Free The China Lover by Ian Buruma

we rattled across the northern plains in the train heading south, Ri suddenly cried out: “Look at all the red flowers! They’re gorgeous.” Bored with the bland scenery of northern China, we all peered out the window. At first I thought it was the setting sun that cast everything in a blood red glow. But as the train slowed down, we could make out people lying all over the place, like broken dolls. Some were huddled in small groups or sitting alone, but more were sprawled on the ground, and others still were rushing about, carrying white bundles stained in red. There musthave been hundreds of men littering the landscape, dressed in bloody rags and brown uniforms. The train stopped with a jolt, as though it were shivering. I noticed Ri turning away from the window.
    Orders were barked. The doors opened with a clanking noise. A wounded man—the first of many—passed by our window. All I could see of his bandaged face was his mouth, opened wide as if he were about to scream. Hasegawa, in a fit of anger, tugged at the curtain of our compartment, but didn’t manage to close it properly. The noise of men crying and moaning got steadily louder. Some were howling in pain, some begging for water. A harsh voice told them to shut up. I saw a man who had lost a leg and both his arms. Another was twitching uncontrollably, like a fish. A young doctor was trying to staunch a fresh wound by pressing a white rag into the chest of a soldier, whose blood kept oozing through the cloth. A hand from a passing stretcher left a red smear on our window. The stench was unbelievable—rotting flesh, excrement, and filthy feet. One of the soldiers, staring into our compartment, suddenly became animated and pointed at Hasegawa. Others followed, pressing their blackened faces against the glass. At last, after frantically tugging at the curtain, Hasegawa managed to shut them out from our view.
    An officer opened the door and sat down heavily. He removed his cap and stuck his finger under his collar to wipe the sweat off his neck. There were bloodstains on his boots and trousers, rather like a butcher’s. I asked him what had happened. He looked at me suspiciously. “Chink bandits,” he said, baring his crooked brown teeth. “Had to clean out the whole village. The way these savages fight . . . even a three-year-old kid is capable of murder. It’s either them or us.” Ri looked astonished. “Clean out?” Since she was dressed in Chinese clothes, the officer turned to us in disgust: “What the devil is this Chink bitch doing here?” Hasegawa introduced himself and politely explained that she was Ri Koran, the movie star. “Aah,” the officer replied.“ ‘Spring Rain in Mukden.’ Well, I never,” he said, scratching the back of his neck, bobbing his head up and down in the direction of Hasegawa. “Well, well! Hasegawa Kazuo! Ri Koran! Well, well.” Perhaps Hasegawa-san could say a few words to the troops, and Ri could sing a song: “That’ll cheer the boys up.”
    Once more the door to the corridor was opened and another officer was pushed inside by a medical orderly. He was young and handsome, but seemed incapable of speech. The orderly pointed to his head and said: “Doesn’t even know who he is.” We tried to make him speak by asking his name and where he was from. All we got was a blank stare. “Your mother must miss you,” Hasegawa said, thinking this might provoke a response. It seemed to have some effect. The young officer’s mouth began to work. “M-O-TH-E-R,” he mumbled slowly, “m-o-th-er . . . mother . . . mother.” But that was all, the same word repeated over and over. His eyes were wide open, but they didn’t appear to see a thing.
    It was dark outside when the train lurched into action. After a mile or so, we came to another halt. Several men got off the train. “Well,” said the officer, “this is it for the night. Better make ourselves comfortable.” Guards took up their positions along the side