The night was young and the air was brisk, but the streets lighted by the dimmed rays of the kerosene lamps inside of these houses. There were a few people on the streets, making their way to the comfort and the safety of their homes after a long day of grueling labor. It was dinnertime and women were bustling around their warm kitchens to feed the eldest and the youngest members of their kinfolk.

Suddenly, people on the streets started to run, running away from the ominous shadow descended behind them. They ran for their lives, for mercy, and for their precious freedom. Soon, the streets cleared away, with doors slamming, lights dimming into darkness, people scrambling to be hidden away from sight into the nooks of their homes.

The ominous figures soon took form, the outlines developed into familiar faces of terror. There, in their drunken glory, were the men of war. Donning their military uniforms, they ruled the streets and the city itself, instilling fear and panic into the souls of the civilians. Their brutality was infamous; the merciless domination of killings, torture and cruelty was widespread throughout the country. No one was safe.

The soldiers continued along the empty street, hollering, singing and bellowing out vulgarities in their native tongue.

Inside, families huddled together in desperation and to overcome the trepidation in this eerie silence. They prayed to the gods for salvation, in hopes that these evil men to pass by their homes quickly, without any bloodshed.

During the mad scramble, a young couple realizes that one of their children is missing. Fearing the worst, panic gripped the young mother when she peered through her kitchen window. Her youngest child was sound asleep on top of a bamboo stool outside of their door.

The soldiers were quickly nearing their home and rescuing her youngest one would condemn the entire family. Her two eldest sons stared earnestly into the dark outline of their sister’s body and prayed feverishly to spare her from a horrible fate. The family watched helplessly as the voices grew louder and louder.

The little one, only 3 years of age, wore tiny pigtails on each side of her head. She had fallen ill with the mumps and fatigue had taken its toll on her. Seeing how her mother was hardly around to tend to her, the little one found a cozy little spot by the door to rest while her mother prepared dinner.

As the men approached their street, one of them spotted the young child blissfully asleep outdoors. The drunken militant proceeded unsteadily towards the child along with the rest of his drunken crowd. He stood directly in front of her and narrowed his eyes to look at her curiously.

In one swift movement, the soldier drew his sword out of his shaft and pointed it on the back of the little girl’s neck. The blade reflected in the moonlight as he brandished his weapon high above his head to deliver a single stroke of death. As the sword plunged downwards, the ungodly act was abruptly halted when one of the other soldiers deftly blocked him.

Shouting belligerently in Japanese, he withdrew his sword and was led away by his military brothers. They continued on their way to extend their drunken merriment at the next brothel.

The little girl was spared.

And that little girl was my mother.

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The story was told by my two eldest uncles when I visited China and Taiwan back in the summer of 1993.

The Japanese had occupied much of the area, city of Fuzhou, and threatened the lives of many people at the time (this took place during the Nationalist rule - a lot historians argue how the corrupted gov't at the time allowed this to happen).

My mother’s side of the story? Translation -

Of course, those assholes forgot about me. They only gave a shit about their own asses and obviously saved their own. Looking at the window from the inside house…Yeah right!! After all, conceit runs in the family and really, how could you forget a little girl sleeping outside? Assholes. Even your grandparents suck.

Yep, that’s what mom said to me when I returned from my trip. I expected a completely different response, but then again, this is my mother we’re talking about!