Chapter 2 My Fengtian (Mukden) Years

For me, born and raised in the coal-mining town of Fushun,
Fengtian was the very metropolis I had dreamed about. Indeed, I would go so far
as to say that this was not my sentiment alone, but one shared at the time by all
those who lived in Manchuria, where Fengtian was both the biggest city and its
political, economic, and cultural center. Needless to say, even today, Shenyang is
the largest commercial and industrial city in Northeast China (Dongbei); with a
population of 5.3 million, it is also the fourth largest city in China after Shanghai,
Beijing, and Tianjin.1
It was not just a matter of size and scale. It was a beautiful and cultured
city, proud of its long history and traditions. A sparrow in Fushun might be
just an ordinary little bird, but in the green of Fengtian’s Chiyoda Park, even
the feathers of a sparrow pecking on crumbs of food shone with a lustrous
dark brown.
“Fengtian” was what the Japanese named the city during the Manchurian occupation. As early as the beginning of the Yuan Dynasty, it was given the name
Shenyang. Nurhaci, the founding father of the Qing Dynasty, established his capital there in 1625, and it remained the capital of the Manchus until 1643, when it was
replaced by Beijing.2 Until the founding of the Republic of China, military viceroys
(Chengjing jiangjun) were dispatched from Beijing after the establishment of the
Fengtian Prefecture (Fengtian-fu), thus giving rise to the name adopted by the
Japanese.3 During the Russo-Japanese War, it was the decisive battleground for
the two opposing armies. Liutiao Lake, on the city’s outskirts, was where the Japanese army set off a railroad explosion, igniting the Manchurian Incident. Our
family’s move from Fushun to Fengtian coincided with the opening chapter of
the sad history between Japan and China. But as a girl, I knew nothing about all
that, absorbed as I was in my daydreams about the glamor of city life. In that big,
colorful, international metropolis, everything I saw and heard came as an exciting discovery, whether it derived from Chinese, Western, or Japanese origins.
Fengtian was my castle of dreams.

15



16

Chapter 2

Even though its scale was not as large as Beijing’s Forbidden City, the walled
city of Fengtian, whose old palace bore witness to the rise and fall of the Qing
Dynasty, still quietly evoked a profound impression of the past. The palace’s extensive grounds contained more than seventy structures with an excess of three
hundred rooms; its gold-tiled roofs reflected beautifully in the setting sun. This
was the Imperial residence of the founder of the Qing Dynasty, Nurhaci, and then
Huang Taiji or Emperor Taizong. Spreading out in the northwestern suburbs of
the city was a large lush park, the North Tomb (Beiling); this is where Zhaoling,
the mausoleum of Huang Taiji and his Empress, was located. On its roof rows of
sculpted soldiers had been standing guard, unchanged from the old days since the
end of the Qing Dynasty. Passing through the main entrance to the tomb one can
see parallel rows of quaint, stone-carved creatures watching over the mausoleum,
a scene reminiscent of the approach leading to the Thirteen Tombs of the Ming
Dynasty (Mingchao Shisan Ling).4
The city center contrasted sharply with these historical sites. Siping Boulevard, a main thoroughfare in the Shenyang District in the Chinese section of town,
had numerous high-class department stores and shops built in Chinese or Western styles and was always bustling. The area between the Shenyang District and
the Japanese quarters around the Yamato District had a Western ambience about
it. Formerly an international commercial hub, it still had diplomatic and trade missions from countries such as England, the United States, Germany, and Italy and
felt like a European city. The Yamato District, on the other hand, with its busy
streets such as Naniwa, Chiyoda, and Heian radiating out from Fengtian Station
in every direction, was reminiscent of Japan. Here you would find many typically
Japanese buildings, including traditional restaurants and ryokans.
In any of Fengtian’s districts, magnificent Western-style structures were a
common sight. Most of them, like the red-bricked Fengtian Station and the city’s
Catholic Church, had been constructed by the Russians. Fengtian’s chic Yamoto
Hotel, under Mantetsu’s direct management, was a particularly attractive example of American Renaissance design. It seems to me that the city’s richly cosmopolitan environment had a considerable impact on the direction my future life
would take. Beyond its buildings and other scenic sights, there was a prevailing
international atmosphere surrounding its city life and human interactions.
Fengtian was home not only to various ethnic groups from Asia. A large number of White Russians also came as exiles after Tsarist Russia was transformed
into a communist country. Among Fengtian’s residents were also Russians of Turkish descent, Armenians, and others. Together these groups created a colorful racial
mosaic. Naturally, many languages were spoken in people’s daily lives. I, of course,
used Japanese at school and with my family, but while shopping, I almost always
spoke Chinese. As it turned out, I was able to use more Chinese once my household



My Fengtian Years

17

began to include Chinese coinhabitants. Living under the same roof with us was
the second wife of General Li Jichun, along with her servants. General Li himself, a
good friend of Father’s, was our next-door neighbor. We always called him “General,” though he was not on active duty. In the past, he had been a warlord leader in
the area around Shandong Province and an important figure in the military politics of Northeast China. Afterward, he became active in business circles and at the
time of our move was the President of the Bank of Shenyang in Fengtian.5
He had known Father since his younger days in Beijing. Indeed, the two became such close and congenial friends that I heard they had formally exchanged a
pledge of eternal friendship. Father was quite depressed after his resignation as a
consultant to Fushun County, and it was General Li who was good enough to invite him to come to Fengtian and to make a house adjacent to his own available
for our family. Now Father’s new job title was Consultant to the Datong coal mines
and Councilor to the coal-mine operations at Beijing Mentougou. Based in Fengtian, he was ready to travel to various locations in Manchuria should the need arise.
The house General Li provided for us was what you might call his second residence. The living quarters of his second wife and her servants occupied no more
than a small area within the large, three-story house, so there was more than
enough room to accommodate two families. Living together with the main
household, we paid no rent on the condition that we took care of Mrs. Li and her
company as if they were members of our own family.
Our new residence was in Xiaoxibian Menwai, an area just between the Yamato
and the Shenyang districts. I can still remember the exact address: Number 111,
Shengxuan-li, Sanjing-lu, Waishangbudi, Xiaoxibian Menwai, Fengtian City. As
our address revealed, our neighborhood was where the foreigners lived, with their
commercial quarters and consulates from various countries. As a whole, it had
very much the flair of an upper-class European residential district, as though it
had been transplanted from somewhere in London or Paris.
Commuting, as it were, between his main and secondary households, General Li would visit us twice a week and look in on his second wife to see how she
was doing. Whenever he came by, he had a jolly time playing mahjong, enjoying
wine served by his second wife, singing boisterously, or discussing national and
international affairs. His style of living was typical of those belonging to the dominant class at the time.
General Li wore an impressive Kaiser mustache that curved sharply under
his nose in the shape of a handlebar; it was a truly magnificent sight. A powerfully built man, almost six feet tall, he had a chivalrous but unpretentious
disposition; with his ever-present radiant smile, there was nothing domineering about him. He was also kind enough to take a liking to me as if I were his
own daughter.



18

Chapter 2

His second wife, on the other hand, was a slender woman standing less than
five feet. She was still at a young, tender age, and her skin seemed almost translucent, like pure white porcelain. She had classical features, with crescent-moon eyebrows and a waist as slim as a willow. She also had bound feet, and the way she
moved about with tottering steps further accentuated her air of childlike innocence.
Although foot-binding was practiced by the Chinese aristocracy from the
time of the Southern and Northern Dynasties until the early Republican period,
the custom had surely been banned by the time we lived with her. And yet among
those belonging to aristocratic lineages or to the land-owning classes, this appalling custom of binding children’s feet with silk bandages to obstruct their natural
growth did not seem to have disappeared entirely. One time, Mrs. Li invited me
privately into her bed chamber and showed me her uncovered foot, bent into the
shape of a new moon. Compared to the size of her foot as a whole, her bundled
toes appeared extraordinarily long. The arch of her inner foot had been folded and
bent into a constricted shape. At the time, she was tenderly massaging her foot
with both hands.
I heard that she was a Manchu woman by origin, but perhaps due to her fine
family background, she spoke Mandarin Chinese beautifully without any accent,
as if she were singing in the language. To thank me for taking care of her in the
same household, she taught me the Beijing dialect. During my years in Fushun, I
had been Father’s student of Mandarin Chinese at a Mantetsu institute along with
many grown-ups; now, in Fengtian, I was given lessons in Chinese from morning
to nightfall.
My greatest joy in those days came from movies and operas. Even today, I can
still remember movies at the Shenyang Cinema and plays at the Dongbei Grand Theater. Neither of them put on any Japanese productions; instead, they showed mainly
Chinese films and staged performances from the repertoire of Beijing opera.
One film I can never forget is the Chinese movie Legend of the White Serpent
(Baishe-chuan), a story based on an old folktale; it was also well known in Japan
from a famous 1958 Tōei production.6 After the war, I appeared in the film Madame White Snake (Byakufujin no yōren), directed by Toyoda Shirō with Ikebe
Ryō, Yachigusa Kaoru, and others. Coproduced with a Hong Kong fi lm studio,7
it was based on the original Legend of the White Serpent with a script adapted
by Hayashi Fusao. While preparing for my part in the fi lm, I fondly recalled
those Fengtian days as we proceeded from historical research to fi nessing my
character.
Of course, I also went to see Japanese fi lms and plays that catered to Japanese
audiences, usually in the company of either Father or Mother. Tairiku Gekijō,
Heian-za, Hōten-kan, Shintomi-za, Minami-za, Gin’ei Gekijō, and, yes, I now remember the Chōshun-za after coming up with all those names of theater houses.



My Fengtian Years

19

These recollections were inspired by a piece I read recently by Awaya Noriko in
Manchuria: Past and Present (Manshū: Kinō Kyō, 1985).8 Back in Fengtian, I heard
that Awaya often sang at the Chōshun-za to attract audiences to its films, and one
time I went to see the “Awaya Noriko Show” with my parents. Then, I met Awaya
herself quite by accident. By that time, she was already renowned as “the queen of
blues,” and I, a thirteen-year-old who loved to sing, took some lessons with her.
Needless to say, I was still an unknown schoolgirl.
As for Awaya’s reminiscences, let me quote from her essay “Manchurian Blues”
(Manshū burūsu):
I had an unforgettable experience in this town [Fengtian]. One time, I found
myself in what you might call the city proper all by myself . . . and lost my way
as I wandered into the Chinese section. Unable to find my way out, I was loitering about not knowing what to do. It was at that time that I fortuitously met
Ri Kōran—Yamaguchi Yoshiko—who happened to be living in the neighborhood at the time. She was not well-known then, still a young girl. She was good
enough to let me rest for a while at her house and send me on my way by car.

Awaya’s recollections were mostly accurate. Losing her way and unsure of what to
do, she was wandering in the area where my family lived in Xiaoxibian Menwai,
and as I remember it, she saw our nameplate with the words “Yamaguchi Fumio”
on it, realized that the household was Japanese, then went through our gate and
rang our doorbell. Upon opening the door and noticing her pale face, I asked her
what had happened, to which she promptly replied, “Ah, you’re Japanese, just as I
thought! Oh, how lucky I am!” With a deep breath of relief, she said, “Excuse me,
but can I use your lavatory?” and stepped into our house. This was the incident
that drew us together.
According to custom in China, members from unrelated families could enter into sworn kinship when their relationship began to resemble that of blood
relatives; this custom gave rise to a very large number of sworn brotherhoods and
parent-child vows. To seal the bond between our family and General Li’s, he
and Father decided to enter into a pledge to recognize each other’s children as
their own. Since this decision happened to coincide with the Chinese Lunar New
Year, lanterns were put up to decorate the front of our houses; spring couplets
(chunlian), freshly written with ink brush on red paper for the occasion, were glued
on doorposts to bring good fortunes. The walls surrounding the altar were transformed into an exhibition area for New Year pictures, or nianhua, woodblockprints of auspicious creatures such as legendary phoenixes, mythical unicorns, and
heavenly dragons, all in dazzling colors. From the outside, we could hear firecrackers, gongs, and drums, along with melodies played on the er’hu.



20

Chapter 2

Wearing a bright red Chinese dress and a comb with a flower design in my
hair, I walked slowly up to General Li who sat right in front of the altar. The General and his second wife, sitting next to him, were likewise formally dressed for
the Lunar New Year. Kneeling, I put each of my arms into its opposite sleeve and
buried my head in the space in between. Then, with my knees on the ground, I
bowed three times with my head touching the floor. I then drank from the cup
the General handed me in full view of other New Year’s guests before returning
it to him.
With the conclusion of the ceremony, I became General Li Jichun’s gan’gu’niang,
his adopted daughter, and he my gan’baba, foster father, even though the ritual
did not result in my physical adoption by the Li family or in a change of my nationality. It simply represented the creation of a strictly nominal father-daughter
relationship that attested to our families’ long-lasting friendship.
To commemorate our new relationship, my gan’baba gave his gan’gu’niang a
new name, Li Xianglan, his surname “Li” coupled with his elegant pseudonym
“Xianglan” [literally, “Fragrant Orchid.”] I might add that the orchid was a celebrated flower grown mainly in Northeast China.
It was under these circumstances that my Chinese name, “Li Xianglan,” came
into being. Perhaps only the Chinese people can appreciate the name’s musicality
and the particular mood created by the configuration of the two Chinese characters “Xiang” and “Lan.”
The following year, I became a singer using the stage name Li Xianglan. This
was followed by my debut as an actress for the Manchuria Film Association, or
Man’ei. It is not true, as suggested and circulated in some quarters, that Li Xianglan was a name the Kwantung Army had deliberately concocted in order to pass
off a Japanese woman as a Manchurian actress. It was the name given to me at the
time of my adoption.
On a related subject, the research I did in preparation for writing my autobiography revealed that General Li Jichun was an influential figure in Shandong
Province and a pro-Japanese warlord who had actively cooperated with Colonel
Doihara Kenji,9 head of the Fengtian intelligence apparatus, in the establishment
of Manchukuo and in the Kwantung Army’s operations in northern China. According to Furuya Tetsuo’s book Sino-Japanese War (Nicchū sensō, 1985), Li attempted in 1931 to instigate a riot as a diversionary tactic that would enable him
to bring Puyi, the former Qing Emperor, secretly out of Tianjin. At the time, it
was reported that Li went to such lengths that even the Japanese consul in Tianjin Kuwashima described him as a “scoundrel.” In 1933, Li organized a “guerilla
force for national salvation” under the alias Ding Qiang to assist the Kwantung
Army in its military operations in Rehe.10 Furthermore, he was the organizer of a
security force from the army of the government of Hebei Province, then a puppet



My Fengtian Years

21

of the Japanese government. As a reward for his various acts of collaboration with
the Japanese, he was apparently appointed by the Kwantung Army to be honorary President of Fengtian’s Shenyang Bank. After the war ended, he was arrested
as a kingpin traitor (hanjian) from China’s Northeast and subsequently executed
in accordance with the sentence he received at his trial.
By the time General Li invited Father to come to live in Fengtian, from what
I could tell, he had already washed his hands of his villainous warlord past and
was enjoying a rather easygoing lifestyle as a noted fi nancier. To me, he was just
a genial old man living next door. Half a century later, when I fi rst learned about
his past as a principal traitor of the Chinese people, I was absolutely stunned.
I was supposed to transfer from Fushun Girls’ High School to another girls’
school in Fengtian, but there was no vacancy at the time. While I was waiting for
my turn, I was temporarily enrolled at the Fengtian Girls’ School for Commerce.
Because I was extraordinarily bad at subjects such as mathematics, bookkeeping,
sewing, and the abacus, school life was no fun at all. As usual, my aptitude was for
music, drawing, composition, and the Chinese language in particular. Given that
I was learning Chinese from Mrs. Li from morning to night while living under
the same roof with her, I felt that I was making steady progress.
During my second year at the girls’ commercial school, all students were given
a Chinese language test. As I mentioned earlier, the qualifying examination separated the students into five different levels of proficiency. Those placed into Special
Class and First Class were deemed qualified to become, respectively, chief interpreters for the prime minister’s office and senior interpreters at various government bureaucracies.
The result of the test was pasted on walls along the hallway, but for some reason, I couldn’t find my name on it. I discovered later that, due to my negligence,
I had forgotten to put down my own name on the test paper. The student who had
submitted the test without her name turned out to have received Second Class certification, the best result among all students in the school. Father was overjoyed,
saying, “Well done! Well done!”
My Second-Class Chinese language standing encouraged Father to take steps
toward realizing his long-held aspiration that his daughter would eventually become a politician’s secretary. With that goal in mind, he consulted General Li and
made arrangements for me to study in Beijing under the guardianship of Pan Yugui, a politician and a mutual friend of theirs.11 “Ah! You see, as the Japanese proverb goes, it’s better to send one’s darling child off on a journey to learn about the
real world.”12
But his plan had to be postponed. My health had not been particularly robust
since childhood, and at the time I was hospitalized for a month with an infiltration of my lung. When I left the hospital, my doctor ordered a six-month absence



22

Chapter 2

from school and quiet rest at home. During the recuperation period, the person
who gave me consolation and encouragement was a young White Russian girl of
Jewish extraction named Liuba Monosova Gurinets.
Liuba and I were the same age. Perhaps due to certain circumstances, she was
two grades below me and was a fift h-year student at Chiyoda Elementary, a school
attended by Japanese kids. Her family ran a confectionary on Naniwa-dōri in front
of the train station. Her father baked the bread and the cakes, while her mother
tended to the store. She also had an older brother who was good at Chinese, and
her cousin Fira’s family was in the neighborhood as well. Fengtian was where you’d
fi nd a large number of White Russian residents who had migrated from areas
around Harbin. Besides Liuba and Fira, I also had other Russian friends such as
Dzhul’etta and Nina, the latter a White Russian of Turkish descent.
I first met Liuba in the autumn of my sixth year at Fushun Elementary School.
I was traveling by train to Fengtian on an excursion, happened to sit next to her,
and we fell into a conversation. She spoke fluent Japanese and also a little Chinese.
I wasn’t able to speak Russian at the time, and so we talked in Japanese and Chinese. With her chestnut hair streaming in the wind from the train’s window, her
dark emerald eyes, and her strikingly fair skin, she had a beauty reminiscent of
the blue-eyed doll from the title of a Japanese children’s song. Yet the tiny lightbrown freckles speckling her cheeks lent a warm, charming touch to what could
otherwise be a doll-like frostiness, and when she smiled, she was incredibly attractive. She seemed to take a liking to me as well and repeatedly stroked my head,
saying, “What makes your hair so black?” For more than two and a half hours
until the train arrived in Fengtian, we were totally immersed in conversation.
I can describe my meeting with Liuba only as an extraordinary encounter of
fate. Superficially, it resulted in two young girls who shared similar interests developing a fondness for each other, but the ensuing drama convinced me that what
brought the two of us together represented nothing less than divine intervention.
For my part at least, I was inspired at the time with the feeling that that young
girl would become a dear future friend of mine. Years later, when she recalled
our past, Liuba said that she shared the same feelings about me. Needless to say,
when we first met on the train, neither of us knew our destinies. Although we did
frequently exchange letters after the excursion ended, they were just exchanges
written on fancy letter paper about extremely trivial matters, delivered in pink
envelopes.
When Father announced his plans to move our family to Fengtian, I was quite
saddened to leave my childhood friends Toshiko and Midori in Fushun. But I was
fi lled with elated anticipation to see Liuba again. When I sent her an excited letter to let her know my plans, she replied immediately with equal enthusiasm. On
the day we arrived in Fengtian, I quietly slipped out of our baggage-cluttered house



My Fengtian Years

23

and went to see Liuba’s Petrov Confectionary on Naniwa-dōri. Thrilled at our reunion, we firmly shook hands and hugged each other.
Liuba’s father was different from what I had imagined of a confectionary owner;
he was a tall man with a dignified countenance. Her mother was a kind woman
who always wore a smile on her soft, round cheeks. Her brother had the disposition of an accomplished young man and seemed to be the sensitive type. Liuba’s
mother warmly welcomed her young guest from afar by preparing hot lemon tea
from a steaming samovar on the stove. She also treated me to her freshly made,
fluff y Russian-style meat buns, saying, “Th is is what we call pirozhki.” Liuba
herself seemed to be enjoying them, and urged me on. As a souvenir, they gave
me a bag filled with multicolored Russian jellies, chocolates, marshmallows, and
nougat. This was how my friendship with Liuba began. She called me “Yoshikochan,” and I returned her affection by calling her “Liubochka,” in the Russian style
of endearments.
By then, I was largely cured of the infiltration of my lung, and my doctor encouraged his weak patient to build up her health by practicing breathing techniques.
Father knew that I had never been much of a sports enthusiast and suggested that
I learn the art of yōkyoku, which he himself enjoyed chanting with his friends.13
However, I never developed a fondness for such a form of singing and dancing.
The person who came to my rescue was Liuba. “If you don’t like yōkyoku, why not
learn to sing classical songs? They are no different when it comes to breathing techniques. Our family knows a famous opera singer. Mother knows her well and I’ll
ask her to make an introduction on your behalf. I know you will do well in authentic classical music, if you just follow up by learning Russian and English.” After Father agreed, however reluctantly, to the proposal, I visited Madame Podlesov with Liuba in the hope of becoming her pupil.
According to Liuba, she was an Italian whose father was a professor at
Milan’s Academy of Music. After her marriage to a Russian aristocrat, she became
a renowned opera singer in Russia during the Tsarist years, as well as a worldclass dramatic soprano. I had heard that there were coloratura and lyric sopranos.
At the time, I had no idea that the style of the coloratura soprano, whose singing resembles a bird’s chirping and twittering, was to define my future professional repertory.
Madame Podlesov was in her forties, a woman with a robust build and a
stern face. She had an impressive presence, which in itself was intimidating
enough. She immediately took me up to the second floor where there was a grand
piano, and there, in the lesson room, she gave me a voice test. After she sang DoMi-So-Do-So-Mi-Do as she hit the notes slowly on the piano, she asked me to
vocalize them. As I was fidgeting at Madame’s own remarkable performance and
felt unnerved by what I was ordered to do, she repeated what she did and urged



24

Chapter 2

me to do the same. Completely petrified, I was unable to come up with much of a
voice at all; the best I could do was no louder than the virtually inaudible buzz of
a mosquito.
“Oh well, let’s try another chord!” Her words were a mixture of Russian and
English, and while I could more or less understand what she meant, her speech,
delivered with a brusque accent, struck me as haughty and overbearing. I tried to
sing one more time, but I could very well tell that my voice was stiff and trembling.
“All right, we can stop here,” Madame interrupted me, her tone of voice betraying her shock at the level of my performance. She retreated into a backroom,
taking only Liuba with her. After they emerged ten minutes later, speaking in
Russian, she turned to me and said in English, “Well then, I want you to come
starting from Saturday next week at two in the afternoon.” Relieved that even my
terribly flawed performance still managed to earn Madame’s approval, I began
taking lessons the following weeks and received strict training on the fundamentals
of soprano singing.
Actually, however, I hadn’t passed that test. That was something I learned more
than a decade later. At the end of the test, Madame had called Liuba into the backroom and announced her refusal to have me as a student, saying that I was beyond
hope. So it was true after all that I had no talent for singing. And yet Liuba refused
to give up. The argument they had been having with each other in Russian as they
came out of the back room was Liuba’s desperate attempt to beg Madame to change
her mind. At the time, Madame had been outdone by Liuba’s perseverance and
had finally agreed only with considerable reluctance. In any case, had Liuba chosen not to implore on my behalf, I would not have been scouted by the Fengtian
Broadcasting Company as a singer, nor would the fi lm actress Li Xianglan have
been born.
Just as one might expect from a first-rate opera singer at the time, Madame
was a strict teacher. Beginning from my first day, I was scolded for having “bad
posture.” “Chin down, chest out, breathe deeply. Now breathe hard from the pit
of your stomach!” Before each lesson, there were always preliminary exercises to
prepare me for vocalization. First, I was to lean my back tight against the wall and
remain completely still. Then, I had to put five or six books on my head as I vocalized as instructed without compromising my posture. If even one book tumbled
to the floor, I had to start over. Next, I lay flat on my back with five or six books
on my diaphragm and practiced breathing not with my chest but with my stomach. Once again, any fallen book would result in my having to repeat the exercise.
This was how I began to acquire the vocalization technique of using my midsection. The first textbook Madame assigned was Chorübungen, a collection for choral singing from Germany,14 and as soon as we were finished with it, I began
practicing representative songs from various different countries. The first ones I



My Fengtian Years

25

learned were folk songs from Madame’s country, namely “Krasnii Sarafan”15 and
the compositions of Glinka.16 Needless to say, the lyrics were in Russian. The German compositions included Beethoven’s “Ich Liebe Dich,” Schubert’s “Serenade,”
and others.
After three months of practice, I realized that I was making some progress in
my own way. More smiles began to appear on Madame’s face. Liuba was always
good enough to accompany me to my Saturday afternoon classes. She could speak
English and German, to say nothing of Russian, and served as our interpreter at
the beginning. In time, I was able to carry on a conversation without Liuba’s interpretation. I am sure there are individual differences among learners, but I think it
is natural and enjoyable to study a foreign language through song lyrics.
Madame’s husband, an aristocrat in the days of Tsarist Russia, was an exile
who came to Fengtian by way of Harbin. Apart from managing a Western-style
lodging house in Kiso-chō, the family supported themselves with Madame’s teaching classical music as a private tutor. They had a child about eight years of age.
After my lesson ended on a Saturday afternoon, he would join us in the living room
and receive treats of candies and tea from the samovar. Madame would play the
piano, and her husband the balalaika, and together we would sing Russian folk
songs in a chorus.
During my six-month absence from school, I seldom went anywhere except
to Madame’s. Without fail, I attended my weekly lessons. The enthusiasm with
which Madame taught me, along with my sense of accomplishment and improving health, contributed to considerable progress, and one day, I was asked to give
the opening performance at a forthcoming recital. Every autumn, Madame had a
regular recital at the Yamato Hotel, which was one of the features of the season’s
musical events in Fengtian. I was both excited by the request and anxious at
the prospect.
Yamato Hotel, the present-day Liaoning Hotel, was situated in the grand city
square (present-day Hongqi Square) at the intersection of Fujimi-chō and Naniwadōri, which ran in a northeastern direction from the train station. Directly managed by Mantetsu, it was Fengtian’s largest hotel and the most prominent venue
for the city’s social events. The front portion of its grand hall, called the canting,
was built as an elevated stage; it was here that musical recitals and dance parties
were often held. Old chairs were arranged in rows on its spacious mahogany floor,
while the surrounding furniture and ornaments were all time-honored antiques.
The huge mirror built into the wall had a frame inlaid with shells, reflecting the
light from splendid chandeliers. The audience consisted not just of Japanese, but
also Chinese and Russian dignitaries from various circles in Fengtian.17
“You are Japa nese, so wear a formal kimono,” Madame told me, but I didn’t
have any such costume. I remember that during events like the gala day for children



26

Chapter 2

in my Fushun years, I had my picture taken with Toshiko and Midori wearing a
formal kimono. But at thirteen, what I had were either school uniforms or Chinese
outfits—nothing for a formal occasion. After discussion with Mother, a formal
kimono was delivered a day before the scheduled event. It was a gorgeous purple,
with a design of white cranes, a dress so beautiful that I felt enchanted gazing at
myself in the mirror. After the recital, I found out from Mother that since we didn’t
have any Japanese friends in Fengtian at the time nor was there a rental place for
kimono in town, Mother, after giving the matter much thought, had gone to a pawn
shop and taken out the item on loan.
The first song I sang wearing my loaned kimono was “The Moon over the Castle Ruins” (Kōjō no tsuki),18 chosen by Madame, who insisted that my first piece
be a Japanese song. To me, that number represented all my yearnings for my home
country, which I had not yet seen. Since that time, it has meant as much to me as
the national anthem, and whenever I visited troops on the battlefield or gave performances overseas, I routinely sang it first, with due dignity.
“The Moon Over the Castle Ruins” was followed by Schubert’s “Serenade,”
Beethoven’s “Ich Liebe Dich,” and Grieg’s “Solveigs Sang,” all of which I had learned
and practiced repeatedly. Even though it was my first stage performance, I was
surprisingly composed. But then I must have been a little ner vous as well; I still
remember how I caught my foot on the end of Madame’s long shawl.
Besides Russian folk songs, Madame also performed arias from her favorite
repertoire of operas, including Carmen, Madame Butterfly, La Tosca, and others.
Befitting her stature as a prima donna of the Italian opera, she held a red rose in
her hand and wore a black dress and a very long black lace shawl that extended
from head to heel. On that first performance night, as applause thundered, I was
standing with Madame in the wings, and as she began to move toward the stage,
I stepped inadvertently on the end of her shawl, tearing a piece of the fine Frenchmade lace from below. For a second, she turned and darted a fierce look at me.
And then with a rose in her left hand, she quickly assumed a seductive pose and
started to sing her Carmen as if nothing had happened.
My first performance at the recital turned out to be the catalyst for my recruitment by the Fengtian Broadcasting Station. One of Madame Podlesov’s fans
who served as Chief of Planning there was in the audience. While I was practicing Schubert the following Saturday afternoon, I had a visitor. The Japanese gentleman introduced himself as Azuma Keizō from the broadcasting station.
“You were good at the recital, and so was your singing of Schubert just
now.” Turning stiff in my school uniform, I could only look speechlessly at the
tip of my shoes. He then asked, “Would you like to try singing for us at the radio station?”



My Fengtian Years

27

Surprised, I looked at Madame for help. Her usual stern expressions had turned
this time into a beaming smile. Mr. Azuma went on to say that he was planning
a new program and asked if I would participate in it.
Established in 1932 with the founding of Manchukuo, the Fengtian Broadcasting Station had by then boosted the quality of its staff with the addition of
such announcers as Morishige Hisaya,19 and now it was trying to further attract
a general Chinese audience by creating a new singing program called “New Melodies from Manchuria.” Azuma’s job was to look for singers to work exclusively
for the program. By rearranging old Chinese folk tunes and popular songs and by
seeking new ones among the public, Azuma’s venture sought to identify the people’s songs (kokumin kayō) of Manchukuo and then replay them repeatedly on the
air as part of a cultural movement to educate, publicize, and promote the cause of
“Japanese-Manchurian Friendship” (Nichi-Man shinzen) and “Cooperation and
Harmony among the Five Ethnic Races” (gozoku kyōwa).20 To be selected, the singers had to be young Chinese girls capable of reading music and speaking Mandarin,
the standard dialect. They also had to understand Japanese as it was necessary
for them to coordinate activities with the station’s Japanese staff. Despite Azuma’s
efforts, however, the search had failed to fi nd a Chinese vocalist who could fi ll
the bill.
While he was at a loss as to what to do next, he chanced to hear my performance at the Yamato Hotel. After learning from Madame that I could also speak
Mandarin, he came up with the idea of inviting me to join his enterprise. Madame
eagerly recommended that I seize this opportunity, and Liuba was also strongly
in favor of such action.
I could not offer an immediate response until I had a chance to discuss the
matter with my parents. Father had long been molding my future career as a
politician’s interpreter or secretary by polishing my language skills, and I, for my
part, had also vaguely entertained similar aspirations. Despite Father’s reservations with Azuma’s offer, Mother was in favor of it, though with one condition.
“Given Yoshiko’s love for singing, if she were to simply sing on the air, I think it
would be okay,” she said. “Doing this would also be beneficial for our nation.”
And if I did not need to appear on stage, I could still study in Beijing and do my
broadcast recordings. Thereupon, a composer by the name of Sakakibara initially
arranged a number of Chinese folk and popular songs into a dozen or so “New
Melodies from Manchuria,” pieces deemed suitable to being called “people’s
songs.” There was a large number of sorrowful Chinese melodies (aige) such as
“The Sorrows of Wang Zhaojun” (Zhaojun-yuan) which were best performed on
the er’hu. “Song of the Fishermen” (Yuguang-qu), my very favorite, belongs to
that genre as well. It was the theme song from the fi lm bearing the same name



28

Chapter 2

and directed by Cai Chusheng, with Wang Renmei in the leading role; both the
film and the song were enormously popu lar at the time.21
Hurry, cast your nets and pull them in with all your might,
Bitter are our days awaiting our catch in the morning mist.
With no fish harvest and heavy taxes,
The ageless sufferings of fishermen!
The song condemned social corruption while voicing resentment over the wretchedness of poverty, but at the time, I was not thinking in any profound manner
about the relationship between the lyrics and the social background. I simply liked
the sad melody and practiced singing it over and over again.
With the approach of the scheduled broadcast of “New Melodies from
Manchuria,” Azuma came to our house to discuss what my Chinese stage name
should be. While all the grown-ups were scratching their heads, I said offhandedly, “I do have a Chinese name which our neighbor General Li gave me, Li
Xianglan.” Father gave me a look of approval and explained to Azuma the circumstances that gave birth to Li Xianglan as Li’s gan’gu’niang. “Well then, let’s
use that name,” Azuma said. “We will simply announce the song titles, the names
of the lyricists and composers, and say the singer is Li Xianglan without going
into any personal details.” Such were the simple circumstances under which my
stage name Li Xianglan was decided upon. At the time, neither Father nor Azuma,
to say nothing of myself, had any idea how this stage name would so radically
change my future life.
And so “New Melodies from Manchuria” were repeatedly broadcasted on the
air. The following year, in accordance with Father’s plans, I went to Beijing to study.
When I returned on vacations, I would record new songs for the broadcasting station to use in the future, and for that reason, the program was able to continue
for quite a while. Whenever I came back to Fengtian, I also resumed my lessons
with Madame Podlesov. She introduced me to study under another Russian singer,
Madame Pedrov, in Beijing, and so I was able to pursue my musical education without interruption.
In 1931, the Manchurian Incident took place at the instigation of Japan. In
1932, the state of Manchukuo was created by the Japa nese. The following year
marked the debut of the singer Li Xianglan performing “New Melodies from Manchuria” as part of Manchukuo’s national policy. I, Yamaguchi Yoshiko, a Japanese,
was that Li Xianglan—a girl who knew nothing about the world, but still a Chinese entity concocted at the hands of the Japanese, just like Manchukuo. It pains
me whenever I think about it.



My Fengtian Years

29

Once the decision to continue my studies in Beijing was formalized, I was
able to transfer to Yijiao Girls’ School, a first-rate mission school in Beijing, as the
adopted daughter of Pan Yugui. While I studied Chinese and general education
subjects there, I worked at home as Mr. Pan’s secretarial intern. On the day we
decided on my departure for Beijing, I visited Liuba’s bakery-scented house on
Naniwa-dōri. She and I had exchanged farewells many times before, but still
we had endless things to say to each other.
As I approached her shop, I noticed that there was an unusual commotion.
Japanese military police were coming and going past the back door of her house,
rattling their sabers as they marched noisily in their military boots. The house
entrance and windows were all boarded up with nails. Peeking through a crack,
I saw that the inside of the house had been ravaged and left in a complete mess.
Talking with the onlookers gathering in front of the shop revealed nothing about
what had happened. Some said that all the family members had apparently been
taken away by the military police; others said that by the time the military police
raided the place, the house was already an empty shell. In any case, Liuba and her
family had suddenly disappeared. Standing frozen on the spot, I shouted “Liubochka! Liubochka!” and started to cry. The military police looked at me suspiciously and drove me away from the scene just like a dog.
As I was researching the events of those years for this book, I was fortunate
to be able to borrow from Mieno Yasushi, Vice President of the Bank of Japan, a
list of names of students from Fengtian Elementary School, the same school
Liuba attended. I learned that Mieno himself, a classmate of the writer Abe
Kōbō’s, graduated from the same school in 1936. Going over the list, I found Liuba’s name among those who had graduated a year before, in 1935, under the heading “Whereabouts Unknown.” Other graduates from the same year included
such luminaries as Etō Shinkichi, President of Ajia University, Hirayama Takeshi,
Chief of the Research Institute for the Prevention of Cancer, and Fukuda Jun,
film director for Tōhō. It occurred to me that someone on the list might be able to
tell me Liuba’s current situation. I started my inquiries by sending a letter to
Ikari Miyako, the organizer of the class reunion committee for 1935. The following is a summary of the information she sent me.
I made telephone inquiries with all knowledgeable parties, only to be told that
you, as Liuba’s closest friend, should be the one who could best tell what her
situation was. So it all ends up at where we started. But for your reference, let
me tell you what fragmentary reminiscences they had about Liuba.
In her elementary school days, Liuba was such an affable girl that even
though she was a foreigner, she was able to play and make friends with everyone



30

Chapter 2

in her class. She must be some two or three years older than us. Everyone
including me remembered her as a good speaker of Japanese and as a tall, thin
girl with a few freckles and a fair complexion. In those days, we all had straight
haircuts, but Liuba alone wore her long, beautiful chestnut hair in braids. The
predecessor to Chiyoda Elementary School was the elementary school attached
to the College of Manchuria Education (currently the University of Education).
The educational experiments conducted there gave it its own character. I suppose for that reason, changes were made every year to the composition of the
first through the sixth-grade classes, and while it was a Japanese school, children of Russian and Turkish parentage were allowed to enroll as well.
From the fourth-grade level, students taking calligraphy lessons were
asked to change writing their names with the hiragana script to using Chinese characters, and Liuba was delighted to have received a good Chinese name
from her teacher. One other person I talked with remembered a song Liuba
used to sing often:
There faraway in Mongolia,
Undulating above the clouds,
When even the frozen moon thaws,
When the grass sprouts on a spring day.
As sheep wander,
Still in daylight.
Of course when speaking of Liuba’s singing, I am sure you would remember
it particularly well.
No one that I spoke to on the telephone had ever visited Liuba at her house,
though almost all of us remembered how frequently Liuba played with you.
Someone seemed to have remembered seeing Liuba’s parents at her graduation, and so she must have graduated from Chiyoda Elementary. And then one
day, the whole family suddenly disappeared from Fengtian, and nobody knows
what happened to her afterwards. As graduates in the same class, we too want
to know how she has been doing, and in conversations at our class reunions,
we often thought that you might be the one to have such information.
Knowing that Liuba had introduced a Russian opera singer to you as your
voice instructor, we gathered that the two of you might well be the best of
friends. If you had any updates about her, we in turn would appreciate it if
you could let us know.
I also have in my possession a class photograph when we were third-grade
students at the elementary school. I am enclosing it with the letter in case it
may be of use to you in any way.



My Fengtian Years

31

The photograph shows Liuba’s face, which I had longed to see. She was in the
middle column on the right facing the camera, a girl from a foreign land standing taller than the rest. And indeed she alone braided her hair. Her forehead, the
faint smile on her cheeks, her translucent skin. As I was looking at her while remembering the past, I seemed to see her charming freckles. That night, I slept holding her picture close.

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Notes to Chapter 2: My Fengtian Years
1. The city name “Fengtian” reverted to “Shenyang” after Japan’s defeat in
1945. As a sub-provincial city, Shenyang’s population in 2010 was reported to be 8.1
million, or 18.5 percent of the entire province of Liaoning, making it the ninth largest
among the fifteen sub-provincial class cities in China.
2. The first Qing Emperor Shunzhi moved the capital to Beijing after the demise of the Ming Dynasty in 1644.
3. After the establishment of the Qing Dynasty, a minister of the interior and
other governors with such titles as the General of Liaoning were given the responsibility of maintaining a garrison in Chengjing (the name for present-day Shenyang).


310

Notes to Pages 16–20

After 1747, the name of the position was changed to the General of Chengjing before the Fengtian area was administered by the Viceroy of the Northeast Provinces
after 1907.
4. The Ming Tombs are situated fift y kilometers north of Beijing, a site selected by the third Ming Emperor Yongle, who reigned from 1402 to 1424.
5. Li Jichun (1877– ?) joined the army at sixteen or seventeen, became a military officer serving Yuan Shikai, and was promoted to the rank of General in October
1922. While appointed in 1925 as the commander officer of the Ninth Army by
Zhang Zongchang, his failed campaign against Li Jinglin led to his flight to Beijing
and Tianjin. Shortly after the Manchurian Incident, Li actively collaborated with the
Japanese general and master conspirator Doihara Kenji (see Note 9 below) to promote the political autonomy of North China, including launching military operations from his base inside Tianjin’s Japanese Concession and assisting clandestine
Japanese efforts to move Puyi from Tianjin to Manchuria to be crowned as puppet
emperor. After the establishment of Manchukuo in 1932, Li was made Commanding
Officer of the “National Salvation Army” (Jiuguojun) and, in January 1933, participated in Japanese military operations around the Great Wall before becoming Head
of Political Affairs of the Joint North China’s People’s Autonomous Military Government in May. However, the establishment of the East Hebei Anti-Communist Autonomous Council in November 1935 convinced the Japanese that Li had largely exhausted
his political usefulness. In 1936, he founded the Bank of Shenyang and became its
president. He was executed in Tianjin as a hanjian after the establishment of the
People’s Republic of China.
6. Presumably, the fi lm Yamaguchi saw as a child in Fengtian was the 1926
production Baishe-chuan produced by Shanghai’s Tian’yi Film Company with Hu
Die in the starring role.
7. The Shaw Brothers (1956).
8. Awaya Noriko (1907–1999), popular singer and “the queen of Japanese blues,”
with such hits as “Wakare no burūsu” (discussed in chapter 7), “Ame no burūsu,”
and “Kimi wasureji no burūsu.” Yamaguchi’s reminiscences of Awaya also appear
in chapter 7.
9. Doihara Kenji (1883–1948), a general in the Imperial Japa nese Army and
one of the most notorious architects of Japa nese conspiracies leading to the 1931
invasion and subsequent occupation of Manchuria. The intrigues he engineered
and his wide-ranging activities as an intelligence officer under the Kwantung
Army contributed to the effective collapse of sustained Chinese resistance under
Japa nese rule. Reputed to be the mastermind of the Manchurian drug trade and
the behind-the-scenes figure dominating underworld intrigues in China, Doihara
was found guilty at the International Tribunal for the Far East and was hanged in
December 1948.
10. A Japanese military campaign following its invasion of Northeast China in
the early months of 1933. The now defunct province of Rehe was subsequently annexed
to Manchukuo until Japan’s defeat in 1945.


Notes to Pages 21–36

311

11. After Nanjing became the official capital of the Republic of China, in 1928,
the name “Beijing” was changed to “Beiping.” After Beiping was occupied by Japanese forces from July 1937, the city’s name became Beijing again. Beijing’s name was
again changed to Beiping with Japan’s surrender in August 1945, and remained thus
until September 1949, the eve of the establishment of the People’s Republic of China,
which made Beijing its capital. According to Yamaguchi’s chronology in Ri Kōran o
ikite: Watashi no rirekisho (Tokyo: Nihon Keizai Shimbunsha, 2005), she went to the
city to study in May 1934, when its proper name was Beiping rather than Beijing. To
avoid confusion, however, throughout this translation I follow the original authors’
rendition of the city’s name instead of strictly following its changing official designations in different periods from 1928 to 1949.

12. The Japanese saying is “kawaii ko ni wa tabi o saseyo.”
13. A popu lar form of chanting and singing based on nō scripts.
14. Chorübungen der Münchener Musikschule, a work by the composer and
conductor Franz Wüllner (1832–1902).
15. Popu larized in postwar Japan in the 1960s and early 1970s as “Akai Sarafan” by such singers as Katō Tokiko.
16. Mikhail Ivanovich Glinka (1804–1857).
17. The hotel, established in 1927 and renamed Liaoning Binguan, is still open
for business today. It is just east of Zhongshan Square, not far from the new Shenyang
Station. Visitors and guests would still be impressed by the classic elegance and atmosphere of the place as they enter into the hotel’s grand hall on the fi rst floor.
18. Composed in 1901 by Taki Rentarō with lyrics by the poet Doi Bansui.
19. Morishige Hisaya (1913–2009). After an early career as a stage actor and an
announcer for the Fengtian Broadcasting Station, Morishige subsequently appeared
in well over 150 fi lms and in a variety of television programs. He was also well known
as the composer and lyricist for the popu lar “Sentimental Journey in Shiretoko”
(Shiretoko-ryojō), a sweet melody that Katō Tokiko made into one of her most recognizable signature pieces.
20. Two of the most propagated political slogans used by the Japanese occupiers of Manchuria. The five ethnic races were the Han Chinese, Manchus, Mongolians,
Japanese, and Koreans.
21. Released in 1934, the fi lm enjoyed unprecedented popularity when it was

screened in Shanghai before winning an international award at the Moscow Film Festival in 1935.



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