Chapter 3 My Beijing Years

CHAPTER 3

My Beijing Years

With the end of my recuperation at home came the muchawaited spring of my departure to Beijing where I would continue with my studies. While Father did invoke the saying “It’s better to send off one’s darling child

on a journey to learn about the real world,” it was after all my first long journey

away from home, to say nothing of my traveling to an unfamiliar destination. I

had naturally assumed that Father would accompany me, only to discover that he

had to depart for Beijing earlier due to business, leaving me to be the lone traveler.

Fengtian was Manchuria’s largest metropolis, but compared to Beijing, the

historical capital on the Chinese continent, it was a mere rural city in the Northeast. This alone would have made me ner vous, not to mention having to travel for

days and nights on a rocking train through a foreign land. But there I was, a

fourteen-year-old on her solo journey.

It is true that I was also a little excited, driven by curiosity and yearning

for Beijing, but my predominant feeling was an indescribable sense of anxiety

about heading to an exotic city. At Fengtian Station, Mother gave me all kinds of

precautionary advice for my trip, but I was too distracted to take in most of what

she said. I boarded the train, carefully guarding a bundle of money under my

clothes, arranged like a haramaki;1 the money had been entrusted to me to pass

on to Father.

My seat on the train was not in the soft-seat compartment reserved for foreigners and members of the upper class, but in a hard-seat section littered with

garbage and fi lled with stench. Father had bought me the ticket, saying, “You will

be living as a Chinese person from now on, so get used to it.” Other than me, all

the passengers in the hard-seat section were Chinese. I should say that I myself

pretended that I was Chinese, fearing that danger might come to me if I was found

to be Japanese.

Under the direction of Song Qingling and others, May 1934 was the time when

the preparatory arm of the Committee for Armed Self-Defense for the Chinese

People announced their basic strategic plans against Japan. In March of the same

32

My Beijing Years

33

year, Puyi, the defunct Qing Emperor, was made Emperor of Manchukuo, thereby

giving rise to guerilla resistance against the Japanese and Japan-controlled Manchuria throughout China. As long as there was no particularly urgent business,

few Japanese, save those in the military, would choose to travel any long distance

by train.

The railroad had become a frequent target of anti-Japanese guerilla attacks.

This was especially true around the town of Sanhaiguan at the Manchukuo-Chinese

border, where a year before, in January 1933, a military conflict between the Chinese and Japanese forces had led to the temporary suspension of rail ser vice. Since

then, incidents involving guerillas had often occurred around the area.

It had been raining since the train departed from Fengtian, and when night

fell, the rain turned into a downpour. As the train approached Sanhaiguan, the

winds also began to pick up before developing into a full-blown storm. It was dark

inside the train compartment, and the air was heavy with a strong smell of garlic.

Most of the passengers were coolies and poor people. From the way they carried

their belongings in bedrolls on their backs, it was clear that they were destitute

drifters.

The ferocious roar of the storm and the sound of the rain striking hard on

the window drowned out the train’s rumbling wheels. Dashing through the thick

of darkness, the train trembled like a gigantic beast writhing in agony, accentuating my sense of dread.

All of a sudden, the train braked abruptly with a sharp metallic squeal, throwing all the passengers out of their seats. The deafening howling of the storm rose

as thunder roared. The accompanying flashes of lightning revealed desolate scenes

of the wilderness outside, a wide landscape of muddy streams and wind-whipped

bushes. As the thunder began to abate a little, the agitated passengers began asking “Where has the thunder struck?” “Was there an ambush by bandits?” “Did

the guerillas attack?”

The conductor came around and explained. “The river level near Sanhaiguan

has been rising as a result of heavy rain. Since water has already risen to the foot

of the iron bridge, it would be dangerous for the train to cross it at normal speed.

So we are going to go at the slowest speed and we’d appreciate your understanding of the situation.”

No sooner had the passengers sighed a breath of relief at the absence of any

guerilla attacks than they became agitated with terror at the prospect of the dangerous bridge-crossing. As the train jolted into motion, they all instinctively looked

at each other. I saw family members holding one another’s hands and embracing.

All by myself, I crouched, my body stiff, my arms tightly crossed over my chest.

As the train crawled along the bridge, a passenger opened a window and stuck

his head out in spite of the violent rainstorm. Other passengers soon followed suit.

34

Chapter 3

I, too, leaned over the person next to me and looked out from the window. The

rain totally soaked my straight-cut hair as I abstractedly stared at the running

stream under the iron bridge. The angry roar of the seething waters echoed with

the noise from the rain pouring from the sky, from the sideswiping winds, and

the raging storm. With water running as dark as coal, the river threatened to swallow up the entire train. I had the feeling that my body would be sucked away along

with it. Instinctively, I withdrew into the train compartment.

The tension in the air amidst the darkness and furious uproar probably lasted

for some twenty minutes. When the train finally crossed the river, its whistle blew

hoarsely as if releasing a sigh of relief. When it began to accelerate to its former

speed, the passengers all responded with loud cheers.

It was in the middle of the night, at 11:30 p.m., when the train arrived at

Sanhaiguan. Having traversed Japanese-occupied Manchukuo, it would then

enter the northern part of the Republic of China. I clearly remember the arrival

time because it was announced by the conductor, who went on to declare something

totally unexpected: “The time now is 11:30 p.m. We’ll stop for thirty minutes, and

the train will depart at midnight. From that time on, at zero hour tomorrow morning,

a change will take place in the currency system. Because currency exchange will

take place while the train makes its stop, please be ready to present all the currency

you carry with you.” That was apparently what my ears heard. I couldn’t quite

understand what those words meant, but at least I realized that we were asked to

submit all the money we had with us. I was totally shaken at this announcement.

Currency reform was a major undertaking at the time. Could it be that I was

at the border town on the day, indeed, at the precise moment, when changes in

the currency system in China were about to take place? According to A Sequel to

Source Materials in Contemporary History: Currency Operations in Occupied Territories (Zoku gendaishi shiryō: Senryōchi tsūka kōsaku, 1983), edited by Tada Ikio,

currency reforms by the Nationalist government took place in November 1935. I

can’t remember the exact date of my trip to Beijing, but I am quite certain that it

was in May of the year before; there is a discrepancy of a year and a half between

those dates. As I had no knowledge about monetary affairs at the time, my memory could be faulty when it came to what was happening. One conceivable scenario

was that since the train would be entering into the territory of the Republic of

China, passengers were obligated to change their Manchukuo currency into that of

the Nationalist government. Whatever the case might have been, even prior to my

departure, I had been quite nervous about traveling with all that money, the largest

amount I had with me in my entire life. I muttered to myself, “Don’t lose it!” “Don’t

let anyone steal it!” as if I were chanting incantations of some kind, all the while

touching the bundle against my body to reassure myself that I still had it.

My Beijing Years

35

Nothing would be worse than having all my money taken away! I quickly made

up my mind that I would run away from the scene. Rising from my seat, I deft ly

squeezed my way through throngs of people in the crowded and noisy compartment. All the other passengers seemed to be so preoccupied with their own baggage and their money that nobody was paying any attention to what a little girl

was doing. As I was making my way into the third compartment, something made

me gasp and freeze in my step. A police officer was hauling a man off of the train,

and another officer was counting a bundle of money he had apparently confiscated.

Around me, other officers were checking the passengers’ baggage. When I saw a

lavatory right in front of me, I dashed into it and locked the door from the inside.

The space was dark and small, with an eerie-looking opening and the pungent

stench of urine. Holding my breath, I squatted down and stayed motionless for a

long time. I could sometimes hear the movement of people and their conversations, but fortunately nobody tried to open the door.

At long last, the whistle blew, and the train started to move. I leaned my

completely exhausted body against the wall of the lavatory, indulging in a moment of satisfaction over having accomplished such a great feat. As I returned to

my seat, other passengers were falling asleep. Clutching my haramaki, I watched

as the train station slowly disappeared from sight, and before I knew it, I too fell

into a sound sleep.

A completely different scene greeted me as I awoke. The sky was clear, and the

rural area was giving way to an urban landscape. I could see houses here and there

between poplar trees lining the streets. The dazzling morning sun generously sent

its powder of gold to earth as fluff y clouds floated across the sky, a sky so crystal

blue that it almost hurt my eyes. It was an invigorating May morning in Beijing.

As the train entered into the city proper from the suburbs, it ran parallel to a

long stretch of grayish city wall until it reached the vicinity of the city streets.

Although the brick wall looked as if it wouldn’t last very long due to age, small

yellow flowers were blooming in profusion from weeds growing in the openings,

producing patterns exactly reminiscent of those on a tapestry. I had a feeling that

I had been abruptly transported from the darkness of last night’s rainstorm into

a land of fairy tales.

Father was there to greet me at the train station. As our rickshaw ran on streets

lined with acacia, we were embraced by the fragrance of jasmine drifting in the

spring haze. “I’m proud of you for having come all this way by yourself,” Father

said as he gave me an affectionate pat on the head.

Beijing was known throughout the world for its beauty as a walled capital. Its

imposing magnificence was first introduced to Europe as Dadu, the Great Capital of

the Yuan Dynasty, by Marco Polo. The fact that the city retains its splendor to this

36

Chapter 3

day is surely the result of scrupulous efforts of political leaders, whoever they might

have been at any given time, to preserve its integrity and beauty as a historic capital that exemplified the profound wisdom of its people. And yet changes have come

to Beijing. My first impression as I looked at Beijing from the train window was

its extended city wall running parallel to the railroad, but now that wall no longer exists. Also, the barbican gates and towers that once soared at key city locations can no longer be seen today. One can, of course, understand that such grand

old structures are incompatible with the dictates of a modern city’s traffic policies. That said, I most fondly remember prewar Beijing, with its city wall and gate

towers, depicted in scenes of the Forbidden City so lovingly painted by the late

Umehara Ryūzaburō.2 Speaking of the painter, he passed away peacefully last year,

in January 1986, at the age of ninety-seven. While I was living in Beijing in the

prewar days, I was honored to make his acquaintance, and he and his wife were

good enough to treat me most affectionately. Mr. Umehara stayed for a long time

in a suite at the western end of Beijing Hotel (Beijing Fandian); that was his atelier, where he painted. I can’t remember exactly what year it was when I served as

his model, but I do remember frequenting his studio when our work was in progress. We could see the Forbidden City below from his window, and I was posed as

a young woman looking at the scenery outside. I would sit on a chair wearing a

qipao he specified;3 Mr. Umehara was particularly fond of the Chinese dress. The

qipao was of a simple design, a long garment with a stand-up collar, but it was the

kind of dress that would never go out of style. Mr. Umehara had his model wear

the high collar in a proper fashion and in a pose that kept her chin low and her

head straight. Even though she might just be in a seated position, Umehara said

that the dramatic tension from the movement of the woman’s legs visible through

the slit might serve to heighten a certain aesthetic effect.

He was very much inclined to paint young women in that par ticu lar attire.

I, too, served as one of his models for a series of “maiden portraits” (gu’niang hua).

He had a sharp eye for his models; indeed, as an artist, his gaze reached as far as

the recesses of the human heart. As a matter of fact, even my inner thoughts failed

to escape his incisive scrutiny. While I took a certain pose, purposely sitting very

still on a chair, various thoughts would be going through my mind. At moments

like that, I would be repeatedly asked to “keep perfectly still!” When I protested

with “But I didn’t move at all,” he would say, “Ah, but the expressions on your face

before and after my painting intervals have not been the same!” And just as my

thoughts wandered toward distractions such as having fun with my friends, he

would seize that exact moment to announce, “All right! Let’s just call it a day and

start again tomorrow!”

I also remember him saying, “A cat’s face can show two hundred different expressions, and yours has more than a cat’s. It’s quite an amazing face that changes

My Beijing Years

37

every time I look at it.” He also observed, “Your right eye is different from your

left; the former conveys flights of unfettered imagination, and the latter a serenity with a trace of bashfulness.” When I look at number twenty of his maiden portraits, now hanging in my living room, I can indeed see that the right and left eyes

have completely different expressions, just like a Picasso portrait.

Among the works he produced during his time in China, there is no question that the most celebrated is “Autumn in Beijing.” Others such as “Forbidden

City” or “Temple of Heaven” capture Beijing’s cityscape against an ultramarine

sky with strikingly brilliant colors reminiscent of the “three-color glaze” style of

T’ang ceramics (Tang’sancai). The individual characteristics of those works notwithstanding, the fact that there is such a striking consistency to their compositions has to do, I think, with the precise location of his atelier—his many landscapes reveal a perspective emanating from that par ticular Beijing Hotel window

looking westward across the city. Taking Xishan, the Western Hills, as the background, he painted many scenes of the Forbidden City surrounded by a canopy

of trees. Those remarkably beautiful scenes depict the red Gate of Heavenly Peace

rising high above the woods, beyond which stood the golden-yellow roofs of the

Upright Gate, the Meridian Gate, and the Gate and Hall of Supreme Harmony,

all leading to the main palace hall. In those days, the city limits of Beijing were

enclosed by rectangular walls, with the Forbidden City located in the center. Laid

out in the original city design at key locations, the gates and towers made Beijing

appear, at first glance, to be an easy place to navigate. To be sure, that was also the

impression one would get while surveying a city map, but if a traveler had to negotiate this huge city’s small alleyways, the hutong, he would surely lose his sense

of direction.4

The focal point of Beijing today is Tiananmen Square. The rectangular-shaped

precinct occupying a quarter of the area at the upper right corner of the city map

is the Dongcheng District, while the corresponding area at the upper left is the

Xicheng District. When I was in Beijing, the city’s residential areas were concentrated in these two districts, as they still are today. The Xicheng District in particular was where the households of old Chinese families, national universities, middle schools, and the like were congregated; virtually no Japanese lived in that area.

The Pan family, into which I was adopted and with whom I boarded, lived in

Picai Hutong in the Xicheng District. The neighboring house belonged to the

renowned painter Qi Baishi.5 Countless alleyways or narrow streets, the hutong,

crisscrossed the city from east to west. The dajie, or main streets, which ran northsouth and intersected at right angles with the hutong, were naturally few in number. The hutong, reportedly numbering as many as eighteen hundred, had a long

history—something comparable, I suppose, to the notion of Edo’s happyakuyachō, if you want a Japanese equivalent.6

38

Chapter 3

Father stayed with the Pan family for two or three days, took care of my school

transfer, and entrusted me to Pan Yugui before returning to Fengtian. I was left

all by myself in Beijing, a city in which I knew not a single Japanese. There, I was

simply Pan Shuhua, a Chinese girl who came from the rural Northeast to live with

the Pan family as their adopted daughter while attending Yijiao Girls’ School.

Though Yijiao was a mission school, it was like any other Chinese school in Beijing in its pronounced anti-Japanese attitude. There, I had to act in every way like

a Chinese girl so that nobody would have any idea about my Japanese identity.

There were ten children in the Pan household. The eldest brother was a university student studying in Tokyo, and the youngest was a nine-year-old boy. Two

other children, Yuehua and Yinghua, went to Yijiao Girls’ School. For some reason, beyond those four adoptive brothers and sisters, I cannot recall anything about

the other children. (Junqian, the eldest brother, has now passed away, but his wife,

Terumi, is still living in Saitama Prefecture. I spoke with her to ascertain if my

recollections were correct, and it was during our conversation that I fi rst learned

that the Pan family had ten children.) I heard that the reason I was given the name

“Shuhua” was to preserve the name Yoshiko7 and that the name would at the same

time allow me to be treated as a family member just like my other seven sisters,

all of whom had the character hua in their given names.

Like General Li Jichun, Pan Yugui was an old and close friend of Father’s and

an important figure in local politics in northern China. I heard that he was an

influential consultant to General Song Zheyuan. According to Masui Kōichi’s Trial

History of Traitors to the Chinese People (Kankan saibanshi, 1977), Pan was born

in 1884 in Yanshan County in Hebei Province. After graduating from Japan’s

Waseda University, he took such positions as Vice President of the MongolianTibetan Council, Councilor to the National Affairs Assembly, and Military Commander of Beiping and Tianjin, before serving as Chief of Political Affairs for the

Political Affairs Committee of Hebei and Chahar and later as Mayor of Tianjin.8

His grand residence befitted a man of his influence. The main gate to the house

was situated at the center of a large earthen wall on the south side facing the

hutong and continuing for several blocks. At the gate stood two guards holding

rifles fi xed with bayonets. A reception room at the side of the gate, the menfang,

was staffed with gatekeepers and errand boys.

There were some similarities between the design of a Chinese residence and the

shinden-zukuri style during Japan’s Heian period. Rooms were constructed

along the corridors within the house enclosure. The central courtyard surrounded

by the corridors was known as the yuanzi. To the north, farthest from the main

gate, was the zhengfang, or what one might call the main structure and the private residence of the master and his wife. To its east and west, on the left and right,

were symmetrically arranged annexes called xiangfang where corridors connected

My Beijing Years

39

the individual rooms for the children, the family’s relatives, and the master’s concubines, as well as the servants’ quarters.

Counting servants and private guards, there was a grand total of a hundred

people within the Pan residence, and for this reason, the design of the house was

even more complex than that of an ordinary Chinese residence. To pay one’s respects to the occupiers of the zhengfang in the inner courtyard, one had to pass

through a number of gateways and yuanzi. It was as intricate as a labyrinth, and,

not knowing the way out at first, I got totally lost.

Within this huge family of a hundred people, I was the only Japanese person

in a world in which not another soul spoke Japanese. I was quite lonely at first,

but soon felt grateful that my two elder adoptive sisters, who were close to my age,

treated me kindly. I ended up living in a large room with them at the back of the

eastern annex, the Dongfang.

I began school speaking exclusively Chinese. Even though my Mandarin proficiency had been officially certified at the second highest level, from the first day,

I felt a sense of inferiority when I heard how wonderfully Beijing students spoke

their native tongue, as if music emerged from their lips. I was somehow able to

cover up my immediate unease by not actively talking with my classmates, who

in turn seemed to think that my behavior was due to timidity natural in a girl

from the rural Northeast. I would offer responses when asked, but I would not

engage others actively in a conversation.

I went to school together with my two other sisters, but after school, I was

sometimes by myself. At times like these, I would often take the route via Beihai

Park, where, on a desolate island, I would practice Mandarin pronunciation and

consult my dictionary. Sometimes I would even walk as far as Taimiao, the Imperial Ancestral Temple.9

Perhaps because many of the students at my missionary school were from rich

families, or perhaps it was simply a reflection of the campus atmosphere of newly

established Chinese academies, I was surprised at how students behaved there.

Even at the start of class, some simply ignored their teachers by merrily chattering away or standing by their desks—certainly not conduct evocative of the high

respect students traditionally paid to their teachers.10 In fact, some of the students

went so far as to mock their teachers. The geography teacher was a balding man

with a seedy look, and students hooted at him by comparing him to Sanmaoer, a

child tramp with only three strands of hair and a Cupid-like face from a comic

strip that was popular in Shanghai.11 I didn’t know anything about the cartoon

figure at the time and couldn’t understand the joke behind all the derision; all

I could do was to look on with numb amazement.

As I became increasingly accustomed to the school atmosphere, I began to

realize that the students did not always act disruptively. The handsome teacher of

40

Chapter 3

English was popular, and thanks to his instruction, I began to develop a strong

interest in the subject. On the other hand, students would boycott classes by teachers who were incompetent or authoritarian. It was a situation difficult to imagine

at a Japanese girls’ school, but at least Yijiao students were capable of clearly voicing their own views. Some delivered speeches at small political gatherings after

they had boycotted classes. Students actively held gatherings in protest against the

Japanese army then moving southward from Manchuria in an attempt to swallow up northern China. “This is not the time for the Nationalist and Communist

Parties to fight against each other, but one for us to strike back at the Japanese

dev ils (dongyang-guizi) as a united national front.”12 Amidst such loud proclamations, all I could do was to remain silent and lower my head.

At the Pan house, I frequently awoke to performances by the pipe ensemble

of the pigeons of Picai Hutong, a special treat for residents of the area. As the eastern sky began to light up in the morning, a large formation of the birds would

soar into the sky. Little pipes made of gourds or bamboo tied to the birds’ feet produced a loud whistling chorus as soon as hundreds of them turned nimbly in the

dawning sky. That was the alarm clock for my two sisters and me. The timbre of

their per for mance was not always the same; it also changed according to how

I felt on a particular day. When I was sad with homesickness, it came to my ears

as a forlorn tremolo; but when the morning was pleasant and cheerful, it sounded

like a pure and invigorating forte note.

The first thing I did after getting out of bed was to wash my face. The trouble

was that there was no running water even though the house had a very impressivelooking washroom. All that was provided for the three of us was a basinful of warm

water. As I could not bear to wash my face with water already used by someone

else, I ended up acquiring the habit of being always the first to get up.

Beyond washing our faces, we rarely had the opportunity to take a bath. As

a wealthy family, the Pan household had a grand Western-style bathtub, but the

most vital element, water, was not in the pipeline. And so, all family members would

go to a large public bathhouse in the downtown area once every two weeks. Everyone looked forward to that day as if it were some sort of an excursion. Inside the

large bathhouse structure was a sizable pool reminiscent of a Roman bath, as well

as private bathing rooms, fully furnished with bathing assistants, masseurs, barbers, and beauticians. After wonderfully refreshing baths, the Pan family would

have a luxurious meal at a restaurant in the next building, complete with entertainment provided by an er’hu player. That was how the whole family enjoyed

themselves—drinking and singing for a whole day at the bathhouse.

After washing my face and changing my clothes, I would offer my morning

greetings to Mr. and Mrs. Pan at the zhengfang. Mr. Pan, a distinguished-looking

man, always wore an elegant Chinese-style silk garment.

My Beijing Years

41

At the time, in attempting to turn the five provinces in northern China (Hebei, Shandong, Shanxi, Chahar, and Suiyuan) into a protectorate like a quasiManchukuo, the Japanese Kwantung Army forced the Chinese side to accept a

number of agreements. Accordingly, in November 1935, the Eastern Hebei AntiCommunist Autonomous Committee under Yin Rugeng was formed in Tongzhou.

Succumbing to the pressure from the Japanese military, the Nationalist government then established the Hebei-Chahar Political Affairs Committee under Song

Zheyuan in Beijing in December to take over the political affairs of the provinces

of Hebei and Chahar, as well as the cities of Beijing and Tianjin, by dissociating

these areas from the central authorities. For a time, these two local political entities served as a buffer zone between Manchukuo and the Nationalist government.

In time, Pan became a very busy man assisting Chair Song Zheyuan of the HebeiChahar Political Affairs Committee and taking a position something akin to a

chief cabinet secretary to a prime minister.

Madame Pan was a fine-looking woman, tall and slim, with a dignified air

emanating from her decisiveness of character. Like the second wife of the Li family, she too had had her feet bound, and perhaps for this reason her movements

and expressions had an elegance reminiscent of women from an earlier era. With

the hairline on her forehead shaved into the shape of a square, she wore her hair

in a bun and decorated it with an expensive comb-shaped ornament made of jade.

(As far as jewelry is concerned, it was only later that I learned that it was a custom among the rich in China to wear mostly imitations; the real ones were kept

in their safes.) My adoptive sisters called her “Dong’niang” to differentiate her from

Pan’s other wife whom they addressed as “Xi’niang,” a slight older woman who

also had bound feet.13

At first, I thought it was incredible that there were two mistresses within the

same family, but then according to Chinese customs at the time, that was quite

natural. I heard that Xi’niang was married first into the Pan family, but since she

had failed to produce a child, Pan took Dong’niang as his next wife. As the latter

managed to give birth to three boys and seven girls, she was elevated to be the

number one mistress of the family and was in a position to supervise all family

affairs. Without Dong’niang’s permission, the children could not go to their meals

nor leave the house—that was the extent of the enormous authority of the head

mistress within the family. On the other hand, Xi’niang played a different role,

one that one might describe as the head of domestic maids. She was mainly responsible for taking care of the children’s attire and preparing the family meals.

After my two sisters and I awoke to the music brought to us by the pigeons

and washed our faces, we would offer our morning greetings to our parents and

then go out to practice our equestrian skills. Our horses would pass through the

hutong, still blanketed with morning mist, and along the acacia-lined boulevards,

42

Chapter 3

trotting around the Xicheng area. We would stop by the Beihai Park and enjoy a

light breakfast there. The body of water spreading out on the west side of the Imperial Palace, named “The Pool of Splendid Water” (Taiye-chi), was divided into

three lakes known respectively as the South (Nanhai), Central (Zhonghai), and

North (Beihai) “seas.” The former two were collectively known as the Zhong’nanhai

Park while the remaining Beihai Park, adorned with a fresh green lake and dotted with artificial hills, had served as the Imperial garden for various lines of

emperors during the Jin, Yuan, Ming, and Qing dynasties. An eye-catching white

pagoda towered above Qionghua-dao, a green island in the middle of the lake. In

its vicinity were famous historic landmarks such as the Five Dragon Pavilions

(Wulong-ting), the Temple of Eternal Peace (Yong’an-si), and the Painted Pleasure Boat Abode (Huafang-zhai), collectively providing a graceful oasis within the

metropolis, a garden beloved by Beijing’s citizens of all ages.

One morning on our return from our usual equestrian ride, as we were passing the lakeshore of Beihai Park, a sudden downpour forced us to seek quick shelter inside a pavilion. It was at that time that it happened. Our instructor pointed

at the lake and shouted an astounded “Ai’yaa!” as a large turtle suddenly appeared,

made one leaping revolution, and then sank back into the water. I suppose the lake

was home to fish and other marine animals, but I was still totally flabbergasted

that a huge turtle, the kind one hears about in legends, should make such an unexpected appearance. Nobody believed our story at home or at school the next

day. Was the creature we saw the master of the North Sea? I wonder if the same

turtle is still alive today.

The ice cream I had at this park on my way home from school was particularly delicious. Getting the pocket money for the treat was no small feat, and I

suppose that explained its extraordinary flavor. To go to school every morning,

we usually caught one of the many rickshaws hanging around the main street,

bargained down the fare, and saved the rest as our pocket money to get our ice

cream. Each one of us got twenty copper coins called tong’zier, the smallest coin

denomination, from Dong’niang every morning as our two-way transportation

fare. We beat down the one-way fare to seven or eight coins from its normal ten.

While the Pan family treated us quite generously, to teach us proper discipline, they

did not allow us to have extra pocket money. Thus conserving our transportation

expenses became a little exercise in the art of living. This was why sometimes when

Mr. Pan himself offered to take us to school in his own automobile, we were scarcely

pleased with the gesture. Seeing how we three girls looked at one another with

disappointment on our faces, he must have wondered how incredibly odd our

behavior was.

As the days grew increasingly hectic for Mr. Pan, the security around him

became correspondingly tighter. He belonged to the pro-Japanese faction and en-

My Beijing Years

43

deavored to establish a pro-Japanese regime through cooperation with the Japanese army, and for this reason, he was targeted as an enemy by anti-Japanese groups.

I did not have a clear understanding of this matter until much later. Recently,

I also learned for the fi rst time—from A Trial History of Traitors to the Chinese

People—that Pan was tried after the war and sent to prison for his crime as a collaborator with the Japanese military. According to Terumi, the wife of his oldest

son Junqian, Pan was first given the death sentence before it was subsequently reduced to a fifteen-year prison term. Apparently, the mitigating circumstances were

that while serving as Tianjin’s mayor, he had performed “good deeds” such as

spending a huge amount of his private fortune to help flood victims and protecting anti-Japanese guerilla groups.

At the time, I was familiar with neither political nor military matters. As my

aspiration was to become a politician’s secretary or a journalist, assisting Pan in

his daily affairs was also part of my necessary training. That said, about the only

thing I was capable of doing was serving tea. When informed by the gatekeeper

that such important figures as Song Zheyuan had come to visit, I would greet the

guests in the reception room and lead them into the main building through a number of gardens. After their meetings were over, I would see them out. That was all

I did. Besides Song, other distinguished guests included Wang Kemin14 and General Wu Peifu.15 Apparently, servants were not allowed into the guest rooms inside the main structure, leaving Dong’niang, my two sisters, and myself as

Mr. Pan’s sole caretakers. I suppose that arrangement was made to prevent any

leaks of private conversations between important men. During their meetings,

our primary role was to serve tea, but occasionally we were also responsible for

preparing opium.

Pan and his guests would recline on an opium bed called the yenta. From a

shelf, I would take out a complete smoking set on a plate and place it on a table in

the middle of the bed. A brownish liquid, resembling thick syrup called yangao,

was placed inside a small ivory bowl carved with geometric patterns. The tip of a

fifteen-centimeter needle would be dipped into the liquid and then heated over

an opium lamp to solidify it. After the process was repeated many times, a round

brown formation called the yanpao would appear at the tip of the needle. When

the yanpao was moved into the pipe-bowl and heated, it turned soft with the emission of smoke, which was then inhaled from a long opium pipe shaped like a Japanese bamboo shakuhachi flute. Engaging in this activity produced a most contented

expression on the face of Pan and his guests.

When I grew older and looked back on my Beijing years, I was astounded that

even such important figures as Pan had turned into habitual abusers of opium—

yinjunzi, or “gentlemen on the hook” as the Chinese called them. Come to think

of it, I even remember seeing Dong’niang blowing opium smoke from her own

44

Chapter 3

mouth into that of her youngest son, who was only nine years old. There was more

to the connection between the Pan family and opium. After their eldest son, Junqian, graduated from the medical school of Japan’s Keiō University, he returned

to China to open a hospital in Tianjin, where his father was then mayor of the

city. The hospital, it turned out, was dedicated to the treatment of narcotics

addicts!

As time went by, I started getting used to school life, and my sense of inadequacy in speaking the Beijing dialect was replaced by a growing self-confidence.

It was, however, still impossible to change my ingrained mannerisms and customs.

One day, Dong’niang called me into her residence and offered me some advice.

“You have a habit of responding with an instantaneous smile whenever someone

is speaking to you. Why do you behave like that? If that’s a Japanese custom, I want

you to change it. Smiling with no apparent reason just to please others is called

mai-xiao in China and is looked upon with contempt.”16 Come to think of it, from

a young age, we Japanese are drilled in the notion that men are defined by their

strong nerves and women by their winning charms, so much so that wearing a

perpetual smile has come to be regarded as an expression of femininity. In China,

however, it is considered a form of self-denigrating flattery. Dong’niang also told

me: “In our everyday greetings, it’s all right to nod your head slightly, but stop

making such deep bows as the Japanese do. We regard that as servile behavior.”

I was profoundly grateful for such advice. When friends engaged me in a conversation at school, I learned to respond without smiling for no reason. When encountering an acquaintance on the street, I would refrain from standing on the

spot and bending my head deeply in a bow. Thereupon, my friends told me that

I had become “a city girl.” Later, my experiences in Europe and the United States

revealed that, as far as daily greetings were concerned, the people’s mannerisms

there were the same as they were in China.

On the other hand, such behavior might very well strike the Japanese as callous and arrogant. When I returned home to my real parents in Fengtian at the

end of my school term, Mother lamented that big city life had corrupted my proper

training in etiquette and contributed to my “impertinence.” She had always been

strict with us when it came to maintaining proper manners. If I really wanted to

become Chinese, I would lose my Japanese character; but if I wished to retain my

Japanese self, I would be misinterpreted by the Chinese. Not only in matters of

mannerisms and customs alone, but in all aspects of life, I was haunted by this

antinomy until the aftermath of the war. The saddest part of it was that the tension between my fatherland of Japan and my motherland of China was escalating. Even my classmates were expressing their anti-Japanese sentiments more

openly and speaking about opposing, expelling, and resisting the Japanese. Some

of my friends even began to participate in underground activities.

My Beijing Years

45

The fact that I couldn’t divulge my sense of anguish to anybody was my most

tormenting burden. When the ordeal became unbearable, I would often go to the

Imperial Ancestral Temple, the Taimiao, and allow myself to cry my heart out while

wandering along paths lined with old trees.

Lying on the right, just beyond the Gate of Heavenly Peace, the Taimiao was

a sacred ground enshrining the ancestral spirits of the various Qing emperors and

a park quite in contrast with the altar area in Zhongshan Park on the left. Rocks

excavated from various parts of China were put together to create magnificent artificial hills, and oak trees many hundreds of years old grew luxuriantly along the

approach to the shrine, making the area peaceful and quiet even during the daytime. Just beside the old oak trees were tea houses furnishing the area with wisteria chairs like a café terrace where guests could enjoy servings of jasmine tea. The

sweetened dates and salted peanuts were also enticing delicacies. Quite incredibly, my mind always felt at ease while I was strolling around the Taimiao area, for

me a secret haven unbeknownst to anyone else. At times when school was temporarily closed or when classes were canceled, I often took the opportunity to visit

the area. On days when there were anti-Japanese demonstrations or protest gatherings, our school would end up closing for good.

The anti-Japanese feelings at Yijiao Girls’ School were no less intense than those

in other academies. Indeed, such an atmosphere was escalating not only at school

but also in daily life. Even children’s songs, for example, were imbued with such

sentiments. For instance, I was quite fond of a folksong melody called “The Song

of Fengyang” (Fengyang-ge), which the youngest son of the Pan family used to

sing. Unaware of the song’s implications, I joined in a game in which a child playing a parent’s role attempts to outmaneuver a demon from snatching away her children.17 The lyrics tell the story of a place called Fengyang, where all the local inhabitants were proud of their wonderful homeland. However, the misdeeds of one

Zhu Huangdi managed to turn Fengyang into a complete wasteland, depriving

the village of land where no more children could be sold by their parents. And so,

with bags on their shoulders, people went over to the next village where there were

still children around and land to be had.18

This “Zhu Huangdi” referred to in the song was a bandit active during China’s Warring-States period.19 One time as I was humming the song, my classmate

Wen Guihua told me that “Zhu Huangdi” was in fact a reference to the Japanese—

“Zhu,” the color crimson, I learned, represented the image of a red sun against a

white background.20

The year 1935 was when Japanese troops stationed in northern China ousted

the Nationalist government in Hebei and began their encroachment into Chahar,

thereby further inflaming the resistance movement in various parts of China, with

Beijing taking the lead. In August of the same year, the Chinese Communist Party

46

Chapter 3

presented its “August 1st Declaration,” advocating an anti-Japanese united front

throughout the nation for the salvation of all the Chinese people. It was in November and December that the Eastern Hebei Anti- Communist Autonomous

Committee and the Hebei-Chahar Political Affairs Committee (the latter involving Pan and others) were formed. In response to these developments, thirty thousand Beijing students held demonstrations and gatherings in protest. This was the

so-called “December 9th Movement” in which the demonstrators demanded a cessation of the civil war between the Nationalists and Communists in an attempt

to form a united front against the Japanese.

I spent the years 1935 through 1938 as a Chinese student in Beijing, and I can

never forget images of anti-Japanese demonstrations from that time. When invited to attend such a gathering, I always came up with some excuse to say no. I

was unable to be an active participant in anti-Japanese demonstrations; to do so

would have been an act of betrayal against Japan, my fatherland. During the day

when demonstrations were planned, I would shut myself at home all day long. If

I happened to go out and come across a demonstrators’ procession, I would hurriedly turn into a hutong and head straight home.

Once, an unexpected turn of events did lead me to attend a gathering of student

protesters even though it was not a political demonstration. The Beijing students

organized the December 9th Movement as a protest against the Japanese invasion of

northern China, as well as Chinese initiatives on the part of pro-Japanese factions to

establish areas of local autonomy. Now that I reflect upon the affair, I can’t help

thinking that the circumstances that brought me to a meeting like this as a daughter

of the Pan family were precisely symbolic of my predicament as someone caught

in the middle of the Japan and China conflict. That said, my attendance was not

prompted by any prior knowledge about the nature of the meeting. Rather than participating actively, the truth of the matter was that I was made to go before I knew it.

That day, Wen Guihua invited me to a party held at the Zhong’nanhai Park.

I think it was in 1936, the year following the December 9th Movement. As I mentioned earlier, this famous Beijing park and the Beihai Park together make up the

“Pool of Splendid Water.” In the past, only part of it was opened to the general

public, and it has now become the residential compound for top officials of the

Chinese government and the Communist Party, such as Deng Xiaoping. As could

be expected, it was in a state of good repair, as beautiful as a miniature garden.

The party was held inside a pavilion surrounded by a grove on an island on the

other side of the famous Centipede Bridge (Wugong-qiao), and the island itself

formed a small recreational area. At the time, lotus flowers were blooming splendidly in the pond. I had been invited on many prior occasions for tea and refreshments at outdoor parties, and on that day, I went along expecting only a similarly

enjoyable afternoon.

My Beijing Years

47

However, what awaited me was not any cheerful gathering but an assembly

of grieving students consumed in serious discussion. The person standing in the

middle of the crowd and speaking passionately appeared to be someone involved

with the anti-Japanese movement. He said, “Our school was surrounded by three

thousand armed policemen on February 29th and as many as twenty students were

arrested. On March 31st, as we mourned students who had been killed by honoring them with a procession of their coffins, many students were again arrested.”

The young man went on to tell the crowd about the recent developments in northern China before stating emphatically that their movement would be further

strengthened if their arrested comrades were to be returned. After that, students

who had been arrested reported on matters such as the prison’s conditions, at which

point all students rose and offered their silent prayers to those who had lost their

lives. I learned that their open discussion was centered on how they should continue to fight.

There was always a romantic ambience about the Zhong’nanhai Park with the

sweet fragrance of lilac floating from the bushes; but on that day the atmosphere

was tense. While their discussion involved a matter of grave concern, the participants’ demeanor revealed a state of impassioned excitement. I think I was probably the only one who looked dejected with downcast eyes.

Our leader began by posing a question. “The Japanese army has already created a bogus Manzhouguo [Manchukuo] and is now encroaching on Beijing from

the northeast. What would you do if the invading army crossed the city walls?”

Thereupon, the students rose one after another and gave their answers. “I would

not allow even a single Japanese soldier to enter the city.” “We’ll fight until death!”

When someone said, “We can talk about fighting, but let’s not forget that students

don’t even have guns and ammunition,” another responded, “I’ll go to Nanjing to

be a volunteer in the Nationalist army!” This was followed by another student roaring that he’d join the Communist army in the Shaanbei region.21 All the students

spoke about what they had decided to do with fervent zeal. As for Wen Guihua,

she enunciated her determination to participate in the guerilla forces, apparently

in an attempt to join hands with her boyfriend, a student from Yenching University who was working underground in the rural provinces.

And now it was my turn to speak. Realizing earlier on that I had to come up

with something to say soon, I had become thoroughly agitated and was unable to

gather my thoughts. Indeed, that was not something I could possibly accomplish.

My fatherland was about to go to war with my motherland, and for someone who

loved both countries and their peoples, what was I to do? As my turn finally came

around, the moderator turned to me with his eyes for an immediate response.

“I . . . ,” I began hesitantly, “I’ll stand on the city wall of Beijing.” That was not

a conclusion reached after any serious thinking but an answer that came to me

48

Chapter 3

instantaneously. That was all I could say by way of expressing what I felt at the

time. If I climbed up and stood on the city wall, I would be the first to die, either

from a bullet from the invading Japanese army from the outside or from one from

the Chinese defense forces from within. Instinctively, I thought that was the most

appropriate action I could take.

The next year, in July 1937, Japa nese and Chinese forces clashed at Lugouqiao (Lugou Bridge) in the suburbs of Beijing. It was the beginning of a full-scale

war between China and Japan.

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Notes to Chapter 3: My Beijing Years

1. A wide waistband made of cloth or woolen material, worn to keep warm.

2. Umehara Ryūzaburō (1888–1986), a distinguished Western-style painter

known for his vibrant colors and bold lines, and for incorporating the traditional

techniques of yamato-e with the styles of nanga and Ogata Kōrin. After 1933, he

312

Notes to Pages 36–39

made repeated trips to China and Taiwan before producing some of his most beloved

works, including scenes of Beijing’s Imperial Palace.

3. Traditionally a one-piece garment, the qipao was forced upon the Han

women by the Manchus after the establishment of the Qing Dynasty at the middle of

the seventeenth century. Modern stylistic variations after the turn of the twentieth

century have resulted in very considerable changes in both the design and use of

fabrics.

4. Appeared to have been derived from the Mongolian word “hudag,” a water

well, or what the Manchus called “hucin,” the term “hutong” originated from the Yuan

Dynasty and was referred to, for example, in Guan Hanqing’s historical play Dandaohui. Measuring at the Yuan Dynasty at roughly 30 feet in width, there were estimated to be 400, 458, and 978, and 6,000 hutongs in the Yuan, early Ming, Qing, and

the Republican periods, respectively. See Yan & Coco, Beijing guangjie ditu (Beijing:

Xinxing Chubanshe, 2006) with photography by Huang Renda, pp. 10–12. For a richly

photographed section introducing the Beijing hutong, see pp. 9–65. See also Yamaguchi/

Fujiwara’s description below.

5. Drawing inspirations from Xu Wei, Bada Shanren, and Wu Changshuo, Qi

Baishi (1864–1957) has often been regarded as one of the most celebrated contemporary Chinese painters, whose water colors exhibit broad artistic temperament, extraordinary range of subject matter, bold colors, subdued humor, and vibrant imagination. A native of Hunan, Qi made Beijing his home after 1919.

6. The expression happyakuya-chō underscores the very large number of

quarters and neighborhoods in Tokugawa Japan’s capital of Edo before the city was renamed Tokyo in 1868.

7. “Shu” and “Yoshi” are written with the same Chinese character.

8. Pan Yugui (1884–1961). In July 1937 in Beijing, his collaboration with the

Japanese by passing military secrets of the Twenty-Ninth Army was said to have resulted

in the tragic deaths of more than a thousand former university students and young

men who had just been recruited less than a year before. Beyond the positions mentioned in the original text, he also served as head of public security in Beijing. He died

while serving his prison sentence in Shanghai in November 1961. For details, see Ma

Yutong, “Pan Yugui jiuju: Hanjian qi pei tan lichang,” Tianjinwang Chengshi Kuaibao

(December 24, 2010) available at http://cul.sohu .com /20101224/n278493372.shtml.

9. A reference to Qionghua Island at the center of a large lake in Beihai Park,

formerly an imperial garden constructed in the tenth century and a part of the Forbidden City. The Taimiao was constructed in 1420 for Ming and Qing emperors to

pay homage to their imperial ancestors before it was renamed in 1950 as the Cultural

Palace of the Laboring People of Beijing.

10. In the original text, Yamaguchi/Fujiwara invoke a common Sino-Japanese

saying “Sanjaku sagatte shi no kage o fumazu” that students were supposed to walk at

an appropriate distance behind their teacher and be mindful not to step on the latter’s shadow as a sign of paying proper respect.

Notes to Pages 39–47

313

11. More popularly referred to simply as “Sanmao,” the popular comic book

character representing the plight of homeless children during the harsh years of the

Japanese invasion was created by Zhang Leping in 1935 and has remained a staple

cartoon figure in the Chinese popu lar imagination.

12. Dongyang-guizi, literally “dev ils from the Eastern Ocean,” was a popu lar

term used especially during the war years to refer to the much-hated Japa nese invaders.

13. Dong’niang and Xi’niang literally mean “mother from the east” and “mother

from the west” respectively, references that apparently hint at their relative positions

within the complex family hierarchy.

14. Wang Kemin (1873–1945) served such positions as President of the Bank of

China and multiple stints as Minister of Finance in the Republican period before becoming President of the Provisional Government of the Republic of China formed in

December 1937 as a Japanese puppet state. Arrested as a traitor after the war ended,

he committed suicide in December 1945.

15. Wu Peifu (1872–1939) was a prominent Zhili-clique warlord from the late

1910s before his subsequent defeat by the Nationalist forces during the Northern Expedition in 1927. After the outbreak of the Second Sino-Japanese War, Wu refused to

collaborate with the Japanese by leading a puppet government in North China unless

Japanese troops agreed to withdraw from China. He died in 1939, presumably from

blood poisoning.

16. Mai-xiao literally means “selling one’s smile.”

17. The game is referred to in the original text by the Japa nese name “Kotorokotoro” (“snatching this and that child.”)

18. Today’s Fengyang is a county in Chuzhou City in Anhui Province. The

lyrics of “Fengyang’ge” are as follows: “Let me speak and tell you about Fengyang.

Originally, Fengyang was a wonderful place. After Zhu Huangdi appeared, famines visited the land as frequently as nine years in a decade. Richer families sold

their cows and horses, while poorer families sold their sons. But I, a humble woman

having no sons to sell, will carry my flower drum and roam the four corners of

the land.”

19. I have found no evidence indicating that Zhu Huangdi (literally, “the Zhu

Emperor”) was a Warring-States period bandit. Rather, it is worth noting that today’s

Fengyang County in Anhui Province was the birthplace of Zhu Yuanzhang (1328–

1398), the founder of the Ming Dynasty who reigned as the Hongwu Emperor (1368–

1398) and was the obvious model for “Zhu Huangdi” in the popu lar song.

20. “Zhu” is a common classical allusion to individuals or families with great

wealth, as members of the nobility and the aristocracy used to paint the front gates of

their houses crimson to reveal their special status.

21. Yan’an, the famous destination of the Long March and both physically and

symbolically a significant historic site celebrated as the birthplace of the Chinese Communist revolution, is situated in the Shaanbei (northern Shaanxi) area.