bayonet which might be thrust through from the outside. A bayonet did indeed come through so it was lucky his eyes were not in the way. The headlights of the vehicle outside streamed under the door.
‘Would you mind telling me what it is you want?’ asked Father Engelmann with the utmost courtesy, in English.
‘Open up!’ came a voice in Chinese. It was said that Japanese soldiers and junior officers had all learned a few words of Chinese during their week of occupation: ‘Open up!’ ‘Get out!’ ‘Food!’ ‘Petrol!’ ‘Sing-song girls!’
‘And how may I help you?’ Father Engelmann’s monotone Chinese was designed to pacify the most aggressive of intruders.
He was answered by the butts of their guns. They pounded on the door so hard that a crack opened up between the two panels. Light from the car headlamps outside streamed through the gap.
‘This is an American church and we bought this land decades ago. Letting you in is like letting you onto American soil,’ Fabio expostulated in his thick Yangzhou accent. If the Japanese were not swayed by Engelmann’s genteel English, perhaps they would take notice of something a bit tougher.
A Chinese voice answered.
‘The Imperial Japanese Army has accurate reports that you are harbouring Chinese soldiers –’
‘Nonsense!’ Fabio cut the man short. ‘The Japanese troops have been using that excuse to loot all across Nanking. Do you think we’re still taken in by nonsense like that?’
There was a moment’s silence outside the door as the collaborator-interpreter translated.
‘Father,’ he began again, ‘these people have guns. Please don’t try their patience!’
Father Engelmann heard a movement behind him and looked round to see shadowy figures toting guns emerging from behind the church. The Japanese must have discovered they could save their breath by just getting in over the wall.
‘They’re already in,’ said Father Engelmann in low tones. ‘We need to be ready for the worst.’
Fabio blocked the entrance. ‘You’re trespassing!’ he shouted. ‘We’ve already told you, there are no Chinese soldiers here! I’m going to the Safety Zone now, to fetch Mr Rabe –’
There was a gunshot and Fabio cried out. He felt as if he had been knocked sideways by a punch to the left shoulder. As he dropped to the icy flagstones, he felt something hot spurt from the wound. He heard a furious shout from Father Engelmann: ‘How dare you shoot an American priest!’ and Engelmann rushed over to him. ‘Fabio!’
‘I’m all right, Father,’ said Fabio. Looking at the elderly priest, he suddenly recalled the man who, twenty years ago, had descended from the lecture podium and made straight for him. Twenty years ago, Father Engelmann had seen in him an apostle whom he would take under his wing. Yet, twenty years later, Father Engelmann, in his impersonal, distant, even eccentric way, actually depended on Fabio rather than the reverse.
Just then, a couple of dozen Japanese soldiers burst through the entrance doors and rushed towards the church.
Father Engelmann hurried after them. ‘There are absolutely no Chinese soldiers here. Please get out.’
Fabio strode off to the far end of the compound without bothering to examine his wound.
In the printing workshop, Li and Dai had prepared themselves for a fight. Li stood behind the door, holding a mallet which he had found in the workshop toolbox. He would first let them come in, then club them from behind and seize a gun. Then he and Major Dai would engage them in pitched battle using any arms they were able to seize from the Japanese.
Major Dai was squatting behind a table turned on its side to face the door. He was holding a pick used to break up lumps of coal. If he and Li let two soldiers in and then shut the door on them, they could attack, the advantage (their only one) being that they would take the Japanese unawares.
Then Dai realised the import of the priests’ denial that there were Chinese soldiers in the compound.
Taking his shoes off, he said in low tones to Li: ‘Put the mallet down.’
‘Aren’t we going to put up a fight?’
‘We can’t fight. Just think about it. The moment we do, we’re proving that the Father has been sheltering soldiers.’
‘So what?’
‘So the Japs will search all the church buildings from cellar to attic, and they might even burn them to the ground. What will happen to the girls and women then?’
‘So what do we do?’
‘Take off our clothes and go to sleep. Pretend we’re civilians.’
Sergeant Major Li threw down the mallet and was just groping his way to the makeshift bed when the door was flung open and torch beams flashed around the room.
He almost picked up the mallet again.
‘They’re members of our congregation. Their house was burned down and they had nowhere to go so they sought refuge with us,’ said Father Engelmann imperturbably.
‘Out!’
The Japanese officer’s yell was translated by the interpreter in a perfect mimicry of his tone of voice.
Dai slowly got to his feet, with the grumpy air of someone whose sleep has been disturbed.
‘Hurry up!’
Dai put on Fabio’s old coat which, like the pullover he had on underneath, was obviously not his. It hung far too long and loose on him.
Sergeant Major Li was wearing an old padded coat belonging to George, which was too short, reaching only to his knees. He had one of Fabio’s hats on too. It came down over his eyebrows.
‘Who’s that?’
The torch beam settled on Wang Pusheng, lying on his makeshift bed.
‘My nephew,’ said Sergeant Major Li. ‘He’s seriously ill. He’s had a high fever for days –’
Before he had finished speaking, two soldiers dragged the boy from under his quilt. Wang Pusheng sagged insensibly between them. But his breath came hoarse and rapid, as if the rough treatment they were giving him had restored some life to his frail young body.
‘He’s only a child, and he’s seriously ill!’ Father Engelmann protested.
The soldiers paid no attention, and dragged Wang Pusheng out into the courtyard. The priest followed behind, hoping to plead the boy’s cause, when the swish of a bayonet stopped him in his tracks. Slashes appeared in his padded coat, releasing a cloud of white goose down which danced in the torchlight. Just a little deeper and the bayonet could have pierced his heart. The slash seemed intended as a warning: the bayonet was sharp enough, wasn’t it? A thrust to the heart would be just as easy. The heart was defenceless against a sharp blade like this; there was nowhere for it to hide. The bayonet challenged him, teasing his priest’s dignity. Why else should it make such a skittish gesture? However, the priest was not deterred. He continued to follow them, shouting, ‘Put him down!’
His violent movements released more goose down from his coat, and a veritable snowstorm formed in his wake.
‘For God’s sake, put him down!’
He managed to get in front of them, and they finally put Wang Pusheng on the ground, where he lay gasping desperately for breath. Father Engelmann pulled off his coat and laid it over the boy.
The Japanese officer prodded the boy with the toe of his boot and said something. The interpreter said in Chinese: ‘He’s got a bayonet wound.’
‘That’s right,’ said Father Engelmann.
‘Where did that happen?’
‘In his home.’
‘No, it happened on the execution ground. He’s an escaped POW. He was rescued and brought here.’
‘What execution ground?’ asked the priest.
‘The place where we’ve been executing Chinese POWs,’ said the officer, and the interpreter rendered his barely suppressed indignation as well as the words.
‘What? You’ve been executing Chinese POWs?’ exclaimed Father Engelmann. ‘Forgive my ignorance. I didn’t know that the Japanese Army had exempted itself from the Geneva Convention.’
The officer was momentarily silenced by Father Engelmann’s words. Then he spoke to the interpreter.
‘The officer says it’s obvious you’ve been sheltering Chinese soldiers. You can’t deny it, can you?’
