Huan's Story

The old man was lost in his thoughts again as he sat in his tiny apartment somewhere in the concrete jungle that was known as Shanghai. The television was down again, and while he waited for the repairman his mind wandered off through the tangled maze of his many memories. He thought about the current situation of China, with the Cultural Revolution tearing many children from the old traditions towards that new person, Mao Zedong, shocking their elders. It wasn’t like this back then, he thought gloomily. Back then, a child was meant to help his parents in any way possible and do everything they told him to do. As a child, the old man had done just that, keeping his parents every command scrupulously. Except for one, said a nagging voice in his head, which he instantly silenced. Still the thought lingered, and his mind went back to his own childhood, when he was a young and innocent youth living in Nanking. His parents were extremely proud of him, and had named him Huan, meaning happiness. His parents loved each other very much as well, and their household was a happy one. His father would often talk of how he had met his wife:

It was the time of the war of the Righteous and Harmonious Fists. The Boxers were looting the shrine of the Christians, and I was with them – not helping, you understand, merely for the thrill of the experience. They were chanting “扶清灭洋” [Fú qīng miè yang - Support the Qing, Destroy the foreigners] Then I saw that the church was about to be burnt, so I quietly went in to see that no one was left behind. And then, I saw your mother, hiding in the corner, praying the rosary over and over. Just then, one of the rebels threw a torch in and told the others to run away, not knowing that someone was inside. So, I wrapped your mother in a blanket and told her to jump through a window. However, the church, which was made mainly of wood, was really burning now, and she couldn’t bring herself to jump through the fire. So, I put her onto my back, and ran through the flames, which lost me my best set of pants, but won me something that I think is far more precious.

And then his mother would say that he had not been nearly as courageous as all that, and then he said had been incredibly brave, diving into the flames and ruining his pants to rescue a woman who never was truly grateful for it, to which she would hand him a favorite proverb of her own mother, To talk much and arrive nowhere is the same as climbing a tree to catch a fish. After this would ensue one of the friendly spats that were so common in the house, which invariably ended with his parents embracing and apologizing to each other.

Huan shook his head as he came out of his reverie. He did not like thinking about his parents, for it awoke memories that he had tried hard to bury over the decades. Memories such as the last time he saw his parents alive, when the Japanese were advancing after the invasion of Manchuria. He still remembered that day, which was later called the day of the Nanking Massacre. Of course, he knew none of that then. All he knew was that one day when he was 14, his father called him and said:

Son, I have one last favor to request of you before you leave me, for the Japanese are approaching. I will stay here, for it is not right that I give up this house, which belonged to my father’s father and to his father before him. So, I will need you to make me a promise. Promise me that you will keep your mother safe, Son. Promise me that. And now, I need you to take your mother and run!

So they ran through the back streets, hearing the sound of gunfire come from their small house as they dashed through the back streets, dodging Japanese soldiers on killing sprees. Huan was determined to keep what he feared might be his father’s last command, and made sure that his mother was never near a band of soldiers. They bolted down an alley and ran straight into a band of warriors looting shops and firing their guns indiscriminately at the fleeing civilians. One of the bullets clipped his mother’s head and she was down, with her son next to her, begging her not to die, pleading with passersby, the soldiers, the sky, with the sound of his promise to his father thundering through his head. Keep your mother safe, Son. Promise me that. Promise me that. Promise…

The doorbell shattered Huan’s memory, and he jerked upright, panting heavily and staring wildly about. Slowly, he began to calm down, and he got up to answer the door. The TV repairman sauntered in, and the old man slowly lowered himself back onto his seat, where he resumed his interrupted musings. His mind went back to his time in Shanghai, where he had moved to escape the memories that haunted the streets of Nanking. At the age of 31, he bumped into a young nurse-in-training on the bus. This incident started one of the happiest times of his life as he courted his wife-to-be day in and day out. His joy when she accepted his proposal was only rivaled by the pride he felt when he held his only son for the first time. Young Liko, as he was called, was his father’s pet. One day Huan said:

Do you know what your name means, Liko? It means “one who is protected by Buddha”. When one has God on one’s side, there is no need to fear anyone.

Huan did not add that he had named Liko in the hope that at least his son would be spared the bad luck that seemed to dog him wherever he went. And indeed, it did seem that it worked, for his son was nearly run over by barreling train, but escaped with a rather serious flesh wound on his upper forearm that scabbed over for a couple of months and left him with a feather-shaped scar that he would subconsciously scratch while he thought. His father told Liko that he was lucky to get away like that, upon which his mother asked him if he thought being hit by a train was lucky. His father replied that he was trying to make Liko a strong boy, winking at Liko quietly. His mother retorted by asking how getting her son cut up by locomotives would improve his musculature. Stymied, Huan could only answer with a scathing Chinese proverb, Those who say it cannot be done should not interrupt those who are doing it. This, to Liko’s amusement, sparked off one of those friendly spats that were so common in the house, which invariably ended with his parents embracing and apologizing to each other.

Unfortunately for Huan, trouble was headed his way once more. The political situation in Shanghai was worsening steadily, what with the Communist party’s Shanghai Enlarged Joint Meeting of People’s Representatives’ Conference executing hundreds of anyone who looked sideways at a Communist leader. One day, his wife and son were out shopping when he heard gunfire and screams in the distance. As he peered out the window, he saw machine gun toting soldiers shepherding a large crowd of bewildered people towards the outskirts of Shanghai, towards the Canidrome, which was the unofficial execution ground. He sympathized with the prisoners, but he had enough trouble in his life without inviting more in. As he waited for his family, however, he grew progressively more worried, until he was almost frantic. What could be keeping them so long? Surely the couldn’t have been…could they? He dashed down to the Canidrome frenetically, where he found 10,000 people in a mob trying to kill the arrested civilians. Eventually, the prisoners were moved to concentration camps, where almost all of them died. He never found out what became of his family, despite searching the streets many times at night with a lantern.

With a loud bang the television came back on, jolting the man out of his thoughts, for which he was grateful. Although he knew he really shouldn’t, he couldn’t help thinking of his missing family from time to time, which made him clench his fists with helplessness. The neighbors all murmured under their breath that fate was catching up to him for something terrible that he had done earlier in his life. The TV repairman turned away from the TV and glanced at Huan, thinking about all the strange people he met in this job. Just then, he noticed that the old man’s fists were in a fighting stance, and began wondering about Huan could pose a threat to him. As he thought about this, he absent-mindedly scratched a dark patch of skin on his upper forearm. The movement caught the old man’s attention, and he caught a glimpse of a feather-shaped scar.

The sun was setting over Shanghai. The setting rays illuminated the jagged skyline, and painted the sky a beautiful orange. The air was filled with the sounds of the evening, from hawkers trying to get rid of their wares; to cars screeching their way through the evening crowd. But one sound is more interesting to us than the others, and that is the sound of an old man somewhere in the city weeping for joy, while a orphaned TV repairman watches in amazement.

Author's Note - Short story I wrote for English class. Like it, hate it - let me know, please!