Anti-Japanese Merchant: Traitor to the Nation?

In the winter of 1938, snow fell thick and fast over Beijing's Dongcheng District. Standing behind the counter of Shen's Cotton Shop, I dug my fingers into the tattered edge of the ledger. On the counter lay the Japanese army's “final ultimatum,” written in plain black and white:

I had three days to sign the cotton procurement agreement and manage the Imperial Army's cotton trade in North China if I wanted to keep my shop. If I refused, not only would the shop be shut down, but my six-year-old daughter, Nian'an, would be sent to a Japanese “children's reformatory.”

The door creaked open, and a gust of cold wind swept snow inside. Matsui Ichiro entered with Kawashima Keiko, their military boots crunching sharply over the snow. Matsui slapped a photograph down on the counter. In it, Nian'an wore her little red kindergarten coat and smiled at the camera. But at the edge of the photo, I could just make out a Japanese bayonet.

“Mr. Shen,” Kawashima Keiko said, bending forward, her voice as soft as cotton. In her hand, she toyed with a silver-handled dagger. “Nian'an is so adorable. If she went to Japan, she could attend the finest schools.”

I didn't answer. My eyes stayed fixed on my daughter's smiling face in the photograph, and suddenly I remembered how she'd nestled in my arms yesterday evening and asked, “Daddy, why does Grandma Zhang next door say you're a bad person?” Back then, I could still tell her Grandma Zhang had mistaken me for someone else. But now Matsui's hand was already pressing down on my shoulder, gripping so hard it felt like he would crush my bones.

A faint rustling came from beneath the counter. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of blue cloth. It was the young woman who'd come that morning to apply for the bookkeeper's job. She'd secretly slipped me a note that read, “Help us deliver supplies, and we'll keep your daughter safe.”