THOMAS L. CHIU
HE CALLED HER
HE CALLED HER LILIE
Shanghai was chaos. It was madness. He needed the companionship
and found this in Ana, a mere eighteen year old student who was fiery, articulate,
burning with passion-a passion for righteousness and justice.
His station was markedly different from the turmoil that was engulfing the
heart of Ana. He had a stable occupation, medical practice. He had a comfortable
financial and social position. He was often carried by the rickshaw during
his visits to patients.
Shanghai in the early twenties was multifaceted; the layers of society ran
deep. The smell of success and failure floated languidly, the latter often
damping the spirits of the inhabitants. To live and to die, these forces
surrounded and choked off the city like wildfire.
The government's grip over its populace began to slide. The race for the
future was not a dream. The moneyed class had no awareness of the world
outside, including of the people outside their walled houses, whom they
saw as beggars, parasites. Their contempt was extreme and their doors were
tight as the dowager's lips. No, they could not see beyond their pretty
gardens.
Amidst this, alas, another ugly scene resurfaced-opium and its myriad complexities
and complications. This drug situation was far more destructive than the
bullets and bayonets of the soldiers now getting recruited.
These hapless people-many selling their heirlooms or their bodies-were doomed.
Pockets of starvation in the city mushroomed as well. Moreover, it was the
gnawing dissolution of people's fate and confidence in the government that
drove many elsewhere.
Ana and her physician friend needed little time to get to know each other.
They had the blessings of the sweeping changes around them, which were facilitating
decisions with urgency and immediacy. She no longer was able to continue
her studies. Her mind was wrapped up and clouded by the miseries around
her.
He, too, saw the chasm that was tearing the soul of the people, and felt
impotent in the face of the massive ills. He was not treating common colds
or peptic ulcers, but was invariably confronted with hunger, estrangement
and, inevitably, dead souls.
Fearing being consumed by all this wretchedness, Ana agreed to unite with
her physician friend. They soon moved to an island off of the southeastern
coast. There they found solace. And there he called her Lilie, for the first
time. Their life seemed idyllic and enchanting.
Unbeknownst to them, the rage and the florid embers of war that broke out
on the mainland were to spoil their brief sojourn. Trepidation mounted,
for Ana was marked as a people's enemy. Her days of student politicking
were recorded. Was she to surrender and face the tribunal?
They moved. This time it was a swift flight to another island, the Philippine
Archipelago.
The next twenty years were far from majestic. While this time was not as
cruel as what Ana previously had experienced, it was nonetheless an uphill
struggle. Ana taught kindergarten. This was to become her forte. "The
seeds must be nurtured from early on," she used to say. Her husband
lost his ability to support his occupation. They managed.
On numerous occasions, in difficult times, one often heard him call her
Lilie.
There were ten children to be brought up.
Years later, after the family moved to North America (her last voyage),
he often called her Lilie. She always smiled, taking cues as usual. Words
seemed unnecessary.
Indeed, their voyage had been one of pain and a continued search for a safe
haven freed of corruption, the absence of constant policing of one's life
by another, and the freedom to face obstacles.
Theirs was not an extraordinary feat. It was, however, a special communication
between Ana and her husband that kept their world intertwined.
I heard him call her Lilie much later, when she said goodbye to all of us.
The last time I heard him call her by that name was the day he left home,
never to return.
None of us ever called her Lilie. We do not know to this day why he called
by that name. It was like a secret, as if only the two of them owned it,
sacred to their hearts.
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