The Communist's Daughter (32 page)

Will the passage of time likewise wash the thought of you from my memories? Will the advancing months reduce these passions to shadows?

A surgeon in a theatre of war, I am accustomed to failure and the numbing effects of relentless slaughter. This cannot be overstated. Once upon a time, I walked through the night reciting favourite poems, in hopes of unburdening myself of a drudgery I could barely survive but which only hinted at the terror to come. Now I sit here content, polishing these fragments of memory in an attempt to make something of a life pitted by failure, abandonment and war. This is the one perfection remaining for me after a lifetime of compromise and fallen ideals. No, these musings shall not diminish that which is lost. You cannot fail in memory as you can, so horribly, in the operating theatre.

*

One hundred and four degrees at 6:45 a.m. I am with the Tenth Regiment. I don't know the name of this village but do not think it matters. The bustle of men is all around. Their calls to attention have awakened me, the cocking of rifles, the march of purposeful boots. We have been travelling for some time now, two or three days, I think, from village to village, with me largely unconscious, I am told, like a warm corpse upon its restless catafalque. Even when conscious I have been too ill to admire this vast kingdom. Perhaps I should let China take care of me for a change. A charming thought, being pampered. This is a situation I should learn from. It might help me become a better doctor. At least I can derive something from these wasted days. Illness is not anything I have ever been resigned to. Its pathetic, wheezing ways suit some, but not me.

How poorly I take instruction. I already knew that. It is not so comfortable here as it was at the Trudeau Sanatorium so many years ago, drinking and smoking and riding boats on the lake. Sickness as holiday—how good that seems now in the light of memory. We sat out on the porch gazing at the dark pines every night, remembering our freedom and health, if we weren't leaning against the bar at Brook's Tavern. I was tended to by admiring nurses. In my frailty, as the TB spiders nested in my lung, I organized lectures and prepared to take on the world. To think of that now. How sweet that sickness, how luxurious.

*

I am told five days have passed now since our return from that farmhouse-aid station. How I miss my typewriter. The ribbon's completely dry. Ho is unable to work his magic out here. We will have to wait for that. I miss the green letters and the scent of your mother's perfume. In the meantime, I hope you can make out this chicken-scratch. Ho has found me this stub of pencil and a small stack of writing paper, stolen from some functionary's desk, I suppose. Always scrounging, if not one thing then another. Now he stands at the entrance of the tent.

*

I have instructed the supervising medical officer to inform me if any abdominal or skull cases arrive. Even in this state, weakened but alert, I am the only one qualified. Perhaps I will drip this fever onto the hearts of my wounded comrades. The poetry is dire, I know, but there is something to it, you see, this suffering shared by comrades-at-arms. Blood and sweat. We shall rise again. This is not the first finger I have cut open during a surgery. I have sliced the heart out of the truth.

I am off soon to America with this badge of courage, and with my signed confession for you. If a lack of courage forces me to send this package in care of Frank Pitcairn, you will at least have it, long after I've retreated again from your life. I will defend myself no longer. The story speaks for itself. I already abandoned you once. And the first time is always the most difficult.

The absurd intrudes upon the absurd. Yes, acts of bravery there are. Every day for close to two years I have closed the eyes of men who performed such acts, perhaps despite themselves, and paid with their lives. I only wish my hands had been clean enough to leave unmarked the last touch of dignity on their faces, not smearing them with blood or worse. But no man is brave, not really. No sane or wise man. He is only running.

I did not tell you. When we returned from our latest tour I found the door to my house standing ajar. Sitting at my desk was the famous photographer Mr. Friedmann—Mr. Capa, otherwise known as the Shark. “Don't look so surprised,” he said. “You're not that difficult to track down in this oversized country. How was it out there? It looks like you took a thrashing. The Japs get hold of you or something?”

“You've come to bring the dead back to life, have you?”

He said, “You look bloody awful. You'd better sit.” He got up, but I didn't move. He shrugged, as if to put me at ease, and motioned to the half-finished portrait on my desk. “You're a bit of an artist, I see,” he said. “Will wonders never cease?”

“What do you want?”

“We're not so different, really,” he said.

“I'm not so sure that's true.”

“You don't feel like a vulture sometimes?”

I said, “The death of high standards. You started with a good dose of it yourself. But neither of us is here for the reason you might expect. You can't really fight a war for the right reason. There never is a right reason. There's always something else—a lover, a death, revenge. Look at Ansell's man, the Nazi who saved five thousand Chinese. Life for life. A noble man, you'd think, right?”

I sat down on the floor.

“I'll come back. You look bloody awful, old man. But I'll bet you saved a dozen lives today.” He helped me up and put me in my bed. “I inquired in Hankou,” he said. “They say you're leaving.”

“Soon.”

“What is it?”

“I'll be better tomorrow,” I said.

“Afterwards you won't need your boy, right?”

“He stays. When I go, he stays.”

“I told you about my idea, didn't I?”

I said, “Ho Tzu-hsin is not a child soldier. He is a valet. A servant boy. He cooks and cleans.”

“You know he'll become a soldier when you leave. I will follow him. My idea is complete in this way. An entire journey is a beautiful idea.”

“I am not his father,” I said. “He does as he likes.”

“And that's why you can leave. He could live at least a while longer. Likely he'd already be dead if it weren't for you. You gave him a year, a year and a half. That's more than most of them get up here.”

I said, “You will put your camera on him and wait for him to die.”

“I'm filming this war. If that is the case, then I will film it.”

“You're interested in watching a boy die. The instant of death, and then you go.”

“He may survive. We can't be so certain.”

“Go back to Spain, Capa.”

He said, “That war is dead for me. Sooner or later all good causes die.”

“At least we have that in common.”

“Stay here, Bethune,” he said, “for as long as you can. As long as something is left here for you.”

“There is nothing.”

“Isn't the boy something?”

“Take him,” I said. “Make your film.”

He walked to the door. “Maybe you should get some rest, old man.”

*

Travelling these last days with the Third Regiment Sanitary Service on stretcher and mule-back, I'm bounced over this rocky Chinese landscape like a bucket of snails.

This morning I again saw him, the boy studying one of my drawings. I was shivering in my cot, soaked by my feverish chills, and he, standing in the grey light, shining like some lucent dream-creature.

It shall be only days now before I am working again. I'm feeling better this morning, bright and alert. I have sent Ho off for another handful of Aspirin and a pot of coffee to help thin my blood. This should speed my recovery. Also he carries another message to the staff that I must be informed of any abdominal or skull cases. When I'm recovered I will catch up with Capa, wherever he's gone, snapping photographs to send out to the world, to tell him he cannot have the boy. The boy is mine. I have decided he will come with me to America. The face of Chinese youth. The innocence, the purity. He will be worth more to the cause there, in Bethune's Travelling Circus, than here. You shall meet the boy, my dear. You'll see what a noble youth he is. Perhaps he'll hold you in his arms. Perhaps he'll recite a poem for you. You will love him, surely. The abandoned children united. You see, we all have this in common. Behold this child, for you are he. Forgotten by all who loved him, then taken up in the great fraternal arms of this noble cause. How pleased the poster boy of the Chinese Revolution will be.

I have decided to talk with him. I will warn him that he must not be immortalized like one of his poems, by that photographer. I'll tell him to keep close to Mr. Tung until I'm well.

What could Capa do with little Ho? He prefers the Spanish face, after all, and I have never seen a more Chinese face! Under my arm and protection Ho will be an inspiration to future generations. Do you want to be worth more to the cause dead than alive? Your life's worth far more than that. You shall come to America! America awaits! The youth of the West shall learn from your example.

But not before I have an opportunity to ask some questions of him. Of course, my questions. I saw him studying my drawings again, last night after I finally blew out my lamp.

I must be informed of skull and abdominal cases.

*

I have been working on your portrait as I while away this sick time. I am inspired, electrified. How my energy has returned to me, for brief moments, at least. You are my tonic, my hope. Does that sound desperate? It is the truth. Now I shall go back in time and cross out all these odd ramblings that have escaped my feverish mind. I do not want to present a bad first impression. It seems I have been off my head these last few days. An elegant diagnosis, I know. But I am pleased to say I'm feeling better on this, the sixth day of this difficult stretch. The uncontrolled vomiting has left me weakened. But I am bright now, more than ever, and alert. The night was an improvement, and today the temperature, 102 degrees, is down somewhat.

This morning I asked after Capa. “Mr. Tung,” I said, “where has he gone?” Mr. Tung was leaning over me, cooling my forehead with a wet towel. I waved him away. “Will you answer?”

At length, the delicate Mr. Tung said, “There is no photographer here, Doctor. We are alone.”

“Has he taken the boy?”

Mr. Tung left my bedside. Without another word he left me.

When I awoke hours later I found this machine here, placed on a small stool beside the bed. I have been typing for some time now, perhaps hours, recounting what has transpired over these last few days. Did Mr. Tung bring it to me? Was this an apology for his rudeness? Or was it Ho, atoning for his strange behaviour? They will not answer my questions, but neither will they silence me. I shall not be silenced. Not here. Not in America. My ribbon is refreshed, though the ink is slightly off. Closer to blue than green now. You can see it. Yes, it must have been him. Blue is fine, I shall tell him. Don't be so cagey, boy!

I have rallied and I am sitting upright. Look, that wasn't so difficult. This thing sits comfortably on my skinny thighs. I feel the pop-pop of the keys resonate down into the femur. Writing on the bone. What a lovely metaphor to think about.

When I get to America I will show you my paintings and drawings, long after all this is done with. They are much better than these small doodles.

You know, I finished your mother's portrait the day I departed from Madrid. Did I tell you that? I wish you could have seen it. It was taken, along with my other belongings, from that stalled train in Goasi. Perhaps it will be returned to me one day, and you will see how beautiful she is. Of course, you can see that in my documentary, too. But film cannot capture the love of an artist. You will see how much I loved her.

How different it will be once we have won this war! I will show you more than the sketches buried under these green ramblings. Might something good come out of America after this? Has the war in Europe begun? Are you now safely growing to girlhood in a Stockholm neighbourhood? Or still in Madrid where Pitcairn told me I'd find you? Isn't that war finished?

I will have Ho help with my paintings and drawings. Where is he? He'll pack them up for me. And Mr. Tung, when he finishes with his translations. Perhaps I shall bring some along and leave them for you to look over when you are older, when Europe and America have come to help the war here. These mountains will only be a memory by then. I will know you. Perhaps I can visit you often. You'll be as beautiful as your mother. Wouldn't it be grand to see your mother and father together? We could walk along a riverbank holding hands. You'd enjoy that.
For if they fall, the one will lift up his fellow: but woe to him that is alone when he falleth; for he hath not another to help him up.
I have to leave my bed to find the boy, so will leave off here. Does he mean for the failing doctor to come crawling? Well, then, so be it. I will get up and march onwards. But I am tired. The doctor is tired. I will lie down here for a moment. I can get back to this soon enough. Perhaps I will tell Ho to soak this ribbon in the meantime. I see it's beginning to fade already. Where is he? Has he already started off to America? Those hills are too much for just one boy. I can take him on my shoulders. Are there any abdominal cases? I will stroll past the hospital for a look before we set off.

I hear the boy coming now. I know that lively step. I'll bet he's saying one of those old poems. A poem for you, perhaps.

How these hands tremble. There is still so much more to tell. As I write this I'm imperishable. I am completely here. Please know that. It pains me to leave these pages now. But I have to rest. How I am looking forward to completing this history. As you read this I'm radiant. We will be radiant together. Something tells me this can be a beautiful story after all. But first I will rest.

19 Dec 1939
Yan'an, Shensi Province