Shanghai Girls (Shanghai Girls 1)

As I turn away and board the plane, I wonder if there was anything I could have done differently. I hope I would have done everything differently, except I know everything would have turned out the same. That’s the meaning of fate. But if some things are fated and some people are luckier than others, then I also have to believe that I still haven’t found my destiny. Because somehow, some way, I’m going to find Joy, and I’m going to bring my daughter, our daughter, home to my sister and me.

Acknowledgments

Shanghai Girls is a historical novel. Pockmarked Huang, Christine Sterling, and Tom Gubbins were real people. But Pearl, May, and the rest of the characters are fictional, as is the plot. (The Louie family didn’t own the Golden Pagoda, the rickshaw stand, plus a café and various other shops, although many families did own multiple businesses in China City. May didn’t buy the Asiatic Costume Company from Tom Gubbins; the Lee family did.) However, some people may read these pages and recognize particular details, experiences, and anecdotes. Off and on during the last nineteen years—and maybe my entire life—I’ve been fortunate to get to talk to people who lived in some of the places and through some of the events that I wrote about in Shanghai Girls. There were countless happy memories, but for some, sharing their stories took incredible bravery, because they were still unsettled by what had happened to them in China during the war years, embarrassed by the humiliations of Angel Island or the Confession Program, or ashamed of the poverty and hardship they had experienced in Los Angeles Chinatown. Some of them have asked to remain nameless. To them and to everyone else who helped me, I say, this book wouldn’t exist without your stories and your devotion to the truth.

Many thanks to Michael Woo for giving me a copy of the handwritten remembrances of his mother, Beth Woo, of teaching English to Japanese military men, the written marriage terms they showed her, and what it was like to escape from China on a fishing boat and live in Hong Kong during the war. Beth’s husband, Wilbur Woo, who was separated from his wife here in Los Angeles, shared with me many stories of those days and introduced me to Jack Lee, who told me about the FBI agent who used to hang out in Chinatown during the Confession Program era. Phil Young introduced me to his mother, Monica Young, whose memories of being an orphan sent back to China during the Sino-Japanese War were invaluable. She also lent me a copy of Alice Lan and Betty Hu’s reminiscence, We Flee from Hong Kong, in which the two missionaries described the cold cream and cocoa powder concoction that served as part of their disguise while they and their charges tried to stay ahead of the Japanese.

Ruby Ling Louie and Marian Leng, whose families each had businesses in China City, shared with me maps, photographs, brochures, and other memorabilia, including Paul Louie’s excellent slide show on China City. An extra thank-you to Marian for her discussion of the difference between fu yen and yen fu. Others who graciously shared their time and stories include Dr. Wing and Joyce Mar, Gloria Yuen, Mason Fong, and Akuen Fong. Ruth Shannon allowed me to use her dear husband’s name. (On the surface, my Edfred couldn’t be more different from Ruth’s, but they were both kind in heart.) Eleanor Wong Telemaque and Mary Yee told me stories of what happened to their families during the Confession Program.

I also went back to interviews I did years ago when I was researching On Gold Mountain. Two sisters, Mary and Dill Louie, both gone now, reminisced about the Chinese in Hollywood. Jennie Lee talked to me about the years her husband worked for Tom Gubbins and what it was like to own the Asiatic Costume Company after the war. I wish, once again, to acknowledge the National Archives in San Bruno. The interrogation scenes in Shanghai Girls are taken almost verbatim from the entrance examinations of Mrs. Fong Lai (Jung-shee), the wife of one of my great-grandfather’s paper partners, and from hearing transcripts belonging to my great-grandfather Fong See and his brother Fong Yun.

I owe a deep debt of gratitude to Yvonne Chang at the Chinese Historical Society of Southern California for giving me access to the transcripts from an oral history project about Los Angeles Chinatown conducted between 1978 and 1980. Some of the participants have now passed on, but their stories have been captured and saved. The CHSSC is currently collaborating with the Los Angeles Chinatown Youth Council to create the Chinatown Remembered Community History Project, a filmed oral history project focusing on the 1930s and 1940s. I would like to thank the CHSSC and Will Gow, the project director, for giving me a first peek at those transcripts. The CHSSC’s publications—Linking Our Lives, Bridging the Centuries, and Duty and Honor—greatly contributed to my creation of time and place for this story. Suellen Cheng, of the Chinese American Museum and El Pueblo de Los Angeles Historical Monument, has once again given me encouragement, advice, and insights.

Since I am neither a historian nor an academician, I have relied on the works of Jack Chen, Iris Chang, Ronald Takaki, Peter Kwong, Dušanka Mišcevic, and Icy Smith. Amy Chen’s documentary, The Chinatown Files, helped to illustrate the lingering bitterness, guilt, and sadness that resulted from

the Confession Program. Special shout-outs to Kathy Ouyang Turner of the Angel Island Immigration Station Foundation, for taking me to the island; Casey Lee, for guiding us on the island; Emma Woo Louie, for her research on Chinese-American names; Sue Fawn Chung and Priscilla Wegars, for their work on Chinese-American death rituals; Theodora Lau, for her brilliant examination of the Chinese horoscope; Liz Rawlings, who now lives in Shanghai, for a bit of fact checking; and Judy Yung for Unbound Feet, for her family’s personal stories, for collecting the stories about Angel Island and the war years from so many others, and for answering my questions. I’m grateful as well for Ruthanne Lum McCunn’s friendship, recommendations, and advice. Him Mark Lai, the godfather of Chinese-American studies, answered numerous e-mails and proved to be thoughtful and thought-provoking, as always. Island, written and compiled by Him Mark Lai, Genny Lim, and Judy Yung, and Chinese American Portraits by Ruthanne Lum McCunn inspired me in the past and continue to inspire me.

I’ve been to Shanghai several times, but the works of Hallet Abend, Stella Dong, Hanchao Lu, Pan Ling, Lynn Pan, and Harriet Sergeant also contributed greatly to this novel. In a series of e-mails Hanchao Lu also clarified some lingering questions I had about Shanghai’s geographic boundaries in the 1930s. The character of Sam, although he has a much different destiny and outlook on life, was influenced by Lao She’s proletarian novel Rickshaw. For the history of Shanghai advertising, poster girls, and dress, I’m indebted to the works of Ellen Johnston Laing, Anna Hestler, and Beverley Jackson. I also immersed myself in the works of Chinese writers active between 1920 and 1940, particularly those of Eileen Chang, Xiao Hong, Luo Shu, and Lu Xun.

I wish to acknowledge Cindy Bork, Vivian Craig, Laura Davis, Mary Healey Linda Huff, Pam Vaccaro, and Debbie Wright—who participated in a monthlong Barnes & Noble on line discussion with me—for their insights and thoughts; the 12th Street Book Group for reminding me that sisters are for life; and Jean Ann Balassi, Jill Hopkins, Scottie Senalik, and Denise Whitteaker—who won me in a silent auction and then flew to Los Angeles, where I gave them a tour of Los Angeles Chinatown and introduced them to various family members—for helping me find the emotional heart of the novel.

I am extraordinarily lucky to have Sandy Dijkstra as my agent. She and all the women in her office fight for me, encourage me, and push me into new worlds. Michael Cendejas has helped me navigate the movie world. Across the pond, Katie Bond, my editor at Bloomsbury, has been filled with bright good cheer. Bob Loomis, my editor at Random House, has been kindness itself. I love our conversations and his crazy dots. But I’d also like to thank everyone at Random House who has made these past few years so extraordinary, with special appreciation to Gina Centrello, Jane von Mehren, Tom Perry, Barbara Fillon, Amanda Ice, Sanyu Dillon, Avideh Bashirrad, Benjamin Dreyer, and Vincent La Scala.

A few final words of gratitude and thanks to Larry Sells, for help with all things Wikipedia, website content, and for running my Google Group; Sasha Stone, for managing my website so professionally; Susan M. S. Brown, for her astute copyediting; Suzy Moser at the Huntington Library, for arranging for me to have my photograph taken in the Chinese Scholar’s Garden; Patricia Williams, for taking that beautiful photograph; Tyrus Wong, now ninety-eight years old, for still making and flying Chinese kites; my cousin Leslee Leong, for living in the past with me; my mother, Carolyn See, for her keen eye and judgment; my sisters—Clara, Katharine, and Ariana—for all the reasons you can think of and so much more; my sons, Christopher and Alexander, for making me proud and supporting me in so many ways; and finally my husband, Richard Kendall, for giving me strength when I’m struggling, humor when I’m down, and boundless love every single day.

Read on for an excerpt from Lisa See’s

Dreams of Joy

THE WAIL OF a police siren in the distance tears through my body. Crickets whir in a never-ending chorus of blame. My aunt whimpers in her twin bed at the other end of the screened porch we share—a reminder of the misery and embarrassment from the secrets she and my mother threw at each other during their argument tonight. I try to listen for my mother in her room, but she’s too far away. That silence is painful. My hands grab the bedsheets, and I struggle to focus on an old crack in the ceiling. I’m desperately attempting to hang on, but I’ve been on a precipice since my father’s death, and now I feel as though I’ve been pushed over the edge and am falling.

Everything I thought I knew about my birth, my parents, my grandparents, and who I am has been a lie. A big fat lie. The woman I thought was my mother is my aunt. My aunt is actually my mother. The man I loved as my father was not related to me at all. My real father is an artist in Shanghai whom both my mother and aunt have loved since before I was born. And that’s only the tip of the iceberg—as Auntie May might say. But I was born in the Year of the Tiger, so before the gnawing blackness of guilt about my dad’s death and the anguish I feel about these revelations overpower me, I grip the sheets tighter, set my jaw, and try to force my emotions to cower and shrink before my Tiger ferocity. It doesn’t work.

I wish I could talk to my friend Hazel, but it’s the middle of the night. I wish even more that I could be back at the University of Chicago, because my boyfriend, Joe, would understand what I’m going through. I know he would.

It’s two in the morning by the time my aunt drifts off to sleep and the house seems quiet. I get up and go to the hall, where my clothes are kept in a linen closet. Now I can hear my mother weeping, and it’s heartbreaking. She can’t imagine

what I’m about to do, but even if she did, would she stop me? I’m not her daughter. Why should she stop me? I quickly pack a bag. I’ll need money for where I’m going, and the only place I know to get it will bring me more disgrace and shame. I hurry to the kitchen, look under the sink, and pull out the coffee can that holds my mother’s savings to put me through college. This money represents all her hopes and dreams for me, but I’m not that person anymore. She’s always been cautious, and for once I’m grateful. Her fear of banks and Americans will fund my escape

I look for paper and a pencil, sit down at the kitchen table, and scrawl a note.

Mom, I don’t know who I am anymore. I don’t understand this country anymore. I hate that it killed Dad. I know you’ll think I’m confused and foolish. Maybe I am, but I have to find answers. Maybe China is my real home …

I go on to write that I mean to find my real father and that she shouldn’t worry about me. I fold the paper and take it to the porch. Auntie May doesn’t stir when I put the note on my pillow. At the front door, I hesitate. My invalid uncle is in his bedroom at the back of the house. He’s never done anything to me. I should tell him good-bye, but I know what he’ll say. “Communists are no good. They’ll kill you.” I don’t need to hear that, and I don’t want him to alert my mother and aunt that I’m leaving.

I pick up my suitcase and step into the night. At the corner, I turn down Alpine Street, and head for Union Station. It’s August 23, 1957, and I want to memorize everything because I doubt I’ll ever see Los Angeles Chinatown again. I used to love to stroll these streets, and I know them better than anyplace else in the world. Here, I know everyone and everyone knows me. The houses—almost all of them clapboard bungalows—have been what I call Chinafied, with bamboo planted in the gardens, pots with miniature kumquat trees sitting on porches, and wooden planks laid on the ground on which to spread leftover rice for birds. I look at it all differently now. Nine months at college—and the events of tonight—will do that. I learned and did so much at the University of Chicago during my freshman year. I met Joe and joined the Chinese Students Democratic Christian Association. I learned all about the People’s Republic of China and what Chairman Mao is doing for the country, all of which contradicts everything my family believes. So when I came home in June, what did I do? I criticized my father for seeming as if he were fresh off the boat, for the greasy food he cooked in his café, and for the dumb TV shows he liked to watch.

These memories trigger a dialogue in my head that I’ve been having since his death. Why didn’t I see what my parents were going through? I didn’t know that my father was a paper son and that he’d come to this country illegally. If I’d known, I never would have begged my dad to confess to the FBI—as if he didn’t have anything to hide. My mother holds Auntie May responsible for what happened, but she’s wrong. Even Auntie May thinks it was her fault. “When the FBI agent came to Chinatown,” she confessed to me on the porch only a few hours ago, “I talked to him about Sam.” But Agent Sanders never really cared about my dad’s legal status, because the first thing he asked about was me.

And then the loop of guilt and sorrow tightens even more. How could I have known that the FBI considered the group I joined a front for communist activities? We picketed stores that wouldn’t allow Negroes to work or sit at the lunch counter. We talked about how the United States had interned American citizens of Japanese descent during the war. How could those things make me a communist? But they did in the eyes of the FBI’ which is why that awful agent told my dad he’d be cleared if he ratted out anyone he thought was a communist or a communist sympathizer. If I hadn’t joined the Chinese Students Democratic Christian Association, the FBI couldn’t have used that to push my father to name others—specifically me. My dad never would have turned me in, leaving him only one choice. As long as I live I will never forget the sight of my mother holding my father’s legs in a hopeless attempt to take his weight off the rope around his neck, and I will never ever forgive myself for my role in his suicide.

Joy

LIFE SAVERS

I TURN DOWN Broadway and then onto Sunset, which allows me to continue passing places I want to remember. The Mexican tourist attraction of Olvera Street is closed, but strings of gaily colored carnival lights cast a golden glow over the closed souvenir stands. To my right is the Plaza, the birthplace of the city, with its wrought-iron bandstand. Just beyond that, I see the entrance to Sanchez Alley. When I was little, my family lived on the second floor of the Garnier Building on Sanchez Alley, and now my heart fills with memories of my grandmother playing with me in the Plaza, my aunt treating me to Mexican lollipops on Olvera S

treet, and my mother taking me through here every day to and from school in Chinatown. Those were happy years, and yet they were also filled with so many secrets that I wonder what in my life was real at all.