第十章 (Chapter Ten)

Ma Bole was not only gripped by despair but also consumed by terror, as if his life teetered on the brink and fear alone might extinguish it. When he slept, he kept his eyes open, dreading that slumber might lead to an eternal sleep. Thus even with eyelids shut, he remained wakeful. Walking the streets by day, the faintest echo of a cannon shot would send a shudder through him, convincing him his end was near. If talk turned to Japan, he listened with feigned indifference, anxious lest others mock his cowardice, yet his eyes betrayed a frantic unease.

That day, he hurried to the Bund, having heard it bustled with activity, warships from many nations now anchored thick upon the river. He often saw flags raised on foreign vessels-green as leaves, which struck him as odd. It was said these ships protected foreigners, whose property would remain untouched no matter what. Driven by curiosity, he went to see for himself and found indeed a great multitude.

But one glance chilled his heart. He watched foreigners strolling the streets as if all were well, backs straight, steps high, as though China had already fallen and they no longer trod its soil. They walked without a sidelong glance, eyes fixed straight ahead on their destination, as if Chinese people inhabited a separate world.

They moved among the Chinese as across a desert; in their gaze, Chinese people seemed invisible, Chinese houses unseen, Chinese trees unnoticed. Now and then they smiled or lifted their eyes to glance about, but this was purely unconscious, as if some unrelated thought had crossed their minds-a smile or look devoid of any concern for the Chinese.

Ma Bole felt a deep anguish, and he said:

"Foreigners in China live more comfortably than the Chinese themselves. The Chinese government provides them land to build barracks at will. Foreigners face no peril. Should danger arise, they fire cannons-aimed at the Chinese government. The Chinese government exists to be bullied by foreigners."

The more he pondered, the more his despondency grew, and he thought:

"If China does not perish, there is no justice in heaven."

So he wandered the Bund, his spirit sapped. His steps grew leaden, his chest sagged, his head drooped. Overwhelmed by sorrow, he felt his own ruin imminent; if he could not save himself, what future or descendants could he hope for?

He came to a park where a sign hung at the entrance: "No Dogs or Chinese Allowed." He felt this sign had hung for years, utterly senseless, as if Chinese were regarded as lesser than dogs.

He stood there a while, watching foreign children in little white dresses rolling on the grass, their mothers in broad straw hats chatting in the shade, carefree and untroubled. He thought:

"They are from another world, and this world is about to be swallowed by theirs."

On his way home, he reached Nanjing Road and saw Japanese planes in the sky, Chinese planes as well, the two sides locked in combat, clouds of smoke billowing like a vast tuft of cotton tossed by the aircraft.

Chinese on the street craned their necks, saying Chinese planes flew high, Japanese planes flew low. They said when Japanese planes came, Chinese planes would engage them; if Chinese planes were shot down, they would fall into the Huangpu River.

Ma Bole did not look up; he kept his head down and walked, for despair weighed upon him, rendering him indifferent to all.

Walking on the sidewalk, he chanced upon a woman leading a child, buying aviation lottery tickets. She seemed of modest means, wearing a cheongsam of indanthrene cloth, a vegetable basket in hand with greens and hairtail fish, as if just back from the market. The child, about four or five, was neatly dressed.

The woman squatted at the lottery shop entrance, the child beside her. She pointed upward, instructing the child:

"Look, that's a Japanese plane, that's a Chinese plane, the Chinese plane has shot down the Japanese plane, look, look..."

The child indeed gazed skyward, clapping his hands and jumping.

Seeing this, Ma Bole felt both pity and absurdity.

He longed to rush over, seize the woman, beat her black and blue, and demand:

"Are you still dreaming? What does your husband do? Where have all the men in your family gone?"

But he held back. Beating her would be futile; she would not understand. Her mind had hardened, impervious to reason.

He returned home, lay on the bed, and muttered the old refrain:

"This is the end. If China is filled with women like her, China is doomed."

He spent the night in torment. The next morning, rising, he saw the sky unchanged, the sun bright, blue with white clouds-no trace of war, and an eerie peace prevailed.

He found it strange that war made the world more peaceful. So peaceful it frightened him.

He thought perhaps war was imminent, hence this abnormal calm.

Then he felt a surge of hope, for war's outbreak would give him purpose; he could legitimately flee as a wartime refugee, and Mrs. Ma could join him.

Thus optimism returned. He felt despair and hope alternated in a relentless cycle, each yielding to the other.

That morning, after washing his face, he thought:

"A letter must come today; Mrs. Ma will surely arrive."

So he cheerfully cooked a meal, even frying two eggs, eating heartily in preparation to take Mrs. Ma to a restaurant upon her arrival.

But by afternoon, no letter came, nor did anyone appear. Gloom settled over him again.

"It's over. It must be the old man's doing, keeping Mrs. Ma away."

He lay back on the bed, refusing to rise or eat, until evening.

That evening, hearing Chinese planes had shot down several Japanese ones, the streets erupted in frenzied applause. Ma Bole joined in, but back in his room, lying abed, he said:

"What has this to do with me? I have no money; my applause is empty."

He fell asleep. In the dead of night, he dreamed two Japanese soldiers chased him, bayonets poised to strike. He fled, they pursued, he ran into a dead end, they closed in, gleaming blades about to pierce him. He awoke in terror, drenched in sweat.

After that dream, fear gripped him tighter; he left the electric light on all night.

The next day, hearing Japanese warships shelled Chinese territory from the Huangpu River, he showed no surprise, as if he had long expected it, and merely said:

"Ah! It has truly begun."

He spoke with eerie calm, as if discussing another's affair.

The streets descended into panic; more people moved-some from Nanshi to the concessions, others from Zhabei. Rents in the concessions soared instantly, and no vacancies remained.

Ma Bole thought to seize the chance and cancel his lease to save rent. He went to negotiate with the landlady, a stout Chinese woman who, upon hearing his intent, said:

"Cancel now? Housing is scarce. Where will you go? The streets? Look how many refugees live there."

Ma Bole said:

"I'm moving out."

"Move then, I won't stop you. But if you move, pay the rent in full."

"I'll pay, of course."

"Not so fast. You haven't paid this month's rent yet."

"But the month isn't over."

"Even so, you must pay. It's the rule in these extraordinary times."

Seeing her unyielding, Ma Bole dared not argue. He paid and moved out.

Where to go? He did not know. Carrying his small suitcase, he wandered until dark, finding no place-all hotels were full, rents exorbitant, beyond his means.

He came to a lane entrance, thinking to squat there for the night, but seeing several men already there, he feared trouble and moved on.

Finally, he reached a school gate. The school was on break, empty of students, with only a few elderly gatekeepers. He thought the entrance hall might shelter him for the night, so he entered. An old gatekeeper asked:

"Who are you looking for?"

He said:

"I'm a refugee with nowhere to stay. May I shelter here tonight?"

The old man said:

"No, outsiders aren't allowed."

He said:

"I'll pay you."

"Even with payment, no."

He had to leave.

Exhausted, he sat on a bank's steps-clean and sheltered by an eave, safe from rain. Other refugees sat there too; he thought it safe, among fellow sufferers.

He settled there and soon fell asleep.

In the night, cold woke him. Dawn approached, the streets quiet and deserted, only street lamps glowing.

He felt Shanghai was untenable; he must leave. Where? To Hankou, where his father had friends.

So at first light, he went to the steamship company for a ticket. He saw a seething crowd, a vast sea of humanity, and tickets were sold out a week ahead.

How could he wait? A week would exhaust his scant funds. He tried the train station, even more crowded, tickets harder to get.

He stood amid the throng, watching people weep, shout, curse-all desperate to leave Shanghai.

He thought he must leave Shanghai or perish on its streets.

So he abandoned buying a ticket, deciding to sneak onto a train.

He learned the train to Nanjing left at night. Under cover of darkness and crowds, he squeezed his way aboard. Once on board, as the train began to move, relief washed over him. In Nanjing, he could continue to Hankou.

The train was packed body to body, crushed with people, no room to even set a foot. The stench was foul-sweat, urine, and the smell of death, for he had heard refugees were crushed to death in the carriages.

Ma Bole stood at the door, half in, half out. As the train sped, a fierce wind chilled him to the bone. A misstep would mean a fatal fall.

But he felt no fear; dying beneath the train seemed better than dying on Shanghai's streets.

The train departed, Shanghai receding-its towers and lights fading into haze. In his heart, he said:

"Farewell, Shanghai! I shall not return, unless fortune smiles upon me."

The train pressed onward into an uncertain future.

Ma Bole's heart lay empty, devoid of despair or hope, as if carved from unfeeling wood.

Thus began Ma Bole's flight from Shanghai to Nanjing, a journey into the void.