Authors: Lisa See
“Mr. Howell, it’s wonderful to see you again.”
But he doesn’t look so happy to see me. He looks sad and old. I may be humbled, but his grief is elsewhere.
“We came looking for you.” He reaches across the counter and grabs my arm. “We thought you were dead in one of the bombings, but here you are.”
“Betsy?”
“She’s in a Jap camp out by the Lunghua Pagoda.”
A memory of flying kites with Z.G. and May flashes through my mind, but I say, “I thought most Americans left Shanghai before—”
“She got married,” Mr. Howell says sadly. “Did you know that? She married a young man who works for Standard Oil. They stayed in Shanghai after Mrs. Howell and I left. The oil business, you know how it is.”
I come around the counter and sit on the stool next to Mr. Howell, aware of the curious looks Sam, Uncle Wilburt, and the other café helpers shoot my way. I wish they’d stop staring at us like that—their mouths hanging open like they’re street beggars—but Betsy’s father doesn’t notice. I want to say my feeling of disgrace is hard to find, but I’m ashamed to admit it’s hidden just beneath the surface of my skin. I’ve been in this country for almost five years and still haven’t been fully able to accept my situation. It’s as if in seeing this face from the past all the goodness in my life is reduced to nothing.
Betsy’s father probably still works for the State Department, so maybe he’s aware of my discomfort. At last he fills the silence between us. “We heard from Betsy after Shanghai became the Lonely Island. We thought she was safe, since she was in British territory. But after December eighth, there was nothing we could do to get her back. Diplomatic channels don’t work so well now.” He stares into his cup of coffee and smiles ruefully.
“She’s strong,” I say, trying to bolster Mr. Howell’s spirits. “Betsy’s always been smart and brave.” Is that even true? I remember her as being passionate about politics when May and I just wanted to have another glass of champagne or another twirl around the dance floor.
“That’s what Mrs. Howell and I tell ourselves.”
“All you can do is hope.”
He lets out a knowledgeable snort. “That’s so like you, Pearl. Always looking at the bright side. That’s why you did so well in Shanghai. That’s why you got out before bad things happened. All the smart people got out in time.”
When I don’t say anything, he stares at me. After a long while, he says, “I’m here for Madame Chiang Kai-shek’s visit. I’ve been traveling with her on her American tour. Last week we were in Washington, where she appealed to Congress for money to help China in its fight against our common enemy and reminded the men who listened that China and the United States cannot be true allies with the Exclusion Act still on the books. This week she’s going to speak at the Hollywood Bowl and—”
“Participate in a parade here in Chinatown.”
“It sounds like you know all about it.”
“I’m going to the Bowl,” I say. “We’re all going, and we’re looking forward to having her here.”
Hearing the word
we
, for the first time he seems to absorb his surroundings. I watch as his cheerless eyes see past his memories of a girl who perhaps never existed. He takes in the grease on my clothes, the tiny wrinkles around my eyes, and my chapped hands. Then his understanding expands as he assesses the smallness of the café, the walls painted baby-shit yellow, the dusty fan spinning overhead, and the wiry men wearing
ME NO JAP
armbands gawking at him as though he were a creature from beneath the waves.
“Mrs. Howell and I live in Washington now,” he says carefully. “Betsy would be angry with me if I didn’t invite you to come home with me. I could get you a job. With your language skills, there’s a lot you could do to help the war effort.”
“My sister’s here with me,” I respond, without thinking.
“Bring May too. We have room.” He pushes away his plate of chow mein. “I hate to think of you here. You look…”
It’s funny how in that moment I see things clearly. Am I beaten down? Yes. Have I allowed myself to become a victim? Somewhat. Am I afraid? Always. Does some part of me still long to fly away from this place? Absolutely. But I can’t leave. Sam and I have built a life for Joy. It isn’t perfect, but it’s a life. My family’s happiness means more to me than starting over again.
If in the canteen photos I’m smiling, the one from this day shows me at my worst. Mr. Howell—wearing an overcoat and a fedora—and I are posed next to the cash register, onto which I’ve taped a handmade sign that reads:
ANY RESEMBLANCE TO LOOKING JAPANESE IS PURELY OCCIDENTAL
. Usually our customers get a big kick out of that, but no one’s showing teeth in the photograph. Even though it’s in black and white, I can almost see the redness of shame on my cheeks.
A FEW DAYS
later, the whole family gets on a bus and rides to the Hollywood Bowl. Because Yen-yen and I have worked so hard raising money for China Relief, our family has good seats just behind the fountain that separates the stage from the audience. When Madame Chiang steps on the stage wearing a brocade
cheongsam
, we applaud like crazy people. She’s splendid and beautiful.
“I implore the women here today to become educated and take an interest in politics both here and in the home country,” she proclaims. “You can churn the wheel of progress without jeopardizing your roles as wives and mothers.”
We listen attentively as she asks us and the Americans to help raise money and support for the Women’s New Life Movement, but the whole time she speaks we ooh and aah over her appearance. My thoughts about my clothes change once again. I see that the
cheongsam
, which I’ve had to wear to please the tourists in China City and meet Mrs. Sterling’s lease requirements, can be a patriotic, and fashionable, symbol.
When May and I go home, we bring our most precious
cheongsams
out of their chests and put them on. Inspired by Madame Chiang, we want to be as stylish and as loyal to China as possible. Instantly, we’re once again beautiful girls. Sam takes our picture, and for a moment it feels as though we’re back in Z.G.’s studio. But why, I wonder later, didn’t we ask Sam to take a photograph of Yen-yen and me when we were invited to shake Madame Chiang Kai-shek’s hand?
TOM GUBBINS RETIRES
and sells his business to Father Louie. It becomes the Golden Prop and Extras Company. Father Louie puts May in charge, even though she doesn’t know beans about running a business. She now earns as much as $150 a week as a technical director, supplying extras, costumes, props, translation, and advice. She continues to work in countless films, which are now sent around the world and viewed by millions of people to show how bad the Japanese are. Her parts are small: a hapless Chinese maiden, a servant to some colonel or other, a villager being saved by white missionaries. But May is best known for her screaming roles, and, with the war on, she’s played victim after victim in films like
Behind the Rising Sun, Bombs over Burma, The Amazing Mrs. Holliday
, in which an American woman tries to smuggle Chinese war orphans into the United States, and
China
, with its tagline, “Alan Ladd and twenty girls—trapped by the rapacious Japs!” May seems to be well liked by the various studios, especially MGM. “They call me the Cantonese ham,” she boasts. She brags that she once earned one hundred dollars in one day for her screaming abilities.
Then May gets the call to supply MGM with extras for the filming of
Dragon Seed
, which will be released next summer in 1944. She contacts the Chinese Cinema Club on Main and Alameda, where members of the Chinese Screen Extras Guild hang out, to hire people, making a commission of ten percent for each extra, and she works in the motion picture herself.
“I tried to get Metro to let Keye Luke play one of the Jap captains, but the studio doesn’t want to ruin his image as Charlie Chan’s Number One Son,” she says. “They have the prize Chinese egg, and they don’t want it to go bad. It isn’t easy to fill all the roles. I need hundreds of people to play Chinese peasants. For the Jap soldiers, the studio told me to hire Cambodians, Filipinos, and Mexicans.”
Ever since my night on the movie set, I’ve been torn between my distaste for
Haolaiwu
and my desire to put money aside for my little girl. Joy has worked steadily since the war began, and I’ve made a good start on what I imagine she’ll need for an education. My chance to pull her away from that world comes one night when Joy and May return from the set. Joy’s crying and goes straight to our room, where she now has a little cot in the corner. May’s furious. I’ve gotten mad at Joy sometimes. What mother doesn’t get upset with her children on occasion? But this is the first time I’ve seen May angry at Joy, ever.
“I had a great role for Joy as Third Daughter,” May fumes. “I made sure she got a good costume, and she looked darling. But just before the director called her, Joy went to the toilet. She missed her opportunity! She embarrassed me. How could she do that to me?”
“How?” I ask. “She’s five years old. She needed to use the pot.”
“I know, I know,” May says, shaking her head. “But I really wanted this for her.”
Grasping at my opportunity before it disappears, I continue. “Let’s have Joy work in one of the stores with her grandparents for a while. That way she’ll learn to be more appreciative of everything you do for her.” I don’t say that I won’t let her go back to
Haolaiwu
, that in September Joy will start American school, or that I don’t know how I’ll save enough for Joy to go to college, but May’s so mad she agrees with me.
Dragon Seed
remains a highlight of May’s career. One of her most precious possessions becomes the photo of her with Katharine Hepburn on the set. They’re both wearing Chinese peasant clothes. Miss Hepburn’s eyes have been taped back and heavily lined with black. The famous actress doesn’t look even a little bit Chinese, but then neither do Walter Huston or Agnes Moorehead, who also star in the picture.
ON MY DRESSER
, I put a photo of Joy at the orange juice stand we’ve set up for her outside the Golden Dragon Café. She’s surrounded by servicemen, who crouch around her, smiling and giving her a thumbs-up. The photograph captures a single moment but one that’s repeated day after day, night after night. The boys in uniform love to see my little girl—wearing cute silk pajamas and her hair in pigtails—squeezing oranges. They get to drink all they want for ten cents. Some of those boys will drink three or four glasses just to watch our Joy, her lips pursed in concentration, squeezing, squeezing, squeezing. Sometimes I look at that photograph and wonder if she knows how hard she’s working. Or does she see it as a break from all-night calls and her aunt’s demands? An added bonus: if men stop to look at this little Chinese girl—a curiosity—and drink her orange juice, which doesn’t poison them, then they might come in for a meal.
IN SEPTEMBER I
get Joy ready for kindergarten. She wants to go to Castelar School in Chinatown with Hazel Yee and the other neighbor kids. But Sam and I don’t want her to go to the school that passed Vern from grade to grade even though he couldn’t read, write, or do sums. We want her to have a step up in the world. We want her to attend school outside Chinatown, which means Joy has to say she lives in that district. She also has to be taught the official family story. Father Louie’s lies about his status were passed to Sam, the uncles, and me. Now those lies go to a third generation. Joy will forever need to be careful when she applies for school, a job, or even her marriage certificate. All that starts now. For weeks we rehearse her as though she’s about to go through Angel Island: Where do you live? What’s the cross street? Where was your father born? Why did he return to China as a boy? What is your father’s job?
Not once do we tell her what’s true or what’s false. It’s better if she knows only fake truth.
“All little girls need to know these things about their parents,” I explain to Joy as I tuck her in her cot the night before school starts. “Don’t tell your teacher anything except what we’ve told you.”
The next day Joy puts on a green dress, a white sweater, and pink tights. Sam takes a photo of Joy and me standing on a step outside our building. She carries a new lunch box with a smiling and waving cowgirl sitting astride her trusty horse. I gaze at Joy with mother love. I’m proud of her, proud of all of us, for having come so far.
Sam and I take Joy by streetcar to the elementary school. We fill out the forms and lie about where we live. Then we walk Joy to her classroom. Sam stretches out Joy’s hand to the teacher, Miss Henderson, who stares at it and then asks, “Why can’t you foreigners just go back to your own countries?”
Just like that! Can you believe it? I have to respond before Sam works out what she’s said. “Because this
is
her home country,” I say, imitating the British mothers I used to see walking along the Bund with their children. “This is where she was born.”
We leave our daughter with that woman. Sam doesn’t say a word as we ride the streetcar back to China City, but when we reach the café, he pulls me to him and speaks to me in a voice ragged with emotion. “If they do something to her, I’ll never forgive them and I’ll never forgive myself.”
A week later, when I go to the school to pick up Joy, I find her crying on the curb. “Miss Henderson sent me to the vice principal’s office,” she says, tears dripping down her face. “She asked a lot of questions. I answered like you told me, but she called me a liar and said I can’t go here anymore.”
I walk to the vice principal’s office, but what can I do or say to change her mind?
“We keep an eye out for these infractions, Mrs. Louie,” the heavyset woman intones. “Besides, your daughter doesn’t belong here. Anyone can see that. Take her to the school in Chinatown. She’ll be happier there.”
The next day I walk Joy the couple of blocks to Castelar School, right in the heart of Chinatown. I see children from China, Mexico, Italy, and other European countries. Her teacher, Miss Gordon, smiles as she takes Joy’s hand. She escorts Joy into the classroom and shuts the door. In the weeks and months that follow, Joy—who’s been raised to be obedient, and refrain from doing something as wild as ride a bicycle, and been scolded by our neighbors for laughing too much and too loudly—learns to play hopscotch, jacks, and leapfrog. She’s happy to be in the same class with her best friend, and Miss Gordon seems like a nice enough person. We do the best we can at home. For me, this means making Joy speak English as much as possible, because she’s going to have to make a living in this country and because she’s an American. When her father, grandparents, or uncles speak to her in Sze Yup, she answers in English. Along the way Sam’s understanding of English—but not his pronunciation—improves. Still, the uncles constantly tease her about going to school. “Education is only trouble for a girl,” Uncle Wilburt cautions. “What do you want to do? Run away from us?” I find an ally in her grandfather. Not so long ago, he threatened May and me, telling us we’d have to put a nickel in a jar if we spoke any language other than Sze Yup in front of him. Now he tells Joy a variation of the same thing: “If I hear you speak something other than English, you will put a nickel in my jar.” Her English is almost as good as mine, but I still can’t imagine how she’ll break out of Chinatown completely.