2018.03.17 我的祖母所经历的南京沦陷事件

shiyi18

The Fall of Nanjing as My Grandmother Lived It
The story of a desperate young woman's escape from Japan’s bloody siege.

By David D. Chen

Bettman / Hulton-Deutsch / Corbis / Getty / Thanh Do / The Atlantic
MARCH 17, 2018
SHARE
On December 13, 1937, my grandmother, a woman of barely 22 years named Wein-Shiu Liu Chou, heard the steady barrage of artillery from Imperial Japanese troops as they began their final assault on Nanjing, her hometown in China. The sound of shells exploding just outside the city walls must have made clear to those still in the city that the end was near. My grandmother would live a long life of 98 years, raise two daughters, see five grandchildren grow up, run small businesses in Taiwan and the United States, and sing in a choral group in Los Angeles, California, in her golden years. But on that cold December morning, such a future seemed impossible.

After the Imperial Japanese Army invaded what was then China’s capital, it began a campaign of terror against the populace known as the “Rape of Nanking,” in which an estimated 100,000 to 300,000 civilians were killed, with untold numbers of rapes, mass executions, and other atrocities taking place throughout the city. (The death toll is a point of controversy. Japanese accounts put the number of deaths somewhere between 20,000 and 200,000.) Iris Chang’s 1997 book The Rape of Nanking revived scholarly interest in what actually happened. Much of our understanding relies on the diaries of Westerners who stayed in the city. They include John Rabe, a Nazi doctor who helped establish a demilitarized “safety zone” inside the city, and Minnie Vautrin, an American missionary who turned her women’s college into a sanctuary for women and girls. They give some of the best firsthand accounts to have survived the war; my grandmother’s story adds not only a Chinese perspective, but that of a survivor.

RECOMMENDED READING
Chinese honor guard members march past the words "Victims 300000."
The Impossible Task of Remembering the Nanking Massacre
SIMON HAN
70 Years Later, Struggle for Nanking Massacre Justice Continues
EAMONN FINGLETON

SPONSOR CONTENT
Visit a Main Street of Small Businesses for You
FACEBOOK, INC.
Why she stayed in the city remains a mystery to this day. Her neighbor, Zheng Baihua, happened to be a doctor at a military hospital and had helped her get a job as a nurse, despite the fact that she had no medical training or experience. She was eager to help. Her father, stepmother, and younger brother had already moved into Shanghai’s French Concession, one of the territories ceded to foreign powers after China’s humiliating defeats in the Opium Wars. Even after the Japanese took Shanghai, these foreign concession zones remained relatively safe, and refugees flooded into them. I imagine my great-grandfather was desperate to have his daughter rejoin the family. But patriotic fervor overrode filial piety, and perhaps even her sense of self-preservation. And so she stayed in the doomed city.

Her childhood in Nanjing had been largely carefree. She often stayed at her great aunt’s house on the narrow Qinhuai River. In the mornings, peddlers in boats would sell fermented rice porridge—a local delicacy—hoisting up a bowl on a long pole to a window. On New Year’s, she would run through the city to each of her relatives’ homes, where she bowed and received that much-coveted red envelope. Most relatives would give a few coins, but her great aunt would spoil her with one full yuan. With these riches, she headed for the market stalls. While other children stuffed themselves with candied plums and oranges, she would buy piles of fireworks and set them off in the streets. Later, as a teenager, she and her friends rented boats at Xuanwu Lake, in the northeast of the city. There, they would row out among the reeds to feast on lotus seeds.

When Japanese troops first entered the city, my grandmother saw the soldiers separate women and girls from their families and carry them away. They bayoneted crying babies and shot elderly men, she recalled. Modern scholarship would describe the conquest in stark terms: “Before the occupation was a day old, civilian bodies were lying in the streets of downtown Nanjing ... The defenseless and the innocent were killed, tortured, and humiliated in an orgy of violence that continued for six horrific weeks.”

My grandmother remained cloistered in the hospital, tending to the teeming masses of wounded soldiers and civilians that spilled into the corridors. When the Japanese blasted through Nanjing’s ancient walls, the hospital staff lowered the Chinese Nationalist flag and raised the flag of the Red Cross, hoping that the international affiliation would spare those within from the harshest treatment. Japanese doctors soon took over operations at the hospital. My grandmother described many atrocities directed by the Japanese medical staff. She saw them order the Chinese staff to perform wholesale amputations, without anesthetics, where other treatments might have sufficed.

Whether because the weight of complicity with the Japanese orders was too heavy to bear, or because of patriotic ardor, my grandmother and her colleagues at the hospital decided to escape. Choosing to venture beyond the relative safety of the hospital grounds and into the violence she could hear just over the compound walls would have been a gut-wrenching decision for anyone, but especially so for a young woman in her 20s. She explained her reasoning at the time: She would rather take her fate in her own hands, even if it meant losing her life, than to become another victim of that caged city.

The escape was timed for March 1938. By then, the frenzy of rape and violence by Japanese troops had subsided and some semblance of normalcy had begun to return. The city gates were opened during the day for farmers from the countryside to bring in their goods. The hopes of the hospital workers rested with this trickle of country folk.

My grandmother’s former neighbor, Zheng Baihua, would lead one group of escapees, while a second group would chance it a day later. She left with the first wave. To blend in with the people of Nanjing, they wore ragged clothes and shoes. To disguise her cherubic, youthful appearance from the Japanese patrols and gate sentries, she smeared ash over her face; her raven-black hair, she tied up in a dirty rag. She bent over as she walked and carried a walking stick, playing the elderly vagabond. She slipped out of the hospital compound, shuffling slowly toward the city’s southwestern gate and carrying nothing but a clean change of clothes bundled up in rags over one shoulder. The escapees dared not travel together, so they staggered their movements. If one of them was caught, there was nothing the others could do.

The morning of the escape, a pair of Japanese guards stood sentry on each side of a bridge at Shuixi Gate, watching for ex-soldiers and smugglers. My grandmother’s heart must have been pounding in her ears as she made the 50-yard walk past the guards. If a sentry searched her and found her change of clothes, or discovered a young woman’s face beneath the ash, all hope would have been lost. But her luck that day held, and she slowly made it out of the city and into the muddy brown countryside beyond.

The group had agreed to meet at a teahouse down the road, beyond the immediate sight of Japanese forces. When she arrived, she picked at a dry breakfast pastry and sipped tea, casting sidelong glances each time the door opened. The companions sat separately, eyes acknowledging each other as the next one entered. After the group had reassembled, they left one-by-one, heading further west toward safety. Only once they had made it past enemy lines did they gather, change clothes, and move as a group toward Wuhan, where the Nationalist government had decamped. Once they made it to Chinese-controlled territory, they celebrated by taking a group portrait in a small photography studio. Inscribed on the photograph was the date March 17, 1938, along with a spare caption: “Upon escaping danger in Nanjing, a group portrait.” Their good cheer would be short-lived: They soon learned that the second group from the hospital had been caught. The guards had been alerted once it was discovered that some of the staff had disappeared overnight.

Upon reaching Wuhan, my grandmother found work as a financial administrator at a government-run school for orphans. She wrote to her father in Shanghai to tell him that she had made it out of the city, and he immediately telegrammed an old classmate, a bank manager in Wuhan, to book her passage to Shanghai. She begrudgingly complied and steamed back down the mighty Yangtze River, passing Nanjing.

Once she had reached the French Concession, however, she could not tolerate waiting out the war. Against her father’s wishes, she booked a one-way voyage from Shanghai to Hanoi, Vietnam. From there, she made her way back into China, intent on reaching Chongqing, the new wartime capital. She was a young woman, traveling alone on foreign roads through treacherous terrain, relying on the most tenuous of acquaintances to help her move from Hanoi to Kunming to Guiyang, then by army transport up winding mountain roads to Chongqing. Still in her early 20s, she had passed through Japanese lines a third time, slipping out of occupied Shanghai, and taking a sea route to reach her mountain destination. In Chongqing, she worked as an administrator for the government-run orphanages that were overfilling with abandoned children. In the commemorative notebooks she kept, her friends, colleagues, and students hailed her as an “Iron Mulan” and a “savior of the children.”

When news broke that the atomic bombs had dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, it came as a great shock to my grandmother and her new husband, Zhou Qigang, a high official in the Nationalist government. With the war over, they moved with the government back to Nanjing for a short time. She could not settle back into her hometown for long, however, as the Chinese Communist revolution would eventually drive them to Taiwan.

In 1999, my grandmother and I visited Nanjing’s Confucius Temple district, where her extended family once lived. It had been 50 years since she had been back. In her eyes I saw a wistful yearning that something might remain of what she remembered. We stopped where her family’s stately compound once stood; she called the place Liu Hou Fu, or “the Estate of the Marquis of Liu.” (One of her ancestors may have been titled nobility in the Qing dynasty, which lasted from 1636 to 1912, and was brought to an end by China’s democratic revolution.) Alas, the estate was no more. What she left behind could only be summoned through imperfect recollection. Nanjing, a capital city of grand boulevards lined by ancient ginkgo trees and the emerging modernity of a fledgling republic, was replaced with horror and atrocity. A grand past and a hopeful vision for China's future had seemingly forever vanished.

The New York Times
Support the journalists who seek the truth.
Benefit from expert reporting with this special offer from The Times.
SPONSORED BY THE NEW YORK TIMES
See More

Yet, in the life my grandmother built day by day after her escape from occupied Nanjing, 80 years ago today, she embodied the perseverance and spirit of a generation that endured and would not be conquered.

David D. Chen is a China analyst focusing on space and cyber issues. He is a board member of the journal Space Policy.



我的祖母所经历的南京沦陷事件
一个绝望的年轻妇女从日本的血腥围困中逃脱的故事。

作者：David D. Chen

Bettman / Hulton-Deutsch / Corbis / Getty / Thanh Do / The Atlantic
2018年3月17日
分享
1937年12月13日，我的祖母，一位年仅22岁的妇女，名叫刘文秀，在日本帝国主义军队开始对她的家乡南京进行最后攻击时，她听到了来自日本帝国主义军队的持续炮击声。炮弹在城墙外爆炸的声音一定让那些仍在城里的人清楚地知道，末日即将来临。我的祖母长寿98岁，养育了两个女儿，看着五个孙子长大，在台湾和美国经营小企业，并在加州洛杉矶的一个合唱团里唱歌，度过她的黄金岁月。但在那个寒冷的12月早晨，这样的未来似乎不可能。

日本皇军入侵当时的中国首都后，开始了对民众的恐怖行动，被称为 "南京大屠杀"，估计有10万至30万平民被杀，整个城市发生了数不清的强奸、大规模处决和其他暴行。(死亡人数是一个有争议的问题。日本人的说法是死亡人数在20,000至200,000之间。） 张纯如在1997年出版的《南京大屠杀》一书使学者们对实际发生的情况重新产生了兴趣。我们的理解在很大程度上依赖于留在该城市的西方人的日记。其中包括帮助在城内建立非军事化 "安全区 "的纳粹医生约翰-拉贝，以及将她的女子学院变成妇女和女孩的避难所的美国传教士米妮-沃特林。他们提供了一些在战争中幸存下来的最好的第一手资料；我祖母的故事不仅增加了一个中国人的视角，而且是一个幸存者的视角。

推荐阅读
中国仪仗队成员走过 "受害者300000 "的字样。
纪念南京大屠杀的不可能的任务
西蒙-韩
70年后，争取南京大屠杀正义的斗争仍在继续
埃蒙-芬格尔顿

赞助内容
访问为你准备的小企业主街
FACEBOOK, INC.
她为什么留在城里，至今仍是个谜。她的邻居郑百华恰好是一家军队医院的医生，尽管她没有接受过任何医学培训或经验，但还是帮助她找到了一份护士工作。她很想帮忙。她的父亲、继母和弟弟已经搬到了上海的法租界，这是中国在鸦片战争中遭受耻辱性失败后割让给外国势力的领土之一。即使在日本人占领上海后，这些外国租界区仍然相对安全，难民涌入其中。我想象我的曾祖父急切地想让他的女儿重新加入这个家庭。但爱国热情压倒了孝道，甚至可能压倒了她的自我保护意识。因此，她留在了这个注定要毁灭的城市。

她在南京的童年基本上是无忧无虑的。她经常住在狭窄的秦淮河边她的大姨妈家。早晨，船上的小贩会卖发酵的米粥--一种当地的美味--把碗放在长杆上吊到窗前。新年时，她会跑遍整个城市，到每个亲戚家去，在那里鞠躬，并收到那个令人羡慕的红包。大多数亲戚都会给几个硬币，但她的大姨妈会给她整整一元钱的宠爱。带着这些财富，她去了市场的摊位。当其他孩子用蜜饯和橘子填饱肚子时，她会买上一堆烟花，在街上燃放。后来，在十几岁的时候，她和她的朋友们在城市东北部的玄武湖租了一艘船。在那里，他们会在芦苇丛中划船，以莲子为食。

当日本军队第一次进入这座城市时，我的祖母看到士兵将妇女和女孩与她们的家人分开，并将她们带走。她回忆说，他们用刺刀刺杀哭泣的婴儿，枪杀老人。现代学术界会用严酷的术语来描述这次征服。"占领还没到一天，平民的尸体就躺在南京市区的街道上......。在持续了六周的恐怖暴力狂欢中，手无寸铁的人和无辜的人被杀害、折磨和羞辱"。

我的祖母一直隐居在医院里，照顾涌入走廊的大批伤员和平民。当日本人轰破南京的古城墙时，医院的工作人员降下了中国国民党的旗帜，升起了红十字会的旗帜，希望这种国际关系能使医院里的人免受最严酷的待遇。日本医生很快接管了医院的手术。我的祖母描述了日本医务人员的许多暴行。她看到他们命令中国医务人员在没有麻醉剂的情况下进行大规模的截肢手术，而其他治疗方法可能已经足够了。

无论是因为与日本人的命令同流合污，还是因为爱国热情，我的祖母和她在医院的同事决定逃跑。选择冒险离开相对安全的医院场地，进入她在院墙外就能听到的暴力环境，这对任何人来说都是一个令人心碎的决定，但对一个20多岁的年轻女子来说更是如此。她解释了她当时的理由。她宁愿把命运掌握在自己手中，即使这意味着失去生命，也不愿成为那个笼中城市的另一个受害者。

逃亡的时间定在1938年3月。那时，日本军队的强奸和暴力狂潮已经平息，某种程度上的正常状态已经开始恢复。城门在白天被打开，让来自农村的农民运来货物。医院工作人员的希望寄托在这股乡下人的涓涓细流中。

我祖母以前的邻居郑百华将带领一批逃亡者，而第二批逃亡者将在一天后冒险。她和第一波人一起离开。为了融入南京人的生活，他们穿着破烂的衣服和鞋子。为了向日本巡逻队和城门哨兵掩饰她的小天使般的年轻外表，她在脸上抹了灰；乌黑的头发，她用一块脏抹布绑起来。她走路时弯着腰，拿着一根手杖，扮演着老年流浪者的角色。她溜出医院大院，慢慢地朝城市西南门走去，除了用破布捆着的干净换洗衣服，她什么也没带。逃亡者们不敢一起行动，所以他们的行动交错进行。如果其中一人被抓，其他人就无能为力了。

逃亡的那天早上，一对日本卫兵分别站在水西门的一座桥上放哨，监视退伍军人和走私者。当我的祖母走过这些卫兵的50码路程时，她的心一定在怦怦直跳。如果哨兵搜查她，发现她的换洗衣服，或者发现灰烬下有一张年轻女子的脸，所有的希望都会破灭。但她那天的运气不错，她慢慢地走出了城市，进入了外面泥泞的棕色乡村。

这群人同意在路边的一个茶馆见面，在日本军队眼前的范围内。当她到达时，她拿着干巴巴的早餐糕点，喝着茶，每当门打开时，她都会侧目而视。同伴们分别坐着，当下一个人进来时，他们的眼睛会互相确认。在这群人重新集合后，他们逐一离开，向西边的安全地带进一步前进。只有当他们越过敌人的防线后，他们才集合起来，换上衣服，作为一个团体向国民党政府已经撤退的武汉进发。当他们到达中国控制的领土时，他们在一个小摄影棚里拍了一张集体照，以示庆祝。照片上刻着1938年3月17日的日期，以及一个备用的标题。"在南京逃离危险后，拍了一张集体照"。他们的好心情将是短暂的。他们很快就得知，来自医院的第二批人已经被抓。一旦发现一些工作人员在一夜之间失踪，警卫就会发出警报。

到达武汉后，我祖母在一所政府开办的孤儿学校找到了一份财务管理工作。她写信给她在上海的父亲，告诉他她已经离开了这个城市，他立即给一个老同学，武汉的一个银行经理发了电报，让他为她预订去上海的机票。她勉强答应了，沿着强大的长江往回开，经过南京。

然而，一旦她到达法租界，她就无法忍受等待战争的到来。她违背了父亲的意愿，预订了从上海到越南河内的单程船票。从那里，她回到中国，打算到达战时新首都重庆。她是一个年轻的女人，独自在外国的道路上旅行，穿越险恶的地形，依靠最脆弱的熟人帮助她从河内到昆明到贵阳，然后乘坐军队的交通工具沿着蜿蜒的山路到达重庆。在她20岁出头的时候，她第三次穿过日本人的防线，从被占领的上海溜出来，走海路到达她的山区目的地。在重庆，她在政府开办的孤儿院担任管理员，这些孤儿院里挤满了被遗弃的儿童。在她保存的纪念笔记本中，她的朋友、同事和学生都称她为 "铁木兰 "和 "儿童的救星"。

当广岛和长崎被投下原子弹的消息传来时，我的祖母和她的新丈夫周其刚（国民党政府的一名高官）感到非常震惊。战争结束后，他们随政府迁回南京住了一阵子。然而，她没能在家乡定居多久，因为中国共产党的革命最终会把他们赶到台湾。

1999年，我和我的祖母参观了南京的孔庙区，她的大家庭曾经住在那里。她已经有50年没有回来了。在她的眼睛里，我看到了一种渴望，希望她记忆中的东西能留下来。我们在她家曾经的庄严院落的地方停了下来；她把这个地方称为刘侯府，或 "刘侯府"。(她的一位祖先可能是清朝的贵族，清朝从1636年持续到1912年，被中国的民主革命所终结）。唉，这个庄园已经不复存在。她留下的东西只能通过不完全的回忆来唤起。南京，一个由古老的银杏树衬托的宏伟林荫大道和一个新生的共和国的新兴现代化的首都，被恐怖和暴行所取代。一个宏伟的过去和对中国未来充满希望的愿景似乎已经永远消失了。

纽约时报
支持那些寻求真相的记者们。
利用《纽约时报》的这一特别优惠，从专家报告中获益。
由《纽约时报》赞助
查看更多

然而，在80年前的今天，我的祖母从被占领的南京逃出来后，在她日复一日的生活中，她体现了一代人坚忍不拔的精神，不会被征服。

David D. Chen是一位专注于空间和网络问题的中国分析家。他是《空间政策》杂志的董事会成员。