Chapter 152 Qinfia Sachs
Before I knew there was such a big world in this world and that he was so famous in that big world, I already belonged to him.
My father was once a prosperous merchant, and my brothers and sisters and I enjoyed the best of life. Later, our family was forced to flee from Salzburg to The Hague. During this migration, we lost our home, all our possessions, and even our servants. I lost my piano, my tutor, and my tutu. My mother and grandmother threw away all my sister's and my headbands and skirts. Our long hair was cut short like boys', and we were forced to wear our brothers' clothes as we fled. My sister and I told our mother that the noble Aryan race would have no interest in Jews, otherwise they would suffer a worse fate than us. Unfortunately, our mother would not listen. Only after we arrived safely in The Hague did she begin to regret it. For a long time, we would not have money to buy new clothes.
At first, this predicament made me embarrassed and uncomfortable, because I was already fourteen years old that year; but I was also so fortunate, because I was already fourteen years old that year, and the person who helped us escape was the most unique person in the world.
To be precise, he is a unique and mature man.
We traveled over a thousand kilometers, changing transport seven times, terrified by the news from the front. By the time we left Bray for Weerth, we had already passed through Liechtenstein, Switzerland, France, Luxembourg, and Belgium, skirting the entirety of Germany. As we were about to enter the Netherlands, we were forced to sleep in the cramped carriages, some unable to even lie flat.
As night fell, my second sister buried herself in her blankets and burst into tears. She said she'd traveled to five countries and dozens of cities, yet no boy would even glance at her on the street, not once! I consoled her, saying that at least she didn't have to shave her head like those people with lice. She thought about it and started crying again. She said that if we couldn't afford underwear, we would grow up to be real men.
My eldest sister remained silent. She hadn't said a word in ages. Only I knew she had lost contact with her lover forever. Perhaps it was for the best, since that handsome man was an SS officer. We hated them deeply, and I couldn't comfort her. I curled up in my blanket, pressed against the wall, leaving more space for her to cry.
I wasn't happy either. Being considered inferior and driven from my home was a terrible feeling. Those three months were the darkest in my life, a gloomy scene that had fallen on my fifteen-year-old self. Everywhere I went was gloomy, until I heard a beautiful voice coming from outside.
It was a language I didn't understand. The sentence, composed of single syllables, was brief and lingered in my mind for a moment before fading away. Suddenly, the sound of a harmonica filled the air. It was a lullaby. I don't know if it was the pleasantness of his voice or the enchanting music that followed, but at that moment, all my young curiosity was piqued. The carriage was pitch black, with only a faint, warm glow filtering through the gaps in the curtains.
Peeping is not something a gentleman would do, but I did it - at that moment, shame could not cover up my curiosity about the sound.
At that moment, as I opened the narrow wooden door and looked out, you turned your head. No, not at me, but rather, you were leaning over to speak to the middle-aged man playing the harmonica, your servant. You will probably never know how deeply I was captivated by your eyes and smile. It was all because in that moment, that eternal moment, a tiny ray of light seemed to ignite in the dark world of this ignorant, homeless Jewish girl. You would surely scoff at the suddenness of my admiration, but perhaps even you yourself are unaware of how captivating the curve of your face is when you smile, or the intense focus in your eyes as you listen to others. At that moment, I thought, if you could look at me like that, if you could gaze into my eyes, I would be completely captivated...
Then, you turned, and I saw the soft glow of the dim streetlight reflected in your pupils. I couldn't see your face clearly, but I could sense the exoticism in your gestures, the light in your eyes, and your voice, more beautiful than music. The r's you pronounced told me you'd spent a lot of time in Berlin. You asked me in German, "Mr. Walter plays beautifully, doesn't he?"
I don't know how my voice finally emerged from my chest at that moment. I immediately understood why my second sister was... embarrassed by our current attire. My cheeks flushed deeply, but thankfully you couldn't see. I had no skills, hardly even a girl, so I had to brag to you: "I speak English."
You and your servant, Mr. Walter, both laughed. To be honest, I was a little angry, not because of you, but because of myself. My words were so childish, and it was precisely because of this childishness that you thought I was naive and a little silly. But at this moment, this naivety is so unnecessary in front of you, and it makes me feel ashamed.
You noticed I wasn't happy. You thought I missed Austrian milk and cheese, where the weather was always vibrant. You told me it was cold in The Hague, that even on a midsummer night there were few stars, and that the North Sea wind was icy and dry. You also told me I would definitely understand Dutch, with its cheerful, bouncy pronunciation and a cadence like a rising variation on German.
You still teased me with your childlike tone, imitating the Dutch accent in a light and somewhat playful tone, but it was not annoying at all. For many years, whenever I heard Dutch, I would think of you, even though others said that the tone sounded as if it was mocking us, a group of homeless Jews, at any time and anywhere.
Soon someone called your name, fortunately not in a language I didn't understand.
Mr. Si, Mr. Si. I silently chanted your name, my eyes following you as you walked into the crowd. The light was too dim, otherwise I doubt you would not see the longing in my eyes.
My mother was giggling. "Qin Feiya, do you know who that gentleman is?"
It rained outside. Mr. Walter held a black umbrella for you. You, also wearing a black windbreaker, walked into the dark austerity with your servant and disappeared into the crowd. I looked into the darkness, thinking of your bright eyes and gentle smile, but my mind was empty. I heard my mother mention your Italian-sounding name: "Vanirsi." I asked her, "Is he Italian?" She said no, "He's Chinese."
"But why does he have such a name?"
"Chinese is too complicated for us, so we usually call him this."
Chinese! It turns out to be the Chinese language!
That mysterious country, that East that quickly prospered and became strong within ten years, it was a pity that I knew nothing about it at that time.
I asked my mother why I was there. She told me I was there because I was the ambassador to the Netherlands. To date, I had helped over 4,000 Jews find refuge in the Netherlands, yet my fame in my own country was far less than my reputation abroad.
My sister joked, "Qin Feiya, he doesn't have a wife yet."
The mother's worry made people laugh: "I heard that all kinds of women often come in and out of his house. So many women throw themselves at him that he still hasn't married."
I buried my face in my hands.
You are only twenty-six years old and you are not married!
At fifteen, I was one of the four thousand people you saved. I wonder if you remember whether there was a name called Qinfia Sachs among those four thousand. She was such a humble girl, she just wanted to be one of those various women, to be treated like you treat the many people you cannot love deeply, and that would be enough.
Until one day, I read about her in a book about you.
You didn't see me again for a long time, but you never disappeared from my life. Perhaps you can't believe it, but from that day on, you became everything in that Jewish girl's life. I stayed in The Hague for a year. It didn't matter that there wasn't milk or sunny days in The Hague. The cold North Sea wind was as bleak as you described it. I never saw the stars on the beach, and the Dutch language was as cheerful as you spoke it. Everything was instantly colored by your few words, but I didn't see you again for several years. European countries quickly closed their access to Jews. When they announced that some of us would need to go to China, I accepted without hesitation. Go to China! In your country, there are countless people with black eyes and skin like you, speaking the same monosyllabic language that sounded more beautiful than a harmonica when I first met you. Your language, your Chinese name!
——Si Yansang!
The first time I saw your name in a bookstore, I spent all my pocket money...and my savings, buying your books. "European Love Letters," "Bride of the Past," "Song of the Sword"...all your writings carry a longing for that Eastern land, and all your stories are reminiscent of the young woman in "Bride of the Past."
From then on, I searched like crazy for articles about you. There were newspaper interviews with you, short biographies written by your friends. That Royal Navy captain talked about you at eighteen... Oh my god, what were you like at eighteen? Just thinking about it drives me crazy... He said you were so innocent, almost foolish, that when you returned home, you brought her a giant teddy bear, and she ended up leaving you! What kind of person would reject someone like you and a teddy bear like that? I can't imagine.
She must be beautiful and elegant enough, famous enough, otherwise I don't think she is qualified to hurt you.
During the years I spent avoiding the possibility of war, I studied Chinese literature at the University of Hong Kong, spending all my free time translating your works. In 1938, a sudden, world-shaking roar erupted from northern China, striking fear into the hearts of all those eager for military action. I heard your voice on the radio. Representing your country at the Hague Peace Conference, you angrily denounced the Nazis' crimes against the Jews, while cleverly mocking the various aggressive actions of the European powers over the past eighty years. Your every word was deafening, and your rebuttal silenced the entire diplomatic corps. As a writer, you wrote countless passionate proclamations on behalf of the Jews. As ambassador to the Netherlands, you personally rescued the Jews. No one has more insight than you, and no one has more authority to speak than you.
Now countless people in the world will be fascinated by you, and you will never forget the poor little girl of fifteen years old who loved you and belonged to you completely from the age of fifteen.
The war that everyone expected to break out did not happen, and I was about to finish my studies and go to Paris because you were there.
I'm nineteen now, and walking down the street, boys often stare at me. I don't know if this attention comes from my appearance or my almost Oriental aura, but it doesn't matter to me. Because since I was fifteen, I've been yours completely.
I am five foot five, my bones are not as strong as those of traditional white women, my Chinese pronunciation is rarely funny, I am familiar with most Chinese and European literature, I have translated your works into three languages, which have not yet been published, and I have more than ten sets of all your books in my home. I wonder if I would look out of place standing next to you.
Before I saw you again, I met her. Linzy, the woman who received her honorary doctorate from the Sorbonne, was only twenty-nine years old. During her three months at the Sorbonne, her three weekly mathematical logic classes were packed. I attended several of them. She possessed the elegant demeanor of a traditional Oriental woman, not only beautiful but also witty and profoundly learned.
Her husband was handsome and polite, waiting for her outside the classroom on Wutong Road at 8 o'clock every evening to pick her up. He doted on her to the extreme, and they were a perfect couple, the envy of all the students who met them.
I've heard her talents extend far beyond this. Some say her lifelong contributions may only be recognized for many years. This reminds me of a line about her in the film "The Old Bride." It goes: "You never imagine a girl would refuse a teddy bear, but perhaps what she needs is a weapon."
I know you must be smiling when you wrote this sentence.
I've seen you on the street a few times, passing you by. You never noticed me, which was a bit frustrating, but that's to be expected. She's also in this city, so I wonder if you've met them.
It's a bit embarrassing to say this. One night, I saw you on the tram and secretly followed you home. You had an apartment in the 8th arrondissement, on the second floor of a cream-colored house on the banks of the Seine near Notre Dame. Since then, I've often found excuses to go to that street, sometimes for an afternoon cup of coffee, sometimes to gaze out from the railings along the riverbank all day, or to go there with female friends for an expensive Japanese-French fusion meal. But I rarely saw you.
One night, I got off the tram and walked along the riverbank. When I reached your apartment, I saw a dim light in your window and a bunch of lilies in a vase in the window. This was something I had never seen before.
I began to wonder if you had a new girlfriend, or if... one of your female companions had given it to you. At that moment, the narrow door on the first floor opened, and your servant, Mr. Walter, came out. He saw me and asked, "Are you here to see Mr. Smith?"
For some reason, I nodded.
He said, "He's been out for a while. It's okay. Please come upstairs and have a cup of tea. He should be back soon."
I hummed and followed Mr. Walter upstairs, my cheeks flushed and my heart pounding. I knew it wasn't proper, but I couldn't help but survey your furnishings: the soft, dark red carpet with its elaborate pattern, the multicolored bookcases and the black piles of books that stretched all the way to the attic, the paintings, the white sculptures... I couldn't stop my gaze. I wished I could remember the titles of every book you'd read, the shapes of every piece of furniture. But this place was filled with your scent, all you. You weren't here, but just sitting here for five minutes was enough to make me pass out.
But if you come back, how should I explain it? I'll tell you that I translated some of your works, but I'm afraid that the wording might not be refined enough to offend you, so I've never sent them to the publisher. I'm sure you'll be angry. You're already so famous, how could you allow a half-baked language student to touch your work?
Or perhaps I should tell you the truth, tell you about my five-year, inexplicably infatuated love for you, tell you that I've read every one of your books, obsessed with understanding every detail of you like a maniac. You don't smoke, but you always carry a faded lighter because of a girl. You have some childish behaviors, like often lying down to read, a habit that gradually deteriorated your right eye's vision. So, at the age of twenty, you had to wear glasses—a monocle—because your left eye still had normal vision. No, no, my confession would be too explicit. You'd think I was crazy and it would scare you away.
I thought I should lie and tell you that I live next door to you and often see you reading by the window. You wear a silver monocle when you read. I've heard that only those with high brow bones, a straight nose bridge, and deep eye sockets can wear such glasses. Most women can't do it, and only a few men—handsome men—can wear a monocle. Your monocle has a thin chain that hangs from the corner of your eye to behind your ear, hidden in your hair. It makes you look elegant and stylish, so I often secretly watch you because I love you this way.
Oh my God, oh my God, just thinking about you is enough to make me blush. Now I am sitting in your room, and I don’t know how to tell you the origin of my unexpected guest.
At that moment, the bell rang downstairs. The moment Mr. Walter stood up to open the door, I stood up from my stool, as if awakened from a dream. He smiled and told me you were back. My heart was pounding so hard that I almost couldn't stand. And the moment he opened the door, I fled from your room like a flash, not caring at all about the suspiciousness of my actions or the suspicious look on Mr. Walter's face.
Your carpet is so soft, and so are my legs. Every step feels like a falling staircase. At that moment, you came up from downstairs, brushing past me in the narrow stairwell. I looked up at you, and you held my gaze. You had no idea who I was, or how I had shamelessly invaded your home just moments before. At that moment, my ears buzzed as I stumbled past you, narrowly avoiding an oncoming tram as I rushed onto the street.
I ran along the riverbank for a long time, I don't know how long. The wind was strong near the river, and there were as many people walking on the road as usual. I often heard people exclaiming as I passed them. It was not until I saw the man she was with that I gradually stopped.
The man stood outside the tailor's shop, smoking. He was tall, his eyes sharp, so even among the crowds, I recognized him instantly. I slowly stopped and, as I passed behind him, I heard her voice. She was chatting animatedly with the owner in beautifully pronounced French. Her three-year-old son was inside the shop playing with the tailor. At that moment, the tall, long-haired Frenchman embraced the tailor and kissed him passionately. The little boy, visibly frightened, immediately covered his eyes and cried out in shock.
The tailor pushed his homosexual lover away and scolded him a few words, obviously feeling a little sorry for being so abrupt in front of the children.
She was smiling and apologizing to the tailor on behalf of her youngest son when her husband immediately put out his cigarette, strode in, picked up the boy, and said to him in Chinese, "Listen, in this world, boys can like boys, and girls can like girls. They are the same as us, okay?"
The boy seemed a little afraid of his father. He looked timid and hummed softly.
The scene was so beautiful that I couldn't help but stop outside the store and smile.
At that moment, the tailor saw me and asked, "Are you here to make clothes or to pick them up? What is your name?"
It just so happened that I needed a new dress. To avoid embarrassment, I took a few steps inside and told him, "My name is Qin Feiya, and I want to make a dress."
At that moment, she suddenly turned around and looked at me, opened her mouth slightly, and seemed a little surprised.
And at that moment, that all-too-familiar voice rang out.
You stood behind me, your voice trembling. I couldn't tell if you were looking at me or her. I heard you ask, "You... tell me again, what's your name?"
I didn't dare look back. I stood alone in the middle of the tailor shop. I wasn't famous, but I didn't know why I was receiving so much attention.
"Qinfiya," I heard my own voice say, "My name is Qinfiya Sachs."
[End of article]
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