Gregory graduated from middle school in 1950. Under Father’s instruction, he and Edgar went by train to Tianjin and had some western-style suits custom-made by Uncle Pierre’s tailor. Travel in those days was still free and easy. They left Tianjin by boat for Hong Kong with their new clothes. Three weeks later, they were sent to England for further studies.
James remained at school for another year during which Aunt Baba lavished loving care on him. The maids were told to cook his favourite dishes. He took expensive riding lessons, entertained his friends at home and went on excursions to neighbouring cities. Gallant and witty, he proved a good companion to my aunt. They often read Ye Ye’s letters together and James was coaxed into writing weekly to Father and sometimes to Ye Ye as well. He enjoyed considerable freedom in Shanghai; so much so that when word came from Father for him to leave for Hong Kong in 1951 he was reluctant to go. Aunt Baba pleaded James’s case with Ye Ye but to no avail. Ye Ye replied that the two of them must have taken leave of their senses. He thought it unwise to even show their letter to Father.
By the time James left in July 1951, travelling restrictions had tightened. Accompanied by Third Uncle, Frederick (our own dead mother’s youngest brother), they travelled by train to Canton. A special pass was needed to cross the border into Hong Kong which they lacked. They were finally smuggled across in a leaky boat in the dead of night. Luck was with them and they sailed peacefully into Hong Kong harbour. Back in Shanghai Aunt Baba was now left alone with the two maids and Miss Chien.
CHAPTER 8
Yi Shi Tong Ren
Extend the Same Treatment to All
Father and Niang took me north to Tianjin in September 1948 at the height of the Civil War. Province after province was being lost to the victorious Red Army. Most people were fleeing in the opposite direction.
Following the collapse of the Kuomintang army in Manchuria, refugees were arriving at the rate of 600 a day, bringing with them pestilence and squalour. Tianjin’s population swelled by 10 per cent within a matter of months. City services, already desperately strained, simply could not cope. Soon the refugees were kept out by force and housed in primitive camps. Dysentery was rife.
Against this backdrop Niang enrolled me as a boarder at St Joseph’s. There were only about a hundred pupils left. I was one of four boarders; the rest were day girls. Classes were sporadic because attendance was erratic. Over the next few weeks, the number of girls dwindled. Soon we were gathered together into one classroom, ranging in age from seven to eighteen. No Chinese was spoken during school hours. Indeed, while I was there, no Chinese was taught at the school. We had to converse with each other in English or French.
I was miserable. Chinese had been the language of instruction at my primary school in Shanghai. English was a second language; French was never taught. I was lonely and longed to return to Aunt Baba, James and my friends in Shanghai. I poured out my wretchedness in long letters, begging for a few kind words from home. Day after day I waited expectantly for my name to be called when mail was distributed. No letter ever came. I did not know of my parents’ instructions to the nuns that I was to receive no visitors, no phone calls and no mail.
Sealed in a hermetic world behind convent gates, I was totally unaware that meanwhile the Communists, having captured Manchuria, were sweeping past the Great Wall and moving steadily towards Beijing and Tianjin. Kuomintang and Communist troops fought pitched battles for the control of North China. Many students and their families fled to Taiwan and Hong Kong. Formal classes were abandoned. We spent our time reading English books of our choice. I steeped myself in the English–Chinese dictionary. During an informal conversation class one day, our teacher asked us each to name one favourite book. Everyone laughed when I said mine was the dictionary. And if I could have one wish granted what would it be? To receive a letter addressed to me. Just one letter. From anyone.
More and more girls left the school as the Communist armies approached. Inside St Joseph’s there were no more farewell parties. Girls simply failed to appear at class. The nuns seemed distraught and preoccupied. They were being advised by their superiors in France to leave Tianjin and save themselves from persecution.
I spent every Sunday and every holiday by myself in the school, including Christmas and New Year. All the other boarders would go home to their families. I was not allowed to accept any invitation from my friends. The nuns did not know what to do with me. I wandered like a ghost from classroom to classroom, spending much time reading fairy tales in the library. My memory of that Christmas is sitting by myself in the enormous refectory, eating ham, potatoes and plum pudding and pretending I hadn’t a care in the world. Outside, I could hear the sweet refrain of ‘Silent Night’ piercing the air as I stoically avoided the solicitous glances of kindly Sister Hélène, rushing in and out while I ate my Christmas dinner alone.
On 31 January 1949, victorious Communist troops marched into Beijing without a shot being fired. Next day Fu Tso-I, the Nationalist general, surrendered with all his armies and rich military supplies. He was rewarded with the post of Minister of Water Conservation of the People’s Republic. Tianjin was taken by the Communist general, Lin Biao, about the same time.
My eldest sister, Lydia, was actually living in Tianjin with her husband Samuel and his parents during the time I was incarcerated in the convent. They neither visited nor enquired after me. When they fled from the Communists to Taiwan in January 1949, they left me behind without having made contact.
Day after day I sat alone in the library wondering what was to become of me. My school routine had disappeared. There were no more classes and every day was a ‘free’ day. My teachers appeared at a loss as to how to educate one solitary child who spoke little English or French. The mood at the convent was one of barely controlled panic, relieved only by Roman Catholic rituals.
Suddenly one morning Niang’s elder sister, Aunt Reine, appeared in the lobby of my school. I was overjoyed because I had had no visitors since my admission. Though we hardly knew each other, I wept when I saw her. She was preparing to leave Tianjin with her husband and two children when she remembered that I was stranded at St Joseph’s. On her own initiative and without consulting anyone, she took me out of school.
Tianjin had just been liberated. On the streets, I saw Communist soldiers dressed in padded winter uniforms and peaked caps. They were removing sandbags, pill boxes and fortifications set up by the Nationalists to block the passage of enemy vehicles and troops. Recently melted snow had reduced the sandbags to muddy blobs. The streets were eerily quiet. There was hardly any traffic. We walked the short distance to Father’s two houses on Shandong Road.
Everything was strange and baffling to me that day, not least being back in the home where I had stored away a bank of fond memories. There I met Uncle Jean Schilling (who worked for the United Nations) and their two children, Victor and Claudine. I was shy but they were kind and made me feel at ease. Victor, who was my age, invited me to play in his room. We made paper airplanes and flew them all over the house. Aunt Reine, noting my tongue-tied nervousness, placed her arm around me and whispered, ‘Don’t worry, I will yi shi tond ren (extend the same treatment to all) three of you.’
Over dinner Uncle Jean explained that my parents were in Hong Kong and we were to join them as soon as possible. The day before, Communist soldiers had attempted to enter and commandeer Father’s two houses to use as General Lin Biao’s temporary headquarters. Uncle Jean raised the United Nations flag to protect the houses and prevent them from being occupied by force.
At that time, all Niang’s relatives were living in Father’s Tianjin houses. Her mother had passed away. Lao Lao, her unmarried Chinese aunt, was living with Niang’s older brother Pierre in the ‘old’ house, together with a skeleton office staff. Pierre was still the managing director of Father’s Tianjin businesses but was soon to flee to Morocco. Reine and her family lived in the ‘new’ house. Father had sent the youngest brother, Jacques, to Paris and was finan
cing his education at the Sorbonne.
A few days later, the Schilling family and I boarded a ship for Hong Kong.
The island of Hong Kong ( Fragrant Harbour) was ceded to the British in perpetuity after China’s defeat during the First Opium War in 1842. At the conclusion of the Second Opium War (1858–60), Britain was ‘given’ the tip of the peninsula of Kowloon, south of Boundary Street, as her permanent possession. In 1898, Britain made further demands and extracted a ninety-nine-year lease on the rest of the Kowloon peninsula north of Boundary Street. This area was known as the New Territories and was to be returned to China on 1 July 1997.
Aunt Reine had succeeded in smuggling Niang’s diamonds out of Tianjin. She covered the stones with cloth and sewed them as buttons on to her winter coat. The unveiling was dramatic. As each precious gem escaped from Reine’s scissored fingers to glitter magnificently on the coffee table, Niang became so overjoyed that her mood lifted noticeably and my unexpected presence did not cause the immediate fury I had anticipated.
Father, Niang, Ye Ye, Franklin and Susan were living in a rented second-floor flat on Boundary Street in Kowloon, across the street from Maryknoll Convent School. In 1949, this British colony was a far cry from the bustle and sophistication of Shanghai; nor did it have the tradition and culture of Tianjin. It was a sleepy, tidy, rather provincial city with clean streets, bright red double-decker buses, orderly traffic and a magnificent harbour. Cantonese was the prevailing tongue. English was spoken only at first-class hotels like the Peninsula.
Day after day Niang took the Schilling family sightseeing in the chauffeur-driven car. I was left behind with Ye Ye and the servants. Politely, Niang would ask Ye Ye whether he wished to accompany them. He always declined. I was never invited. It was automatically assumed that the excursions did not include me.
Secretly I was very pleased. It was wonderful to be with my Ye Ye. I accompanied him on short walks. His eyes were failing and I read the newspapers to him every morning. We played Chinese chess and he would generously swap me a horse (knight) for a chariot (castle). These games were competitive and he seemed to enjoy them, analysing the end result regardless of who won or lost. He told me stories from Legends of the Three Kingdoms, accompanying the tales with snatches of Chinese opera when he was in a good mood. He taught me the magic and mystery hidden in many Chinese characters, illustrating them with brilliant examples which filled me with wonder and delight. Once he pointed out that the words (business) held the secret to all the riches in the world. means buy, means sell,’ he said. ‘The two words are identical except for the symbol (dirt or land) on top of sell. The essence of (business) is buy–sell; and its most important ingredient is (dirt or land). Always remember this.’ Often we would just sit quietly together, content to be in each other’s company, with Ye Ye peacefully smoking his pipe.
At Sunday breakfast, Niang suggested that we all have lunch at the luxurious Repulse Bay Hotel on Hong Kong Island. Everyone piled into Father’s large car. It was a very tight squeeze. I was the only one left behind, standing forlornly at the kerb with the servants.
Victor spoke up. ‘It’s not fair, Maman,’ he said to Aunt Reine in French. ‘Why does Adeline never get to go anywhere with us?’
Impatient to depart, and not understanding French, Father asked Victor in English, ‘Do you need to use the bathroom?’
Niang interrupted in French, ‘Adeline does not get to go because the car is too crowded. There is no room.’
‘Then what about yesterday and the day before, and the day before that?’ Victor demanded in French.
‘Get in the car, Victor!’ Aunt Reine ordered. ‘You’re delaying everything. You can see there’s not enough room in the car today.’
‘It’s just not fair,’ Victor persisted. ‘Why is she always the one left behind?’
‘Because that’s the way it is,’ Niang exclaimed rather sharply in French. ‘You either come with us now or you can stay home with her.’
‘In that case I think I’ll keep Adeline company.’ Victor climbed out of the Studebaker and stood by my side as the car drove away. I have never forgotten his chivalry.
Uncle Jean and his family soon left for Geneva, where he was being posted by the United Nations.
Father had rented an office on Ice House Street in the main business district on Hong Kong Island, known simply as Central. Every morning, the chauffeur drove him to the Star Ferry terminal for the seven-minute boat ride across Victoria Harbour from Kowloon to Hong Kong. Once there, it was a short walk to his office.
Father quickly adapted to business life in the British colony. First he set up a flourishing import–export company. Then he astutely traded in stocks, commodities and foreign currencies. He launched a property company, Mazman, which was later listed on the Hong Kong stock exchange. Mazman bought choice pieces of land at government auctions and built residential units as well as industrial buildings. He obtained the right to dispose of the loose gravel, stones and earth when Stubbs Road was lengthened and widened through the heart of Hong Kong’s exclusive ‘Mid-levels’ location, halfway between the Harbour and the Peak. He created a temporary quarry and sold the excavated materials to eager builders. He became a member of many of the most prestigious clubs in Hong Kong and was known as a successful entrepreneur from Shanghai.
Father and Niang rose to prominence among the small westernized circle of Hong Kong’s high society. In those days few Chinese businessmen spoke English or felt at ease among westerners. In contrast, Father and Niang were comfortable in both worlds.
Elegant and photogenic, Niang was no stranger to the society columns of local newspapers and magazines. She employed a famous illiterate chef from the Park Hotel in Shanghai who carried all the recipes in his head and reputedly knew one hundred different ways of preparing chicken. Spectacular dinners were held at home. Invitations were treasured because of the quality of the food and Niang’s cosmopolitan guest list. During these parties, Ye Ye and we stepchildren (on those occasions when we were home) were never mentioned or introduced. It was understood that we should keep ourselves hidden in our rooms, and not embarrass anyone by our presence, especially when there were westerners.
Two days after the departure of the Schilling family, Niang ordered me to pack my belongings. I was being taken away.
I remember that Saturday afternoon with vivid clarity. Father was at the office. Susan was attending a birthday party. Ye Ye was taking his afternoon nap. Niang, Franklin and I sat side by side in the Studebaker behind the chauffeur. The car was saturated with the scent of Niang’s expensive perfume, making me dizzy with premonition.
To my amazement, the car stopped in front of the elegant Peninsula Hotel. Apparently, Franklin fancied afternoon tea. Inside the cool, high-ceilinged lobby-restaurant, elegantly decorated with potted palms, whirring overhead fans and rattan furniture, I sat gingerly in a large bamboo chair. A chamber orchestra struck up the ‘Blue Danube’ waltz. Franklin wanted an ice-cream sundae and Niang ordered finger sandwiches while I nervously scanned the extensive menu. A wave of nausea seized me. I longed to escape to the bathroom but sat glued to my seat, wondering if she was about to carry out her threat to abandon me in an orphanage. Was this to be my last meal before her coup de grâce?
Niang’s piercing voice suddenly interrupted my gloomy thoughts. ‘Adeline!’ she was saying impatiently. ‘You can order anything you want, understand? But do hurry up!’
CHAPTER 9
Ren Jie Di Ling
Inspired Scholar in an Enchanting Land
The Sacred Heart Convent School and Orphanage, run by the sisters of Canossa from Italy, was situated on Caine Road, Hong Kong Island, perched at Mid-levels facing the sea. After crossing the harbour by ferry from Kowloon later that afternoon, our car climbed past the dense financial Central district where Father had his office, upwards towards the Peak Tram Terminal. Immediately below the Botanical Gardens, we turned right by the Governor’s Mansion with its white uniformed sentries and lush
green lawn, travelling westwards for half a mile before stopping directly outside the Convent’s narrow entrance to the north. A flight of steep stone steps led up to the courtyard lobby where, after a short wait, we were greeted by Mother Mary and Mother Louisa.
In 1949, Sacred Heart was one of the very few Hong Kong Catholic schools which took in both boarders and orphans. The two groups were dressed in distinctly different uniforms and not allowed to socialize with one another. The orphans did not attend regular classes but were taught ‘practical skills’ such as sewing, laundering, cooking and ironing. During mass, they sat in a special section of pews. After school, while the boarders played games, received private lessons in art and music, or read in the library, the orphans were assigned to help out in the laundry, kitchen and garden. They were expected to leave the convent at sixteen and get jobs as waitresses, maids and shop girls.
Girls were a cheap commodity in China. Unwanted daughters were peddled as virtual slaves, sometimes by brokers, to unknown families. Once sold, a child’s destiny was at the whim of her buyer. She had no papers and no rights. A few lucky ones became legally adopted by their owners. Many more were subjected to beatings and other abuses. Prostitution or even death were the fate of some child slaves.
I did not know what Niang’s intentions were but my future was in her hands. Accompanied by Franklin, she conferred with the two nuns in a private room for what seemed like an interminable period. Meanwhile I was left outside to peruse the brochures describing the school and orphanage. I learned that the vast majority of the 1200 students at Sacred Heart were day girls, arriving at eight and leaving at three thirty. The waiting was horrible. I sat there in trepidation, recalling Niang’s threats the year before in Shanghai…