| Dark torrents of rain had forced heavy pedestrian
and bicycle traffic from Shanghai’s streets. Occasional vendors
pedaled through the downpour, strained under the burden of
intricately carved furniture and bolts of silk fabric. The taxi
easily glided past the smattering of labored traffic, turned off
of Hunan Road onto a narrower unnamed street, and slowed to a stop
in front of a small nondescript shop wedged between dilapidated
faces of buildings. I was grateful that the written instructions
for the driver were detailed enough to avoid confusion. The rain
pelted my shoulders as I exited the vehicle and I made a mental
note to thank the bellman upon my return to the hotel. With my
collar pulled around my neck, I dashed to the door of the curio
shop.
The tinkling of small brass bells on the back of the closing
door announced my arrival. The shop’s warmth and sweet smell of
incense wafted about the place. I stomped my feet and shook the
water from my coat as I surveyed antiques scattered along shelves
and the old wooden plank floor. My perusal was stopped by an old
man’s look of disapproval, his face and a pair of chopsticks
suspended over a bowl of noodles.
"Sorry," I offered, but he dismissed my apparent
inconsideration with a wave of his hand, turned to a beaded
curtain at the back of his shop and muttered something in Chinese.
Unfortunately, my mastery of the Chinese language was stalled at
greetings, courtesies, and a few vulgarities. I felt inadequate.
The beads parted and I was met with the warm smile of a young
girl, dressed modestly in a dark skirt and a white long-sleeved
blouse. Her long, straight black hair framed a fresh oval face.
"May I help you?" she asked in practiced, but halting,
English.
"Yes, I am visiting from Tokyo. I was referred by a colleague
of mine at the consulate … American Consulate. I collect
military artifacts and was told that you might have some in your
shop."
"Military?" she looked at me questioningly with knitted
brows, the word apparently strange to her vocabulary. She reached
underneath the countertop, withdrew a well-worn Chinese-English
dictionary, and began thumbing through pages.
The old man had placed his lunch aside on the countertop and
continued staring at me. I felt as if he were sizing me up for a
suit. I expected him to produce a measuring tape.
She mouthed the word, but had difficulty finding the correct
section, so I offered to help. "May I?" I asked, extending my
hand.
She graciously handed me the book and I easily found the word
"military." I patiently waited as she read the Chinese
characters describing this new word. With an "ah" of
understanding she turned to her companion, explained my request to
him in Chinese, and nodding, he shuffled through the beaded
curtain into the back of the shop. I think I saw his face begin to
crack into a grin as he disappeared behind the beads.
"You army man?" she asked.
"No, I collect military things. I buy them," I explained.
"You buy. I understand," she said, as the old man emerged
from the back of the shop carrying a small wooden box with a lid.
He placed the box on the counter and began speaking to her. When
he stopped she turned to me. "Father say he have long time.
Maybe you like them."
The old man’s face now beamed as he opened the box and began
speaking to me as if I understood. When he fell silent, his
daughter interpreted.
"Father say he take from Japanese soldiers when he small boy
in Nanking."
My mind raced to imaginings of destruction and mass executions
when Japanese forces attacked the Chinese city in December of
1937. Not sure of how deep the emotional scars ran in the old
man’s memory, I chose not to comment on that dark chapter of
history, but instead concentrated on the objects in the box.
Inside lay various accoutrements from uniforms, such as
buttons, rank insignia, and badges, and various papers written in
Japanese characters. In a corner of the box was placed a
red-stained signature block stamp, a black lacquer box, and a
short piece of thin bamboo, bound together with white silk cloth.
I picked up the intriguing item to examine it closer, and father
and daughter sensed my interest.
"Father give you good price," she offered quickly. She
produced an electronic calculator, punched in numbers, and showed
me their price.
Nodding agreement, I replaced the bound package and reached
into my pocket, and peeled off the correct amount from my money
roll. They were both beaming as I thanked them, picked up the box,
turned and strode into the withering drizzle to the waiting taxi.
Back in my hotel room I opened the box, set the bundled package
aside and picked through the items. Some were easily recognizable:
rank insignia, buttons, and badges were common to avid collectors.
The papers would have to wait for translation back at my desk in
the embassy in Tokyo. I placed the papers and uniform pieces in
the box, closed the lid, and under the desk lamp began to unravel
the silk-bound package.
The silk knot slipped apart easily and I set each piece aside
from the other. The block stamp was a signature used to sign
letters and documents, while the black lacquered box contained a
small brush and red ink, now dried and cracked from age. These
items I was familiar with from studying Asian culture, but the
bamboo remained a mystery until closer examination.
One end of the bamboo tube was sealed with wax, so using a
match, I melted the seal, allowing the wax to drip into an
ashtray. The lamplight shining into the tube then revealed curled
pieces of paper. Using a pair of tweezers, I pulled the contents
from the dark tube into the light.
The single-page letter was a message in English, written in
block letters with pencil. Accompanying the letter was a black and
white Polaroid-style photograph. The woman in the photograph
looked vaguely familiar, in spite of her emaciated appearance and
bandaged left arm and hand. The woman was tall, wore her dark hair
short, and was dressed in Western-style clothing. I averted my
eyes from the woman’s haunting, vacant stare, picked up the
letter, and began reading:
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
8-13-37
KHAQQ/REG. 16020
DETAINED SAIPAN BY JAPS. ACCUSED OF SPYING. FACE EXECUTION
SOON. A.E. INJURED & VERY ILL. HEAVILY GUARDED. BEARER OF THIS
LETTER TRUSTED AGENT. CONTACT U.S. EMBASSY, FORMOSA OR MILITARY.
SEND HELP.
F.N.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
For a moment I could not believe what I was reading, but I knew in
my heart that it was true. I read the letter again and studied the
photograph.
I activated the start button on my laptop computer and
impatiently waited for the chirps and burps of the machine to
subside. My fingers excitedly danced across the keyboard as I made
my way through web sites and, finally, found a document that
described the disappearance of the famous aviatrix and her
navigator as they attempted an around-the-world flight in 1937. My
eyes hungrily scanned web site pages, and snippets of information
screamed confirmation of what I had found in the curio shop.
Copyright ©2001 Bob May. All Rights Reserved
|
