The Flowers of War by Geling Yan Read Free Book Online

heart pounding, he hid himself in the main hall of the innermost courtyard. There was a narrow alley outside the window, which he had opened and could get out of in a matter of seconds. Now he was really fired up, his frustration at the loss of Nanking completely forgotten.
    The Japanese soldiers arrived in the inner courtyard and came into view. He held the pistol in one hand and, with his teeth, pulled the pin out of the grenade, silently counted to three, and then lobbed it out on the count of four. He was anxious not to waste any of the explosives he had, so the grenade had to land in the best possible position. As he threw it, he turned and hurled himself at the window. With thebenefit of all his hard training, it took no more than a couple of seconds to scale the wall and land on the other side.
    But the Japanese were also well trained. They had not been seriously wounded and were soon at the back windows themselves. Bullets hit the tree trunk to the left of him and the crumbling wall to the right. Then he realised one had hit him in his left side.
    There was a high wall in front of him on the other side of the alley and the light from nearby fires lit up a cross atop a building inside. This must be an American church, he thought. The only way to get into the church grounds was by climbing the plane tree. He scaled its much-scarred trunk, and with each pull up, the wound in his left side oozed a spurt of blood.
    When he got to the top of the wall, he saw seven or eight crosses. This was a graveyard, planted with poplars and holly, and Dai’s eye fell on a building which looked like a small temple. He dived underneath the dome, sat down, undid his buttons and took out his first-aid kit. He probed his side but could not feel a bullet. This was much better than he had imagined. Now he just needed to staunch the wound. He was bleeding freely into his jacket and its sodden weight quickly turned icy cold.
    He bound up the wound, his teeth chattering uncontrollably from the cold. This foreign ‘temple’ was a perfect, miniature mausoleum. If he died here, he would be dying among strangers, he thought.
    When it got light, he discovered he had slept a little.
    Then he heard female voices. What were women doing here?

Six

    Shujuan looked into her bowl. Each day the soup seemed to get thinner. She was convinced it was because George was giving extra food to the Qin Huai women.
    While the girls were eating their meal, the young prostitute Cardamom came into the refectory. She knew what they thought of her and made no attempt at good manners, shuffling across the old floorboards in her embroidered shoes.
    ‘You’ve got soup!’ she said.
    The girls gave her a look designed to stop the most thick-skinned woman in her tracks. It didn’t work on Cardamom.
    ‘We only got given two loaves. They’re really dry,’ she complained.
    No one paid any attention. George had made four loaves. The sixteen girls, the two clergymen, George and Ah Gu had made do with two of them so that the prostitutes could have the rest.
    ‘She’s got dry bread, and now she wants soup?’ they thought. ‘Does she think she’s part of the family?’
    ‘Do you really eat bread every day?’ Cardamom asked. ‘I’m just a country girl. Foreign bread disagrees with me.’ She sidled over to the soup pot which sat on the table. There was only a little left in the bottom, a few overcooked strips of cabbage and scraps of noodle. Cardamom grew bolder and picked up the ladle. The handle was at right angles to the spoon, so you had to lift the handle straight up as if drawing water from a well. Cardamom couldn’t manage it and the soup kept spilling out of the ladle and back into the pot. The girls carried on eating as if she was not there.
    ‘Is anyone going to help me?’ she asked with an impudent smile that made dimples in her cheeks.
    ‘Someone should call Deacon Adornato,’ one of the girls said.
    ‘He’s already been called,’ said