In the summer of 1945, languid days and depressing spirits
lingered on under the persistent heat typical of Shanghai at the time. In
Japan, most
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
of the major cities had suffered air raids by the Americans,
and the day was quickly
approaching when there would be a final showdown on the
Japanese mainland—
that was what the rumors flitting around town were saying.
Listening as always to shortwave broadcasts on world news in
several languages, Noguchi Hisamitsu one day muttered, “Well, it’ll be just a
matter of time.”
Kawakita Nagamasa was then at work in Beijing. Anticipating
an American landing in Shanghai, he made the final decision to relocate
Huaying’s production facilities there. His wife, Kashiko, and daughter, Kazuko,
had already moved to the
Beijing Hotel. Liuba and her father, too, had left Shanghai
by plane for Harbin.
As there was no longer any fi lm work left for me to do, I
went to Madame Mazel’s
house each day for my vocal lessons.
Every mid-August, Shanghai held a summer concert at its
International Racecourse, and I was honored to have been asked by the Municipal
Council to be the
guest singer for that year. The idea was to hold an encore
performance of the Rhapsody of the Evening Primrose concert.
Once August arrived, Noguchi, the shortwave-radio
enthusiast, would often
say, “It’ll be just a matter of time.” Even today, he still
incredulously reminisces
about Shanghai immediately before the end of the war. “The
atmosphere during
those two weeks was absolutely amazing.” He continued:
At the time, at the
request of Lieutenant Nakagawa from the Army Press Division, I was responsible
for putting jazz music on the air through Shanghai’s
English-language radio
station XMHA. For work-related reasons, I was able
to pick up broadcasts
from all over the world. As far as information on Japan
was concerned, all we
received was NHK’s overseas broadcast meant for the
enemy’s ears.
First-rate jazz performers in Japan could no longer play the
enemy’s music, and to
earn their daily bread, they had to join the New Pacific
223
224
Chapter 14
Orchestra created by
NHK to undermine American morale at the front. Hindsight tells me that that was
a miscalculation, but I must say that listening to
their performance in
Shanghai was an enjoyable experience. News would run
between musical
interludes, and all the announcements from Japan’s Imperial Headquarters were
still pretty aggressive in tone. But then if you listen to
America’s FEN or
London’s BBC on the same radio from different cycles, they
were telling their
audiences that Japan’s surrender was ‘a matter of time.’
Japan still didn’t
think it had lost the war. And so, those connected with
the Japanese army were
still all puffed up with arrogance. Other than the Japanese, virtually everyone
else living in Shanghai’s old concessions, beginning
with the Chinese, knew
that Japan had in fact lost the war and that their countries had won. In spite
of that, they still followed Japan’s instructions and behaved good-naturedly
during blackout hours. For the few of us Japanese who
knew what was going on
from both sides, those two weeks were truly an incredible and uncanny time.
I felt the misery of war acutely when I saw with my own eyes
heaps of dead
bodies during the bombing of Shanghai’s city streets by
American planes. One
day, I was supposed to sing before a gathering of luminaries
from the financial
world at a party organized by the army’s Press Division. The
venue was a small
hall in the Cathay Hotel (currently Heping Bin’guan) on the
bank of the Huangpu
River. As usual, I picked “The Moon over the Ruined Castle”
for my first number.
As the piano started the song’s prelude, I took a deep
breath and was about to
begin singing. It was at that moment that the air raid
sirens began to go off.
All the members of the audience and I ran with full speed
down to the building’s basement. No sooner had we done so, than we heard the
sounds of explosion overhead drowning out all other noises. The roar of the
fighter planes, the
sound of gunfire, the sharp screeching metallic noise of the
planes making their
sudden descent, the random firing of machine-guns—those
sounds coming one
on top of the other were so horrible that I thought I was
going to die. The hotel
shook as if it were in an earthquake, and we too could feel
the vibrations as our
bodies pressed against one another in the dark basement,
trying to hang on for
dear life. The panic and anxiety lasted for probably more
than an hour, and at the
end I found myself totally worn out. For the time being, I
withdrew to my room
on the eighth floor and waited for contact from the outside.
As I looked down from my hotel window, the sight immediately
shocked me,
despite myself, into covering up my face. What struck my
eyes was the deck of a
passenger ship on the Huangpu River and the water around it,
all a deep red. More
dead bodies than one could count lay on top of the ship, all
piled over one another like logs in a lumberyard. Afloat on the surface of the
river were more human
Shanghai, 1945
225
corpses; a more accurate description would be fragments of
dead bodies. Ambulances from the Red Cross had rushed to the scene and rescue
workers with
stretchers were jumping off the vehicles. Victims carried
from the ship to the shore
were then turned over like fish with long pole-like rods,
and only those believed
to be still hanging onto life were carried away by the
ambulances. In no time, all
the stretchers and white coats worn by the doctors and the
rescue workers were
soaked in blood.
Once I realized what had happened, I cried out aloud. Frozen
in front of the
window sill, I wept bitter tears.
A Chinese hotel boy knocked and came into my room. The sight
of me crying alone in the darkness must have been rather odd, and quickly I
pulled myself
away from the window. But that did not stop my crying. The
boy laid me down
on the sofa and telephoned the hotel’s front desk. Soon, an
officer from the Press
Division arrived. “The enemy planes are gone,” he said, “All
the members of the
audience have been seated. Now, may I ask you to begin your
performance?”
It was hardly the occasion for any singing. I was so shocked
that I had lost
my voice. Finally, after composing myself, I returned to the
hall, only to find that
my singing was well off the mark. Before me was a sparse
audience in a distinctly
chilly atmosphere.
The boat that was raked by machine-gun fire that day had
been carry ing a
large number of Chinese refugees from Guangdong. Since it
had been requisitioned
by the Japanese army and was flying the Japanese flag, it
became a target for the
raiding American planes.
That night, from ten in the evening, when all the lights
went out, until dawn,
I couldn’t sleep at all. When morning came, I moved into
Kawakita’s flat in the
old International Settlement, availing myself of his kind
offer in case of need during his sojourn in Beijing. His apartment was on the
fourth floor of a five-story
building in a smart residential neighborhood for Westerners
on Xiaoshadu Road.
Only a young couple was looking after the flat, an amah and
a manservant who
had endeared themselves to the Kawakitas.
On August 6, an atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima. The
Japanese residents in Shanghai learned about a “new-style bomb” through the
Japanese language newspaper New Continental Press (Tairiku Shinpō), while
apparently others
like Tsuji Hisaichi had heard from the Chinese and other
foreigner expatriates
that the name of the device was an “atomic bomb.” On August
9, under what Noguchi Hisamitsu has described as “an incredible and uncanny
atmosphere,” the
summer concert was held as scheduled, with Hattori Ryōichi
conducting the Shanghai Philharmonic Orchestra.
The extensive Shanghai International Racecourse, the venue,
was in the central part of the city facing the main street, Nanjing Road. Its
grassy area, “the big
226
Chapter 14
park,” was chosen as the site for the August outdoor
concert, a distinctive annual
event for the season. Chinese, Europeans, Americans, and
Japanese would all show
off their summer fashions, turning the place, if only for
that day, into a colorful
social scene. Perhaps because it was an encore performance,
the concert was fully
attended. Now, looking back at the event, I cannot help
thinking that it was a summertime daydream.
On that day, while I was enthusiastically singing my favorite
soprano numbers such as “The Merry Widow” and songs from La Traviata, in Japan
another
atomic bomb was dropped on Nagasaki. As if acting in perfect
synchrony with
the event, the Soviet Union declared war on Japan. On the
same day, the Soviet
army crossed the Soviet-Manchurian border and began
launching its attack
on Xinjing.
It was only after August 10 that I learned about Japan’s
defeat. I was going to
Madame Mazel’s place for my vocal lesson just as I always
did. Nearing Fuxi Road,
I encountered hordes of people fi lling the street, as if a
rowdy festival was taking
place. From the gathering crowd, fragments of Chinese
phrases flew into my ears,
“Japan has surrendered!” “The war has ended!” “China for the
Chinese!” Noguchi’s
prediction that “It will be just a matter of time” was then
materializing before
my eyes.
All stiffened up at the news of Japan’s surrender, I wasn’t
able to give my undivided attention to the vocal lesson. What should I do?
Kawakita was away in
Beijing, and Liuba was nowhere to be found. As far as
business went, the Huaying headquarters at Hamilton House was as good as
finished even though its
doors remained open. I also heard that transportation
throughout China was in
a state of paralysis.
Realizing how agitated I was, Madame Mazel stopped playing
the piano and
calmly told me the circumstances surrounding Japan’s defeat.
On August 9, a meeting of the War Council was held in the Imperial Palace
before the Emperor, and
at two-thirty the next morning, it was decided that Japan would
accept the Potsdam Declaration on the condition that Japan’s national polity
was not to be compromised. This was conveyed to the Allies through neutral
countries. She told me,
“Why don’t you keep on singing, in Japanese, Russian,
English, and Chinese. Forget about everything and just sing!”
I had sung with everything I had just the day before at the
concert. Spurred
on by the accompaniment, I kept on singing any number of
songs in an absentminded state. That day marked my last lesson in Shanghai.
As I opened the door to my flat, the young amah and the
manservant greeted
me silently with a bow. Neither of them made any attempt to
look at me; it was
clear that they knew about Japan’s surrender. I called the
army’s Press Division,
but the reply was “There’s no way that our great Japanese
Empire would surren-
Shanghai, 1945
227
der! It is possible that we will engage the enemy on the
mainland for the decisive
battle!” The army’s Press Division had much earlier on
scheduled my performance
for the Japanese troops garrisoned in Shanghai’s suburbs.
When I asked if there
was going to be a cancellation due to the apparently
changing situation, the officer at the Press Division responded high-handedly,
“Don’t you be misled by unsubstantiated rumors from the Chinese! Your visit to
the troops will take place as
planned on the 13th. Now let me warn you—don’t breathe even
a syllable that such
rumors are now spreading!”
On the night of the same day of August 10, the Far East
Network (FEN)
made repeated mention of Japan’s surrender. The Japanese
government had conveyed to the Allies through the neutral countries of Sweden
and Switzerland that
it was prepared to accept the Potsdam Declaration on the
condition that Japan’s
national polity would be preserved. The consulates of those
countries in Shanghai had confirmed the information. That was how detailed the
FEN news was.
The atmosphere at the old foreign concessions changed
abruptly. The streets
suddenly came alive. Only the Japanese residential quarters
at Hongkou and Zhabei were enveloped in a gloomy stillness; the Japanese
community was getting edgy
at the total lack of information from Tokyo.
That night, I went to a nightclub called Angelic Pleasure in
the French Concession on a prior invitation from my Chinese friends. Following
blackout instructions, the windows had been covered with thick black curtains
as patrons wriggled
their bodies in the dimly lit dance hall. Just at the time
of my arrival, all the windows were suddenly opened wide, filling the dance
hall with a vibrant energy beyond all recognition. Under the bright lights of
the shiny chandelier, the Chinese
and other foreigners were repeatedly toasting each other.
Here, too, phrases such
as “The Potsdam Declaration” and “ultimatum to Japan” were
being exchanged in
whispers in Chinese and English. Gatherings of people were
raising their cups in
a victory celebration.
Suddenly, two Japanese military policemen wearing armbands
came through
the door. “Close the curtains and turn off the lights!” they
shouted. “This is against
orders! Who is responsible for this?” Holding pistols over
their heads, they ordered
the nightclub employees to follow the blackout protocol
before hauling away a man
who appeared to be the manager. The soldiers were twitching
with anger, but an
undaunted, sardonic smile emerged on the face of the man
they took away.
My visit to the troops went as planned on August 13. Not
being informed of
any recent developments, the Japanese soldiers greeted me
with an energetic salute. No information whatsoever about Japan’s defeat had
reached the army, especially not the rank and file. For this reason, I heard
that when the soldiers marched
in formation along the city’s streets, they were stupefied
when they were sharply
ridiculed with sarcastic remarks from the Chinese.
228
Chapter 14
I wondered what was going to happen to those young men. It
pained my heart
to see how they listened with such attentiveness and shining
eyes to my singing.
I wanted to say to them, “The war has now ended! It’s all
right for all of you not to
die!” but the request from the Press Division was for me to
“boost the morale of
our fighting men.” The only words coming from my mouth were
stereotypical and
formulaic: “Thank you very much, soldiers. Please work hard
for the sake of our
country.” Continuing to sing a few songs upon request, this
time I said at every interval, “Thank you very much for your hard work,” and
bowed deeply.
On August 15, I was summoned to the nearby official
residence of the Chief of
Shanghai’s Army Press Division for an important broadcast
from Japan. I wasn’t
able to hear clearly what was being said in the “Imperial
Rescript on Surrender”—
the speech from the shortwave radio was jammed with noises.
The only thing that
came through clearly was the fact that Japan was now a
defeated nation. The Emperor’s voice, which I heard for the first time, struck
me as no different from that
of an ordinary human being. People around me wept at the
news, but I remained
unruffled at the scene, perhaps because of my prior knowledge
of the matter.
After listening to the Emperor’s broadcast, my subsequent
exchange with Lieutenant Colonel Shimada Katsumi, Chief of the Shanghai Army
Press Division, was
later recorded in the February 1956 issue of the journal
Miscellaneous Interactions
(Jinbutsu Ōrai). My recollections are not as detailed as
those of the Lieutenant Colonel, but I clearly remember that when he asked me
about what I would do next,
between being a Japanese or a Chinese, I expressed my
determination that I would
reinstate myself as a Japanese. After returning to my flat
from the Shimada residence, I changed clothes and rushed out again. I jumped in
a rickshaw that carried
me round and round Shanghai’s downtown streets. For the
first time, I started to
cry. The summer breeze quickly dried my tears, but they kept
on coming.
Japanese flags had been lowered from the roofs of buildings,
and now fluttering in their place were flags of China. At storefronts on the
main streets, too, were
rows of the flags of Nationalist China, brilliantly
reflecting the sun’s rays in that
early midsummer afternoon. It was a most dazzling sight.
The city was in an uproar. Their glowing faces filling with
joy, the Chinese
cheered with overflowing elation. As my rickshaw traveled
from one street crossing to the next, I keenly observed how the people paraded
and danced wildly on
the streets, setting off firecrackers and sounding the gongs
in boisterous celebration. On one street corner, the people were waving small
Chinese national flags
as they danced on a trampled Japanese flag on the ground.
That was fine; it was only natural that Chinese flags should
fly in China. On
the other hand, I thought about pitiable Japan and the
pitiable Japanese; though
a Japanese myself, these thoughts came and went in my mind
as if they had noth-
Shanghai, 1945
229
ing to do with me. With the rickshaw’s movements, my thin,
navy-blue, cotton
Chinese summer clothes were completely drenched with tears
and sweat.
Returning to the flat after more than three hours roaming
the streets, I found
the amah and the manservant in the middle of packing their
belongings. I was
told, “We can no longer work here. We’d get into big trouble
if people knew that
we worked for the Japanese, and so please allow us to leave.
We’ll return to our
hometown in Guangdong. We feel bad for Mr. Kawakita as well.
Please convey to
him our appreciations and apologies.”
They brought out their luggage and trunks and were about to
leave. I was
merely a guest who had moved in just ten days earlier during
Kawakita’s absence,
and I was not sure whether I should take the initiative to
ask them to stay. I did,
however, have very sad memories as far as this young couple
was concerned.
One week before, the amah had given birth to a child. I had
realized that she
was pregnant from the way she looked, but before I knew it,
she had decided to
give birth in her own room at the back of the flat without
the assistance of a doctor or a midwife. Two days earlier, the result of her
decision was presented before
my eyes, and I was struck dumb with astonishment. It
appeared to have been a
very difficult birth, and the frail, premature baby was
already at the point of death.
Wrapping their baby in lotus leaves and placing it like an
offering before an altar
in a corner of their room, the couple spent all day kneeling
and praying for the
baby’s health. I repeatedly tried to persuade them to take
the baby to the hospital,
but the two refused to listen, saying that they had their
own god. The baby died
the next day.
The manservant said somewhat apologetically, “We have truly
been indebted
to Mr. Kawakita’s kindness. We did plan to look after his
flat until his return from
Beijing, but the world has changed. Moreover, I would also
like to have time for
my wife to recuperate.” I offered him some money, and wished
them the best as
I saw them off. At that moment, the couple said:
Please be careful
about what will happen to you. There’s a rumor about you
that started two or
three days ago. People are saying under their breath that
when the army from
Chongqing arrives, you would be arrested as a traitor,
given a trial, and may
be given a death sentence.
Left alone in Kawakita’s roomy flat, I lay on the sofa and
looked absentmindedly at the ceiling, lost in incoherent thoughts. The war had
ended; the Japanese
and the Chinese had stopped killing each other. I was
relieved that it ended that
way—no, that was precisely how it should end. And then there
were other thoughts
intersecting in my mind: that I had missed the opportunity
to proclaim that Li
230
Chapter 14
Xianglan was Japanese; that the last fi lm in which I was
supposed to appear in
the leading role as Li Xianglan had failed to materialize;
that I was unable to meet
with reporters to announce my retirement.
Then, evening came. Only the sluggish sound of the revolving
fan reverberated in the twilit room. I heard snappish noises—“Pon! Pon!”—as if
something
had been burst open. It didn’t come from guns, but from
people uncorking champagne bottles. Then came the rowdy noises from the
clinking of wine glasses, the
people’s cheers as they toasted one another, their jovial
laughter, and the flowing
melodies of jazz. It was as if we were having Christmas in
the middle of summer.
When I rose from the sofa and looked out of the window, I
could see here and
there that the black curtains covering the windows of
buildings had been removed,
and the streets were lit up with a dazzling glow. The next
day, I vacated Kawakita’s
flat and moved back into Broadway Mansion.
Shanghai appeared to have changed completely in the
aftermath of the war.
Naturally, the pecking order of the Chinese and the Japanese
was reversed; yesterday’s conquerors were no more than just the common people
from a vanquished
nation. The Nationalist forces led by General Tang Enbo,
Commander-in-Chief
of the Third Front Army, continued to stream into the city.
After the Japanese were
admitted into several specified relocation camps in the
Japanese residential area
of Hongkou, they were given the following orders:
—The Japanese must not
employ citizens of victorious nations as servants.
—The Japanese must not
ride in rickshaws pulled by citizens of victorious nations.
—The Japanese are to
wear armbands at all times identifying themselves as
“Japanese expatriates”
along with their registration numbers at their relocation centers.
—The Japanese are to
congregate at the relocation centers and must not leave
such areas without
permission.
Thinking of acting in unison with the Japanese expatriates
connected with
Huaying, I awaited contacts from Noguchi Hisamitsu, Koide
Takashi, and others
as I continued living by myself until accommodation
arrangements at the relocation center were finalized. Meanwhile,
Chinese-language newspapers were actively
projecting the arrest of those charged with political and
economic crimes as traitors to China while reporting on important figures
associated with the Wang Zhaoming [Wang Jingwei] regime, which had functioned
as a Japanese puppet. On
September 9, General Okamura Yasuji, Commander-in-Chief of
the China Expeditionary Army, formally announced Japan’s capitulation and
signed the statement of surrender in Nanjing before General He Yingqin,
Commander-in-Chief
Shanghai, 1945
231
of Chinese forces representing Chiang Kai-shek, Chairman of
the National Military Council. Besides requesting Japan’s surrender of
important figures, including President Chen Gongbo and his subordinates,1 the
Nationalist government also
made clear fundamental guidelines in connection with treason
trials.
Accordingly, a hanjian was defined as “a Chinese who has committed treason
by collaborating and
conspiring with the Japanese to defy his or her country.”
On the penalties given to those found guilty as hanjian
after a trial, the Legislative Yuan (Lifayuan) made the following proclamation:
—In accordance with
the gravity of the crimes committed, penalties of death,
life imprisonment, or
term imprisonment will be given.
—Those who have
committed conspiracy to disrupt national peace will be
given the death
penalty or life imprisonment.
Beyond those who had committed political and economic
crimes, the government
was beginning to expose “cultural traitors” (wenhua hanjian)
in such areas as film,
theater, and journalism. In the film world, some of my
former friends and acquaintances were being investigated. From Beijing came the
news that Li Ming, one
of the best-known Man’ei stars and a rival of Bai Guang for
Major Yamaga’s special affections, had been arrested. I heard that at her trail
in Beiping’s Hebei High
Court, Li was sentenced to a five-year prison term and a
five-year suspension of
her civil rights. All her possessions, excluding money for
living expenses for her
family, were to be confiscated.
In Shanghai’s fi lm circles, such top actresses as Chen
Yunchang, my costar
in Glory to Eternity, along with Chen Yanyan and Li Lihua,
were listed one after
the other. Among actors, Mei Xi, He Zhongshan, Zhou Shimu,
and others were
brought in for questioning. Masui Kōichi’s The Trial History
of Traitors to the Chinese People records the following:
At the time when such
stars were being summoned, a large, pushy crowd of
fans flooded the
Shanghai High Court, which shows the kind of popularity
these stars commanded.
When the gorgeously beautiful Chen Yanyan arrived
in her streamlined,
light-green, private automobile, wearing a light-brown
qipao, a large number
of reporters and cameramen flocked around her for a
racy press conference.
During their trials, the crowd practically overwhelmed
even the square in
front of the court, to say nothing of the public gallery. Even
though those hanjian
stars spoke to the reporters, with apparent dejection,
about how they “had
fallen out of line with the silver screen,” their popularity
was truly amazing. In
the aftermath of the trials, Chen Yanyan and Li Lihua
were released and
apparently staged a comeback.
232
Chapter 14
While Chen Yunchang, Chen Yanyan, and Li Lihua were being
investigated
by the authorities, it was only natural that the average
Chinese citizen found it
strange that Li Xianglan had not been arrested. Scribblings
on the walls had already put her name first on a list of female hanjian
associated with Japan, along
with Kawashima Yoshiko and the Tokyo Rose.2 “Although Chinese, she appeared
in fi lms that brought
deep humiliation to China. Her actions constituted her collaboration with
Japan’s continental policy and her betrayal of China”—that was
the verdict against me. There was also a newspaper report
that said, “Utilizing the
Chinese and Japanese
languages and her friendly relations with nationals from
both countries, she
engaged in activities as a spy.”
Chinese is a beautiful language, and in communicating intent
and articulating sounds, it is infused with marvelous nuances and rich
expressiveness. On the
other hand, when used as an instrument for humiliation and
condemnation, it is
likewise trenchantly powerful. The denunciation directed
against me in the reports was made in intensely caustic language.
One day, while waiting for my accommodation at the
relocation center to
be assigned, I received a telephone call from a Mr. Yang,
president of a major
Shanghai newspaper. “I wish to thank you for your recent per
formance at the
charity concert we sponsored to fight against cancer,” he
told me. “Just as I was
thinking that we hadn’t properly offered you our
appreciations, we are now faced
with this state of affairs. There is something I wish to
speak about with you, and
I sincerely hope that you will come immediately. I am
sending a car over to pick
you up.”
Japa nese expatriates like us were not permitted to cross
Garden Bridge, but
I was told that Mr. Yang’s automobile carried the necessary
permit. While Yang belonged to the liberal party, he was under suspicion for
having collaborated with
the Japanese army and appeared to have been scheduled for
trial as a hanjian.
After crossing the bridge, which had fresh bullet marks from
machine-gun
fire, the car stopped at the back entrance of a building at
a corner of a squalid neighborhood in the old International Settlement.
Dispensing with the elevator, the
driver showed me the way up the backstairs to the eleventh
floor and knocked on
the door of the room at the end of the corridor.
Yang was waiting for me inside a small and poorly decorated
room. With his
stout build, he still managed to maintain his sense of
presence as before, but his
face looked pale.
Ah, I’m glad you came.
Since I won’t be able to keep you here for long, I’ll get
right to the point. I
have found a way to run off to the Communist camp in
the Northeast in a few
days. You came from the same area, and if you so desire, we can go together.
You and I will both be in danger if we stay in Shang-
Shanghai, 1945
233
hai. If we don’t find
a safe haven for ourselves right now, we’ll be in trouble if
something like a riot
should take place.
Increasingly, writings in the newspapers and on the street
walls were asking
for the arrest of suspected hanjian who had not yet been
exposed, and there was
no telling when I might face severe condemnation from the
masses or be subjected
to mob violence. After some thought, however, I said, “Thank you for the invitation, but no thank
you. My personal guarantor, Kawakita Nagamasa, is not in
Shanghai, and my
parents and siblings are in Beijing. I can’t just go away by myself. I
appreciate your thoughtfulness, but I have no intention of fleeing. I wish to
appear before the
proper authorities and clarify my own position before making
plans for my future.”
At the end of August, Kawakita returned from Beijing. He was
taking a risk
by doing so, but he had to take care of remaining business
as Huaying’s executive
after leaving his wife, Kashiko, and daughter, Kazuko,
behind in Beijing. No sooner
had he reached Shanghai than he assembled all his remaining
staff at Huaying’s
headquarters at Hamilton House and urged the Japanese staff
to act in an orderly
fashion in accordance with Chinese policy regarding Japanese
expatriates. To the
Chinese staff, he said emphatically, “You simply worked
under me as fi lm technicians, and there is no need to worry as you won’t be
accused of treason. I guarantee it.” He put all the staff at ease by citing the
example of the puppet Vichy
regime during the German occupation, noting that those
working in the film industry in order to earn a living were never subsequently
treated as traitors. As a
matter of fact, no one in Huaying was found to be a hanjian.
(That nominal Huaying directors including such prominent figures in the Wang regime
as Chen Gongbo
and Zhou Fohai, along with Head Director Lin Baisheng and
General Manager
Feng Jie were found guilty as hanjian was due not to their
association with the
fi lm industry but to political and ideological reasons.)
Soon afterward, all unmarried Japanese Huaying associates
and those without family accompaniment were accommodated in Hongkou’s
relocation camp.
Kawakita, Noguchi, Koide, and I were assigned living
quarters in a row house. I
occupied a small room next to the entrance, and the others
occupied the reception area and the living rooms. The four of us were
registered as one family unit
at the Office of Japanese Expatriate Affairs, and we were
asked to coordinate even
our daily activities.
I myself have only vague recollections as to where exactly
the relocation camp
was situated. I was utterly astounded when Arichi Ichirō, a
recent acquaintance
of mine and former Consul General of Shanghai (currently
Ambassador to Ghana),
effortlessly drew me a map showing where the place was. “Let
me tell you, it’s in
Xing’ye Quarter on Hongkou’s Shigao’ta Road!”
234
Chapter 14
If one went northward from Broadway Mansion toward Hongkou
along North
Sichuan Road, passing the old naval brigade garrisons and
the former Uchiyama
Bookstore and turning right on Shenyang Road, one would
reach Shigao’ta Road
after a short walk. Xing’ye Quarter was the collective name
given to the area where
the company dormitories of some enterprise stood. There were
three longish structures resembling terrace houses, each three stories high,
and we lived on the first
floor of the building closest to the entrance. To my
embarrassment, I found this
out only in 1985.3
Arichi was Consul General of Shanghai until 1985. Why then
was he able to
sketch a map of the terrace houses of forty years ago with
such unhesitating ease?
His reply was, “As a matter of fact, I, too, lived on the
second floor of the same
terrace house. Kawakita-san and others lived on the first
floor next to Abe-san,
the consulate policeman. There was always a sentry standing
guard in front of the
house. Whenever Li Xianglan went out, she had her sunglasses
on.”
Arichi told me that he was then a student at Shanghai’s
Academy of East Asia
Common Culture (Dong’ya Tongwen Shuyuan)4 and that after the
war, he was
assigned accommodation at the camp in Xing’ye Quarter along
with other fellow
students. As for his reference to my wearing sunglasses, I
do remember having
such a habit, but I also recall that I went out only very
rarely. Men like Kawakita
were able to leave the premises during the daytime as long
as they wore armbands
identifying themselves as Japanese expatriates, but I alone
was not allowed to do
so. Just as Arichi remembered, a young Chinese soldier was
standing guard at the
entrance to our house, vigilantly checking everyone coming
in and going out.
The Bureau of Military Administration had by then received
letters urging
the arrest of Li Xianglan as a hanjian, but the first step
for the authorities was to
get hold of the evidence. As the process was being completed,
I was forbidden to
go outside alone. For the time being, it appeared that I was
put under virtual house
arrest so that I would not be able to communicate with
outside parties or attempt
to escape.
The young and courteous Chinese sentry was conscientious in
the per formance of his duties. Whenever he saw me, he would salute and kindly
ask if there
was anything I needed. Whenever I went out with the
automobile sent by the authorities to answer their questions, he would always
say, “Take care.” Upon my
return, he always seemed to look relieved.
The investigative authorities from Military Administration
were merely asking factual questions about my name, address, family members, my
former schools,
my domiciles, address changes, the particulars about my fi
lms, and my foreign
travels—a completely unproductive exercise. According to
what Kawakita found
out from his many connections with prominent Chinese
figures, the investigation had really very little to do with me as being a
suspected spy. Apparently, the
Shanghai, 1945
235
only question was whether or not I was really Chinese—that
is to say, whether I
was a hanjian. I heard that many of my Chinese friends and
acquaintances had
given testimony that Li Xianglan was Japanese, but my oral
testimony alone could
not provide that proof.
Apparently, amidst the ambiguities surrounding this
investigation, Li Xianglan’s case was passed along from one office to another,
from the Bureau of Military Administration to the Office of the Military Police
and thence to the Office
of Defense Command. One time, I was told that this matter
was something that
money might just be able to resolve. As a matter of fact, I
was once bluntly asked
for it.
It happened the third time I was asked to appear before the
Bureau of Military Administration. As I came out of the investigation room and
was exiting the
main building, a man who had been waiting for me in the
shadows at the entrance
whispered to me in English, “If you come up with five
thousand U.S. dollars, I
can see that you go free.” While I was taken by surprise,
not knowing whether he
was connected with the Bureau, he continued, “I heard it
from a reliable source.
Someone powerful in the Bureau agreed that he could release
you if you came up
with the money.”
While I was stunned into speechlessness, he resorted to
bargaining down the
price: “Three thousand would be okay.” Living as I was from
day to day, I certainly
didn’t have that kind of money. Moreover, I had no desire to
resolve the matter
that way. I simply replied, “No, thank you.” Clicking his
tongue, he then fired his
parting shot, this time in Chinese: “Today’s Li Xianglan
isn’t worth as much as
before. Don’t you know a Japanese woman can be had for less
than three thousand yen?”
In those days, there was a lot of talk about a feature
article in a Chineselanguage newspaper that said, “Japanese women are cheaper
than pigs. A pig is
worth three thousand yen, and a Japanese is about as much as
free.” Here and there
in the relocation camps, many Japanese were selling their
family possessions, furniture, clothes, and the like to Chinese buyers in order
to make a living. Those
who still had something other people wanted were the lucky
ones. Among Japanese women, some had nothing to sell except themselves.
Life at the relocation camp was gradually touching bottom.
The four of us
had been supported by funds raised by Kawakita, connected
widely as he was to
the Chinese and other foreigners in the old concessions, as
well as by Noguchi
and Koide’s “business ventures.” The latter had been selling
furniture and utensils taken from Kawakita’s house on the open streets, as well
as peddling the alcoholic beverage huangjiu (or laojiu) on foot. In time, there
was nothing left to
sell. The situation was aggravated by the successive plunderings
of the Nationalist army. I couldn’t tell whether that was the military’s policy
or whether it was
236
Chapter 14
merely personal action. In any case, during the daytime, the
soldiers would arrive in their jeeps, barge noisily into people’s houses with
their shoes on, snatch
away things like bicycles, gramophones, watches, furniture,
or whatever was worth
anything, and then make a raucous retreat.
Noguchi deft ly eluded the probing eyes of the plunderers by
hiding his small
shortwave receiver; he was a music fanatic who couldn’t bear
to live without it.
His secret treasure, a Westinghouse, was certainly worth
something. He would
always take the thing apart and hide the pieces in various
different places. He was
doing that not just out of fear that it would otherwise be
confiscated. Music was the
only thing that would keep him going while living in the
camp. And so the antenna
was kept under the sink, the speakers were hidden at the
bottom of the wastebasket, and the batteries were concealed under the sofa
cushions. That was how
he spread them out during the day. At night, under his
mattress, he would reassemble the parts into a fine instrument of modern
civilization.
An old amah would sometimes come to visit Noguchi, and she
became a valuable source of raw information about the outside world. Having
once worked at
Noguchi’s apartment and still appreciative of the kindness
from her former employer, she would show up once or twice weekly to prepare a
meal or do the laundry. Always among her presents were several Chinese-language
newspapers, ranging from major publications to popular tabloids. The article
about Japanese women
being cheaper than pigs was published in one of them.
The papers also published pronouncements from the Bureau of
Military
Administration, including items such as “A summons to those
who can prove
that Li Xianglan is Chinese,” and “Seeking testimonies about
the war time activities of Li Xianglan.” One report predicted that “the female
Japanese hanjian
Kawashima Yoshiko will be tried at the Beijing High Court
and Li Xianglan at
the Shanghai High Court. There is a high probability that
both will be given the
death penalty.”
One day, the stunned amah came in with a pale face and
showed us a tabloid gossip column that predicted: “Li Xianglan will become the
number eight
concubine to Major General Liu.” She cautioned, “Please be
very watchful. In
the past, the paper has carried rumors about the Major
General and Li Xianglan.” I then remembered that the man who had earlier
suggested that I could
buy my innocence with $5,000 did say that he could “make
approaches” to this
Major General.
A few days after the amah told us the story, an ostentatious
parade of jeeps
arrived in front of our house after passing through the gate
to the camp. At Noguchi’s command of “Quickly hide yourself,” I hurriedly shut
myself in the lavatory. The door opened with a deep voice demanding, “Where’s
Li Xianglan?” I
cringed and hardly dared to breathe.
Shanghai, 1945
237
Meanwhile, Kawakita was repeating something to my visitor in
Chinese. A
few moments passed and I was given the all-clear, only to
learn that I had just been
honored by a visit by Major General Liu himself. Everybody’s
face had turned pale.
My housemates were able to turn him away only by insisting
that I was not in
the house.
Knowing well that I was inside the house, the young Chinese
sentry standing guard in front of our entrance didn’t report what he knew to
the General. Realizing what was happening, Kawakita said, “The fact that such a
conscientious
soldier went to such lengths to protect you shows that Liu
must be a pretty rotten
general! Let me ask my Chinese friends to find out what kind
of a guy he is.” With
that, he went out with Noguchi and Koide.
Relieved that the ordeal was over, I sat on the sofa in the
reception room and
tried to read, only to find myself unable to relax. A few
hours later, I heard the
door open and thought that my housemates had returned from
the outside. When
I went to greet them, what I bumped into at the entrance was
instead an odd character, Major General Liu himself.
“Hey! Li Xianglan!” The ring of his roaring laughter
resounded in the doorway. Stoutly built and suntanned, Liu was a middle-aged
military man with an
air of macho gallantry. His right ear appeared to have been
completely shaved away,
and, when I looked closely, I noticed that he walked with a
limp in his left leg.
Pointing to his missing ear and his leg, he told me, all the
while scowling at me
with his large, wide eyes, that those were the result of
torture after his capture by
the Japanese army while he was working as General Ma
Zhanshan’s staff officer.5
“Listen, I’ll be hosting American officers in a party
tomorrow for the victorious
nations. I want you to come and sing for us! I want the
Americans to hear the famous Chinese song ‘Evening Primrose’ sung by the best
songstress of China! Come,
there’ll be lots of good food!”
I was so scared that my trepidation turned into a surge of
strong resistance.
“I am no longer Li
Xianglan,” I countered. “I am a Japanese
woman from a defeated
nation. As you can
see, I am now under house arrest while being investigated by
the Bureau of Military
Administration of your country. I certainly can’t sing any
songs; my vocal cords
won’t allow it anymore. You can’t just drag a horse that is
not thirsty to a river
and expect it to drink!”
Again bursting into uproarious laughter as if to shatter my
excuses to smithereens, he said, “Come on, with lots of good food in your
belly, you’ll have your
voice again! In any case, I’m going to send a car to pick
you up tomorrow. I look
forward to your ‘Evening Primrose!’ ” Having said what he
wanted to say, he
again let out a booming laugh before taking his leave,
dragging his limping leg.
After relating what had happened to Kawakita and others
after their return,
they all changed color and said, “This is very bad. What we
found out from our
238
Chapter 14
little investigation is that he’s seen as a notorious
scoundrel even by those in his
inner circles. Once you go to his party, you may never come
back. We have to do
something about it.”
Kawakita again went out to negotiate with high officials in
the Office of Japanese Expatriate Affairs and the military police. Was Major
General Liu’s demand
a formal request from the military? If so, even if I was
unwilling, he could make
me go. On the other hand, Kawakita wanted the authorities to
recognize two conditions, that I must be returned as agreed upon by the
military authorities, and
that I be escorted by military police during my trip to and
from the party. If such
conditions could not be fulfi lled, Kawakita wouldn’t
promise to make me go in
his dual capacity as my company superior and as my guardian
on behalf of my
parents. Kawakita’s reasonable requests appeared to have won
the day. Major General Liu’s request was not heard of again.
One night, Noguchi knocked on my door, saying, “Quickly,
quickly!” I thought
it was yet another visit from the general. While I was
hurrying to hide, Noguchi
said, “It’s all right! Just come here; they are going to
broadcast your songs!”
With his upper body covered by the mattress in the reception
room, Noguchi waved me to come with one hand. He was adjusting the dial of his
shortwave
receiver, which he had just reassembled. The announcer was
saying that he would
play a record of songs by Li Xianglan. “First, let’s hear
‘The Evening Primrose.’ ”
The prelude sounded. When I heard that nostalgic tune with
its cheerful rumba
tempo, my eyes fi lled with tears in spite of myself.
Noguchi and I listened to the broadcast in our awkward
position of covering
only our heads with the mattress while leaving the lower
half of our bodies exposed. Noguchi said, “This is what that scoundrel general
wants to hear! But, hey,
I can understand how he feels!”
Winter approached as days of tears and laughter continued
while I was under house arrest. Beginning in December, some Japanese in China
were allowed
to be repatriated to Japan. Among the first group to go were
Hattori Ryōichi and
Himeda Yoshirō.6 The investigation of me was still going
nowhere, and the coming of winter filled me with a sense of melancholy. One
day, Noguchi’s former employee, the amah, rushed in to show me a tabloid she
was holding in her hand,
saying, “It’s terrible!” The paper reported the decision that
I had been given the
death penalty: “Li Xianglan, who has committed treasonous
crimes against Chinese culture (wenhua hanjian), has been sentenced to die
before a firing squad at
three in the afternoon on December 8 at the Shanghai International
Racecourse.”
Chapter 14: Shanghai, 1945
1. The original refers to “President Chen Gongbo from the
Wang Zhaoming
government.” Chen became President of the pro-Japanese
Nanjing Nationalist government after the death of Wang in November 1944. Chen
was subsequently extradited from Japan, tried, and executed as a traitor on
June 3, 1946.
2. No specific names of any of the dozen or so female
broadcasters collectively
known as “Tokyo Rose,” including that of Iva Toguri, was
identified in the original text.
3. The name “Shigao’ta Road” (“Scott Road”) was only used
from 1911–1943
and now its new name is Shanyin Road. An informative essay
dated June 30, 2009, by
336
Notes to Pages 234–246
an unnamed author about the history of the Shanghai
neighborhood is provided by
“Tanfang Shanghai shenchu: Shanghai Hongkou-qu Shanyin Lu.”
See it online at
http://s.dianping.com/topic/934535. For another excellent
online essay describing the
history of Shigao’ta Road, see Zhu Wei, “Shigao’ta Lu ji
Shigao’ta Lu di” posted on
August 26, 2010, at
http://www.shsz.org.cn/news/20108/i-201082681649.html.
4. First established in Shanghai in 1901, the school was
closed in 1945 as a result of Japan’s defeat in World War II with a total
number of graduates numbering as
many as five thousand. For some forty years, its students
traveled extensively in
China—with permission from the Chinese authorities until
1931—to pursue on-site
investigations of the country’s geography and its
wide-ranging commercial, cultural,
and political developments. While noting its positive
contributions to Sino-Japanese
exchange and the considerable historical and sociological
value of its publications,
Chinese authors have also pointed out its connections with
the Japanese military
during the Second Sino-Japanese War. See Feng Tianyu’s
undated online essay “Luelun Don’ya Tongwen Shuyuan de Zhongguo diaocha,” at
http://www.ewen .cc
/qikan /bkview.asp?bkid=2053&cid=4959 and another
related article http:// baike
.baidu.com /view/4220593.htm. Upon their return to Japan,
some of the school’s academic staff and alumni established Aichi University in
1946. See also Aichi University’s history on its own webpage at
http://www.aichi-u.ac.jp/profi le/history.html.
5. On General Ma Zhanshan, see chapter 1, n. 3.
6. Himeda Yoshirō (1908–1967), novelist noted particularly
for providing
Japanese subtitles to French films.
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