I WAS THERE

      On a late wintry afternoon, a wiry streetwise coolie, pulling his shiny black ricksha, moved at a steady jogging pace through the French Concession streets of Shanghai. I was heading home from school after missing the school bus. I had lingered too long engrossed in a game of soccer.

      The ride was uneventful until we reached the boundary of the French and English Concessions, about three-quarters of the way home. We lived in an apartment in the English Concession about six miles from school. The coolie stopped suddenly, lowered the ricksha bars, turned toward me, and extended his hand for payment. I was stunned. We had reached the point of no return. This was as far as he was going. He refused to move any further. I knew little Chinese and I had only three or four Chinese copper pennies jingling in my pocket.Even if I could have explained in Chinese that he would be paid upon our arrival home, it would not have changed the rapidly developing crisis one iota.

      When the coolie realized I was almost penniless, his anger suddenly welled up to the boiling point and he exploded into a high decibel tirade. Surely, it could be heard in Timbuktu. My heartbeat raced as desperation consumed me. I was nothing shy of being scared to death. A descending sun, close to turning day into night, only exacerbated the situation. To my undying  gratitude, a Good Samaritan Englishmen heard the tirade and came to my assistance. He paid the coolie and escorted me the rest of the way home. Only then did I learn the coolie’s license had limited him to the French Concession. 

      Certainly, a coolie’s life in China hovers at the low end of the social spectrum. For a very good reason none would ever think of disobeying Shanghai’s Ricksha Laws. The city’s police were six-foot turbaned, full bearded, and dark complexioned Indian Sikhs. Despite an ever-present smiling face, their reputation for dealing swift and harsh curbside justice to coolie infractors was well established. A coolie could easily be put out of business when a tall smiling policeman would rip off the ricksha’s license plate and jam it, out of reach, into a wooden telephone pole.In no way was my coolie going to cross that borderline.

      During the 1920s, Shanghai was an International City divided into Concessions governed by the English, French and Japanese. Concessions operated from the mid-1800s to 1941 when the ugly claws of World War II reached into the Pacific. The U.S. held leased land in the city in pre-concession days but declined the invitation of China to convert to a Concession and transferred its lease to the English in 1863. Both English and American interests then became part of the International Settlement under management of the Shanghai Municipal Council.   

      Our family was in Shanghai from 1929 through 1930 because my father, a U.S. Navy doctor, had been assigned to the Shanghai based Fourth Maine Regiment as it regimental doctor. Upon our arrival, I was placed in the Shanghai/American School located in the French Concession. Initially, we lived on the estate of a widowed Portuguese woman in the French Concession, a short time before moving to the English Concession. Our high wall enclosed estate was the only one in the area and it drew curious public attention. We lived on the second floor of a fine large two-story white stucco building. It had been converted to a well furnished apartment.

      A lawn tennis court almost filled the back yard. Our hostess was an excellent tennis player and a good friend of the Portuguese tennis professional at the renowned French Club, one of Shanghai’s finest. I benefited from that relationship with several tennis lessons. Late one quiet evening a gang of four interlopers, dressed in black, crept into the area intent on robbery. They proceeded to scale the high black wrought iron entrance gate. Fortunately, quick responding police apprehended them in the act. In following days, newspa