The Great Flowing River Page 14
I read classical Chinese fiction voraciously. I read The Water Margin twice and I had read Dream of the Red Chamber six times without growing tired of it, mainly because the male and female characters were all beautiful and endearing, living in a completely different world from one of war and flight. The characters in Journey to the West were all ugly, and as for Romance of the Three Kingdoms, well, probably only my father understood it.
After advancing to senior high, I took off my scout uniform and put on a long cheongsam. The cheongsam for spring and summer was light blue and made of indanthrene in autumn and winter. This affected me psychologically and I even walked differently, conscious that I was a sixteen-year-old girl. From then on, schoolwork was more than just schoolwork (with the exception of math)—it was knowledge. I felt that all topics, from the simplest to the most profound, began to enlighten me in some way.
I was happiest in my junior year. Miss Wu Zhenzhi was assigned to teach world cultural geography to my class, which brought together all the most important currents and changes in world history. Miss Wu placed particular emphasis on history and current trends and developments and she would sometimes draw a world map on the blackboard: Greece, Rome, and Carthage; she would lecture on Queen Elizabeth I and the Spanish Armada; the voyages of Columbus; the exploration of the North and South Poles, India, and the Middle East; as well as the backwardness and mystery of Africa. Each class would hold us spellbound like some legend of the high seas. The textbook was already full of information, but our teacher would frequently bring large foreign books and pictures rarely seen at the time to show us. Her voice was deep and full of feeling, as if she were often examining the vicissitudes of the vast globe. Perhaps that class of girls understood that the depth of her voice was a result of her having recently suffered the greatest bereavement a young teacher of twenty-three or twenty-four could suffer. Taking this class when growing up led me to look forward to reading and traveling later in life. With such youthful knowledge and longing as a basis, one could explore the depths of other cultures and not be satisfied with superficiality and blindly making one’s way forward.
That happy year, Mr. Meng Zhisun taught our Chinese class. I also elected to take his first poetry class, so all together I had class with him seven times a week.
He must have been around fifty, which made him incredibly old in our eyes. Wearing a light- or dark-colored serge scholar’s robe all year round, he was neither handsome nor elegant (although occasionally he would wear a black or white tunic suit). He had a rather harsh Tianjin accent, but as soon as he started to lecture, everyone was immediately all ears. His words were not a stream but a river, broad, endless, and deep, which here and there would pick up speed depending on what poems or essays he was discussing. Fifty years later, in a commemorative volume by Chongqing Nankai students, the most memories recorded were about Chinese class, almost all of which were about Mr. Meng. (More than thirty years ago, Lu Qiao penned a long remembrance in his book Repentant Love Letter.) One piece in particular by a male classmate named Zhu Yongfu, titled “The Enthusiasm of Master Meng,” recorded in detail how the success of the teaching materials in our Chinese class stemmed entirely from the editorship of Mr. Meng and also how his lectures were “lively, brilliant, and filled with enthusiasm. Anyone who listened to his class would be spellbound as he guided our echoing emotions through the world of Tang and Song poetry. Only when the bell rang indicating the end of class was everyone brought back to reality as if waking from a dream.” He also said that the girls’ classes were unfortunate in that they never saw Mr. Meng express his feelings, the scintillating and passionate expression of joy and anger.
Although such was the case, I was grown up at that time and in the middle of the national calamity and could certainly understand why Mr. Meng said there wasn’t enough time to read the entire Records of the Grand Historian, but if one still wanted to read the best parts, one could start with Sima Qian’s biographies of unlucky individuals; “The Basic Annals of Xiang Yu” was altogether superior to “The Basic Annals of Liu Bang.” The experience of fleeing thousands of li from Nanjing to Sichuan allowed me to clearly understand why Mr. Meng, when teaching the poems of Du Fu, would be unable to contain his tears as he spoke, with silent resentment and sadness pervading the classroom, lingering on and on.
I was immersed in Mr. Meng’s classes on poetry for two years. Like one intoxicated, I memorized, recited, and appreciated all the poems, and they remain as clear as ever in my mind even today. Later, at Wuhan University, I took Zhu Guangqian’s English poetry classes, where I memorized and recited another hundred or more English poems. For four years, the similarities and differences in meaning and mood evoked by Chinese and English poetry stirred and reverberated in my mind; their fusion, in the early morning of life, made me who I am, much like the line in Qin Zihao’s poem “The Golden Mask”: “So sad, so happy, so unique.”
TIME AND TIDE MAGAZINE AND THE DEBATE COMPETITION
In high school I edited the girls’ wall newspaper and even took up the writing brush to write some parts of the whole page (my clear, stiff hand in the print style and later my writing in English on the blackboard show that I have never been able to write in an elegant cursive style); later, in the debating society, I bowled over the opponents with well-founded arguments, much of which came from the latest materials at the Time and Tide magazine editorial office, many of which were internationally authoritative works written in English.
Time and Tide was established with money raised by a couple of young intellectuals from the northeast in the dark days of 1938 after they retreated to Hankou from Nanjing and Shanghai. They asked my father to run the magazine, which, aimed at introducing the current international situation and familiarizing people with trends and global events, became quite successful upon publication. Shortly after we retreated to Chongqing in 1939, the street on which the print shop was located was bombed. My father located an old machine and set up a print shop and the editorial office outside of Shapingba, after which publication became regular.
It could truly be said that during the war years Chongqing was the cultural center of the country. In addition to members of the government, most intellectuals and students employed whatever means possible to get to Chongqing, not simply to avoid being the subjects of the invader but to come forward and contribute their own strength to the protracted War of Resistance.
Time and Tide established its reputation shortly after publication began in Hankou, and after it moved to Chongqing, the editorial staff increased and production became smoother. At the very beginning most of those involved were brilliant students from the foreign language and literature departments of the country’s elite universities. Some, such as Liu Shengbin and Deng Lianxi, already had writing experience and were recommended by the Northeast China Association (after the fall of the northeast and north China, my father’s work shifted from organizing underground armed resistance against the Japanese to culture and education). Owing to the convenient location at Shapingba, Professor Jia Wu (Linan) of National Central University was engaged to serve as chief editor, and most of the translators and editors were professors at National Central University and Chongqing University. Four or five years later, quite a few talented translators were hired, and among the youngest of the editors were Wu Xizhen, He Xin, and Wang Yiding. They made significant contributions in cultural education and economics after coming to Taiwan, but working at Time and Tide was their first job out of university. Later, Mr. Wang was sent to Taiwan by the Relief and Rehabilitation Administration of the U.S.-Sino Cooperation Agency. I arrived at National Taiwan University in 1947, and he often borrowed a jeep on weekends to take He Xin and me to visit various scenic spots outside of Taipei. They reminisced about when they worked at Time and Tide, the challenges, the joys and sorrows of life during the War of Resistance, and the various changes after the war, both abroad and in China. There was no end to the topics we discussed, and decades later we often got together; there
was never a dull moment.
In order to obtain the latest information on World War II, Time and Tide dispatched Liu Shengbin to London and Deng Lianxi to Washington, DC, to collect and read all the dailies (the magazine had translation rights to The London Times and The New York Times) as well as the latest magazines and books. They would send the most useful clippings, discussions, and analyses of major events to India, where Shen Xuyu, special correspondent to India, would send them by airplane “over the hump” of the Himalayas. During the war, military and daily supplies sent to China by the British and the Americans all arrived in Chongqing via India. In his early days as a pilot, Zhang Dafei was often sent to India to fly the American aid planes back to Yunnan or Sichuan in China. It took about seven days for the materials to get to Chongqing. After the editorial staff received them, they would immediately begin working around the clock to translate them into Chinese, thus allowing Time and Tide, as a fortnightly, to stay up to date.
In those days in that far-off city in the hinterland, a publication like Time and Tide was very welcome, valued by the government and the general public alike, and it almost always sold out immediately after publication. Many people said it was like an open window in the abyss of suffering behind the battle lines, allowing them to see the outside world. Before and after the United States entered the war, each issue was reprinted four or five times; the presses were so hot as to burn the hand. The shrewd and perspicacious selection of materials, the fine translations, and the high level of discussion all served to make Time and Tide a publication to which few others could hold a candle.
The office of Time and Tide was nearby, only about fifty yards from our house, across from a paddy field, and we could see the office lights from the house. Prior to the publication of each issue, my father would simply sleep in the office in order to spend long nights going over the manuscripts until late. My mother would always watch the lights when he was there; as long as the lights were on, she would not sleep either. That was probably an expression of love for their generation! I remember that the lights would only go off around one or two o’clock in the morning.
I ran out the school gate every Saturday at 3:30, walked down the only big street in the town, and took a small path to the right that led to that small white house. I always went to the editorial office to see if my father was there. On weekends he would come home from Chongqing, but would first go to the office to examine the new information and translated manuscripts, hold meetings, and decide on the table of contents for the next issue. Passing through Shapingba to his small director’s office, I’d buy a big bag of peanuts and go into his office and sit on the single bed he had there, the one on which he slept during those nights spent reading manuscripts, and shell and eat peanuts (his desk was filled with manuscripts, which he wouldn’t let me touch). If he wasn’t there, I shelled a big handful of the best peanuts and put them in a little earthen jar for him. In those days, shelling peanuts was probably something men in their forties, especially those working in the government, would never voluntarily do themselves. One day he told me that I could no longer sit on his bed and eat things, because the night before a rat had come and bitten his nose.
At some point after I started high school, my “uncles” in the editorial office decided that my knowledge should go beyond eating peanuts, and having also formed a better opinion of me because my questions were getting more and more profound, they would lend me interesting English articles they had already used or were not going to use to read, including some on different customs and cultural trends. Later when I accompanied the magazine staff to the air-raid shelter at the sound of the siren, chief editor Uncle Jia Wu always liked to say, “Come along and I’ll test you.” The sentences and phrases he quizzed me about and the important points of the English writings he guided me through were far beyond the scope of high school English (even though the level at Nankai was already well above that of other schools). Thus for days and months my knowledge of English accumulated until I took the National Joint College Entrance Exams. The topic of the English-to-Chinese translation was the story of how the soldiers of the British Thirty-eighth Division met up with the Chinese army deep in the forests of Burma, which for me was a piece of cake, and if I dared to take liberties, I would have given three big laughs on the spot.
Liu Shengbin, the special correspondent to England, taught me many things about England and its manners. After coming to Taiwan, he became a legislator but died shortly thereafter. Deng Lianxi, special correspondent to the United States, died in a tragic accident while taking a steamship from the Chinese mainland to Taiwan. His wife had arrived first and his luggage had also been shipped previously. After his death, his wife opened his luggage and finding it filled with books, asked me to come and choose what I wanted. Because he was in the foreign language and literature department, I took several of his books. Seeing them reminds of him and the days and nights they spent in that office going over manuscripts, and I weep, overwhelmed with grief.
In my second year of senior high, I was chosen to be part of the school’s debating society. Not long after the start of school, I had to compete at the end of September, representing the second-year class.
The topic for debate originally was the reading preferences of male and female students. After the posters went up, Principal Zhang saw them on his walk and said, “Can’t anyone see that it’s wartime? The kids run for the air-raid siren every day, so why make them debate such a lame topic?” The teacher in charge immediately changed the topic to: “Will America enter the war?”
Once the topic was announced, it attracted a great deal of attention in the cultural center that was Shapingba. How could high school students debate such a serious and weighty question? Originally six students were selected (three each for the pro and con positions), but they were all afraid and wanted to back out. The teacher said that the Nankai spirit was one filled with public spirit and ability, bravely accepting all challenges, and there was no backing out, so they had to intensify their preparations.
It was a huge topic well beyond our abilities, so both sides mobilized their parents. On the con side, arguing that America would not enter the war, one student’s father was an editorial writer for a major wartime newspaper; I was on the pro side, arguing that America would enter the war, and had access to the Time and Tide archives, which specialized in analyzing the international situation. Both sides actually had informed sources backing them up, which was an open secret among the students. My father, who felt that the topic was too serious for a bunch of kids, smilingly said to me, “Just so long as you don’t cry if you lose.” All the uncles in the editorial office had varying opinions, but instructed me to summarize nine points from the original material and divide them among the three on our side to master. For a whole month, the three of us collected a lot of material but had to maintain secrecy, for, as our teacher said, surprise was the key to victory. The debate is still vivid, and I recall to this day my nervousness standing at the podium in the auditorium and the calm and confidence I possessed during the question-and-answer session in the second half. My memory for what I read has always been very good, and I was always able to use printed material at the appropriate time. At the time, I debated with assurance and after a bitter battle, victory was ours. In my life up to that point, it was the first time I realized that I didn’t have to be a crybaby. It was also the first time I realized that victory didn’t necessarily come at the cost of happiness.
The weekend after winning the debate, I walked from the Shoutong Building in the girls’ section and was passing the Fansun Building, the administration center, on my way to the main gate to go home. The windows of the high school boys’ classrooms were filled as usual with teenage boys looking at the girl students, and when they saw me approaching, they began singing the lyrics of Liu Bannong’s “Skilled and Able,” which they had slightly altered: “I remember when you were young, you wanted to go to war, I didn’t …” Then they shouted: “Quick march
, left, right, left, right.…” I almost ran for the gate. Later, each time I passed there, I would walk quickly because they would shout: “Pick it up, fast feet!”
Three months later, on December 7, the Japanese launched a surprise attack on Pearl Harbor at one in the morning our time. America declared war on Japan, the Western allies all joined in declaring war on Japan, and at that moment the situation in the world was clarified, with China no longer standing alone. Having waged a war of resistance alone for five years, Chongqing, which was nearly exhausted, suddenly found itself the center of the biggest alliance of nations in Asia. Everything was hopeful again, and my high school student’s arguments were all confirmed, so, young as I was, I couldn’t help but feel quite pleased with myself for some time.
One day at the dinner table my father said, “Your winning the debate was no small matter, and it shows you can find the main point when you study something. But what is most important is not what you say but what you think.” Each time I was feeling self-satisfied in life, my father was there to say, “That was no small matter, but …”, which guided me to think more deeply. Despite being angry at the time, whenever I faced adversity in life and was unwilling to submit, I would always calmly examine myself afterward as my father had enjoined me.
The track record of Time and Tide became ever more impressive. In addition to the fortnightly political commentary, a monthly Time and Tide Literary Supplement was added that introduced the latest on living, medicine, and society, as well as a Literary Bimonthly, both of which sold really well. At the same time the U.S. ambassador to China, on behalf of Reader’s Digest, gave rights to Time and Tide to publish it in Chinese. It too was widely popular.
In addition, the magazine contracted numerous famous writers and academics as special or part-time contributors to translate many English, American, and French works into Chinese, for example, works that analyzed the current situation and history such as The Tragedy of France, Two Women of the French Underground, Roosevelt: World Statesman, Inside Latin America, India in the Midst of War, and dozens of other books on special topics, all very popular at the time. The best-selling purely literary work was This Above All, the story of a British nurse and a soldier and their love in wartime. The story was quite moving, and it sold so well that everyone seemed to possess a copy. I had the pleasure of reading the book as it was being translated. I often went to the office just for the fun of it and when they were taking a break, they would lend me the original to read. There was only one copy, which had arrived from India over “the hump” and was therefore considered quite precious, so like a vulture, I would wait until they took a break and then would swoop down and read the book. Several nights I took the book home with me and would hurry to return it the following day, because someone would need it for their work.