Chapter 15 Farewell, Li Xianglan

Deeply depressed, I awaited what was reported to be the day

for my execution before a fi ring squad. Until then, just as before, all sorts of

groundless rumors had been sprouting wildly, and this time, I thought the newspaper’s report was again totally without foundation. Yet the winter atmosphere

in Shanghai was pregnant with perilous tension. It was possible, after all, that the

Bureau of Military Administration had secretly made the decision that I be punished by death, one that the newspaper reporter had sniffed out and published as

his scoop.

During the roughly three weeks before my expected demise, Noguchi

Hisamitsu and others often told jokes around me to cheer me up or held sukiyaki

parties to console my spirits, and I, for my part, tried to put on as happy a face as

I possibly could. But the sound of a jeep making a stop in front of our house or a

single knock on the door was quite enough to make my heart shiver with fear.

As it turned out, “the day” came and went without incident. Next morning

when my three housemates and I got up, we all instinctively patted one another

on the shoulder. Everybody had been worried about me.

With the coming of the new year, another rumor made its rounds, this time

buzzing that I would be handed over to Nanjing’s Central Bureau of Military Administration. The story was that Shanghai’s military police were at a loss as to how

to deal with me and so my case would be transferred to a higher jurisdiction in

Nanjing where those accused of serious thought crimes were being investigated

and tried. It appeared that the Nanjing court held trials for prominently placed

hanjian, which meant that once a case reached that level, the accused might have

considerable difficulty in securing her release.

In the end, it became apparent that if it could be factually established that I

was indeed Japanese, that might somehow turn the case in my favor. But when

actually ordered to provide official proof for such a straightforward matter, I was

helpless. Meanwhile, quite a number of newspapers had been enumerating my Chinese connections; not only did I have a Chinese name, Li Xianglan, and fluency

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in Mandarin, but from the phrenological point of view, they asserted, even my

facial features indubitably betrayed my Chinese blood lineage.

Come to think of it, ever since I was young, my facial features had never struck

anyone as being authentically Japanese. Regardless of which country I was in, I

was always thought of by the locals as having at least half of their country’s blood.

When I played the stepdaughter of a Russian opera singer in My Nightingale, a

movie filmed in Harbin, I was generally looked upon as a Russian girl. When shooting on location for Sayon’s Bell in Taiwan, I was treated with extraordinary hospitality by the Takasago aborigines due to my close resemblance to their chief’s

daughter and lavishly welcomed as their most honored guest in a head-hunting

dance ceremony performed around a bonfire—a terrifying experience for me.

One time, I was ordered to appear before the police while shooting on location in

Gyeongseong’s suburbs for the fi lm You and I (Kimi to boku [1941]), a project initiated by the office of the Governor General of Korea. There, I came face to face

with my “parents,” an old couple named Lee who insisted that I was their daughter, kidnapped and taken to Manchuria at a young age. It finally reached a point

where the police commissioner had to be called in to make a physical identification. The couple simply refused to listen no matter how hard I tried to prove otherwise, and when they fi nally asserted that their child had a mole on her left wrist,

I was totally at my wits’ end: I just happened to have a mole at exactly the same

spot. Trying to convince the old couple that I was not their long-lost daughter from

Manchuria was a heartrending experience.

In any case, it appeared that my facial features had something in common

with people anywhere in the world, the only exception being Japan. When it occurred to me that one reason my nationality was suspected might have to do with

how I looked, with a face bearing no easily identifiable national origin, I began to

feel disinclined to look at myself in the mirror.

While awaiting my military trial, I had two unusual guests. One of them was

Liuba. While I hadn’t heard from her after I moved to the relocation camp, she

had, just as I expected, continued to take an interest in my well-being. The status

of her country, the Soviet Union, was that of a victorious nation. In addition, since

she had worked in the Soviet Consulate General in Shanghai, her diplomatic privileges allowed her free access to the relocation camp. Apprehensive that her visit

might cause me trouble, however, she had refrained from visiting me for a while.

Things would get complicated once the Chinese side learned that she, a Communist, was a good friend of mine; that might negatively affect my position. So, she

apparently did some quiet investigation of her own about the circumstances surrounding my questioning by the authorities. Once she had affirmed that allegations

against me as a spy had been more or less cleared, she began taking the necessary

steps to arrange a meeting with me. “Yoshiko-chan,” she told me, “what you need

Farewell, Li Xianglan

241

to do now is to clearly establish your Japanese identity. As long as you can prove

that, you will be released! Do you have any official documents such as your nationality or identification papers? Is there anything I can do?”

Liuba and I first knew each other when I was an elementary school student

in Fushun. After I moved to Fengtian, we saw each other every day. She also came

to play at my house any number of times and knew that I was the oldest daughter

of a Japanese couple named Yamaguchi Fumio and Ai. She was also aware of the

circumstances whereby I received my Chinese name, Li Xianglan, from General

Li Jichun and how I used it as my stage name. But even if Liuba were to testify

that I, her good friend, was a Japanese national named Yamaguchi Yoshiko, who

would believe her? Listening in to our conversation, Kawakita Nagamasa said, with

hope glowing in his eyes, “Yoshiko, your parents in Beijing must have a copy of

the family register from a Japanese government office!” It was customary for Japanese immigrants to Manchuria or China to hold on to several copies of their family register, documents that could prove their Japanese nationality.

“Liuba,” Kawakita said, “I heard you have recently traveled by plane to Harbin and Fengtian. Do you also have occasions to go to Beijing on business?”

“Yes, from time to time,” Liuba answered.

The idea flashing through Kawakita’s mind was brilliant: when presented to

the military court, a copy of my family register might be accepted as powerful

proof of my Japanese nationality. When I asked Liuba to bring back a copy of the

document from my family should she have a chance to visit Beijing, Liuba said,

“Just leave everything to me. I’ll soon find an excuse to go there on business.”

Liuba and I continued to talk about miscellaneous things for about an hour.

“Take care of yourself! I will come again.” With those words, she waved goodbye

and left by car. Since that time, that is to say, from early February 1946 to this day,

I have never seen her again. . . . 1

Please forgive me for digressing a little here, but I would like to trace what

happened to Liuba afterwards. Having once again solicited information from

friends, acquaintances, and concerned parties this time, I was able to acquire some

valuable information. One source of information was a letter written by Taguchi

Hiroshi, Liuba’s friend and former branch manager of Marubeni in Hong Kong

(and currently a consultant to New Tokyo Movie Com Company). He told me that he

had seen a middle-aged woman bearing a resemblance to Liuba’s mother, Mrs.

Gurinets, in Hong Kong around the year 1958:

Having joined Marubeni after my postwar demobilization in China, I was

stationed in Hong Kong for twelve years, beginning from 1956. From around

1957, a large number of White Russian escapees from China went through

Hong Kong on their way to the free world. There was a hotel on the Kowloon

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side which exclusively served such White Russians as part of the United Nations’ initiative to help refugees. Perhaps taking advantage of the cool summer evening, many Russians were hanging around in the vicinity of the hotel

entrance. One day in 1958, I happened to pass through the hotel on business,

and from my company car, I saw a woman who looked like Liuba’s mother.

I should have interrupted my business, stopped the car, and gone to meet her.

I regret very much that I just let it pass, and I still feel sorry about it.

Assuming that the woman Taguchi saw in Hong Kong was actually Mrs. Gurinets, it is possible that she was on her way to the free world, to the United States

or Europe via Hong Kong. On the other hand, both Mr. Gurinets and Liuba had

once worked for the Soviet Consulate General, and the more likely scenario is that

the whole family returned to the Soviet Union. If that was the case, one could imagine how difficult life was for Liuba’s family in their motherland, considering early

reports of the oppression of Jews in the Soviet Union after the war.

Even though I could inquire about Liuba’s circumstances through different

channels, I didn’t venture to pursue the issue for fear that, at the time, the very

act of tracing her footsteps might only cause her unnecessary trouble. After the

war, the Soviet government had appealed to Russia’s exiles to return to their homeland by promising amnesty. In reality, those returnees, and the Russian Jews in

particular, suffered dreadfully, as depicted in detail in Solzhenitsyn’s The Gulag

Archipelago.

As a matter of fact, one experience I had gone through several years before

confirmed my apprehensions. It had to do with a letter I received from a friend

from my Fengtian days, a Russian girl of Turkish descent named Nina Elim. She

was one of my childhood playmates, partly because she lived nearby.

Nina now lives in Odessa, Ukraine’s largest seaport on the shore of the Black

Sea. Several years before, I received a telephone call from a Mr. Harada from the

Tourism Division of Yokohama’s Bureau of Economics. He told me that when its

delegation was visiting Odessa, a Russian woman appeared before him and identified herself as a friend of a Japanese girl called Yamaguchi Yoshiko back in

Fengtian. When she was told that Yamaguchi was then a member of the Japanese

Diet, she was utterly surprised before entrusting Harada with a letter addressed

to me.

Written in Japa nese, the letter opened with: “Yoshiko, my very dear friend!

I am so happy that I can now write to you. This is really my happiest day! I am writing it now with tears fi lling my eyes. I can’t wait to see you!” Narrating her story

in detail, she informed me how she had waited for me in front of Fengtian’s Yamato

Hotel on May 5, 1945—even though I myself did not remember having made

such an arrangement with her—how constantly miserable her life had been im-

Farewell, Li Xianglan

243

mediately after the war ended, and how her marriage had produced a daughter

with whom she had just been reunited after a long separation. She went on to say

how happy she was to meet her missing brother who, she had learned, was the

Russian translator of Gomikawa Junpei’s The Human Condition (Ningen no jōken).2

She told me that she was then making a living by teaching Japanese, but her life

turned out in many ways to have been an unfortunate experience. She then concluded with these words:

I apologize for troubling you, but after you receive my letter, can you send me

a telegram immediately? I make this request because I’ve been so worried that

I can’t sleep. Now, I’ve been thinking about you all day and all night! I trust

you can understand how miserable I am. Your Nina.

I thought her request for a telegram from me was a bit odd, and, on top of that, I

had no immediate idea what had made her so worried that she was unable to sleep.

But immediately after I read her letter, I sent a telegram to her address, followed

by a letter. Mr. Harada from Yokohama’s Tourism Division also wrote to her with

information about my contact address. Yet there was no further communication

from Nina.

With this matter in mind, I thought it best to be prudent with regard to

Liuba before I learned something concrete about her situation. I was afraid that

searching for her might work against her best interests and cause her difficulties.

This was, however, premised on the assumption that she was living in the

Soviet Union. What happened if she was in the United States? Should I ask for the

assistance of B’nai B’rith, a U.S.-based Jewish service organization, in my search?

My former vocal music instructor in Shanghai, Madame Bella Mazel, also a Russian Jew, was then living in New York. As I was pondering whether I should write

her, I was suddenly struck with the thought that Liuba might be in Israel.

This thought was triggered, belatedly, by a comment made to me several years

before by a member of the Diet’s delegation after his visit to Israel that an Israeli

woman speaking good Japanese had inquired about me. It was only a natural instinct for a Jew to aspire to go to the “Holy Land” of Israel. It was also possible

that, in an attempt to run away from Soviet oppression, she had gone to Israel via

Europe or the United States. As far as language was concerned, Liuba wouldn’t

have any trouble living in any of those places.

On the other hand, if the Japanese-speaking woman who had inquired about

me in Israel was indeed Liuba, surely she would have written to me already. Could

it be that Liuba, smart as she was, hesitated to do so when she learned that I, among

Japanese politicians, was a supporter of Arab nations and, among the Diet members, the Executive Director of the Japanese-Palestinian Friendship Alliance?

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As Taguchi and I exchanged letters and spoke on the telephone, I realized

that he was one of Liuba’s few friends who actually knew her whereabouts after

her Fengtian days. Moving from Dalian to Fengtian, Taguchi was transferred to

the Chiyoda Elementary School when he was a sixth grader. His sister Junko (now

deceased) was two years younger and a fourth grader in the same class as Liuba.

But apparently, Junko began to have close interactions with Liuba only later, when

they were living in Shanghai. After his graduation from Fengtian Middle School,

Taguchi temporarily returned to Japan for his studies. He returned to China after graduating from Rikkyō University, and from September 1943, he began working at Shanghai’s customs office. During that interval, he returned to Fengtian

each summer vacation and embarked on a tour of China on foot. In 1939, when

he was a second-year student of Rikkyō’s preparatory courses, he met Liuba in

Qingdao. Again in 1941, when he went to Shanghai during his summer vacation

as a university freshman, he visited Liuba for the first time at her home inside the

French Concession.

Taguchi and Liuba met frequently from the days Tauguchi worked at the custom’s office up until the end of the war. During the intervening time, he was drafted

into the army and was dispatched to various locations in China, ending up near

Xinyang at the end of the war. He was then relocated to a Shanghai camp before

returning to Japan the following April. He and Liuba never met after the war ended.

According to Taguchi, the Gurinets family consisted of Liuba, her brother,

and their parents; the older sister of Liuba’s mother, Mrs. Steiner, and her daughter, Fira, lived with them as well. I myself remembered playing with Fira while

I was living in Fengtian. She was a girl with a dark complexion and big eyes.

“Do you have a picture of Liuba?” Taguchi asked after we had spoken a number of times on the telephone.

“I’ve only got one from Mrs. Ikari Miyako, Liuba’s classmate at the Chiyoda

Elementary School. It was taken when she was a fourth grader.”

“I’ll send you some from my album taken in 1941 when I visited her house.”

Liuba was twenty-one in 1941. What came in from the express registered mail

were four photographs showing Liuba’s usual radiant self as she beamed her smile

into the camera. She bundled her long, chestnut-colored hair at the back of her

head and allowed it to stream behind her in the light breeze. Liuba was over five

feet, three inches tall and had beautiful legs, and even I, looking at her as a woman,

found her enchanting. This was how Taguchi described her:

Her cheerfulness does not simply come from her smile, but I think from her

fantastic personality. And her Japanese—just unbelievable! If you close your

eyes, what you hear before you is the perky tongue of an Edokko.3 Ah, yes,

Farewell, Li Xianglan

245

now I remember! As we were taking a walk down the street, she said, “The

Japanese simply gulped down what they had been told by the Imperial Headquarters and made a big fuss about Japan’s so-called victory in the Pacific. That

was a lie. Let me tell you, the Japa nese navy was decisively defeated by the

American forces.” I thought it strange that she should know about such matters,

but since she worked at the Soviet Consulate General, she apparently knew everything about the Allied forces.

As Taguchi and I continued to exchange information about Liuba, I also came

to understand why Liuba’s family had abruptly disappeared from Fengtian.

One day, Mr. Steiner, Fira’s father, was assaulted by unknown assailants. The

Steiner family lived in a two-story house in Fujichō, a neighborhood situated

between Fengtian’s old Manchurian Medical University and the site for the Memorial for the War Dead. That day, all of a sudden, several thugs stormed into

their house and shot Mr. Steiner with a pistol right before Mrs. Steiner’s and Fira’s

eyes. While his assailants fled immediately, persistent rumors emanating even

from the Japanese community were apparently pointing to Japanese intelligence

as the perpetrator of the act. In its aftermath, Fira and her mother took refuge

inside the Petrov Bakery. Already waiting for a chance to flee Fengtain, the Gurinets family, along with Mrs. Steiner and Fira, took off in a horse carriage one

day and went into temporary hiding in the suburbs before they finally sought

sanctuary in faraway Qingdao. It was only after their flight from Fengtian that

I visited Liuba’s house and was stunned by how the military police had ransacked

the place.

Fleeing from the Russian Revolution, the Gurinets had gone to Dalian and

thenceforth to Fengtian. Thereafter, the family was hounded by the Japanese authorities, forcing them to flee to Shanghai via Qingdao. After the end of the war,

I wonder how the family fared after Shanghai, whether they had finally managed

to find a place where they could settle down in peace.

The following was what Taguchi said. “Being Jewish, White Russian, Bolshevik, a spy, American, and Israeli. . . . No matter how she has been tossed back and

forth by the relentless waves of race, nationality, and ideology, Liuba remains

Liuba, a cheerful, beautiful, and wonderful person. I’d rather say that she has my

respect as a human being, a woman who has endured all the bitter trials of her

stormy life in a tumultuous era.” I agreed completely with those sentiments. Precisely because I, too, have experienced many storms in my own life, Liuba’s experiences were not exactly alien to my own feelings.

Taguchi, Liuba, and I belong to the same generation; we were all born in China

in 1920. At that point, Taguchi and I made a pledge between us that we would

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renew our efforts to find our friend. Taguchi told me that, if he had a chance to go

to the United States on business, he would make inquiries about Liuba through

agencies that helped Jewish refugees. On my part, I also decided to do whatever I

could.4

*

*

*

Let me now return to my life of confinement inside the Shanghai relocation camp

for Japanese expatriates on Hongkou’s Shigao’ta Road, and the story of my treason trial.

While I was awaiting trial, my one other visitor besides Liuba was a fi nelooking young man who arrived in a Cadillac. A well-mannered Chinese gentleman neatly dressed in a suit, he did announce his name, but since he simply said

that he came with the introduction from the Bureau of Military Administration,

his real identity remained a mystery.

He first showed Kawakita a certified document from the Office of Japanese

Expatriate Affairs, along with a cover letter. “I wish to assure you that my motives are completely honorable,” he greeted us courteously. “With permission from

the proper authorities, I have a request to make of Madam Li Xianglan while seeking the pleasure of her company for lunch. Once we finish our business, I will escort her back safely, and so there is no need to worry.”

Our trip took us to a grand manor inside the French Concession. Already

awaiting my arrival in a large room were about ten men of imposing build. My

young, well-dressed escort told me, “All the gentlemen here belong to an influential group in Shanghai” before introducing them to me one by one, even though

all their names appeared to be fictitious.

Lunchtime ushered in a full course of scrumptious Shanghainese dishes, something that I had not enjoyed for quite a while. On the other hand, thoughts about

the price that I might have to pay for that indulgence tempered my appetite during the course of the meal. Meanwhile, we chatted about miscellaneous things

before our conversation turned to the heart of the matter.

“Once the current investigation on you is over, there will certainly be a formal military trial. Before that happens, you would like to gain your freedom by

having the charges against you dropped, wouldn’t you?” The question was asked

in an impeccably courteous voice by a distinguished-looking man in Chinese attire who was sitting opposite me. He appeared to be the central figure in the group.

“Should you wish to live permanently in China, we could put an end to your

trial and offer this house to you as a gift. You can have secretaries, servants, a Cadillac with a chauffeur, and whatever you desire. Needless to say, you would have

more than what you need for your living expenses. You may also travel anywhere

within the country.”

Farewell, Li Xianglan

247

“But why? And for what purpose?”

“Instead of having to face criminal charges as a hanjian, you will travel on

inspection tours from time to time to the northeastern region (formerly Manchuria). You know that area very well, and I’m sure you have many friends and

acquaintances among the Chinese there. You also speak Chinese better than the

Chinese themselves. We’d like you, a person with a good sense of the locality, to

check out the areas where the Communist Eighth Route Army is active.”

It was, essentially, an invitation for me to become a spy. What he was saying

was that if I was willing to spy on the Eighth Route Army in the northeast for the

Kuomintang government, I would be absolved of my crime as a hanjian, my freedom would be guaranteed, and my whim for every extravagance satisfied. Did this

mean that these men were connected to the Bureau of Investigation and Statistics,

the intelligence agency of the Kuomintang government? Or were they associated

with the Green Gang (Qingbang)?

From the old days, Shanghai had such underground societies as the Green

Gang and the Red Gang (Hongbang). As secret associations, they not only dominated the city’s underground economy but had connections with every legitimate

economic interest. On top of that, they had been contracted to work on political

operations and intelligence activities. While the Green Gang had been subcontracted to do work for the Bureau of Investigation and Statistics as well as the Blue

Shirts Society (Lanyishe), there were also organizations connected to the Japanese

army and Wang Jingwei’s puppet government. The three most powerful figures

in Shanghai’s Green Gang were Du Yuesheng, Huang Jinrong, and Zhang Xiaolin.5

I interrupted the gentleman who was about to speak again. “You are telling me

that my crime as a hanjian would be forgiven, but, sir, I am not a hanjian. Although

I’ve used the Chinese name Li Xianglan as my stage name in my acting career, I am

Japanese, and my real name is Yamaguchi Yoshiko. While I’ve collaborated with

Japan’s national policies, that was because I was Japanese. The reason why I’m now

under investigation and awaiting trial is that I wish to clarify these matters.”

The men all looked at each other. I continued, “I’ve never before engaged in

any spying activities, nor do I have any intention of doing so in the future. The

reason I am awaiting trial now is that I wish to clear my name as a suspected spy

and hanjian.”

The men were listening to my loquacious delivery as they ate their dessert or

puffed on their cigarettes. “I don’t mind going to prison, not even for five or ten

years, until a final decision is reached. China was where I was born and raised,

and it is the country I love.”

“Perfectly understood!” A heavy-set man sitting at the middle of the table

briskly rose on his feet. “Thank you for taking the trouble to come!” As if emulating his action, all the other men also stood up and took turns to shake my hand.

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Was that actually the Kuomintang government’s invitation to me to become

its spy, or was it an exercise to test my “ideology” by what might have been a Green

Gang group? To this day, I have no idea. Whatever the case may be, the one hour

I spent around the table with those gentlemen was, as far as I was concerned, practically the same as giving my final statement at my trial. While I didn’t even know

whether my pronouncements had subsequently been passed on to the Bureau of

Military Administration, the atmosphere surrounding my investigation in the aftermath of this incident turned out to be a little more relaxed, so much so that I

could start to see a dim ray of hope.

Kawakita was good enough to accompany me during the third round of my

investigation. The officer responsible explained my situation as follows:

Based on testimonies from concerned parties on both the Chinese and

Japa nese sides, there is increasingly credible proof that Li Xianglan is a Japanese person named Yamaguchi Yoshiko. On the other hand, the ordinary Chinese are either convinced, just as before, that you are Chinese, or else they

believe that Chinese blood flows in at least half of your body. During the war, Li

Xianglan sold out her country while pursuing her flamboyant movie star

career. When her transgressions are investigated, she now proclaims that she

is Japanese, confines herself within Japanese quarters, and attempts to flee to

Japan. That’s what most of the people think. Let me tell you, the fact that

there’ve been rumors about your execution is a demonstration of their desire

to drag you out of the relocation camp, throw you in prison, and have you go

through a thorough and impartial trial. They believe that the rightful outcome,

should you have any Chinese blood, is that you be punished as a hanjian.

“If we can produce defi nitive physical evidence or documents from proper

authorities to prove that she is a full-blooded Japa nese, she would be deemed

innocent as far as her hanjian crimes are concerned, is that right?” Kawakita

asked.

“That is right. We are gathering a lot of testimonies and circumstantial evidence. The impression our military police and the court have formed is not all

that bad. Well, as long as you can produce proper physical evidence . . .”

Kawakita then proceeded to explain what a Japanese family register was and

what a copy of the document meant. All Japanese nationals were required to be

recorded on a family register and were obligated to report on births, deaths,

marriages, divorces, and other such matters regarding family members to the local

government office in areas where they were legally domiciled. Based on such reports, the government office kept the original family register. A copy was then made

Farewell, Li Xianglan

249

and authorized as authentic by the head of the local authorities under his signature and seal. That was the only formal document that provided an official certification of nationality.

The officer listened with considerable interest. Kawakita and I promised to

submit a copy of my family register at the next opportunity; we were placing our

hopes on Liuba’s success in bringing back such a document from my parents in

Beijing.

Contrary to our expectation, however, we waited in vain. Perhaps Liuba hadn’t

had a chance to go to Beijing on business, or perhaps my parents in Beijing didn’t

have a copy of our family register. It was in the midst of such anxieties that I received an unexpected present.

One day, the young soldier standing guard next to our house entrance came

in to deliver a small wooden box, saying, “A messenger brought in this.” Wrapped

in brown paper and newspaper and tied by a thin string, the rectangular-shaped

box appeared to have been opened and its contents inspected.

At the time, the young soldier had already become very friendly with us.

He had joined the army and fought in the war while studying as a university

student, and one time he told us that he wanted to go back to the classroom now

that the war had ended. A student of the Chinese classics in the faculty of literature, he was fond of composing classical Chinese poems; one time he even wrote

me one on xuanzhi.6

As soon as I opened the cover of the box, I let out a cry. Inside the box was a

small, worn-out Japanese doll, a fuji-musume,7 which my mother had bought for

me in Japan when I was small. It brought back many fond memories, as wherever

our family happened to move over the years, from Fushun to Fengtian and thence

to Beijing, she’d always put it on top of a chest of drawers in my room. After I explained that it was my mother in Beijing who had sent it, the soldier merely said,

“Ah! I’m happy for you” and left without further checking the item.

The world before my eyes had brightened. To be sure, I was happy that the doll

had come my way. But rather than being sentimental about it, I wondered who

had managed to bring it to me and how. Then it dawned on me that it was Liuba.

Inspecting the contents of the box with Kawakita and others, I couldn’t find anything resembling a letter, not even inside the doll’s sedge hat or its long sleeves.

Did Mother simply send it to comfort me and for no other reason?

Then, as I looked more closely, I noticed that there was an inconspicuous but

unnatural tear along part of the sash around the doll’s kimono. As I unfastened

it, I could see a thin piece of paper, folded into a slender strip and sewn into the

inner seam of the belt. I opened it with trembling hands. It was a copy of the Yamaguchi family register, a stain-smudged scrap of ordinary paper.

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“This serves to certify that this is a true copy.” That was the document that

would prove who I was.

How this flimsy, terribly blemished piece of paper might be looked upon by

another country was, however, a different matter. While the Chinese authorities

accepted the document for the moment, the attitude of the responsible officer was

as utterly unsympathetic as we had expected: “How can you prove that the Yamaguchi Yoshiko recorded on this register, and you now standing before me, are

one and the same person? Now, you don’t have any scientific proof such as fingerprint verification, do you?”

I think in those days, China didn’t have as precise a system of family registration as Japan’s, and that was why the officer couldn’t understand the significance of that thin piece of paper. In China’s cinematic world at that time, an actress could always stay young. As there was nothing to prove her age other than

her own pronouncement, any self-proclamation would pass as authentic. Within

Man’ei, there was a middle-aged actress who was always seventeen no matter how

many years had passed.

This is how Kawakita in his “My Life History” described the situation at the

time:

It was at that time that I first realized just how crude and strange Japanese

identification papers were. In a sense, I thought that was because Japan was

such a laid-back country. You could just summarily scribble some undecipherable words on paper using a stencil pen. Then you have the cheap-looking seal

from the head of so-and-so village. They didn’t even bother to assign an identification number on the thing. There was no way a foreign official would have

any faith in such a dubious document. First and foremost, you can’t use it to

prove that Yamaguchi Yoshiko on that document and Li Xianglan are one and

the same person.

Faced with this situation, I asked a Chinese who had studied in Japan to

explain the circumstances to the military police, but tougher examination revealed only more puzzling questions. At last, only the zeal of the student and

the military police’s familiarity with my wartime activities convinced the Chinese side that I was a person worthy of trust.

Just as we thought, it was Liuba who had received the Japanese doll with the

copy of the family register from my parents in Beijing. Moreover, she had conducted her mission with such nonchalant ingenuity that she managed not to

cause trouble to anyone. In the end, her secret plan, unbeknownst to any party

before or after the act, was carried out successfully. This was something I learned

only after my family members’ repatriation to Japan.

Farewell, Li Xianglan

251

After the confiscation of their property, the Yamaguchi family in Beijing managed to eke out a meager livelihood by selling off their belongings for food. One

day, in February 1946, there was an unexpected visitor, a white woman.

“It’s been a long time, auntie!”

My mother was utterly surprised when the foreigner greeted her in Japanese.

“I hadn’t seen her for over ten years,” Mother said. “It took me some time to figure out that she was the girl from the bakery.”

Liuba told her that she had come to Beijing on business on behalf of her father,

and that while Kawakita and I and others were under surveillance and house arrest

at the relocation camp, our health was holding up. “I’ve seen them with my own

eyes, and so you can trust me,” Liuba told her. “There’ve been widespread rumors

about Li Xianglan’s guilt, but it’ll be okay. I will do whatever I can, and don’t worry.”

My parents and siblings were apparently ecstatic over this information and the

words of encouragement from Liuba. They had more or less given up hope on me, as

news about Li Xianglan’s execution had also been reported by some Beijing newspapers at the end of the previous year. Father had cut out one such report, thinking that he would make that day the anniversary of my death if my execution could

later be confirmed. The date for carrying out my death sentence, December 8, was in

complete accord with what had been reported in the Shanghai newspapers.

For a period of time after the war in Japan as well, apparently the conventional wisdom was that Li Xianglan had been executed before a firing squad at

the Shanghai Racetrack. Several years after the war, when I participated in a gathering connected with the city of Dalian in former Manchuria, I was stunned when

somebody expressed surprise that I could still physically speak. The rumor then

current was that, after being given a guilty verdict at her hanjian trial, Li Xianglan’s tongue had been cut off to make sure that she couldn’t ever sing again.

During her visit, Liuba told my parents that my trial would begin shortly and

that it was necessary to have an authoritative document to establish my Japanese

nationality and to ensure my innocence as a suspected hanjian. That said, she returned to her lodging at the Liuguo Hotel.

My parents then thought of a plan. They unraveled the obi of my favorite fujimusume doll and sewed in it a copy of our family register. Then they had my

sister Etsuko, who knew nothing about the trick, hand-deliver the doll to Liuba

at her lodging and request that it be brought to her sister in Shanghai. Liuba took

the wooden box in her hands and boarded a plane. Mother reminisced about the

event after her return to Japan:

Your father and I decided that we wouldn’t even breathe a word to either

Etsuko or Liuba that we’d hidden the copy of the register inside the doll. Why,

think about it! Liuba, as you know, was an official working for a victorious

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nation. I didn’t want her to get into any trouble if they should discover that

she was offering assistance to rescue a defendant from an enemy country,

someone tantamount to a war criminal. Even if our plan was exposed, we

could say that it was we who secretly sent the item of our own accord and that

Liuba had no knowledge about it.

Liuba apparently didn’t ask any questions herself and simply told Etsuko to

convey to my family that she would deliver the item without fail. A discerning

person like Liuba didn’t need to ask too many questions. Entrusted with a small

package the day after her plea to my parents about the urgency of obtaining a copy

of the family register, she surely must have figured out what was going on and accepted her role as a courier while pretending to know absolutely nothing. I suppose the fact that she asked a servant at the relocation camp to deliver the present

to me was again an extension of her same considerate perceptiveness.

*

*

*

In mid-February, I was summoned to appear before a military court. On that day,

I was again accompanied by Kawakita. I had been questioned many times previously, but this was the first time I was seated as a defendant in a courtroom with

a row of judges. The court was in a room inside the Bureau of Military Administration, and appearing before us behind a slightly elevated desk were some ten officers in military uniform or plain clothes.

Despite the serious atmosphere of the court, I felt relaxed; the day before,

Kawakita had received a sort of unofficial announcement from Chief Justice Ye

Degui suggesting that everything would come to an end by the next day. The fact

that the matter had to take the form of a trial was due to the need to maintain a

record of court proceedings in accordance with proper protocol. In any event, a

ceremony was required to pronounce proof of my Japanese nationality and my

complete exoneration from the charges against me as a hanjian.

In his military uniform, Chief Justice Ye commanded a stern, dignified presence. At the same time, having had several meetings with him before, we knew

him as a man of compassion. Through prominent figures in Shanghai’s Chinese

circles, Mr. Ye himself had sufficient knowledge of Kawakita’s reputation to be ready

to place his trust in him.

The court secretary gave an up-to-date account of the investigations and reported on the copy of our family register and its reliability. Thereupon, the Chief

Justice cleared the charges against me as a hanjian, declared my innocence, and

pounded his small gravel. Then, he added, “This, however, does not mean that all

the problems are resolved.” He continued:

Farewell, Li Xianglan

253

The purpose of this trial is to adjudicate treason charges against you as a Chinese for your betrayal of China. On that account, you are innocent after having

definitively established your Japanese nationality. On the other hand, one

ethical and moral issue remains. By this I mean your appearance in a series

of films such as China Nights with your Chinese stage name. Granted that this

has no legal bearing on your treason trial, this court wishes to express its regrets over this matter.

Asking to speak before the court, I said that while I could not bear responsibility as far as the planning, production, and the scriptwriting of such fi lms were

concerned, I acknowledged the fact that I did appear in them. I further added,

“Even granted my young age, I recognize how foolish I was at the time. For that,

I wish to offer my apologies.”

Mr. Ye gave a firm nod before ordering that arrangements for my expatriation be undertaken immediately.

And so the declaration of my innocence, my deportation, and my return to

Japan—all these events progressed quickly. Chief Justice Ye ordered the responsible officer in the Bureau of Military Administration to coordinate with the Office

of Japanese Expatriate Affairs so that four Japanese residents, namely, Kawakita

Nagamasa, Noguchi Hisamitsu, Koide Takashi, and Yamaguchi Yoshiko, could

be expatriated as quickly as possible by sea. “However, I cannot allow Li Xianglan’s repatriation to take place under broad public view,” Ye said. “Once her return

to Japan becomes common knowledge, the newspapers will kick up a big fuss. She

must take her trip along with other Japanese returnees incognito as an ordinary

Japanese woman.”

My embarkation date was set on February 28, 1946. The day before, I had to

undergo quarantine procedures at the harbor quarantine station. Treating it as a

sort of rehearsal, I wore a pair of tattered monpe pantaloons, drew my hair back

into a bun, and followed the three others looking like a homeless bum. At the station, we were separated by sex and went through a general physical plus an inspection of the oral cavity and even a urine and fecal analysis. From the Office of

Japanese Expatriate Affairs, I had already received a repatriation permit stating

that I was a Japanese national from Saga Prefecture named Yamaguchi Yoshiko,

twenty-six years of age. A stamp was then put on that permit indicating that I had

passed the medical examination.

Now all I had to do was to board the ship early the next morning. We were

gathered at five, had our carry-on belongings checked, and our expatriation permits inspected. Boarding was scheduled for six, setting sail at seven. Each person

was allowed to bring up to one hundred Japanese yen, one piece each of winter

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and summer clothing, and two pairs of shoes. Other items we wished to bring on

board would be at the discretion of the inspection officials.

On that day, there were two thousand passengers. In the morning mist, the

Japanese began to gather in droves at the Shanghai harbor square, puffing their

white breath into the cold air. Anchored at the wharf was a freighter, an American Liberty ship.

Following a roll call, the passengers took their place in line in accordance

with their registration number on the repatriation list. Among us, the order

was Kawakita, Noguchi, Koide, and Yamaguchi. Shortly afterwards, each group

had to undergo a separate examination as a unit. The harbor security force

formed a number of five-person teams, with a female officer in each. When our

group’s inspection began, the team leader gave the order to salute, and we all responded with a very deep bow, sat upright on the square’s gravel ground, and

spread out the items in our baggage for inspection.

I looked even more dreadful than the day before, with disheveled hair and a

lowered head. The officers compared the repatriates’ register with our faces, asked

to see our permit, and checked our possessions. From Kawakita’s belongings, the

officers confiscated his Bayer aspirin. Noguchi, even as audacious as he was, probably would not have attempted to smuggle out his shortwave radio transmitter.

He and Koide were given the seal of approval on their permits.

Then, my turn came. When I lifted my face, the female officer gave me a fierce

stare. After repeatedly checking the expatriates’ register, my permit, and my face

in turn, looking in three directions, she let out a loud cry, “You’re Li Xianglan!”

before demanding with her chin that I step out from the line.

It was all over. The four other male officers who returned to the scene also

said, “She’s Li Xianglan all right” in unison. The Japanese around me also murmured, “Hey! They said she’s Ri Kōran!” and “Ri Kōran was trying to flee to Japan

and she got caught!”

Kawakita showed the officers my repatriation permit and protested, “She has

already been investigated by the military police and received an innocent verdict

at the military trial. Besides, she has received the repatriation permit from the Office of Japanese Expatriate Affairs.” The female officer refused to give way, saying,

“I’ve heard no such thing. I will report this to my superior officer, and before

I receive any new orders, she is not allowed to go on board. The other three of you

can do so, but Li Xianglan will need to be investigated. She is to present herself at

the command headquarters of the harbor security force.”

After being inspected, the other repatriates boarded the vessel one after

another. Just when I was feeling depressed at being left alone, Kawakita said,

“All right, I’ll stay behind, too. As the person responsible for Huaying, I cannot leave an employee behind. If the harbor security does not release you, I

Farewell, Li Xianglan

255

will have them negotiate with Mr. Ye.” This said, he, too, stepped out from

the queue.

Noguchi and Koide went ahead and boarded the ship before it left the harbor. Thanks to this fiasco, Kawakita and I were again sent back to the relocation

camp, but this time our living quarters were divided while we awaited further

investigation.

With Mr. Ye’s intervention, the harbor authorities gave their consent and the

matter was resolved in ten days. Nonetheless, realizing how seriously it could turn

out if they were held responsible for a hanjian’s getaway due to their own negligence, the harbor security authorities now demanded to examine the proceedings

of my treason trial. It appeared that the matter was complicated by their lingering displeasure at not having been properly informed about my case and their desire to save face.

It was then decided that my expatriation would take place at the end of March

on board the ship Unzen-maru. Mr. Ye was kind enough to say, “This time, you

must go! I’ll come and see you off on that day!” As my medical examination, identification check, and baggage inspection had all been done before, it was simply a

matter of boarding the ship. This time, Kawakita was allowed to bring his aspirin

with him.

The ship was set to sail at sunset. Donning his traditional Chinese attire and

parking his automobile at the pier a short distance from where we stood, Mr. Ye

made sure that everything was going all right for us. When Kawakita and I went

up the ship’s ladder, no one this time raised any objections. As we bowed in silence

on the ship’s deck to Mr. Ye, he recognized us by gently giving a knowing nod.

Leaving Kawakita on the deck, I went into the lavatory and locked the door

from the inside. I was worried that someone might come to snatch us back, and I

also wanted to be alone until the ship’s departure. When I was a schoolgirl, I once

hid in the lavatory of a Beijing-bound train to escape from the inspector. I did the

same thing when I wanted to take cover from Major General Liu while I was in

the relocation camp. When driven to the wall, I seemed to have formed the habit of

seeking refuge inside a lavatory.

The gong of departure sounded with the steam whistle and the buzz from the

winch as the anchor was being raised. The engine was turned on and the propellers set into motion. After reassuring myself that the ship had left the pier, I went

up on the deck. The evening sky over the harbor was covered with crimson-red

clouds. The dark silhouette of the skyscrapers pierced the sky against the striped

hue from the setting sun.

At that moment, quite without anticipation, I heard music broadcast from

Shanghai through the ship’s radio. My body trembling, I held tight to the deck’s

handrail, listening to the melody from my song “The Evening Primrose.” What

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else could I think but that it was the god of destiny who, in celebration of my departure, had purposely chosen this song bidding me farewell?

Now that I was again Yamaguchi Yoshiko, I whispered, “Goodbye, Li Xianglan! And goodbye, my China!” Perhaps because my song came at a precise moment when I felt relieved for having escaped death and for being safely aboard a

repatriation ship, I could hardly manage to sort through my emotions.

Japan had lost the war, and what would become of it? And for me, would I

ever be able to return to China? I used to be teased for saying things like “I’m leaving for Japan and returning to China.” Now my grief and sadness at leaving China

were more than any jubilation I could feel in my repatriation to Japan.

Fushun, Fengtian, Beijing, Tianjin, Xinjing, Harbin, Dalian, Shanghai . . . the

town where I was born, the places I had visited, and the intimate friends I had

made. . . . Tears filled my eyes. Kawakita’s sentiments must have been the same.

Gripping the deck’s handrail, I fixed my eyes on the harbor then fading farther

and farther away from my sight.

In the evening calm, the waves foamed into a multihued mosaic, with erratic

patterns shivering on the unfettered, undulating surface of the sea. As I listened

to the melody of “The Evening Primrose,” I couldn’t take my eyes off the rainbow

as it quivered on the water’s surface.

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Chapter 15: Farewell, Li Xianglan

1. The two friends did meet in 1998, after the publication date of Yamaguchi’s

autobiography. See n. 4 on details.

2. Gomikawa Junpei (1916–1995), a Dalian-born Japanese novelist whose celebrated novel Ningen no jōken (6 vols., 1956–1958), based partly on his own war experiences at the Manchurian-Soviet border and subsequently made into a major fi lm by

Kobayashi Masaki (in six parts, 1959–1961), was an emblematic figure in Japanese

antiwar literature after World War II. A recipient of the Kikuchi Kan Prize in 1978,

he was also the author of such major works as Jiyū to no keiyaku (6 vols., 1958–1960)

and Sensō to ningen (18 vols., 1965–1982), the latter also adapted into a major threepart fi lm (1970–1973) by the director Yamamoto Satsuo.

3. Edokko, literally a child of Edo, refers also to a native of Tokyo. A common

saying “Edokko wa satsuki no koi no fukinagashi” underscores his or her blunt candor as expressed typically in speech.

4. On October 28, 1998, at the age of seventy-eight, Yamaguchi was reunited

with Liuba in Yekaterinburg, Russia, after a fi ft y-three-year separation. Liuba by

then had forgotten her Japa nese, and the two old friends communicated in Russian

and English. In 1946, after her marriage in Shanghai, Liuba went to Yekaterinburg

Notes to Pages 247–259

337

with her husband Yuri, who, for unspecified reasons, was arrested by the KGB on

treason charges, given a twenty-five-year sentence, and exiled to Siberia. During

the Khrushchev era, he was freed after serving a seven-year prison term. When

Yamaguchi met Liuba, Yuri and Liuba’s only son had died. Yamaguchi also learned,

if only most cryptically from Liuba, that the fate of the latter’s brother was connected with the 731 Unit, the notorious Japa nese covert biological and chemical

warfare research unit based in the suburbs of war time Harbin. Yamaguchi had no

idea whether he was one of the very large number of victims of the unit’s brutal

biological experiments on human subjects; Liuba died the following year on September 24, 1999, at the age of seventy-nine. See Yamaguchi Yoshiko, Ri Kōran o

ikite, pp. 178–183.

5. For a study of the Green Gang and Du Yuesheng in English, see Brian G.

Martin, The Shanghai Green Gang: Politics and Organized Crime, 1919–1937 (Berkeley:

University of California Press, 1996). For the Kuomintang’s Bureau of Investigation

and Statistics and the Blue Shirts, see Frederic Wakeman, Jr., Spymaster: Dai Li and

the Chinese Secret Service (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003).

6. The original text gives the name shikishi in Japanese. It was more likely

xuanzhi, a writing paper used for practicing calligraphy, composing poems and the

like, and often erroneously called “rice paper.”

7. Typically wearing a sedge hat and resting a wisteria branch on her shoulder.