Being a person with memory is sometimes not easy

“Deep in my mem­o­ry, there is a city that trea­sures my child­hood… Please allow me to describe the ancient city of my mem­o­ry in my own way. When it appears before my eyes, it is always beau­ti­ful and sad, and it has unfor­get­table mem­o­ries.” — When Cai Gao wrote this open­ing state­ment in the form of a let­ter in “Fire City: 1938” with deep affec­tion, her writ­ing brought out not only her per­son­al traces, but also includ­ed many mem­o­ries that far tran­scend­ed her indi­vid­u­al­i­ty.

It was the mem­o­ry of a city burned down, blend­ed into the painful war mem­o­ries of hun­dreds of mil­lions of peo­ple. Per­haps because it was too painful, or per­haps because it seemed insignif­i­cant com­pared to the greater suf­fer­ing, it was grad­u­al­ly for­got­ten…

There were also cities that were burned down dur­ing the war. Even if we don’t read his­to­ry books, we may read about them in lit­er­ary works. For exam­ple, we read about the burn­ing of Moscow dur­ing Napoleon’s inva­sion in Tolstoy’s War and Peace, the burn­ing of Atlanta dur­ing the Civ­il War in Mar­garet Mitchell’s Gone with the Wind, and Dres­den, which was razed to the ground in the heavy bomb­ing before the end of World War II, in Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaugh­ter­house-Five… But it was not until I read City of Fire, co-authored by Cai Gao and his daugh­ter Aozi, that I real­ized that Chang­sha, where I had passed by many times, also had a sim­i­lar mem­o­ry.

The pre­vi­ous ver­sion of this book, “City of Fire — 1938”, was pub­lished in 2013. It was born in the “Pray for Peace” series of pic­ture books co-cre­at­ed by Chi­na, South Korea and Japan. It is the sev­enth book joint­ly cre­at­ed and pub­lished by artists from Chi­na, South Korea and Japan. It has been pub­lished in three coun­tries suc­ces­sive­ly. For exam­ple, the Japan­ese ver­sion was pub­lished by Tongx­in Pub­lish­ing House in 2014. The trans­la­tor of the Japan­ese ver­sion, Yumiko Naka (1948–2022), intro­duced it like this: “There are rows of hous­es full of his­to­ry, docks where chil­dren play, street cor­ners where you can shop and watch plays, streets lined with shops… From peo­ple’s expres­sions, you can feel the tran­quil­i­ty of this ancient city. How­ev­er, sud­den­ly, the kites fly­ing in the qui­et sky were replaced by dive bombers, and peo­ple’s expres­sions changed from uneasi­ness to fear. When you see peo­ple flee­ing in pan­ic from the fire and the city turned into ruins in the sea of fire, you will be sur­prised to find how dif­fer­ent these pic­tures are from Cai Gao’s pre­vi­ous paint­ings with an excel­lent sense of col­or.” Per­haps it is not entire­ly a coin­ci­dence that this Japan­ese trans­la­tor who has been com­mit­ted to cul­tur­al exchanges between Chi­na and Japan for many years was born in Nagasa­ki, which was once bombed by an atom­ic bomb. She will also have a unique res­o­nance with that painful mem­o­ry.

Cai Gao, born in Chang­sha in 1946, did­n’t actu­al­ly expe­ri­ence the Wenxi Fire that destroyed the ancient city. How­ev­er, she heard her uncle and aunt talk about it many times, and she believed it was nec­es­sary to use pic­ture books to record these dev­as­tat­ing trau­mas, which might oth­er­wise be for­got­ten, so that chil­dren could feel and under­stand the hor­rors of war. Per­haps this was the path to last­ing peace. How­ev­er, the process of cap­tur­ing that mem­o­ry was dif­fi­cult, and the paint­ing felt so heavy that it was left unpaint­ed. It was a city’s sor­row, unfold­ing in a sin­gle, long scroll. The ear­ly part of the scroll depicts a once pros­per­ous and bustling scene of peace, some­what rem­i­nis­cent of the paint­ing Along the Riv­er Dur­ing the Qing­ming Fes­ti­val. How­ev­er, as the two young sis­ters in the pic­ture pass by the Dasheng Silk Shop on their way home from school, the scene shifts to a streetscape shroud­ed in the shad­ow of war. Below the large slo­gan “Fight the War of Resis­tance and Save the Nation”, there are sev­er­al notices post­ed — which actu­al­ly explain the time back­ground of the sto­ry: “Guangzhou fell” on Octo­ber 21, 1938, “Wuhan fell” on Octo­ber 25, and the Japan­ese army invad­ed north­ern Hunan on Novem­ber 8. The peo­ple of Chang­sha were informed of the emer­gency evac­u­a­tion after Novem­ber 10, and the fire start­ed at two o’clock in the morn­ing on Novem­ber 13.

Imag­ine Zhang Zed­u­an’s paint­ing, Along the Riv­er Dur­ing the Qing­ming Fes­ti­val. In the first half, he depict­ed the pros­per­i­ty and peace­ful life of Bian­jing, while in the sec­ond half, he set fire to that beau­ti­ful city and its beau­ti­ful life. What kind of feel­ing would that be? This is exact­ly what Cai Gao and his daugh­ter Aozi did, and nei­ther of them had ever seen Chang­sha before the burn­ing! They had to col­lect and orga­nize a wealth of graph­ic and tex­tu­al mate­ri­als about old Chang­sha, and based on this, they recre­at­ed the Chang­sha as remem­bered by the elders. What a mas­sive under­tak­ing! And while com­plet­ing this project, they also had to cre­ate a coher­ent and com­plete sto­ry, as this was a pic­ture book for chil­dren.

A pair of young sis­ters appear through­out the scroll, their sil­hou­ettes vis­i­ble even on the back cover—the elder sis­ter, with her long braids, is eas­i­ly iden­ti­fi­able. Their moth­er spent most of her time with them, from the way home from school to the var­i­ous prepa­ra­tions for evac­u­a­tion, pack­ing their belong­ings at home, sleep­ing togeth­er under a table (to pro­tect them from bomb­ing), and final­ly, after the fire broke out, lead­ing them to escape. The sis­ters’ age at the time like­ly made it dif­fi­cult for them to com­pre­hend what exact­ly hap­pened, and even their moth­er, in her utter pan­ic, might not have under­stood. Cai Gao’s book, “City on Fire: 1938,” does not attempt to inter­pret the cause and effect of the events. As an artist, she strives to recre­ate the feel­ings of the peo­ple at the time, “telling the sto­ry as a child wit­nessed it, with­out adding any per­son­al com­men­tary.” The sec­ond half of the scroll is filled with allu­sions to war, sug­gest­ing that this ter­ri­ble dis­as­ter was caused by war. How­ev­er, the accom­pa­ny­ing text is told in a child­like voice, and this child­ish inno­cence and naiveté under­scores the enor­mi­ty and heartache of the tragedy.

Here, we should par­tic­u­lar­ly note the dif­fer­ences between the old and new edi­tions. While the images appear sim­i­lar at first glance, the two ver­sions, due to their dif­fer­ent bind­ings, feel like two dis­tinct books. The old edi­tion pri­mar­i­ly uti­lizes a con­ven­tion­al folio lay­out, with only a sin­gle extend­ed page in the cen­ter, depict­ing the fire. The new edi­tion, how­ev­er, restores a con­tin­u­ous scroll, or accor­dion-style page, thus pre­sent­ing the mem­o­ry of the ancient city of Chang­sha in an unin­ter­rupt­ed sequence, stretch­ing from the moun­tains and rivers out­side the city to the docks and hous­es on the out­skirts, and then to the city’s dense­ly packed streets and alleys, with the city gate tow­er as its land­mark. This long scroll cre­ates a stark con­trast between the moments before and after the fire, height­en­ing the sense of grief. The new edi­tion’s bind­ing also leaves a blank space on the back, where we see a series of pas­tel-col­ored paint­ings of old Chang­sha, con­trast­ing the peace­ful every­day with the dev­as­ta­tion of war. How­ev­er, per­haps due to this long scroll-like arrange­ment, a folio-like close-up of the dock in the old edi­tion has been omit­ted from the new edi­tion; if it had been includ­ed in the scroll, this close-up would have dis­rupt­ed the con­ti­nu­ity of the unfold­ing image.

The biggest dif­fer­ence between the old and new edi­tions lies in the rela­tion­ship between text and image. The old edi­tion’s text has been great­ly con­densed and embed­ded with­in each folio, which helps under­stand some of the details being nar­rat­ed. How­ev­er, the reduced text seems over­ly con­cise, leav­ing a sense of lin­ger­ing mean­ing. The new edi­tion’s tex­tu­al treat­ment is very bold, and in my mem­o­ry, it’s a unique approach to pic­ture book text. Cai Gao, speak­ing in the voice of the old­er sis­ter, writes a four-page let­ter describ­ing pre-war Chang­sha, the hap­py life of her fam­i­ly and class­mates, and then the events that fol­lowed… “The fire burned for five days and five nights… Gone, our school, gone, my home, gone, the ancient city…”—Because the text is not embed­ded with­in the paint­ing, the scroll becomes more free-flow­ing. Read­ers can read it as a long, word­less book, nar­rat­ing the sto­ry them­selves. The let­ter, writ­ten by the young hero­ine of the sto­ry, can be under­stood as a sep­a­rate let­ter writ­ten with­in the con­text of the larg­er sto­ry, with­out hav­ing to cor­re­spond to the images page by page. This kind of read­ing has high­er expec­ta­tions for read­ers, but also leaves more space for read­ers.

The process of the fire is gen­er­al­ly clear, but many details have been lost in his­to­ry for var­i­ous rea­sons. If read­ers are inter­est­ed, they can con­sult some his­tor­i­cal books and doc­u­ments. In 2006, the CCTV “Dis­cov­ery” pro­gram team pro­duced a four-episode doc­u­men­tary “Chang­sha Wenxi Fire”, which detailed the begin­ning and end of this tragedy. Read­ers can alsoVis­it the doc­u­men­tary copy­writ­ing web­site to learn more

Sim­i­lar to the Rus­sians’ burn­ing of Moscow in 1812 to resist Napoleon’s unstop­pable inva­sion, Chang­sha in 1938 was des­tined to become a vic­tim of the “scorched earth” pol­i­cy of the War of Resis­tance Against Japan­ese Aggres­sion. They chose to burn rather than allow the city to serve as a spring­board for the Japan­ese offen­sive. This hero­ic act of self­less sac­ri­fice is tru­ly inspir­ing. Trag­i­cal­ly, the exe­cu­tion of the arson was a chaot­ic and chaot­ic acci­dent, result­ing in the unnec­es­sary loss of tens of thou­sands of lives, not to men­tion the untold loss of prop­er­ty and cul­tur­al relics. Look­ing back, from any per­spec­tive, it’s a cause for regret. Peo­ple should tru­ly con­sid­er how such tragedies can be pre­vent­ed from hap­pen­ing again. There­fore, sto­ries like these must be shared with chil­dren. First, they must under­stand and feel them, and then they can grad­u­al­ly com­pre­hend, reflect, and explore them.

As this book has been pub­lished in Chi­na, South Korea and Japan, I was also curi­ous about what Japan­ese read­ers thought after read­ing it, so I shared it on their social net­work­ing site.bookmeter.comFound the fol­low­ing com­ments:

“War makes peo­ple crazy… a city was burned down because of the ‘scorched earth pol­i­cy.’ While learn­ing about Japan’s his­to­ry of aggres­sion, we also learned that once the war starts, every­one will go crazy.”

“The entire city was destroyed, and most of it is gone. Although it was­n’t destroyed by a direct attack by the Japan­ese army, if there had­n’t been war, there would­n’t have been this kind of com­bat strat­e­gy, and every­one would have been able to live in peace. War cre­ates noth­ing but destruc­tion.”

“I deeply admire the sin­cer­i­ty with which they strive to con­vey the truth. The depic­tion of the harsh and trag­ic events of war, and the desire to share and pur­sue future hap­pi­ness togeth­er, is mov­ing. The riv­er that still flows beside the burned city bears wit­ness to it all.”

It can be seen that such sto­ries are not just told to chil­dren.

Argen­tine Primera División writ­ten on Decem­ber 31, 2023 in Bei­jing