Second Contact

“Oh, I will-you’ve convinced me,” Nieh said. “I wish I’d thought of it myself, as a matter of fact. It’s good to have you back in China.”

“It’s good to be back,” Liu Han said from the bottom of her heart. “If you know some of the things they eat in the United States… But never mind that. Why wasn’t I involved in pla

Suddenly, Nieh Ho-T’ing looked uncomfortable. “Oh, you know how Mao is about these things,” he said at last.

“Ah.” Liu Han did indeed. “He thinks women are better in bed than at the council table. Hsia Shou-Tao thinks the same way. How much self-criticism has he had to give over the years because of it? Maybe Mao should criticize himself, too.”

“Maybe he should-but don’t hold your breath,” Nieh said. “Now you have shown you deserve to help plan the attack. Isn’t that enough?”

“It will do, for now.” Liu Han leaned forward. “Let’s talk.”

Theirs was not the only talk that went into the plan, of course. They met with leading officials from the Party and the People’s Liberation Army, hammering out what they wanted to do and also how to keep both the little scaly devils and the Kuomintang from getting wind of it before the attacks went on. Liu Han helped organize a disinformation campaign: not one that claimed there would be no attack, but one that said it was aimed at a different part of Peking a week later than the real assault would be launched.

Nieh Ho-T’ing went several times to the Muslim quarter in the southwestern part of the Chinese city of Peking. He came back from one trip laughing. “I met with a mutton merchant,” he told Liu Han. “Across the street, an ordinary Chinese has set up as a pig butcher. The fellow painted a tiger in the front window of his shop, to frighten the Muslim’s sheep. The Muslim put a mirror in front of his own place, to make the tiger turn on the pigs, which the Muslim ca

“It is a good joke,” Liu Han agreed. “Now, will the Muslims make their diversion?”

“I think they will,” Nieh answered. “The scaly devils oppress them because Muslims cause so much trouble in the west-you had a good notion there. That pig butcher is an example of this oppression: pigs offend Muslims, but the little devils let him open his shop in that district even so.”

“If they are fools, they will pay for being fools,” Liu Han said. “A pity we have to give the Muslims weapons to help them rise up. The ones who live may end up turning some of those weapons against us.”

“It can’t be helped,” Nieh said.

“I suppose not,” Liu Han admitted. “I wish it could. But the Muslims are less dangerous to us than the Kuomintang, much less than the little scaly devils.”

The chosen day dawned clear and cold, with a strong wind blowing out of the west. The wind brought with it yellow dust from the Mongolian desert; a thin coating of dust got everywhere, including between Liu Han’s teeth. That gritty feeling in the mouth and in the eyes was part of living in Peking. Liu Han quickly got used to it again, though she hadn’t missed it when she and Liu Mei went to America.

She stayed in her roominghouse with her daughter, waiting for things to happen. In a way, she wished she were carrying an American tommy gun or a Russian PPSh submachine gun, but she wasn’t an ordinary soldier any more. She was of more use to the cause of popular revolution setting others in motion than moving herself.

Right at the appointed hour, gunfire broke out south of the roominghouse. “It begins,” Liu Mei said.

“Not yet, not for us,” Liu Han replied. “If the Muslims do not draw enough scaly devils away from the Forbidden City, our fighters will sit on their hands and let the little devils crush this uprising. That will be hard on the Muslims, but it will save our men for another time when we can get better use from them.”

“We will give the Muslims to the Kuomintang if that happens,” Liu Mei said.

“Truth,” Liu Han answered in the scaly devils’ language. Returning to Chinese, she went on, “It ca

Before long, her practiced ear caught the rattle of the little scaly devils’ automatic weapons, a sound different from the one the Muslims’ rifles and submachine guns made. When she caught the rumble of tanks rolling through the narrow streets of Peking, she gri

Had the People’s Liberation Army been fighting the Kuomintang, the attack on the Forbidden City would have come after sunset. But the Chinese Communists had learned to their sorrow that the scaly devils had devices allowing them to see in the dark like owls. And so the assault on the moated walls surrounding the rectangle of the Forbidden City began in the early afternoon. American submachine guns smuggled one by one into the surrounding Imperial City opened up on the walls. So did heavy Russian mortars. The gates into the Forbidden City-especially the Wu Men, the Meridian Gate, at the south-would already be open, to let the soldiers of the little scaly devils and their fighting vehicles go forth to put down the Muslims. Teams of picked Chinese fighters were to rush in through them, to make sure they stayed open so more human beings could follow.

“If we take the Forbidden City, can we keep it?” Liu Mei asked.

“I don’t know,” Liu Han answered. “We can do a lot of damage. We can kill a lot of their officials and a lot of ru

“They do fight hard,” her daughter remarked. “They will slay more of ours than we slay of theirs.”

“I know that.” Liu Han’s shrug was not so much callous as calculating. “Mao is right when he says they can slay hundreds of millions of Chinese and still leave us with hundreds of millions to resist them. They ca

Someone pounded on her door. She opened it. A ru

“So soon?” Liu Han exclaimed. The ru

Except on the days when he felt worse, Mordechai Anielewicz bicycled through the streets of Lodz. It was defiance as much as anything else, a refusal to let the nerve gas he’d breathed twenty years before do anything more to his life than he could help.

When he saw Ludmila Jager hobbling along on a stick, he pulled to a stop beside her. Her broad Russian face bore a look of intense concentration; she was fighting pain as best she could, too. “How is it today?” Mordechai called to her.

She shrugged. “Today, not so good,” she answered. “When the weather is cold and wet, it hurts more,” she went on in her Russian-accented Polish. Then she eyed him. “But you know this for yourself.”

“I suppose so,” he answered, again feeling oddly guilty that the gas had done worse to her than it had to him.

She snapped her fingers. “Something I meant to tell you. Someone asked me yesterday where you live.”

“Nu? Did you tell him?” Mordechai asked.