Gift of the Golden Mountain (11 page)

     It is important, dear one, to keep your spirits high. The war will be over one day, before too long I hope, and we will be together again, a family. We have much to be thankful for, I know you know that. And you know that I love you and miss you and more than anything that I want you to be happy. I know you are in a strange land, that you are worried about your family in Shanghai. I have
tried through every channel open to me to get some word about your family. As soon as I hear anything, I will write. I know that you must feel homesick, but I am glad you are far away from all of the turmoil and sadness of this war. We can only hope that when it is over, there will be a bright, new future for China. And that someday, you and I and our child will return together.

     I promise to try to be better about writing and to write longer letters. I wish there were more to write about, other than the progress of the war, which in this theater seems all but nonexistent. And you know by now how peculiar the mails are, so don't be hard on me if they don't all arrive on time.

     Take good care of yourself,
     Your loving husband,
     Porter

6 December 1942, Lena Kerr to Porter Reade
San Francisco

     Dear Son,

     I have lasting faith that you will not, as you suggested in your last letter, expire of ennui. Poor Vinegar Joe! He just can't seem to stir Chiang to action, can he? From newspaper accounts, including your own, I can gather only that nothing much seems to be happening on the China-Burma front. And yet the Chinese Communists are able to harass the Japanese in the north. It seems to me that Chiang Kai-shek is more interested in fighting the Chinese Communists than he is in fighting the Japanese. I suppose if you try to comment on that, it
will be blacked out and I do hate to get letters with holes in them, so perhaps you had better tell me what you can in the newspaper articles you write. I feel such a thrill every time I see your byline. You have always made me feel so proud. Porter. I can't remember a time when you ever disappointed me. Though there were a few times when I felt a little bit exasperated. Looking back, those were usually times when you were too absorbed with one thing to pay any attention to another.

     I feel a bit that way with you right now. I wish you could manage to write more often to Ch'ing-Ling. She absolutely lights up when she gets a letter from you. And of course, the mails are not consistent so those weeks which bring no letter at all find her quite sad. The pregnancy makes her more emotional, I think. Most of the time Kit can convince Ch'ing-Ling to go for a short outing. Kit and she have become quite good friends, I believe, and we all work to keep up her spirits. But your letters are terribly important, dear. Instead of taking the time to write to all of us, why don't you just include paragraphs for the rest of us in your letters to your wife. That way she could share parts of her letters with us. (Though of course there will be tender parts I would not expect her to share.)

     Reading over what I have just written, I realize how demanding I must seem, and how small our concerns are when compared to all that you are facing. I am sorry, son. We are simply a band of women here, more engrossed than perhaps we should be with the impending birth of your and Ch'ing-Ling's child.

     I think of you throughout the day, wonder what you are doing at that precise moment, and say a small prayer for all of you. I love you, son.

     Mother

24 December 1942, Porter Reade to Katherine Reade McCord Ramgahr, India

     Dear Kit,

     Your letter arrived today, delivered by your friend in the foreign service (you do have good connections). I could almost feel your hot little hand on it. He tells me I have to have an answer ready by 0600 Christmas morning when he is scheduled to fly out, hence this Christmas Eve effort.

     I've been trying to think how to answer. In the end, I guess, I will have to be honest. I've never known how not to be honest with you, especially when confronted.

     What's going on, you ask. Something is wrong, you say, and you need to know what it is so that you can do whatever you can do. (Why do you always think you can do something, Kit?)

     I don't think there is anything you can do, except maybe give me some advice which I may or may not take. Christ.

     Here it is. I'm not sure it will translate. I'll have to trust you to read between the lines. (That I do trust you should be obvious, otherwise I would never be writing this.)

     I've mentioned, in my letters, the nurses who work here with Dr. Seagrave—some of them walked out of Burma with Stilwell. They are an amazing group, these women. Tough, kind, caring. In spite of the heat and the jungle rot and the terrible boredom of waiting. And of course they are women in a world of men, in a time of war. All the old rules are suspended, they have to be. Marriage and fidelity are ideas that exist in another place, not here, not for most of us, not for me. I have
become friendly with a nurse. (
Friendly.
A euphemism.) A big-boned, blond girl called Sunny because she is that, who grew up on a farm in Georgia. She calls herself a Georgia cracker and she probably is one, but she gives me comfort, makes me laugh, she makes this place bearable. She knows I am married, that I am going to be a father, that whatever is between us is temporary. She knows it, but I am not certain that I do.

     I have never loved anybody before Ch'ing-Ling. There had always been women, but never the time, it seemed, to become deeply involved. I know what you are thinking: Porter became deeply involved with issues, with causes, not with women. I suppose that is so. I know I loved Ch'ing-Ling, and I think I still do, but I won't know for certain how I feel until I return, and we have time together. I know from her letters that she is unhappy with the States, and I think it likely that she will want to return to China. I do not discount that as a possibility. It is just that, right now, all that seems so far away.

     If you tell me to give up Sunny, I'll have to tell you that I can not and will not, not now (and perhaps not ever). If you tell me what I can do to make things as easy as possible on Ch'ing-Ling, I will do my best.

     Thank you for inviting me to get this off my chest. I know you won't like it, will probably be upset as hell with me, but I needed to confide in somebody, and you always were the right one. I know that after Connor died there were men in your life, and I know that some of them you cared for with something more than a passing passion. I am counting on you to understand the complexities of this situation, the unknowns. I appreciate your going to so much trouble to set it up so that we can write to each other in confidence. Cover for me. You always have,
haven't you? When do I get to do something for you? Merry Christmas anyway, Kitten.

     Love,
     Porter

18 January, 1943, Katherine Reade McCord to Porter Reade
San Francisco

     Dear Porter,

     The best laid plans do go awry, and mine certainly have. Your letter arrived yesterday and was delivered, according to plan to my house in Pacific Heights. As you know, I've turned it into a hostel for service wives for the duration but I check in regularly to pick up my mail. As fate would have it, Lucy was passing by yesterday and decided to do me a favor and pick up my mail. Since I wasn't at Sara's when she arrived, she simply left your letter and three others on the front hall table.

     Yes. Ch'ing-Ling found your letter and the "confidential" on the envelope must have set off all sorts of alarms in her, because she opened and read it.

     Dear God I'm sorry, Porter. I would give anything to undo what has been done. Ch'ing-Ling is in her room, where she has spent most of her time for the past two months, and she will not talk to any of us. Aunt Lena and Sara are wandering around the house looking worried. They know about the letter, but they do not know what was in it and I will not tell them unless you ask me to.

     I don't know what to tell you to do. You are right, maybe there isn't anything to "do." If you can come back, I think you should. I have this awful urge to tell you to
write to her and lie, tell her anything to give her hope. I have this letter going out with an Air Force acquaintance, so you should have it within a week. Please answer at once to tell me if there is anything at all that you can think of for us to do.

     I am so awfully sorry, Porter. What a rotten thing to have happen, when you are trying to sort things out. I'm sticking close here, and I'll wrack my brain to do whatever I can.

     Love,
     Kit

16 February 1943, Liao Ch'ing-Ling to Porter Reade
San Francisco

     
Dear Porter
,

     The baby was born two days ago, a girl not boy, weighs seven pounds one ounce. I stay one month only, until the kind princess who watches over babies give a smile to this child then goes back to heaven. It is an old Chinese folk story about
Songzi Niangniang
and everyone still believes. Till now many babies die before they have one month birthday. If our child grows strong and healthy at one month we have good sign. I go then and leave her stay with old Aunts and Sister Kit.

     I cannot take this child because I don't know where I go. Better she stay here, with good people take care of her. If not for them I never can go, my heart would break.

     Our marriage was wrong, I know that. You dishonor me. For me, come to this country no good even before. I never can be happy here. I feel that now for many months.
Aunts are good, Kit is good, but the voices harsh and English sounds hurt on my ears. I don't want to tell you, away at war, but now I cannot keep silent. It is no good. I leave, and you never can follow. I ask this.

     I think sometimes of death. I think of just walk with baby into the ocean. I will not, do not worry for that. Better, I think, is what Hawaiians call "hanai." Giving baby to someone else who is good and wise. I hold baby close for one month, then give to Kit. Kit always asks me to stay, says, "Look at such beautiful daughter, stay with her." I tell her truly I never be happy here, and baby cannot be happy go with me. I tell Kit she is already my sister, now can be happy Mother, have happy child.

     I go home to China. Do not follow. Good-bye.

     No longer your wife,
     Liao Ch'ing-Ling

15 March 1943, Lena Kerr to Porter Reade
San Francisco

     
Dear Son
,

     I have tried, dear, and so have Kit and Sara. We have pleaded with Ch'ing-Ling to wait until you can return, but she would not and we cannot force her to stay. Ch'ing-Ling is determined. She has made up her mind and nothing we say dissuades her. Kit has been frantic, even to considering blocking all paths for your wife's departure. Sara and I finally convinced her not to. Kit blames herself, but I feel certain when the pain of this difficult time has dimmed, we will all be able to think more clearly, and perhaps we will come to understand that Ch'ing-Ling did what she
had to do to save herself. She was so very unhappy here, son. Even before your letter to Kit fell into her hands, she was brooding and troubled. We cannot know all that went into her decision.

     Your daughter is so beautiful, Porter, such great black eyes that look up at you with such seriousness! And then she smiles, an utterly beautiful little smile. I have never seen such a captivating child, all pink and pretty and with a lovely shock of black hair.

     I didn't think Ch'ing-Ling could possibly leave her, but she did. This morning, on a freighter that sailed for Chile. I did not help her make arrangements, but when I saw that she would go, no matter what, I made sure she had enough funds. It was the only thing I could do to try to make things easier for her, and I knew you would want me to help.

     I am so very sorry, Porter. You know that darling Mei-jin will be well cared for until her father comes home. We take turns holding her. When I see Kit with her, I am reminded of myself when you and Kit were babies. We love your child, my grandchild, deeply, son. It is as if we have been given a sign that the world is, after all, a good place, a living place, with this small, wonderful girl child. Bless her and bless you. And bless dear Ch'ing-Ling, may she find peace wherever she goes, for all the days of her life.

     My love,
     Mother