The sun had sunk behind the bamboo, filling the mourning hall with a pale green light. And although Huoxian was incomparable in his recitation of the sutras, his mind was elsewhere. He thought of Yonghui. He had seen him grow up into a young man as strong as an ox. But he had been cut down without reason. What were Yonghui’s wife and little daughter to do now? Tianding had departed, leaving a lame father and an ailing mother. Even his grandmother, whose bones were as brittle as charcoal, was there kneeling with the rest of the mourners. Akang also left behind a widow and a child. The Xu clan had declined rapidly since so many of their menfolk had been conscripted. How many were left? Akang’s idiot brother would be safe from the government, but he couldn’t even feed himself. Now that Peng Shuncai was dead, his branch of the family was finished. He left no one but his elderly parents. Qingtian was gone too. He was handsome and lucky, but he had died in the war. Huoxian remembered bouncing him on his knees when he was an infant and how he had wet his trousers. He remembered how as a child Qingtian had said that he would one day read Chinese books. A man’s fate and the ways of Heaven were unpredictable.

  He asked that the wandering spirits return. He hoped that the other young men would return alive: Lin Ahuai, Qingping, Mingji, and Jiansheng. He knew his invocation was incorrect and he hoped that he had not cursed the young men. If they lived, he prayed that they would prosper; if they had died, he would summon back their spirits. His conscience was as clear as the sun and moon, but his heart was filled with hatred and rancor.

  He invited the Earth Store Bodhisattva and the lords of the ten hells to take their seats. He reminded them that they were the ones who apportion praise and blame. He urged them to allow the five young men who had been unjustly slain to ascend to heaven. He also asked them to protect the young men of Fanzai Wood who were still alive. He demanded that they punish the guilty and execute their leaders. Huoxian’s thoughts galloped on, ascending to heaven and descending again to earth.

  When he finished reciting the Sutra of the Earth Store Bodhisattva, he suddenly felt lonely and weak. All men, he felt, were drowning together in a sea of suffering. He wondered when peace would ever come. He wondered who could save the people of Fanzai Wood.

  Huoxian felt as if a huge weight were pressing down on his shoulders; his chest felt as if it were about to burst. Tears welled up in his eyes and flowed like mountain springs down his wrinkled face.

  “Huoxian is crying too,” said a child standing outside the mourning hall.

  The midnight service had ended, but Azhen remained in the mourning hall. Her parents and in-laws had to drag her home.

  Azhen’s mind stubbornly clung to the white box. Then the cock crowed and a new day began. She finally decided on a fearful course of action. She took a pair of scissors from her basket, walked out of her bedroom, opened the door, and crossed the courtyard to the mourning hall. No one was keeping vigil there. The two small oil lamps were still burning. She approached the altar and stared at the box with Yonghui’s name on it. She felt her heart fill with anger and pain, but again she controlled herself.

  She decided to open the box, to see what was really inside. If Yonghui was there, she would accompany him to the Western Paradise. If he wasn’t inside, then her doubts would be resolved and she would be able to live with more courage. She unwrapped the box with skillful hands as if she were doing something completely natural. Finally, she opened it. It was filled with the fine white sand from a riverbed or a beach. Her grandfather had been cremated, and she knew what human ashes smelled like. There were no ashes in the box.

  She sat down on the floor beside the altar, somewhat disappointed. She felt so tired and weak. The energy she had had a moment ago had vanished entirely.

  EIGHT

  •

  Sacrificial Rites

  The last fifteen kamikaze planes took off from Bamban Field at three o’clock on January 6, 1945 with an escort of five planes. What was left of the Japanese army and air force had begun their retreat. Liu Mingji and the others stationed at Bamban Field were no exception, and they were pressed into a forced march west.

  Straggling troops were everywhere, usually in bands of five or six and sometimes in groups as large as twenty or thirty. These were not formal military units but groups composed of friends and acquaintances. Mingji and Masuda found themselves in a group of twenty that gradually dwindled in size. By dark there were only seven or eight of them left. They found a half-toppled house behind a windbreak of trees. After a careful inspection, they found no evidence of booby traps inside the house or outside, so they decided to spend the night there. It had once been a two-story house and was much larger than they originally thought. They searched the house in the dark and found a package of salt in what appeared to have been the kitchen. Out back they found potable water in an open cistern.

  Masuda and Matsushita both had rifles, the only two possessed by the group. In addition, they had only about twenty rounds of ammunition between them. Masuda handed his gun to Nozawa, who, along with Matsushita, took up positions at the front and back doors. The others quickly fell into a deep sleep. Mingji had no idea how long he had been asleep when he heard the floorboards creak. He also heard voices and saw a light coming from the main room.

  “Hey, get up,” Mingji prodded Renhe with his elbow.

  “I heard them,” said Renhe.

  The two of them got up at the same time. They could clearly see that there were several people who looked like Japanese soldiers in the main room. A light was coming from upstairs as well. They woke the others and, crouching low, made their way out the back door. Matsushita and Nozawa were on the back step sound asleep—they had most likely been too scared to stand guard alone and had ended up asleep together.

  “Which way did they come in?”

  “I don’t know,” said Mingji as he woke Matsushita and Nozawa.

  Suddenly they heard voices coming from upstairs.

  “Let’s go and have a look,” said Masuda. “What is it? Some kind of poetry reading?”

  Mingji and Masuda felt their way along, followed by Matsushita. The three of them tiptoed up the wooden stairs on the outside of the house. Just as Masuda’s head reached the top of the stairs, he stopped at the sight of two stout legs through a broken window. Mingji, who was standing below Masuda, could see everything clearly through the window. Inside, sitting in the middle of what appeared to have been a bedroom, was a man sitting cross-legged on the floor, his back straight. He was a middle-aged man with a shaved head. He wore a dark green uniform, on the collar of which was affixed the insignia of a major. His gleaming buttons were undone; strangely, he seemed not to be wearing any undershirt, and his dark chest was faintly visible. His stomach was completely exposed. His belt and fly were also undone, exposing his white loincloth.

  Masuda’s legs were shaking as he reached out to grasp Mingji, apparently to get down the stairs. But Mingji did not move. As footsteps were heard below, Matsushita did not dare move either. Only then did Mingji notice that two soldiers were standing at attention in the shadows behind the major—one appeared to be a lieutenant, the other a sergeant. There were also two armed guards at the door and two others at the head of the stairs. In front of the major was spread a green army blanket, on which lay a wooden board holding two white candles and an overturned wine bottle. Also lying on the blanket was a piece of white cloth—perhaps from a parachute.

  “He’s going to commit hara-kiri,” said Mingji. “But he looks different from the way they are described in books.”

  The descriptions contained in novels glorifying hara-kiri by military men made it seem so solemn, so awesome, even holy. But obviously the major had drunk a great deal of sake, and his face was smeared with tears and snot. His wildly protruding eyes were filled with hatred. He had nothing in common with the descriptions of ancient warriors who viewed death as a return home of sorts.

  The major laughed coldly as he stroked his hairy chest. “I can’t stand it. And I’ve killed at least two dozen men with my own sword.”

  In front of the major and to his left lay an unsheathed sword, the blade of which had been wrapped with a white cloth about six inches below the tip. He was obviously meant to grasp the blade there.

  “We’ve done our share of killing here in the Pacific, ha ha.”

  There was another bottle of sake by his side that he seized and gulped down noisily. He dropped the empty bottle and it fell with a crash, striking the other empty bottle in front of him.

  “This is life? What a joke.” There seemed to be a kind of self-satisfaction in the major’s ugly laugh. “I’m a born killer, but I haven’t killed enough! And now there are no more enemies to kill. Ha ha, I can kill myself!”

  Was that the final testimony, the final speech before committing hara-kiri? Mingji’s heart burned with a fire of anger. He wasn’t afraid, but instead stared fixedly at the drama unfolding before him with the sharpness and stillness of an old eagle.

  “I’m tired, and I’m ready.” The major turned to look at the two soldiers behind him with swords slung across their backs. “You must assist me properly. Don’t be afraid.”

  “Yes, sir!” So the two subordinates were his seconds, who were responsible for cutting off his head. As Mingji realized this, shivers ran down his spine.

  Finally, the major took up the sword in front of him, holding the part wrapped in white cloth in his right hand. He rubbed his belly with his left hand. Was that to make the blade go in easier? The major turned the blade toward his belly, lowered his head to look at his belly, straightened his back, and plunged the blade in. He grimaced and gave a hoarse shout that penetrated the house and floated out into the dark night.

  The major groaned. The tip of the blade had penetrated his belly and he had cut a couple of inches to the right. His hands and the cloth around the blade were soaked with blood, as was his loincloth. He had lowered his head, and it was clear that he lacked the strength to finish.

  “Quickly, help!”

  The major was calling for help. Help? Was he expecting to be rescued? The two subordinates had drawn their swords and stood ready.

  The major gave a sharp cry and unexpectedly pulled the blade out of his stomach. He shouted again for help. The two soldiers slowly lifted their swords. They were shaking visibly; their legs and arms trembled. In the end they both swayed and dropped to their knees.

  The major was lying in a pool of blood, screaming and writhing like a wounded boar.

  “A gun! Shoot him!” shouted one of the men to the guards.

  “Yes, sir,” the four guards replied in one voice, but not one of them moved. There was no sound. The guard standing in front of Mingji seemed to be trembling so violently that it looked as if he would fall over at any second.

  Masuda suddenly rushed forward, snatched a gun from one of the guards, and shot the major.

  Bang! One of the guards had pulled the trigger. Bang! Another had shot.

  The major stopped moving at last. He seemed to heave a sigh of relief when he was shot.

  Masuda looked at the six soldiers, who were standing there numbed and motionless. Masuda turned and walked back to the stairs. Mingji could feel that his body was trembling violently. Mingji offered him his hand in support and he took it. They made their way back down the stairs. Matsushita had long since disappeared.

  “That was Major Tani Nobunari,” said Masuda, breathing heavily.

  Mingji felt dazed and confused for a while. Then he began to ponder what had transpired. It was a shock to his soul. He had never before so clearly seen a man die—an ignoble death, or better, the final despicable act of an ignoble life. He took comfort, sad as it was, in the fact that he had seen through that rose-colored fantasy, the Japanese army’s view of death as a return home. He realized that only those who hated their own lives were capable of inventing the kamikaze, that inhuman means of total destruction.

  The cherry blossoms all flower together

  and they all pass so quickly.

  That was the opium of the Japanese army. An illusory beauty given to life. In actuality it was evil and diametrically opposed to life; it was the very root of the world’s ruination. But was this evil inherent only in the Japanese army? Or was it inherent in all Japanese? Or was it something inherent in all of humanity?

  Mingji’s sense of bewilderment was tinged with sadness and a feeling of helplessness. But at the same time he experienced a sense of liberation: the brainwashing he had received in six years of primary school, two years of high school, and three years of technical school seemed to slide away. He felt contempt for his past illusions, and his own certitude at that moment made him more self-assured. He no longer felt he had to be defensive about the contempt shown to the Taiwanese by the Japanese. The tables had turned now.

  At daybreak, Masuda divided the salt among the men. He told each of them to look after themselves.

  They ended up joining the exodus southward. It was blind flight—they decided the enemy had landed in the north, so they headed south. Yet they were all aware that the enemy had long ago landed at Batangas, and since then Manila had perhaps fallen. If that was the case, weren’t they throwing themselves into the very maw of death? But if they didn’t go south, where were they to go? Eventually the scattered troops formed bands. The group led by Mingji and Masuda grew to sixty; even the half dozen men who had been with them at the beginning stayed with them.

  They stuck to the main road, foraging for provisions as they hurried south. Near Tarlac, they realized that they were back on the road to Bamban Field. Dead Japanese soldiers lay all along it. A few had been shot, but the majority had had their throats slit or their heads staved in.

  “The guerrillas must have done this!”

  Only Masuda and Masushita had guns; the rest had bayonets that they had picked up along the road. There were swords, but they found them too cumbersome. If they met with a well-armed band of guerrillas, they would be finished.

  They decided to change their route and head directly southeast to San Fernando and in that way avoid Calumpit, which might be in the hands of the Americans, and avoid crossing the Pampanga River. From San Fernando they would turn north along Highway 2 and again avoid running into the Americans. It seemed the best route, based upon hearsay and their own estimates of the situation.

  They were all intent upon getting home; none of them wanted to die in a foreign land. This fervent wish soon took control of the hearts and minds of all the men.

  “Remember, never abandon the hope that you will return home,” Mingji told one and all, “for only with that hope will you have the determination to go on.”

  They crossed an open plain and decided that San Fernando could not be far off. In the hope of lessening casualties, they divided into two bands during the day and regrouped at night.

  As the sun set, the wind picked up and rain began to fall. They were just entering the rainy season. They didn’t know if the rain would continue the whole night, so Mingji decided to look for a sheltered place to rest. They entered a bamboo forest. It was dark and gloomy. Mingji recalled the bamboo groves of Fanzai Wood.

  “Mingji! Are you looking for mushrooms, or what?” Chen chided him in their Hakka dialect.

  Chen’s words reminded him of something his mother might say. He slipped into a reverie, but soon was brought back to himself by a sense of lurking danger.

  Suddenly they heard a gunshot.

  “Guerrillas!”

  The gunfire increased.

  “Give up! Give up!” shouted a group of guerrillas, rushing them.

  The only idea Mingji had was to flee. With all his strength, he ran, he jumped, he fled. Soon the shouting and gunshots were left far behind. Suddenly he found himself on level ground, in a garden of ferns and jasmine.

  There were many others there; some he recognized, others he did not. But they had all succeeded in fleeing their captors. They were all exhausted and lay down to rest near a huge rock. They woke after the sun had risen high in the sky. They went back to search the bamboo forest for their companions who might still be alive but found only eight bodies, including Chen’s.

  Chen had taken a bullet through the throat, which had broken his neck. Matsushita had also been shot several times, and the back of his head had been bashed in. As they picked him up, gray brain matter fell out of his opened skull. Masuda ordered them to place the bodies in the garden where they had spent the previous night. Mingji picked some jasmine flowers and placed them on the breasts of each of his companions.

  “What are we to keep as a remembrance of them?” asked Masuda.

  “Sir! Their ashes would be best.”

  Masuda considered the situation for a while. He ordered half the men to collect firewood and the other half to arrange the bodies in a row and dig a hole for each body. A great deal of firewood was collected, and one man even found a can of gas.

  “Fall in in two ranks!” ordered Masuda. “Let the service begin!”

  A huge fire was soon leaping, giving a red cast to everyone’s face. Chen’s eyes were wide open, and regardless of how he tried, Mingji couldn’t close them. They remained wide open and glaring.

  “Close your eyes, Chen. I’ll take you home,” said Mingji.

  “Mingji, fall in. We are all waiting for you.”

  It was a simple yet solemn ceremony. After Mingji had taken his place, Masuda took over.

  “Attention!”

  “Salute!”

  “We pray that you will be happy in the next world. Three minutes of silence.”

  In the end, Mingji wept. At first he had thought it impossible. He thought of all their quarrels and of Chen’s father, the village headman. He didn’t want to cry, but he couldn’t stop. He quit trying and let his tears fall, sobbing quietly.