Nanjing Requiem Read Free Page A

warnings lately that people tended to ignore the first signal. But at this point the second siren—shorter but more rapid—began howling, meaning you must take cover. More people were hustling away. As Searle and I were going out the front entrance of our college, explosions thundered in the residential area about a mile away to the east, near West Flower Gate, in the old Manchu city now inhabited by the poor. Pillars of whitish smoke were rising over there while a couple of antiaircraft guns roared, shells bursting in the air like black blossoms.
    “Let’s get into that,” I said, leading Searle to a dugout nearby. A hail of flak fragments was rustling through the treetops and pelting the roofs. A handful landed at our feet, raising dust.
    Inside the cellar some women held babies in their arms, with toddlers sitting next to them. A mother yelled at her children to stop them from peeking out. Two old men seated on folding stools were battling over a chessboard in a corner lit by a bean oil lamp as if this were their regular haunt and they’d been at the game for hours. A smell like deep-fried fish hung in the air.
    When Searle and I sat down, I told him about the women seated around us: “They’re so used to the raids now. In the beginning they wouldn’t dare to let out a peep in here, believing the planes had a device that could detect conversations down below.”
    Searle chortled, then said, “It’s despicable to keep bombing the residential areas. I’m going to file a complaint with the Japanese embassy.”
    “Those pilots must enjoy dumping bombs on civilians,” I said. “The bastards, they should know this is a war crime.”
    “If Japan loses this war, some of them will be brought to trial, I’m sure.”
    Uncertain about the outcome of the war, I didn’t say another word. I turned to watch an old woman stitching a cloth sole with an awl and a flaxen thread, a piece of adhesive tape wrapped around the tip of her forefinger.
    A minute later Searle remarked, “So only the old, the young, and women are here.”
    I didn’t respond, knowing that some foreigners had their doubts about the Chinese, especially the elite and the educated among us. Most of those people were gone. But why would so many of them flee upriver with the national government or to the other interior regions? Why wouldn’t they join the army, if not to fight in the trenches, then at least to help bolster the troops’ morale or to look after the wounded and the sick? This war seemed to be fought by only the poor and the weak. That point neither my husband nor I could dispute. These days I hadn’t been able to drive out of my mind the vision of recruits I often encountered in town. Many of them were merely teenage boys from the countryside, emaciated and illiterate, who could hardly fend for themselves. They were sent to the front as nothing but cannon fodder.
    After the all-clear siren, Searle rode away, and I headed for the Administration Building. As I approached it, I saw Minnie talking with Big Liu at the entrance. Liu was six foot two and hulking like a basketball player retired long ago. I went over and greeted them.
    Big Liu was asking permission for his family to move to our campus. Minnie had been studying classical Chinese with him since last spring and trusted him, so she granted his request. I was glad, because Big Liu was levelheaded and resourceful, knew English, and had taught Chinese to foreigners for many years. It would be good to have him around.
    “Thank you, Miss Vautrin,” Big Liu said in a ringing voice.
    “Just call me Minnie,” she reminded him.
    “Minnie,” he said with a straight face.
    We all laughed. Most people in Nanjing called Minnie “Principal Vautrin,” a form of address that seemed to discomfit her a little, though she wouldn’t object if a stranger called her that.
    Then Minnie hit upon an idea, and blinking her large brown eyes, she said to Big Liu, “Why don’t you work for us? Our