"War Trash" - читать интересную книгу автора (Jin Ha)

6. FATHER WOODWORTH

Sunday mornings provided an opportunity for all the men in the different tents to meet, because Father Hu would preach in Liberty Hall at the Civil Information and Education Center. The hall was a large tent that could seat fifteen hundred people. Over a thousand prisoners would go to Father Hu's sermons, which he delivered in Chinese, though he was from the United States. On the face of it this pudgy man was neutral, kind to everyone; but in reality he hated the Communists and served as a liaison between the pro-Nationalist POWs and the camp authorities. So the Communists were boycotting his Methodist church.

There were other religious groups in the compound too. I chose to go to the Catholic church in a small stone house with a Calvary cross atop it. Father Woodworth preached there on Sundays. I attended his service mainly because I wanted to learn English and also because my mother had been a Catholic when she was a young girl. Besides, I couldn't afford to offend the Communists by going to Father Hu's service. There were only about forty attendees at Woodworth's sermons, but he didn't look discouraged and spoke just as passionately as if he were addressing a large congregation. For that I admired him more. Woodworth was a lanky man in his mid-forties, with greenish eyes and a wrinkled but intelligent face. His legs were so long that some prisoners called him the Drawing Compasses. He was a chaplain, in uniform like an officer.

He had noticed me from my first appearance at the church, probably because I was attentive when he was speaking. Most of the audience, not knowing English, couldn't make out what he said, and my facial expressions must have shown that I followed him. One day after the sermon, as he was taking off his surplice, I went up to him and said, "Father Woodworth, may I ask you a favor?"

"How can I help you?" he said.

"Can I have a copy of the Bible? I want to study it on weekdays."

"You can understand it in English?"

"Yes."

His eyes gleamed. "All right, I will have it delivered to you. Put down your name and unit number here."

He opened his spiral-bound notebook, in which I wrote down the information. Although I had said I could understand the Bible, I wasn't very sure of my English. Ideally I should have had a dictionary. I had lost everything when I was taken captive, including my dictionary and the dog-eared Uncle Tom's Cabin. Whatever kind of book the Bible was, it was at least something I could read.

Among Father Woodworth's forty attendees, a number of them seemed attached to him, probably because they intended to seek his protection, though some might truly have been drawn by his eloquent manner and his deep, resonant voice. These men were better educated than most prisoners, and the majority of them were pro-Nationalists. However, none of them knew English well enough to read the Bible or talk with Woodworth, so I must have been a rarity to him.

On Thursday afternoon the company's orderly came to our tent and summoned me to headquarters. Off I set for the office, which was just a two-room hut, with the Nationalist flag and the Star-Spangled Banner flying above its door. The company leader, Wang Yong, was sitting at his desk when I stepped in. He motioned for me to take a seat in front of him and then patted an opened parcel on the desktop. Without any preliminaries he said, "So, you're a well-learned man, Feng Yan. You know foreign words, eh?"

"Yes, I can read English."

He poured a splash of saki into a coffee mug and handed it to me. "Have some," he said.

"I don't drink, thanks."

"Wow, a clean man," he sneered.

He then offered me a cigarette, which I accepted. I wondered what he had up his sleeve. He said with narrowed eyes, "I tell you what, the minute you walked into this company, I could see that you're not an ordinary fish."

"Thank you for your attention." I pretended to take his words as a compliment.

"What I mean is you were an officer, not an enlisted man like you claimed."

"I was just a secretary, in the Third Company of the 539th Regiment."

"Come on, stop trying to hoodwink this old man. I served in both the White Army and the Red Army. I met hundreds of men and know you must've been somebody. I strongly urge you to go to Taiwan with us and not to follow the Commies. One of these days Generalissimo Chiang's forces will sweep away all the Reds and recapture the mainland. It's time for you to decide which side to take, and you better decide wisely."

"Chief Wang," I said in earnest, "to be honest, I'm not a Communist. The reason I cannot sign up for Taiwan is that I have an old mother at home. She's alone and I'm her only child. My father died long ago."

"You see, the Commies would even recruit an only son like yourself. They use men like ammo. Damn them, in just one battle with a British battalion last spring, our division lost over a thousand men. So much blood flowed on a hill slope that the next morning hundreds of rooks flew around with blood-stained wings. Still, the higher-ups called it a victory, because we had overrun the enemy's position in the end."

"That's true," I agreed. "I never thought so many Chinese would be buried in Korea." His words conjured up the horrible image I hadn't been able to shake off – that the war was an enormous furnace fed by the bodies of soldiers.

"Think about what I just said, Feng Yan. I won't force you, brother, but honest and true, you don't have a lot of time to shilly-shally anymore – everybody will have to decide soon."

"I'll think it over."

"Okay, let me know once you're done thinking. Now you can go and take this with you." He pointed at the parcel wrapped in kraft paper.

I dared not offend him. If he took a dislike to me, he could easily destroy me. Already he'd had a number of men taken to company headquarters and forced them to sign an anti-Communist vow, which he then posted publicly. By so doing, he had cut off those men's route of retreat to China, where punishment from now on would await them; thus he coerced them into becoming nonrepatriates. These days Wang was busy promoting a tattoo movement among the pro-Nationalist prisoners, who volunteered to have words and drawings marked on their arms, chests, bellies, and even foreheads. Technically this primitive procedure wasn't painful – with a writing brush they inscribed words or a picture on a man and then used a needle to puncture the skin stained with black ink. The words were mainly slogans, such as "Fight Red Bandits to Death!," "Oppose Russia and Marx!," "Capture Mao Zedong Alive!," "Loyal to Nationalism!," "Root Out Communism!" The drawings included a radiant sun representing the Nationalist emblem, a knife plunged into a hairy pig that symbolized Mao, a boat bound for the Treasure Island – Taiwan. The tattooed men often walked around with their upper bodies naked to show off the words and drawings, which did intimidate many of us.

On the way back to my tent, I was delighted to see a brand-new copy of the Holy Bible in the parcel. It was the American Standard Version, leather-bound, with Jesus' words in red and a concise concordance at its back. Since it was too noisy inside the tent, I sat outside and began reading Genesis. The words made me slightly giddy, not because of the meaning of the Scripture but simply because I was reading something that wasn't just propaganda. I hadn't come across a real book for half a year; the deprivation had whetted my appetite. The English of the Bible was not difficult and I seldom came across a new word. This meant that from now on I could read some pages every day!

The next morning I met Ming again. I told him that I had been pressed to go to Taiwan and that soon everybody would have to make up his mind once and for all. He said he had also heard this. In fact, in Compound 76, which held Korean prisoners, an operation was already in the works. It was called "the screening," at which every POW had to declare formally where he would like to go, the Koreans to North

Korea or South Korea and the Chinese to mainland China or Taiwan. Ming also said that a few of our former comrades had been transferred to the company where Commissar Pei was now, because the Communists had regained power in the Third Battalion of Compound 86. Ming might go there soon, and the Communist leaders had offered the First Battalion of my regiment to exchange a pro-Nationalist for me so that I could join my comrades in Compound 86, but Wang Yong wouldn't let me go. This last piece of information unnerved me. Why would Wang keep me in his clutches? How could I be useful to him? Then it flashed through my mind that both the Communists and the pro-Nationalists were interested in me because I knew English.

In addition to preaching, Father Woodworth also taught the prisoners hymns at the education center on Wednesday afternoons. A burly Korean man played the accordion to provide music for him. More people attended the singing sessions than the sermons, perhaps just for the fun of it. Few of them, however, understood the contents of the songs; it was the music that attracted them. I liked the hymns very much. Whenever I heard the joyous, melodious tunes, my heart would leap. Regardless of the uncanny words about God and Christ, the music was the only beautiful thing in this hellish place. So more and more people went to learn to sing hymns.

On the last Wednesday in March, when the singing session was over, Father Woodworth called to me. Agitated, I walked up to him. He said in a sonorous voice, "I also want to ask you a favor, Mr. Feng."

A few inmates turned around to look at me while trooping out of the classroom, because usually a prisoner wasn't addressed as "Mister" by our captors. "Sure, what is it you want me to do?" I asked.

Fingering the lanyard of his pince-nez, Father Woodworth said, "Do you think you can put some of the hymns into Chinese?"

"I don't feel I can translate them well because I really don't know much about music. Even though I put the words into Chinese, they may be hard to sing."

"I don't mean to ask you to translate them into verse like the original. Just do a rough translation so that we can read it to the others before they learn how to sing them. I reckon that if they know the general meaning of a hymn, they can sing it better, don't you think?"

"That's true."

He unzipped his scuffed leather briefcase and took out a new notebook, a pencil, and some loose pages from a hymnal. "You can use these," he said.

I was moved and promised, "I'll do my best."

For a whole week I worked on the hymns, which were not difficult to translate – I was supposed to provide merely the gist of each song. From the next Wednesday on, I would sit in the front row when Father Woodworth taught us the hymns. Before we started singing he'd call to me, saying, "Number seven, There's a Wideness in God's Mercy,'" or "Number nine, 'Rock of Ages, Cleft for Me.'" I would stand up, turn to the audience, and read out my Chinese translation. My assistance to the chaplain drew people's attention in the compound. In the prison camp every company had at least one interpreter, who in most cases just knew a few words of English. So it was said that I spoke English better than any of those interpreters, perhaps because I had talked with Father Woodworth in front of hundreds of men without being outwardly nervous.

I broke the pencil in half and gave the part without the eraser to Ming when we met the next Tuesday. He was excited to have it and said, "I'll pass this on to Commissar Pei. We do need stationery badly. He'll be delighted to see this."

"How's he doing?"

"So far he's okay."

"Give him my greetings."

"I will. By the way, I've heard you're busy helping Woodworth, right?"

"Yes, it was he who gave me the pencil. He wanted me to translate some hymns for him."

Ming knitted his thick eyebrows. "You did that, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"You're too naive, Yuan. According to our information, Woodworth is also involved in persecuting our comrades, just like Priest Hu. You must be careful."

"Really? He seems kindhearted."

"Only in appearance. He's behind many things. In fact, Commissar Pei wasn't very happy when he heard you were helping Woodworth."

"I don't see why he should be unhappy." I was surprised that Pei knew so much about my activities.

"Religion is just spiritual opium. Woodworth means to weaken our men's resolve to fight."

"Perhaps he can help us."

"No. Never reveal anything to him. Be careful. He's not our friend."

"Okay."

"I want you to promise me not to tell him anything. This is a matter of principle."

"All right, I promise."

Some inmates were strolling nearby and we dared not remain together too long, so we parted company.

Ming's words made me think a good deal, though I wasn't convinced that Father Woodworth had been involved in persecuting the prisoners who wanted to repatriate. On Wednesday afternoon, after the singing session, while the audience was filing out of the hall, I went up to Woodworth and asked him about the meaning of "communion" in the line "the new community of love in Christ's communion." He explained to me the sacrament at which people drink wine and eat bread. He said he would have included that part in the service on Sundays, but most of us were not Christians, so it was unnecessary. I couldn't understand the Eucharist fully, never having attended one. Seeing that I was still bemused, he added, "Communion also means fraternity. Put it like that."

As we walked toward the door, I said again, "Father Woodworth, I have had a question on my mind for a long time."

"You can let me know it if you wish."

"You see, according to the teaching of the Bible, all the prisoners here are sinners, so we should be equal. Why are some inmates more privileged than others?"

We were now in the open air, which was warm with the feel of spring. He stopped short and said, "What do you mean exactly? Be more specific. There's something behind your question."

I pointed at the large tents and then at the small ones. "People are not treated equally here. The men living at the back are not even given their share of food."

"And you're one of them?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry, but this is the way things should be done."

"Why?"

"Because most of you are Communists. To me and to my God, Communism is evil."

"But most of us are not Communists at all. We stay with them mainly because we want to go home. As sons, we have our duty to our parents. Some men are husbands and fathers and ought to return to their families."

"I can understand it's a tough choice, but life is full of choices."

"For most of us there's no choice."

"Mr. Feng, you should know there are different kinds of duties. The highest kind is your duty to God and to your own soul."

"But we haven't been converted yet. Do you think those who are going to Taiwan are Christians?" There was an angry edge in my voice now.

"Listen, I'm not just a clergyman but also a soldier. I came with both the book and the sword."

Realizing the argument was getting nowhere, I muttered, "I thought you might help us because we're all fellow sufferers."

"Every man here can choose his own way of suffering."

He straightened his back and walked away. I had thought of asking him, "Then why do you teach us the hymns that praise the wideness of God's mercy?" But I didn't bring that out. Probably he taught us just to earn his salary and to convert a few pagans. My conversation with him upset me profoundly and shattered my illusion that there might be shelter in God's bosom for every person. Now I was inclined to believe what Ming had told me.

I mentioned to Bai Dajian my exchange of words with Father Woodworth. He and I were very close now, friends. I treated him like a younger brother, because he respected me and was two years my junior. "Woodworth isn't a kind man," he assured me, and his large eyes flashed.

"How do you know?" I was surprised by the certainty in his voice.

"The other day when they flogged a man with water-whips in the front yard, Woodworth happened to be passing by. The man cried, 'Father, Father, help me! Save me!' But Woodworth gave him a look, then walked away without a word. One of the hooligans told the man, 'Call him God, then he'll sure come back and save your hide.' They all cracked up."

The water-whip was a punishment invented by the pro-Nationalists here. They would tie a man to a stake and flog him with bands of canvas soaked in a bucket of water. The flogging would continue until the whole bucketful was used up.

Although Woodworth had never punished any inmate publicly, Dajian's account of his indifference disappointed me. It was rumored that he had even presented a dagger to Liu Tai-an, the chief of our battalion. I had seen the knife with a white jade handle, which Liu often put against an inmate's throat.

Soon Dajian and I both stopped attending the sermons and the singing sessions, though I still read the Bible every day as a way to improve my English.