Chapter 146: Deep Beauty (Part 2)
8
What can the Brotherhood's Golden Key be used for?
Please take a look at the writing on this rusty military license plate. Tell me, what does it say?
z. is the first name, tse is the last name, c is the military rank, and 1.6.40 is the date of appointment.
Then there is blood type A.
Then there is UKMC.
Do you see where a bit of information is missing?
Where a u or b should be filled in to represent a person's beliefs, there is a blank.
If a soldier's faith is stripped away and justice is erased, what is the meaning of his survival?
The group of British Army soldiers around me are strong, sunny and optimistic. They have "Iron Lovers" and "Fireflies" and are backed up by a powerful Royal Air Force. They are well-equipped but not good at fighting. They love to eat beef and potatoes, play cards and listen to music in the camp, and have a rich zest for life. When they win a great victory, they will take female soldiers out for a ride in a convertible and hold the ladies in their hands. Unlike soldiers from other countries, they have almost never had any scandals when getting along with ladies. They are always full of fun and love and will help French farmers plow the fields.
Unlike the Royal Air Force and the Royal Navy, most of them were of civilian origin, you might say they were leisurely; if it weren't for the war, they might be more suitable to be husbands to wives and gentlemen than soldiers.
Who would be willing to come to the battlefield if they were not loyal? This is their belief.
Unlike me, I have nothing.
I have no country, no love, no religious beliefs, no education, no skills, and no achievements. My military badge will one day rust so badly that my surname will be unrecognizable, and all I have will be that golden key. If the insignificant Xie Zeyi were to die silently one day, his entire life would be worth less than these five ounces of gold.
9
When it comes to faith, I only admire one person: Xie Hong, my father. My relationship with him is not as difficult as the outside world seems, and his lifestyle is not as ridiculous as you think.
Outwardly, he appeared nonchalant about his sins, secretly wandering around mosques, Christian churches, and temples seeking refuge, begging Allah, Jesus, and Buddha to grant him a son or grandson. If it weren't for his power and status in the Far East, such behavior would likely have been enough to get him stoned to death by the faithful. This, I think, is his most interesting trait.
That December, the Japanese army landed in Hong Kong, easily defeating the hundreds of thousands of British troops stationed in the Far East. White people were thrown into concentration camps, and most houses were looted. Despite the loss of his wealth, he managed to escape Hong Kong by ship to North America amid the turmoil. From then on, he changed his name and started anew, effectively ending his reputation as a speculator.
When I showed up at the San Francisco sanatorium in 1962, he had already passed away a few minutes earlier. The doctors and nurses seemed very sorry about this, and they told me that he had stopped believing that I was still alive many years ago.
He died of natural causes, without suffering any illness or pain. I only know that his lifelong wish was ultimately unfulfilled, and I wonder if he was happy in his last twenty years.
10
You came to see me because you saw this photo.
Misha, who took this photo, was born into one of the few well-off families in Benghazi. When he was 18, he received a British-made Compass 2 as a birthday present. In the war in April of that year, he lost his home and his two sisters.
That February, Rommel's vanguard also landed in Tripoli, penetrated Cyrenaica, and captured Benghazi. During our full retreat, we detonated 4,000 tons of captured Italian explosives. The city was engulfed in flames, and the 2nd Armored Division was completely destroyed at Makili three days later. All the divisional commanders, even officers below my rank, were captured. The bombardment continued, and I was half-buried under a collapsed wall. They believed I was doomed, and with fortresses ahead, Rommel abandoned the battle and advanced towards Tobruk instead.
My legs were still salvageable when I crawled out of the rubble. Maikli had been devastated by the battle and bombing, leaving it a deserted city. I found some food and bandages in the city and prepared to seek help nearby. Maikli was surrounded by desert, the nearest village dozens of kilometers away. I decided to take my time crossing the desert. It was my only option for survival.
This may also be the worst decision I have ever made in my life.
I had the luck to survive the hands of Rommel, the Nazi's greatest pride, but with this broken body I was to face the hyenas, wild dogs and taipans of the Sahara.
I found a resting place. Blood loss and hunger had made it difficult for me to maintain constant vigilance. A noise woke me in the night, and I was met with a pair of green eyes. A vulture was gnawing at my unconscious, festering legs. They could still be saved, but they wouldn't last much longer. Resistance was futile. My only hope at that moment was that their interest in the rest of my lifeless body would be less than the rotting flesh.
At that moment, I heard the sound of a car engine, a few dozen meters away in the bushes. I immediately forced myself to make some noise. Fortunately, the car seemed to stop, and as footsteps approached through the bushes, I saw the Benghazi boy's gaze shift from my legs to my military uniform, and his expression shifted from pity to disgust.
I heard his father say to him in Arabic, "Shoot that damn vulture."
He told his father, "It's eating the damn British soldiers who destroyed Benghazi."
His father said, "Then shoot him."
Misha did not shoot.
He looked back at me and pressed the shutter button at that moment.
I know what I look like right now. Rotting, filthy, my body mutilated and hideously awful. I don't know the look I'm giving his camera. Perhaps my will to survive inspires sympathy, tinged with a hint of guilt for my inappropriate clothing and smell. Perhaps the blood loss has left me distracted, or perhaps I'm near death, causing my pupils to constrict.
An hour after they left, they returned and carried me out of the desert.
I lost both my legs and survived.
He described his decision to return countless times: "In the car, I described to my father the way you looked at me. Your cheeks were sunken, your face lifeless. Your pupils began to shrink. You were dying, and you knew it. Death wouldn't necessarily be more painful than living, and you knew that. But at that moment, the look you gave me still carried a longing for life. You were begging me for survival."
In that year, more than 100,000 British troops were captured in the Far East, Hong Kong was occupied by the Japanese army, all white people and British businessmen were thrown into concentration camps or repatriated, and all houses were requisitioned.
The war was complete. I had nowhere to go.
I was thirty-four years old that year.
He sometimes asked me what kept me alive at that moment.
What is the meaning that keeps me alive?
I often ask myself this question—I have no faith or country, no one to love or hate. I hate war, am not a qualified soldier, and have no one to pledge allegiance to.
It was as if every door and window of my life was shut, leaving me with only one candle to light in the darkness. While it illuminated me, it also slowly robbed me of oxygen.
But even so, I want to see the real light.
11
When I was fourteen, I was still ignorant, and my arrogance and anger, which had nowhere to go, often hurt others.
At the age of thirty-four, he has lived a life that is too worldly and numb. His body is ugly and his soul is dead.
This may be my best destiny, but I was not born in the best era.
If I had met you, it would have been when I was 24. I would have brought you a flower every day, placed it in a bone china dish, and treated it with great care.
But I am eighty-four years old, it is too late.
My time is running out, and I still haven't waited for you.
I once saw a premature baby through the incubator. Her body was no bigger than an adult woman's palm, but the tiny hands held her tightly. I knew at a glance that she would grow up to be a fighter.
I don't have much time left, so I will use all the remaining energy to wish her good health and longevity.
——
Marianne first saw the photo in the summer of 1989 at the home of Misha, a local elder in Mersa Matrouh.
It was a well-preserved black-and-white photograph, evidently one that had undergone numerous restorations. It showed a man in British military uniform crouching in the bushes, gazing up at the camera. His face was dirty, his cheeks sunken, the evidence of severe torture. Even his black pupils had begun to shrink, yet this did not diminish his handsomeness.
Especially those eyes, Marianne didn't know how to describe them. They were so beautiful, hidden in the shadows of their sockets. She could see through the photographic paper, through those eyes, his entire soul, and his entire soul was telling a sad and beautiful story.
Marian searched for the owner of the photo for almost three years and finally found him in a hospital in the suburbs of a southern Chinese city.
During these three years, she found another photo of him in an old newspaper published in Shanghai.
In the photo, one side of his cheek was bulging, as if he was chewing a piece of candy, and he faced the camera expressionlessly. He looked only fourteen or fifteen years old, but when she saw those deep, bright eyes, Marianne recognized him almost immediately.
The newspaper page noted: "A model was photographed in Shanghai shooting a Hardman cigarette advertisement. The Sassoon family's eldest son was accidentally photographed. The Hardman owner and a female actress approached him, but he ignored them, continuing to eat candy. After a moment, he turned around and asked, 'Have you had enough?' The camera immediately captured the scene."
She thought he was difficult to approach, so she observed him for many days. He loved to sit in the sun behind the rose bushes, spending entire days there. His clothes were always neatly pressed and clean, and he would often chat and laugh with passers-by. He was very well-educated and respectable.
She always felt that he should have a female companion. Even though she lived in a busy city, she would often listen to classical music after dinner or go to a real night dance. She would wear the most elegant suits and evening gowns and keep her hair meticulously groomed.
It's a natural elegance that emanates from every gesture, a natural grace that runs deep in one's bones. So even though she lost both legs and had to use a wheelchair, she still maintained a dignity that would put the handsome men and beautiful women of today's cities to shame.
Whenever Marianne looked at him, she felt that he was utterly alone.
A month later, she finally plucked up the courage to go up and say hello, but to her surprise, he was friendlier and easier to get along with than he looked.
He spoke slowly and many words, which Marianne wrote down one by one.
She carefully asked if she could display two of his photos in the World War II memorial area of the Cill College library.
He nodded slightly to indicate that he was fine. He seemed to be in a bad mood, so Marianne left without disturbing him.
Marian flew back to the UK and began to sort out the materials she had. A week later, she received a call and learned that Mr. Xie had passed away.
"He lived alone for fifty years, and every day he would buy five white orchids or a bunch of lilies and bring them home, just like every day for fifty years. He never married, and five days after his death, the flowers on his windowsill withered, and his body was discovered by his neighbors."
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