they’ll lynch us! Go!” my father yelled.
“I’ve treated Mainlanders before. I treated one just last night and he was very grateful. He was injured by a mob—”
“Exactly! What would you do, anyway? You have no equipment.”
The crowd turned to look at our car.
“Go!”
A man raised his arm as though in greeting and then casually lobbed a stone toward our jeep. The stone sailed straight at us through Toru’s open window.
Suddenly, Toru’s arm was across my face and he was leaning hard on me, pushing me into Jiro. Jiro screamed.
“Ahh!” I cried out. “I can’t breathe.”
“Saburo! Jiro! Are you all right? Toru!”
The jeep squealed away, pressing us all backward. We pulled out of downtown Taipei, and Toru sat up.
“Are you all right?” he said. As he looked at me, I saw that his cheek was bleeding.
“Toru!” I said. “The rock hit you in the face!”
Toru felt his cheek, then folded up his handkerchief and held it to the wound.
My father looked back, his eyes dark. “We are not the Red Cross,” he said.
W HEN WE GOT home, I tried to sneak off unnoticed, hoping that in all the furor over the riots the termination of my academic career would pass without notice. But after a few moments my father called to me, and I found myself facing him in his great-room armchair. I closed my eyes for a moment, knowing what was to come.
He paused, looking into the distance, one massive hand holding a smoldering cigarette, the other on the radio dial as the reports continued.
. . . It is unclear how many men perished when police fired into the unarmed crowd at the governor’s mansion, but the killings only seem to have fueled more outrage in the native populace . . .
He jumped up, surprisingly nimble for his weight, and smashed his fist onto the table so the ashtray jumped. I flinched.
“I knew Chen Yi was a butcher!” he said. “He killed all those students on the Mainland, I heard it from the Japanese. What would he do here? Hand over his mansion with no fight?”
I said nothing, as I knew this tirade was not for my benefit; my father rarely discussed politics with me. But I realized at that moment that we had gotten out of Taipei just in time, and that he had knowingly risked his life to pick up Kazuo, Jiro, and me.
He straightened up to face me.
“I have received a message from your school,” my father said. He crossed his arms so his bow tie tilted. He looked at me, his eyes black and impenetrable.
I looked down. I knew the best thing for me to do now would be to grovel on the floor, pounding my head and crying for forgiveness and mercy. Distracted and distressed as he was about the riots, it might have done the trick. But perhaps because I knew it was what he wanted, I could not bring myself to do it. “It was just the underside of the wall,” I said. “They put plaster over it.”
My father unfolded his arms and narrowed his eyes. “Stupid! Why are you giving me excuses?” He swung out his arm and struck me across the head.
My head exploded with pain. I hit the floor, gasping. The pain was like a weight on my temple that I couldn’t lift, and I moved my legs like a squashed bug, trying to rise off the dark floorboards. When my father spoke, I could hear him only through the ear that was against the floor; the ear he had hit was filled with a loud ringing. The words came to me, pinched and dim:
“Stupid! No school will take you now! You’ve ruined your life!”
My father clicked the radio back on, and as my breath moistened the floor, I heard the announcer’s voice, muffled by the floor and my half deafness.
. . . government has been paralyzed. Native Taiwanese leaders are planning to organize a set of demands to set forth . . .
This was my father’s trademark form of punishment. Not a continuous beating like my mother’s, but the one blow that lasted for hours.
I LAY ON my futon, head throbbing. My hearing was coming back, and I listened to the wind. Winter was
“I’ve treated Mainlanders before. I treated one just last night and he was very grateful. He was injured by a mob—”
“Exactly! What would you do, anyway? You have no equipment.”
The crowd turned to look at our car.
“Go!”
A man raised his arm as though in greeting and then casually lobbed a stone toward our jeep. The stone sailed straight at us through Toru’s open window.
Suddenly, Toru’s arm was across my face and he was leaning hard on me, pushing me into Jiro. Jiro screamed.
“Ahh!” I cried out. “I can’t breathe.”
“Saburo! Jiro! Are you all right? Toru!”
The jeep squealed away, pressing us all backward. We pulled out of downtown Taipei, and Toru sat up.
“Are you all right?” he said. As he looked at me, I saw that his cheek was bleeding.
“Toru!” I said. “The rock hit you in the face!”
Toru felt his cheek, then folded up his handkerchief and held it to the wound.
My father looked back, his eyes dark. “We are not the Red Cross,” he said.
W HEN WE GOT home, I tried to sneak off unnoticed, hoping that in all the furor over the riots the termination of my academic career would pass without notice. But after a few moments my father called to me, and I found myself facing him in his great-room armchair. I closed my eyes for a moment, knowing what was to come.
He paused, looking into the distance, one massive hand holding a smoldering cigarette, the other on the radio dial as the reports continued.
. . . It is unclear how many men perished when police fired into the unarmed crowd at the governor’s mansion, but the killings only seem to have fueled more outrage in the native populace . . .
He jumped up, surprisingly nimble for his weight, and smashed his fist onto the table so the ashtray jumped. I flinched.
“I knew Chen Yi was a butcher!” he said. “He killed all those students on the Mainland, I heard it from the Japanese. What would he do here? Hand over his mansion with no fight?”
I said nothing, as I knew this tirade was not for my benefit; my father rarely discussed politics with me. But I realized at that moment that we had gotten out of Taipei just in time, and that he had knowingly risked his life to pick up Kazuo, Jiro, and me.
He straightened up to face me.
“I have received a message from your school,” my father said. He crossed his arms so his bow tie tilted. He looked at me, his eyes black and impenetrable.
I looked down. I knew the best thing for me to do now would be to grovel on the floor, pounding my head and crying for forgiveness and mercy. Distracted and distressed as he was about the riots, it might have done the trick. But perhaps because I knew it was what he wanted, I could not bring myself to do it. “It was just the underside of the wall,” I said. “They put plaster over it.”
My father unfolded his arms and narrowed his eyes. “Stupid! Why are you giving me excuses?” He swung out his arm and struck me across the head.
My head exploded with pain. I hit the floor, gasping. The pain was like a weight on my temple that I couldn’t lift, and I moved my legs like a squashed bug, trying to rise off the dark floorboards. When my father spoke, I could hear him only through the ear that was against the floor; the ear he had hit was filled with a loud ringing. The words came to me, pinched and dim:
“Stupid! No school will take you now! You’ve ruined your life!”
My father clicked the radio back on, and as my breath moistened the floor, I heard the announcer’s voice, muffled by the floor and my half deafness.
. . . government has been paralyzed. Native Taiwanese leaders are planning to organize a set of demands to set forth . . .
This was my father’s trademark form of punishment. Not a continuous beating like my mother’s, but the one blow that lasted for hours.
I LAY ON my futon, head throbbing. My hearing was coming back, and I listened to the wind. Winter was
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