hours, which stretched from morning to late in the evening.
The despair felt by the population of Nanking was amplified on this dreary day, as the dull natural light provided meager illumination within the shop. There were no decorations on the walls to brighten the space. This was a business, and Wei and her husband, Pei-Ming, scraped out a paltry living by serving as many customers each day as they could. There was no profit in encouraging people to prolong their meal—they could go elsewhere to visit.
The four patrons waited patiently as Wei stirred the noodles in a large boiling caldron of broth. Guan-Yin, her daughter of seven, busied herself washing laundry by hand in a back corner of the kitchen. Later she would wash the tables and mop the floor. She also fed the poultry—what was left of them—and cleaned the pens.
After no more than two minutes in the bubbling broth, Wei scooped out portions of the noodles into four bowls. Then she used the cleaver to chop half of a roasted duck into four portions, placing one in each of the bowls. Pei-Ming carried the servings, two at a time, to the table. Not a single word was spoken. Even the boy, who was no more than six years of age, was silent.
Outside the shop, an elderly woman, bent over at a severe angle and supporting the weight of her torso on a crude crutch, shuffled by, disfigured by decades of stoop labor. Residents were peddling large tricycles through the cobbled streets, hauling a variety of loads strapped onto the back. Their loads were mostly merchandise for the tiny family-run stores and businesses, occasionally junk—material to be recycled in some creative fashion—sometimes garbage. Other people were walking this way and that, a seemingly random movement that was, in reality, filled with purpose. No one wanted to loiter on the streets. Japanese soldiers, carrying military rifles with long bayonets fixed to the muzzle, were everywhere. Always two or more, never a single soldier by himself.
The soldiers milled about casually. Military protocol was absent except when a ranking officer passed by. For years, the invincible Japanese Army and Navy had advanced throughout Southeast Asia unchecked. Now that Nanking had fallen, the army viewed their occupation as a time to rest and relax, to enjoy the spoils of war with impunity, as they had done before, following their conquests.
Pei-Ming returned to the kitchen and was washing some bowls when four soldiers entered. The elderly men kept their heads bowed, not daring to make eye contact. Wei stiffened at the sight of the solders—she recognized two as the men who had attacked her. She lowered her head and moved farther back in the kitchen, but there was nowhere to go where she would not be seen.
For the moment, the soldiers’ attention was on the patrons, who continued to display their subservience. An officer—Pei-Ming thought him to be a captain—reached out and pulled the bowl away from the boy. The boy remained silent as the captain raised the bowl, sniffed, and then threw it to the floor and made a gagging sound. This amused his subordinates, who collectively laughed.
One of the old men gently pushed his bowl of noodles to the boy, but immediately one of the soldiers snatched it and threw it to the ground. Then the other remaining bowls were also swept off the table to the concrete floor, the ceramic bowls shattering.
Pei-Ming winced while Wei turned her back to avoid recognition.
Their household dog and Guan-Yin’s close companion, an old and skinny Shar Pei, strolled over to the table and began lapping up the food that had splattered around the table and chairs. Tears appeared on the boy’s face, but he refused to whimper.
The captain, one hand resting on the hilt of his katana and the other on the holstered pistol on his hip, spoke in Mandarin. He was well educated and stationed in Manchuria in part because of his language abilities. “What is wrong with you old man? See… the dog eats this. It is not fit for people.” Then he said the same in his native tongue for the amusement of his soldiers, who endorsed his taunting with more laughter.
The Shar Pei finished lapping up the noodles and settled down to gnaw on part of the duck when the captain lashed out with his boot, planting the stiff toe in the dog’s ribs. It yelped in pain, backing away, torn between maintaining a safe distance or daring to approach danger to eat.
The Japanese officer did not wait. He drew his pistol and calmly shot the dog. The old Shar Pei twitched and then died, bringing more laughter from the soldiers.
“There,” the captain spoke in Mandarin. “There is food more suitable for you. We have been told you like to eat dog. Feast!” And two of the soldiers each grabbed a leg and threw the carcass on the table. Their mirth lasted only seconds before it was stopped by a scream from Guan-Yin.
Hearing the gunshot, and seeing her companion dead and tossed on the table, the young girl cried out in anguish and rushed from the kitchen. She threw herself over the dog and sobbed. The soldiers retreated a few steps and fell silent, unsure how they should react in the presence of their superior officer.
The captain blinked twice as he considered the girl’s reaction. Raising his head, he glanced around, eyes settling on the woman in the kitchen. Then recognition came to him. He had been in this shop before, a couple weeks ago. Reflexively his lips formed a thin smile as he remembered.
“Hello, pretty one,” he said as he started to move to the kitchen.
Wei shook her head and backed up until she had nowhere to go. “No, please,” she pleaded, her hands behind her back and her head bowed.
The captain rounded the short partition and stepped into the kitchen. He continued his deliberate advance, enjoying the power he felt as the woman trembled in fear before him.
Pei-Ming closed his hand around the cleaver. As he charged, the heavy blade raised, weeks of pent-up humiliation and rage escaped his body in a visceral scream. He swung down but the steel edge clanged against the Japanese katana. With speed and grace from years of practice, the captain slashed the katana across Pei-Ming’s stomach.
Wei’s husband dropped the cleaver and placed both hands across the deep gash. Looking down at the blood seeping between his fingers, he never saw the katana fall across his neck, cleanly severing his head.
Pei-Ming’s body fell to the floor in a grisly heap. No longer fearing for her safety, Wei rushed forward, tears already running down her face. She threw herself across her husband’s body, convulsing as she wept uncontrollably.
With his soldiers watching, the captain raised his katana again and brought it down with strength and precision, leaving Wei’s head resting near her husband’s.
Having just witnessed the murder of her parents, Guan-Yin started to run for the kitchen. She made two steps before one of the Japanese soldiers grabbed her arm and threw her to the floor. He then viciously kicked her in the face and head until she stopped moving. Blood trickled from her nose, leaving a stain where her face was pressed against the cold concrete floor.
Stepping around the prostrate girl as he returned to the table, the captain surveyed the pitiful creatures cowering before him. One of the old men was backing into a corner, shielding the boy, who was crying.
Neither of the two men still seated at the table would look up at the Japanese officer. The captain reached out and casually grabbed a cloth napkin from underneath the dog’s leg. He wiped the blood off his katana and then stuffed the bloodied rag in the breast pocket of one of the old men.
As he led his soldiers away, the officer spoke briefly to his men. “Maybe tomorrow we come back and recruit these volunteers for bayonet practice,” he said, once again earning jovial laughter from his subordinates.