Nerves of Steel

Chapter 1 Big Feet, Big Luck

My mother was born in 1927, a year that marked the beginning of nearly a quarter century of invasion and war in China. When Mother was born, my grandfather, Hu Han-Ji [1], was a young lieutenant colonel in Fujian among the ranks of the warlord Guo [1], a supporter of Chiang Kai-shek.[1] Chiang had recruited Guo’s forces to fight the Communists who had retreated to the neighboring province of Jiangxi. The survivors of a bloody purge themselves, the Communists had witnessed the deaths of thousands of their members and sympathizers in Shanghai in March of that year — all at the hands of Chiang.

My grandfather was twenty-four when Mother was born, while my grandmother just eighteen. He was tall and handsome; she was petite and delicate. My grandmother grew up in a faraway village that spoke a different dialect. When she married my grandfather and entered into the Hu family, she couldn’t speak or understand a word they said. That became less of an issue, however, as time went on and she lost contact with her own family. Soon she devoted herself wholeheartedly to her husband and his household.

When I was a child, I once asked Grandma what her parents were like. Oh, my father owned a candy store in Guaihua, and I have an older brother, she said softly, her eyes brimming with nostalgia. She remembered her childhood fondly. Her father was relatively well-to-do by that village’s standards, while she, being the first girl to be born into the extended family in years, was greatly loved and doted on.

Grandma even escaped the horrible tradition of feet-binding, which was prevalent during her youth. Too painful, she shivered. She told me that she ran away the first time she saw the ten-foot strips of cloth that were used to bind little girls’ feet. (For centuries in China, big or liberated feet were considered a problem for young women seeking suitable mates. To prevent further growth, mothers would use the cloth to bind the feet of their girls, when the girls were just two years old. The mothers would wind the cloth around the feet, bending all of the toes, except for the big toe, inward and under the sole.) Fortunately for Grandma, her parents could not bear to subject her to such cruelty. Though some relatives worried that she might not find a well-born or well-off suitor, Great-Grandfather would always say, In that case, she will stay with us all her life. Of course, that didn’t happen — and as luck would have it, the wicked old tradition was finally banned in 1912.

Grandma’s marriage to Grandpa was quite arbitrary, however. According to the usual custom, she did not actually meet her betrothed until her wedding day. Legend has it that my great-grandfather devised an elaborate plan to find a suitable bride for his son. First, he contacted a well-known matchmaker to gather the BaZi [2]— that is, the birth dates and vital statistics — of five young women from respectable families, and recorded this information on red sheets of paper. Then at night, before going out to play mahjong, Great-Grandfather would place a random BaZi on the mantle in his home. If he lost, the young woman would be eliminated, and her BaZi politely returned. But if he won, he would record the score and set the BaZi aside.

Great-Grandfather planned on playing mahjong until he encountered a winning score that would satisfy him. As it turned out, he did not have to play for long — on the third night, he won fabulously. Grandma’s BaZi had brought him incredible luck, and she was soon ushered into the Hu family at the tender age of seventeen.

Chapter 2 Crossroads

One year after their wedding, my grandmother gave birth to their first child, my mother. The baby was born four weeks premature. Being a first-time mother at so young an age, and away from her own parents, you can imagine how frightened my young grandmother must have been at the sight of her listless, tiny newborn. People used to tell me, ‘If this baby can survive, smoked fish would swim,’ Grandma told me more than once.

Despite the discouraging prognosis, my grandparents did not give up. Their sheer determination and fierce love kept my mother alive in those first days of her life. Not only did she survive, she thrived. Although my grandparents were proud of their success as new parents, my great-grandfather was a traditional man with feudal values. Like many Chinese at the time, he had hoped for a grandson to carry on the family name, especially since my grandfather was his only son. A male descendant could not be over emphasized. Out of utter disappointment, my great-grandfather said to name my mother Zhao Di, which means to bring along a little brother.

Without a moment’s hesitation, my grandfather looked his own father in the eye and rejected that name. Father, all my children will be treated the same, he said proudly as he cradled my mom in his arms. I will treasure them regardless of their gender. Shi Ming [3] will be her name. (Shi means hope, and Ming means bright or light.) I wish her a bright future.

I think my mother was told about the origin and meaning of her name at an early age. She truly grasped the significance of her father’s wish for her; in fact, her relentless pursuit of excellence throughout her life has been a worthy testament to her name.

My grandfather gave my grandmother a gift as a token of gratitude for giving him a daughter: a pair of exquisite 24-carat gold bangles, linked by a slender chain bearing intricate designs. These concave motifs displayed small cherry blossoms threaded along a curved vine. A famed jeweler had crafted the piece with pride. Grandfather’s loving gesture elicited some talk among the Hu clan. It was unheard of for a husband to buy gifts for his wife when she had given birth to a girl. What was he thinking? Yet, my grandpa was different. He was clearly a man ahead of his time.

In spite of his lack of formal education, Grandpa was an effective strategist. He made great progress in fighting the Communists and their peasant supporters, the Reds. These people were known for appearing and vanishing like phantoms in the mountainous countryside between Fujian and Jianxi.

One day, Grandpa received a piece of credible intelligence that Mao [4] and his top advisors would be meeting at a campground somewhere in the western part of Fujian. Upon hearing this, Grandpa called together his men. They immediately mounted their horses and set forth to capture Mao. When they arrived, they were greeted by a smoldering campfire, but Mao was nowhere to be found. A half-eaten bun and an overturned bowl of leftover porridge were telltale signs that Mao and his people had been there and left in a hurry. When my Uncle James told me this story, I couldn’t help but think that had Grandfather succeeded in capturing Mao, the entire history of China’s recent times would have been rewritten.

Yet, only after a few years in the military, Grandpa forfeited his seemingly promising career. He was devastated by the killings of his countrymen, and bemoaned the future fate of China. Kuo Ming Tong’s (KMT) erratic leadership and the rampant corruption amid its ranks also aggravated him to no end. After Guo, his superior, was kidnapped and executed — not by the enemy but by Chiang, himself — my grandpa had had enough and quit in disgust. Guo, along with many others, had pled with Chiang to stop persecuting the Communists and urged him to unite with them to fight the imminent Japanese invasion. However, Chiang viewed Communists as his greatest threat and would kill anyone who suggested otherwise. Scores of scholars and scientists — China’s best and brightest — were eliminated by Chiang indiscriminately. Chiang invited Guo to attend a high-level meeting, which was only a guise to lure Guo in. Chiang sent out his own private plane to pick up Guo as a gesture of sincerity. Guo brought his beloved Great Dane, Lai-Fu, up to the plane. Though the dog was known to accompany his master everywhere (even onto battlefields), for some reason Lai-Fu refused to board the plane, barking furiously while trying desperately to drag Guo away. Perhaps he sensed the danger ahead and was trying to warn his master. Of course, Guo left without his dog and met his tragic fate. Furious and heartbroken, Grandpa took in Lai-Fu after he was left to wander the streets at night, wailing and howling over the loss of his master. Lai-Fu stayed with my grandparents in the following years and became a loyal companion and guardian of my mother and her siblings until his eventual death some ten years later.

By the fall of 1928, China was officially united for the first time since the fall of the Qing Dynasty sixteen years earlier. Yet internal conflicts continued to fester. Chiang obstinately held onto his power in Shanghai with the aid of foreign powers and the support from the infamous underworld Green Gang. The north remained under the control of warlords, some of which had signed peace agreements with the Japanese in order to retain their own power. In Ting Zhou, my grandfather’s hometown in Fujian, the Reds modeled themselves after the Soviet Communists by implementing an earnest land reform. Overnight, poor peasants were mobilized to demand land, while people who had owned property were forced into hiding and running for their lives. Great-Grandfather’s house was besieged by Red guards with red armbands. They ransacked his home and destroyed all the furniture. Various household items, including clothes and shoes, were tossed out the windows recklessly. All hell broke loose. Since Grandpa had worked under Chiang’s KMT at one time, he feared for his family’s safety. With no other alternative, he took Grandmother and Mother with him as he left his hometown for Shanghai. Mother was only a toddler.

I never did find out what Grandpa did during his sojourn in Shanghai. I was told that he tried to start some kind of business, but, exactly what, no one seemed to know. One thing was for sure: he didn’t stay in Shanghai for too long. Japan attacked Shanghai in 1932 and killed thousands of people that lived in the Chinese-controlled sections of the city. The Foreign Settlements were somehow spared from the violence and chaos.

Grandpa gathered together whatever he could salvage from his venture in Shanghai and moved with his family back to Gulangyu. It was a picturesque island near the coastal city of Amoy in Fujian. He tried to dabble in a few other business ventures, but none of them panned out. He nearly used up all of his savings. In the ensuing years came three more children: my Aunt Grace, Uncle James, and Uncle Henry. My mother was sent to the best elementary school where she excelled in every subject. Her art teacher often took the whole class on trips to the beach to sketch the scenery. Golden suns and shimmering seas filled their sketch pads, sometimes augmented with seagulls in flight and fishing boats with oil-cloth sails. A black-and-white photo of Mom during that time shows a bright-eyed girl with a missing front tooth, her dark hair in windblown disarray. Sandy shores and ocean breezes did wonders for my mother, and her health improved. As her tan deepened and her cheeks filled out, she grew stronger.

One day, Mother’s class took the ferry across the bay to Amoy for a day trip. Along the way, Mother caught a beautiful butterfly. Delighted, she couldn’t wait to put it in a bottle and present the specimen for her science class. Just then, the butterfly flew away into a garden that belonged to the British Embassy. In those days, many major cities in China, such as Amoy, had a strong foreign presence. The prime real estate had been on loan to foreign powers. Britain, the United States, France, Germany and Japan all had their imposing buildings surrounded by wire fences and 24-hour guards. Their oversized flags fluttered in the wind, flaunting their power and exerting their influence. The Chinese were treated like second-class citizens on their own soil.

As my mother approached the tall iron gate guarding the British Embassy, a dark-faced, turbaned Indian guard rushed toward her while gesturing for her to go away. Young as she was, that incident made an indelible impression on her. I suspect her lifelong sense of justice and fervent patriotism took root on that very day.

My grandpa believed in paying special attention to the eldest child, often saying, When the firstborn is on track, the younger ones will follow. Mother benefited a great deal from his philosophy. Grandpa took it upon himself to give her calligraphy lessons before she went to school every morning. At the first break of dawn, Grandpa would unfurl long scrolls of rice paper on the table, weigh the four corners down with his crystal paperweights, and wash and fill the ink wells with fresh ink. Once everything was ready, two brushes made of wolf hair, one big and one small, were dipped in ink ready to go. After a bowl of porridge, Mother would climb up on her chair topped with two cushions to begin her daily practice, often with her father sitting nearby. The image of Mother seated with legs dangling, brows furrowed, and her small body hunched forward concentrating intently on the task at hand was a childhood memory that my aunt and uncles never forgot. Practicing calligraphy was hard work. It was not easy for a young child to leave a warm quilt on early cold mornings. Plus Grandpa was a demanding teacher: a sloppy stroke or a weak dot might invite a smack on the back of her hand. Yet, my mother never complained; more than anything, she lived for her father’s praises. Grandpa’s encouragement and Mom’s desire to please him propelled her to achieve her goals throughout her life, often under seemingly impossible situations.

Chapter 3 Pay Attention to the Details

Japan’s ambition to conquer China was imminent. While Chiang focused on the internal chaos of China, Japan took advantage of the turmoil and quickly marched in. In 1931, they occupied Manchuria, the northeastern regions of China and set up puppet governments immediately. The rest of China watched in horror as their leader, Chiang, did nothing.

In 1932, the Japanese seized the opportunity created by China’s vast divisions and attacked Shanghai. The Japanese arrogantly thought Shanghai would fall into their hands in a matter of days, but the courageous men of the Chinese 19th Route Army(十九陸軍) made extraordinary sacrifices, sustained heavy casualties andsaved Shanghai from falling into enemy hands. However, Japan would try again a few years later and, as history tells us, China would not be so lucky this time.

From 1932 to 1938, my mother and her family were relatively safe in Gulangyu until Amoy finally fell to the Japanese. Day and night, my mother heard the ceaseless explosions of detonating bombs and smelled the acrid stench of war. When the siren sounded, she would grab my Uncle Henry, swing him over her back, and dash toward the shelter — a windowless cave where they sometimes remained for hours. Then the time came when the University of Amoy, where my grandfather had found employment, decided to evacuate to Ting Zhou, his ancestral home. He volunteered to coordinate the move and asked my grandmother to take the children and leave first. She stayed up all night, trying to secure tickets for her family. Her petite frame pushed and shoved, dodged bags, baskets, and frantic people that were all converging toward the station for one single purpose — to flee the town. Grandma climbed up to the ticket counter for tickets, while my mother and her siblings huddled together amid the relentless bursts of exploding bombs throughout Amoy. Finally, the over-crowded bus struggled down the dirt road toward Ting Zhou. Grandma made her children close their eyes, as she did not want them to witness the horrific sight of mangled corpses with missing limbs scattered along the roadside.

After six or seven arduous hours, the refugees finally reached their destination. My grandma was relieved to see their old house in relatively good shape, even though all the furniture was gone. She had no idea what she would find, since she had been away for nearly ten years; the last time she had seen the house was when the poor peasants had taken over. Now, it had stood vacant since 1934, when the Reds had left to join Mao’s Long March. Right away, she began offering rooms to other refugees, keeping only one for her own family.

Soon, Grandfather arrived with the staff and professors of Amoy University. They settled in quickly and classes resumed. My father’s house had also been converted into a shelter for the refugees. My paternal grandfather offered the best rooms to the esteemed professors of Amoy University and refused to receive any kind of compensation: It is an honor to have so many scholars under one roof. It wouldn’t have happened had it not been for the war. So these former class enemies, the land and property owners, had all risen to the occasion and extended their hands to help without hesitation.

My mother transferred to Longshan Elementary School and started her sixth grade. Soon, she would meet my father, who also happened to be her neighbor. Earlier that year, my father’s mother had died of a rare disease. My father’s three-year-old brother had been inconsolable since her death. He would cry constantly, and was so depressed that he would not eat or sleep for days. Only my dad could persuade him to eat a little. For that reason, my paternal grandfather decided to take my father out of school to care for his younger brother. Every day, my dad would hear my mother and her siblings talking and laughing on their way to school, and he yearned to join their company.

When autumn came, Dad was finally allowed back to school, where he and my mother became classmates. My father kept his distance at first, as he was fascinated by this brilliant new girl. She was highly intelligent, fiercely competitive, and exceedingly strong in every subject. She seemed to know a lot and had seen a lot of the world — unlike him, a provincial boy who had never ventured outside of his own town. My father’s admiration for Mother went up another notch after he attended her solo calligraphy exhibition. On the day of her exhibit, Mother wore a slightly starched and ironed white shirt, which she had made herself, and a simple black skirt with pleats. Her thick dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail. The larger pieces of her work hung on the walls, while scrolls of her smaller work were displayed on tables. Everyone lingered in front of her pieces, their mouths agape in awe. No one could believe the graceful calligraphy was the work of an eleven-year-old. Mother stood by the entrance of the classroom and thanked everyone for coming. Her proud gaze and sanguine smile were forever etched in my father’s memory.

Mother was also a natural leader. She organized anti-Japanese rallies under the guidance of the now-exiled students of Amoy University, and often wrote her own scripts for these gatherings. When her team arrived at Shi-Tong Street, a main drag in downtown, everyone would form a large circle and sing patriotic songs. When the crowd gathered, Mother would be the first to jump up on a bench and give impromptu nationalistic speeches, often overcome by her own emotions.Her teacher appointed her to be the team captain; it was her job to get up early every morning to gather her classmates to march for the daily parade, leading the group to sing and shout patriotic slogans. All this time, my dad admired her from afar. He saw her every day, but was too shy to even introduce himself.

It was the winter of 1939, and both of my future parents had just passed the entrance exam to go to Ting Zhou High School. School had closed early that day for students to study for their finals. My mother took her books and was studying in the alley when she saw my dad wandering by. He was frustrated over some math problem and had walked outside to get some fresh air. He was surprised to see my mother; afraid that he might have been intruding, he turned quickly to leave. My mother stopped him and kindly asked, How is it going? Are you prepared for the exams?

My father couldn’t bring himself to look at her directly. I don’t have problems with writing, he stammered, but math is difficult.

My mother offered some advice: Remember the formulas and don’t forget to go over the examples. Pay attention to details. That, according to my dad, was the first time they ever spoke. That night, my father finally summoned up the courage to accompany my mother home.

Chapter 4 Under the Grapevine

Ting Zhou was a